DEFENSELESS

Before I was old enough to drive I had to rely on my father to chauffeur me to the freshman high school dance. I was looking forward to it. Yet when it came time to leave the house my father wasn’t there. Only much later, after I had lost hope of attending the dance, that he suddenly stood hulking in the doorway of my room. He said he was ready to leave. I told him that it was too late, the dance had already started and I no longer cared to go. Yet somehow he convinced me there was still time enough and that he wanted to give me a ride. So I headed for the car.

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In the garage a naked light bulb hung from the ceiling. By its dim light I saw the car’s crumpled passenger door smashed against the front fender. When I asked what happened, my father waved my worries aside. He said it was nothing to be concerned about and to just get in the car. I had to wrench open the door with both hands to squeeze in the front seat. Don’t worry about it, my father repeated while he backed the car out of the garage. He assured me it was no big thing. Then he stomped on the accelerator, and I was pressed against the seat. We shot off, my eyes growing bigger as the car roared and we picked up speed. The flowering oleander bushes lining our long, narrow driveway rushed by faster and faster, becoming a blur of red and white. Fear focused my attention like a laser, but I distinctly remember what he said.

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“It’s never too late to stop.”

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But we were going much too fast to stop. In seconds the end of the driveway loomed. He stomped on the brakes as we shot out from between the oleander bushes, throwing me against the dashboard. Tires screeching, the car skidded sideways, crossed both lanes of the street, bumped over the opposite curb, plowed through dirt and several rose bushes before sliding to a stop on the grassy front lawn of a neighbor’s darkened house. I picked myself up off the floorboards, and sat back in my seat, out of breath. A single white rose lay staring at us from the windshield.

The car was dark and silent inside. My father calmly restarted it as if nothing had happened, bumped sedately across the lawn, through the dirt and rose bushes, into the street, and on his way to the dance. I shivered, imagining what would have happened if a car had been coming when we shot out from our driveway. But he was still driving. How could I stop him and get out of the car?

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My brain raced as we headed down the quiet street. As calmly and casually as I could manage, I mentioned that we had to pick up my friend Reilly because I had promised him a ride, too.  My father dutifully turned at the next corner and parked in front of Reilly’s house. My legs still shook from shock as I got out of the car and started toward the front door. Now what? Reilly must have already gone to the dance. I tried frantically to think of something I could say or do that would keep me from getting back in that car.

Reilly’s mother saw us from her front window and came out to meet me on the front walk. She must have guessed that something had happened because she looked worried and asked if I was all right. Too ashamed and embarrassed to try and explain what had happened, I denied anything was wrong. When I asked her if Reilly had gone to the dance she said yes. I nodded, terrified, yet resigned to return to my father.

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However, those few seconds gave me enough time to think. I wrestled open the smashed passenger door and pretended to act downhearted. I told my father that Reilly had already left and convinced him that I couldn’t turn up at the dance alone. He believed me, or maybe he just changed his mind and didn’t want to drive anymore, because he turned the car around and drove back to the house.

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In the kitchen I asked if he wanted some coffee.

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He laughed at me.

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“Do you think a little coffee is going to sober me up? Hell, I’ve drunk two bottles of bourbon since this morning.” He swaggered into the den and turned on the TV.

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I was horrified that anyone could drink so much, and ashamed that he would brag about such a thing. I made coffee and stood in the kitchen, too scared to sit next to him on the sofa and yet too scared to leave. He sat down and began watching reruns of The Twilight Zone, sipping at his coffee while I worried about what might happen next.

Then the phone rang.

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            It was my mother, calling in her usual chirpy voice to let me know she would be a little late returning from wherever she was. From when I first said hello I remained silent, not replying, praying she could read my mind. Then she paused.

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“Why aren’t you at the dance?” she asked.

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I knew my father could hear everything I said, so I uttered the only word I could think of and hoped she would understand.

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“Because,” I said.

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My mother paused a little longer.

“Is anything wrong?” she said.

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“Yes,” I said. This time she remained silent for much longer.

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“Has your father been drinking?” she finally asked.

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            I answered with the same single word. She told me to go out to the garage, remove the keys from the car, hide them somewhere that my father would not find them and go to bed. She said she would be home soon and hung up.

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            Lying in bed afterward, I worried. What if later that night my father decided to get up and drive away, like my mother thought he would? He would try to start the car and discover the keys were missing. He would figure out I had taken the keys. He would come for me, come into my room while I lay sleeping in bed, defenseless, and demand I give him the keys. I got up and opened the catches which held the screen against my bedroom window. If he came for me I would push out the screen and escape. That would keep him from hurting me. That would stop him. I fell asleep and dreamed the same dream for years, that it was never too late to stop him.