But this did not seem to be happening. Your father remained in the (darkened) car.
Still the motor was running. Pale smoke lifted from the tailpipe. You were beginning to smell the exhaust, and to feel faintly nauseated.
In the hall by the window you stood. Staring down at the driveway, the idling car. Waiting.
He is not running carbon monoxide into the car. The car is not inside the garage, there is no danger that he will poison himself.
Yet, gray smoke continued to lift from the rear of the car. Stink of exhaust borne on the cold wet air like ash.
He is sitting in the car. He is smoking in the car.
Waiting to get sober. Inside the car.
That is where he is: in the car.
He is safe. No one can harm him. You can see—he is in the car.
You could not actually see your father from where you stood. But there was no doubt in your mind, he was in the car.
Had Daddy been drinking, was that why he was late returning home, you would not inquire. Each time Daddy entered the house in the evening unsteady on his feet, frowning, his handsome face coarse and flushed, you would want to think it was the first time and it was a surprise and unexpected. You would not want to think—Please no. Not again.
You would want to retreat quickly before his gaze was flung out, like a grappling hook, to hook his favorite daughter Vi’let Rue.
It was one of those days in the aftermath of the death of Hadrian Johnson when nothing seemed to have happened. And yet—always there was the expectation that something will happen.
Your brothers had not been summoned, with O’Hagan, to police headquarters that day. So far as anyone knew, the others—Walt, Don—had not been summoned either.
No arrests had (yet) been made but your brothers were captive animals. Everyone in the Kerrigan house was a captive animal.
They’d ceased reading the South Niagara Union Journal. Someone, might’ve been Daddy, tossed the paper quickly away into the recycling bin as soon as it arrived in the early morning,
For articles about the savage beating, murder of Hadrian Johnson continued to appear on the front page. The photograph of Hadrian Johnson continued to appear. Gat-toothed black boy smiling and gazing upward as if searching for a friendly face.
You saw the newspaper, in secret. Not each day but some days.
These people are killing us. Possibly, your mother meant the newspaper people. The TV people.
You are beginning to feel uneasy, at the window. You are beginning to wonder if indeed your father is actually in the car. And it is wrong of you to spy upon your father as it is wrong to spy upon your mother. Faces sagging like wetted tissue when they believe that no one is watching. Oh, you love them!
In the car Daddy is (probably) smoking. Maybe he brought a can of ale with him from the tavern. Maybe a bottle.
The bottles are more serious than the cans. The bottles—whiskey, bourbon—are more recent than the cans.
In the plastic recycling bin, glass bottles chiming against one another.
Daddy is not supposed to smoke. Daddy has been warned.
A spot on his lung two years before but a benign spot. High blood pressure.
More than once Daddy has declared that he has quit smoking—for the final time.
When Daddy smokes he coughs badly. In the early morning you are wakened hearing him. So painful, lacerating as if someone is scraping a knife against the inside of his throat.
Years ago when you were a little girl Daddy would come bounding into the house—Hey! I’m home.
Calling for you—Hey Vi’let Rue! Daddy is home.
Where’s Daddy’s best girl? Vi’let RUE!
That happy time. You might have thought it would last forever. Like a TV cartoon now, exaggerated and unbelievable.
Now Daddy is showing no inclination to come into the house. (Maybe he has fallen asleep, behind the wheel? A bottle in his hand, that is beginning to tip over and spill its contents …) He has turned off the motor, at least. You are relieved, the poison-pale smoke has ceased to lift from the tailpipe.
He’s coming inside now. Soon.
There is a meal for Daddy, in the oven. Covered in aluminum foil.
Even when your mother must know that Daddy won’t be eating the supper she has prepared for him there is a meal in the oven which, next day, midday when no one is around, Mom will devour alone in the kitchen rarely troubling to heat it in the microwave. (You have seen her with a fork picking, picking, picking at the cold coagulated meat, mashed potatoes. You have seen your mother eating without appetite, swiftly picking at tasteless food.)
It is unnerving to you, the possibility that no one is in the car.
In the driveway, in the dark. Dim reflected light from a streetlight in the wet pavement.
No, there’s no one there!
Somehow, your father has slipped past you. You have failed to see him.
Or, your father has slumped over behind the wheel, unconscious. He has found an ingenious way to divert the carbon monoxide into the car while no one noticed …
The father of a classmate at school has died, a few weeks ago. Shocking, but mysterious. What do you say?
You say nothing. Nothing to say. Avoid the girl, not a friend of yours anyway.
As, at school, your friends have begun to avoid you.
Pretending not to notice. Not to care. Hiding in a toilet stall dabbing wetted tissues against your face. Why are your eyelids so red? So swollen?
But now you have begun to be frightened. You wonder if you should seek out your mother. Mom? Daddy is still in the car, he has been out there a long time … But the thought of uttering such words, allowing your parents to know that you are spying on them, is not possible.
And then, this happens: you see someone leave the house almost directly below, and cross to the car in the driveway.
Is it—your mother?
She, too, must have been standing at a window, downstairs. She’d seen the headlights turning into the driveway. She’d been waiting, too.
Slipping her arms into the sleeves of someone’s jacket, too large for her. Bare-headed in light-falling snow that melts as soon as it touches the pavement, and her hair.
It is brave of Mom to be approaching Daddy, you think. You hold your breath wondering what will happen.
For you, your sisters, and your brothers have seen, numerous times, your father throwing off your mother’s hand, if she touches him in a way that is insulting or annoying to him. You have seen your father stare at your mother with such hatred, your instinct is to run away in terror.
In terror that that face of wrath will be turned onto you.
You are watching anxiously as, at the car, on the farther side of the car where you can’t see her clearly, your mother stoops to open the door. Tugging at the door, unassisted by anyone inside.
And now, what is your mother doing? Helping your father out of the car?
You have never seen your mother helping your father in any way, like this. You are certain.