I stood in the garage, wishing a black hole would open up underneath me.
Grandpa was just taking me to Sonic and letting me ride in the Car by default.
I’d never ridden in the Car. The Mustang. The red Ford convertible so shiny you could check your teeth in it. The do not touch this under penalty of death vehicle.
So when Grandpa came out into the garage an eternity after he’d put the Flee in a corner, I was still staring at it like the forbidden, expensive piece of artwork it was.
“You waiting for an engraved invitation?” he asked. And he looked me straight in the eye. He hadn’t done that since that awkward day in the kitchen.
He eased himself into the driver’s seat and then put the key in the ignition. I buckled my seat belt and remembered to breathe.
“The thing you have to remember with old cars is that they don’t just start up cold as soon as you turn the key. You have to pump the gas twice and then hold down the pedal.”
He pumped the gas twice and got it started, and we drove at Grandpa speed out of the neighborhood. Do you know I can skateboard faster than he can drive?
True story.
I didn’t mind. Even though it was chilly outside, Grandpa put the convertible top down. The sun poured into the car and warmed the leather seats. I got a good look at the inside of the Car. All original.
The seats were creamy-white leather with detailed ponies stitched into the backs. The dashboard was the same candy-apple red as the paint. Every time we stopped at a light, we got looks from the other drivers. Good looks, too. When we got to the last stoplight, I passed Grandpa a note: What happened?
“You don’t worry about him, Wayne.”
We parked outside the Sonic. Grandpa pushed the red button and ordered a cheeseburger and a root beer float. A carhop on roller skates delivered the food minutes later.
The icy drink felt good.
“Don’t you even think about spilling anything on the Car.”
I nodded.
“Don’t tell your mother I’m eating a cheeseburger.”
I nodded again.
“And don’t tell your mother about the Flee. In fact, don’t even think about the Flee.”
My one usable eyebrow rose.
“Don’t think about what happened today for another second. Darn Kovok, son of a gun. He was a loser from zero hour. Even your uncle Reed thought so.”
I know.
Grandpa paused to take a bite of sweet root beer–flavored ice cream from my root beer float. “Reed. Now, that was a decent human being who would’ve made a great father. Solid. One of a kind, that one. Was carrying on the Dalton family name with honor. There’s no one now, which is an injustice of colossal proportions. No one. Sad shame. Reed died with all my stories, all my advice, all the attributes that generations of Dalton men have carried since the time of the Revolutionary War. He was going to get this car next year. I find that… unacceptable.”
Maybe I hadn’t just been hit square in the chest with a Bear Ball, but it felt like it. It wasn’t just the wave of sadness about Reed I could hear in Grandpa’s voice. It was how he’d turned and looked at me when he said the word unacceptable.
In the game of Bear Ball, all Daltons would get picked first. Kovoks last. We’d lose every time.
“Did I ever tell you about Henry Dalton, my great-grandfather, who fought in the Revolutionary War?” Grandpa asked.
Of course I’d heard all about Henry Dalton, who fought in the Revolutionary War, and all the other Daltons who were not like the Flee and me, about one thousand times. Well, twenty-four times to be precise. Three times a year on the major Grandpa holidays (Christmas, Thanksgiving, and Fourth of July) for the past eight years. In our family, holiday dinners were traditionally, but not intentionally, served cold. Grandpa’s toasts about patriotism and freedom fighters made hot turkey and mashed potatoes a delicacy foreign to my taste buds.
True story.
So even if I’d had the full use of my voice, I wouldn’t have responded. Grandpa was having a “memorial moment,” as Mom called them. Never interrupt when he does that.
Somewhere around the time Henry Dalton had been gravely wounded in battle, taking his last breath on the “hard-won ground of a new nation,” Grandpa had commandeered my root beer float to use as a prop illustrating incoming British soldiers.
“I’ll get you new shoes, Wayne,” Grandpa said. “Good running shoes, too. I know you’re a good runner. You have the build for it, you know.”
I let out a breath. I gave him a slight smile.
He rolled down the window of the Car and waved over the carhop, a boy who looked like he was barely in high school. I caught a glimpse of his name tag: TODD. Todd grabbed the first cup and then tripped and spilled root beer float down the door of the Car. THE. CAR!
“Oh, my bad, dude,” Todd said. “Here are some napkins.” He extended a handful of white Sonic napkins toward Grandpa.
Todd was digging his own grave with two shovels.
Grandpa opened his door slowly. He squared his shoulders and took two controlled steps toward Todd. He removed his aviator sunglasses. He inspected the Car. Then he tucked the napkins into Todd’s shirt collar.
Todd looked like he was going to pee his pants.
Did you know that bladder control is connected to the brain? When the body is scared, it receives a rush of adrenaline, making you prepared to run or fight. Under stress, inhibitory signals from your brain’s frontal lobe can be overridden, and so you urinate in the presence of danger.
Todd was in the presence of danger.
And the expression on Todd’s face indicated that his frontal lobe might have sent an evacuation signal.
“Soldier, you best go get your commander in chief!” Grandpa said quietly. Too quiet, if you asked me. Like calm-before-the-storm quiet.
I sat up higher to watch. I sort of liked seeing this version of Grandpa when it wasn’t directed at me.
