I sat between Mama and Daddy on the tan sofa in our parlor. Matching white lamps with yellow daisies painted on them rested atop identical wooden tables and cast their glow on us. Cousin Polly and Them had gone, the radio had been turned off, and the house had returned to its normal quiet state.
As I’d expected, Daddy began the questioning. “About Mrs. Babcock . . . Her light was green, wasn’t it?”
“Yessir.”
“And your light was red?”
“Yessir.”
“So, rotten driver or not, is she to blame?”
“Nossir.”
He continued to grill me. “And is Mr. Babcock even a little bit to blame for buyin’ her the car?”
“Nossir, not a bit.”
“Have I made my point, Gabriel?”
“Yessir, better than Perry Mason.”
Mama laughed.
Then I spouted off some of the things Tink had told me to say. “I admit I was wrong, and I’m really sorry, because I know how much you love me and how upset you must be.”
Except for Daddy clearing his throat, they were quiet and still.
“About the bicycle,” I added, “the man fixed it almost good as new.”
“Let’s all go have a look at it, then,” he finally said.
Together we headed to the shed and Daddy went over it from front to back. “He’s right, Agatha. It’s ’bout good as new.”
“Yeah, he’s really good at fixin’ things,” I said.
“Tell you what, Gabriel. I want you to bring the almost-good-as-new bicycle into the house and take it to your room.”
“Why, Daddy?”
“I want you to park it there for two weeks.”
“Then what?”
“Do you suppose that being forced to look at it day and night for two weeks but not being able to ride it will supply you with enough torment?”
“More than enough.”
“Then that’s your punishment . . . two weeks,” he remarked.
Was I hearing right? “I get to keep it?”
“Yes,” Mama answered, “but if we hear any tittle-tattle that you’ve been careless on it, it’ll be gone for good, understand?”
“I understand . . . Thank you, Mama. Thank you, Daddy! You won’t be sorry. I’ll be extra careful from now on, I promise!”
I led the bicycle through the back door and into my bedroom and parked it next to the window. They had trailed me and stood together in the doorway, Mama’s head resting on Daddy’s shoulder, another pretty picture that wouldn’t be taken.
“About that man named Meriwether who pushed me out of the way . . . He knows how to fix engines too, so maybe he could come work for you now that the other fella up and quit.”
“Sure,” Dad replied in a nonchalant way. “Happy birthday, son. G’night.”
Mama came over and pecked me on the cheek. “G’night, Gabriel . . . Sleep well.”
I gazed at the Schwinn Autocycle Deluxe and told them, “Thank you for letting me keep it.”
“Welcome,” they said at the same time.