Category: Be Home By Dinner (Page 2 of 2)

October ’78

I sat on the curb at the end of the walkway, tapping my sneakers onto Redford Road, staring at the rainbow sheen of leaked motor oil. Star Wars figures stood propped up against the lawn edging with weapons in hand. Behind me, the walkway led to the front screen door where I saw Mom attending to my feverish sister. Dad was at a bank, cashing a check. I was 4-years-old.

My family had recently moved to Oreland, West Oreland to be exact, or White City as the original generation dubbed it. The rectangular cookie cutter homes were constructed shortly after WWII, all painted white.

The perimeter of my front lawn universe was the curb at the street, tall hedges to the right and bushes to the left. My parents allowed me to roam free within these boundaries, a realm of azaleas, scattered toys, a tall pine and skittish squirrels.

From the lawn, I could see several homes, all occupied by retired grandparents. They often worked on gardening projects with meticulous precision. Many were veterans that purchased their homes with the help of the G.I. Bill.

The Finns lived across the street. They drank cider on a fancy tree swing and waved at me as I made battle sound effects with my mouth. Mr. Finn sported a feather in his hat with a cardigan sweater. Mrs. Finn wore a bonnet with a shawl. They swung hand in hand.

“Garvey, what’re ya gonna be for Halloween tomorrow?” Mr. Finn called out.

I ignored him and looked back at Mom. She was spoon feeding something to my sister, Siobhan.

The Finns stood up and walked to their front door, waving me over. Mrs. Finn shivered, rubbing her upper arms with her hands to warm up. “Do you like British biscuits?” she called out.

“What is that?” I asked.

“They’re kind’ve like cookies. Superb. Come over and have some.”

I thought about how Dad spoke of Mr. Finn as a good guy, an American war hero.

The wind whooshed through yellowing leaves, revealing their lighter colored bottoms. Clouds raced by the sun, as if someone was toggling a dimmer switch, their shadows gliding over the street. I stood up, looked both ways and leaped into the street toward the widening smiles of the Finns. Glancing back, I didn’t see Mom through the screen door anymore. The glare of the TV lit up Siobhan’s glum freckled face. Sweaty blond bangs laid heavy on her forehead.

Inside the Finn household, I took a seat on a stiff sofa. Mr. Finn sat on a wingback chair and turned on the TV.  “Ya know, Oreland is exactly as named. A land of ore,” Mr. Finn said, tapping his cane. “Iron ore. American iron ore was made into steel to make aircraft so we could bomb the Nazis.”

“Oh, please,” cried Mrs. Finn. “Now’s not that time for that. Have some biscuits, boys.”

“Well, it’s true. We need to educate our youth. America produced the most in ’45.”

Mrs. Finn shook her head and put a tray of assorted beige delectables in front of us. I grabbed one with a jelly dot on it. Mr. Finn put on a PBS show called All Creatures Great And Small.

The living room decor included intricate framed paintings, plush pillows, ceramic figurines, and doilies. A variety of clocks ticked and chimed. The Finns stared at me with glazed eyes and grins, somehow comforted by my sloppy chomps and crumbs falling from my mouth. Their white fluffy cat sat on a puffy bed.

I watched the show and peered out the window, waiting to see if Mom was looking for me. I darted my eyes from television frame to window frame, back and forth.

“You’re allowed over here, right?” asked Mrs. Finn.

“Yeah, I am,” I said.

“Garvey Nolan, are you certain?”

Dad drove up to the side of our house in his green Volkswagen Beetle. He got out with a couple boxes of pizza. He headed up the walkway to the front door. He put the pizzas down and ran about our yard, peeking in bushes, arms out in a panic. He rushed to the curb and looked up and down the road, stroking his black mustache and adjusting his thick plastic glasses.

The excitement of doing something devastatingly wrong brought out a rush in me I had never experienced. But the sheer suffering on Dad’s face was difficult to endure. I burst off the sofa and ran out of the Finn house, screaming out to Dad. He saw me, dropped to his knees and put his hands together as if he was praying.

“Look both ways first before crossing!” Dad hollered.

My feet were a couple steps into the road. A blur of a yellow car whizzed by with the horn held down, like a large lemon taffy being stretched. Leaves and dust whirled about. I looked both ways and crossed. Dad stared down the yellow car that sat idling at a stop sign in the distance. The driver side window rolled down. The sound of heavy sobbing and fists pounding on the dashboard emanated from the window. The driver said something about a wife.

“Garv, stay right here,” said Dad, pointing to our walkway. He ran after the yellow car, shouting words I knew were naughty and only for grownups. The yellow car, a small sporty breed, screeched off when Dad got close.

“Couldn’t get his plate numbers,” said Dad, jogging back. “This is why you look both ways. Crazy cockroach. I’ve seen this car before. Keeps going 40 down our road.”

Dad pulled out a folded Polaroid photo from his back pocket and put it in front of me. “This is him,” he said. “A speeder. I’ll get him someday. Oreland is not a shortcut to anything. This is no cut through town. People that live here don’t drive like that.” The photo had a blur of the yellow car passing by our house with an arm extended out of a partially rolled-down window. The middle finger was up like a flagpole waiting to be adorned.

Mr. Finn jogged out, holding his hat. “Tornado warning!” he cried. “It scrolled on the bottom of my TV.”

Blustering wind tossed gravel at my face. I squinted. Mom raced from neighboring front yards. Her blond hair bounced as her apron flung off. “There you are! Where did you go?” she asked.

The sky was sea-foam green. “I’m sorry. I was—”

Trashcan lids whizzed along the lawn. Dad picked me up and carried me over his shoulders. I watched Mom’s red painted toenails follow as we raced inside.