Sure enough, Grandpa and the Sonic manager began discussing how upholding customer-service policies was the first line of defense in a strong nation. I couldn’t believe it. Todd stood there, shaking in his roller skates. I’ll say this for him: At least he didn’t skate away. A lot of guys would have.
Grandpa continued, “Buttercup, this may be challenging for your young mind to comprehend, but if you don’t uphold the pillars of the American work ethic at a burger joint, you have not earned the right to wear any uniform. You have failed in your mission to bring dignity to a job that many would be privileged to have. There are no small jobs, only small people.”
“Yes, sir.”
Todd got on his knees and wiped away the vanilla ice-cream evidence with a special yellow cloth Grandpa had pulled from the trunk of the Car. Grandpa grimaced at Todd like he was doing it all wrong.
“You’re doing it all wrong!” Grandpa shouted. He showed Todd how he’d wanted it done in the first place. “You know what Napoleon said, son?”
“Napoleon, sir?”
And I thought, Here we go. The Napoleon lesson. This speech goes well with turkey and cranberry sauce.
“Geography is destiny.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Your geography is the United States of America. Do you know what that makes you?”
Don’t screw up now, Todd. This is actually a good lesson.
“No, sir,” Todd said. “What does that make me?”
“Luckier than a great majority of the world who would love to trade places with you and live in a nation built on the backs of your forefathers and my forefathers and do a job—any job—the right way. Even at Sonic, son.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Will you be upholding the nation your forefathers built for you?”
“Yes, sir. Lots of upholding.”
Todd was a quick learner.
All this excitement drew a small crowd. People got served burgers with a side of Americana, and I guess they liked it better than fries. I couldn’t figure out how he did it, but Grandpa made the link between a soldier’s bravery and the ability to steady a Styrofoam cup seem realistic.
He made it sound as if dropping a plastic spoon or forgetting a straw would be letting our country down. I wished people who didn’t pick up a crumbled muffin on my mom’s kitchen floor could hear this lesson, too.
Volunteerism…
Nobility…
Service…
All of a sudden I caught a glimpse of how Grandpa must have looked to the men he trained in the army. He wasn’t just a square-shouldered man with a big voice who told you what to do. He was a man who loved his country and made you want to love it, too.
Maybe I felt a little bit of pride.
I definitely felt a little bit of pride.
Okay, I felt a ton of pride.
Grandpa concluded his speech by talking about Reed Dalton, his brave son who served our country for fifteen years. Uncle Reed would have liked all the things Grandpa said about him. You know the way the hairs on the back of your neck stand up when you sing the national anthem sometimes? You feel connected to something larger. Well, that’s how it was right there at Sonic, believe it or not. Reed was my uncle and I was connected to him. Really connected. I wanted Uncle Reed to be in the car with us. And Mom riding beside him. All of us, having shakes at Sonic together.
Somewhere in my strange brain, I caught a glimpse of the lost flag. Maybe it was all the patriotism, but I would have sworn I could see it flapping in the wind, waiting for me or Liz Delaney to find it and call it what it was. Miraculous. And me, handing it back to Mom. Grandpa smiling and nodding. Maybe today was the day it would be found.
The Sonic manager, who now had little imaginary American flags floating around his head, interrupted Grandpa’s memorial moment and said, “So, where is Specialist Dalton now, sir? When he comes home, I’ll give him free Cokes and burgers for life!”
The small crowd cheered.
Grandpa became silent as a rock.
All the animation in his body left him. All the confidence of his voice went away.
He quietly said, “My son rests heroically on the grounds of Arlington National Cemetery.”
The thirteen-and-a-half-ton elephant in the room had jumped into the backseat of the Car and come with us to Sonic.
Stupid Todd. Stupid spilled drink.
Every good thing that had happened vanished in two seconds. Man, the day had had more highs and lows than a roller coaster.
Todd handed Grandpa the special yellow cloth, then opened the car door for him.
We didn’t talk on the ride home. We kept the top down on the Car, and the cold wind rushed in. Two planes entered my sight path, one heading east and the other west. Two passengers in two separate 14A seats crisscrossing the sky. I supported them both until my arms could no longer stretch. I couldn’t help it. Now when I saw planes, I had to do something.
Have a good trip.
Grandpa didn’t seem to notice or care that his grandson was holding the victory arms position. Maybe he did think I was messed up.
I don’t have to tell you that the day ended with me in my same old, dingy Goodwill shoes. As soon as the Car came to a full stop in our garage, I ran to my room to retrieve my skateboard. And then I grabbed the scarf, the shemagh, that Uncle Reed had given me last Christmas. I wrapped it around my neck. I thought it might conceal my scars if I got accidentally trapped in a pink playground spaceship again.
“Hey, you have an appointment later. Be back promptly,” Grandpa said to me as I flew out the front door.
I headed up toward the perfect streets of the Estates. I chased after that free-floating feeling I’d had earlier in the day when the tug-of-war inside me had loosened. I even ditched my skateboard in someone’s yard and ran and ran in my stupid Goodwill shoes until one of the soles came loose and all I could hear was flop, flop, flop.
It didn’t matter. The feeling had outrun me, and I couldn’t catch up. We forgot to play poker later. Well, he forgot. I didn’t bring it up.