Dave Goodwin

Over the River and Through the Woods

I hate the drive to grandma’s. Especially at night.

Stuck in the back seat, nothing to do, and my little sister, Amy, won’t stay on her side of the car. Always gotta be putting her hand over the middle, or her leg, or one of the guys: Big Jim, Action Jackson, G.I. Joe, it don’t matter. ‘Cause she does it on purpose and then acts all innocent when I tell Mom.

“What?” Amy says. “It was an accident. Jeez!”

And all Mom does is look at her. Like that’s gonna do anything.

Something going a million miles an hour, shoots by our car in a loud motor zoom.

“Christ!” Dad says. “Did you see that?”

Amy’s got her head crammed against the window trying to see past him, trying to see what I know is already gone. But I’m squished over, too, looking right with her.

“What an idiot. Nobody should be driving that fast,” he says.

All I see are red slow-lights on the backs of cars. I knew it. Only thing that could go that fast is a racecar—like one of my Hot Wheels: Stingray, or Mustang even.

“Did you see that Marky?”

“Sure was something,” Mom says.

Marky’s what Dad calls her, but it’s not Mom’s real name. Her real name is Martha, but the only one who ever calls her that is grandma.

“That guy is going to get his damned self killed,” Dad says.

Amy elbows me. Dad just cussed. I elbow her back harder. I know, I heard.

“Ow,” she says. “Mom!”

Mom turns around and glares, waggles her finger back and forth. “So help me,” she warns.

“But Dave—” Amy says.

“But nothing,” Mom says with her teeth clenched—a sure sign that she’s mad. The muscles in the backs of her cheeks pop out and in. “David. Move away from your sister. If I hear so much as a peep out of you two before we reach your grandmother’s, there’ll be hell to pay.”

I slide over. Dad touches Mom’s shoulder, squeezes the muscles in her neck. She turns around. Amy’s fingers poke me in the ribs. Mom just cussed. I tell her I know by hitting her back, but smack the seat instead.

Mom’s fast. I don’t even see her turn, but there she is, with her finger out.

Pointing at me.

Pointing at Amy.

“Knock it off,” Dad says without turning around. His fingers are white on the steering wheel, the muscles big in his arms.

We cross the Golden Gate Bridge in silence, through Presidio, and no one says what we always say: There’s where Amy was born! No one says anything, in fact, until we hit the traffic jam as we come out of Golden Gate Park.

“Those are sirens,” Mom says. “Hear them?”

Everyone rolls their window down. I’ve never heard so many sirens in my life. They’re all over each other. KLA—KLA—BRATBRATBRAT—REEEOOOR. Red lights flash on the leaves of the trees and all the cars have to get over to the right in single file, like we’re all lining up for a fire drill. I see police lights, a fire truck, and ambulances.

“Oh, my Lord,” Mom says as we clear the last bend of the road. She reaches into the backseat with her arm out like Dad’s just slammed on the brakes. “Don’t look,” she says.

As if.

This is THE story of the year and Mom wants me to close my eyes? I’m already planning how I’m going to tell it to Joey and Preston and Billy on the bus Monday. They’ll probably call me up on stage and tell it to the whole dang fifth grade at lunchtime. Maybe call an assembly. No way am I missing this.

A tractor truck, one of them eighteen-wheelers, is stretched across the road. The front wheels are up on the grassy part in the middle. But it’s the back wheels I can’t take my eyes off of. ‘Cause right next to them is a little, smashed car. Dark green or blue. Hard to tell with all the flashing lights. Maybe the one that passed us. The tractor wheels must have rolled right over it. The whole front of the car is flattened like the milk cartons we get for school lunches, the car’s juices spilled all over the road. Emergency people move around, waving arms and flashlights. And there’s the driver, by himself, lying in the street with broken glass and metal all around him. He’s on his back, his eyes still open, staring up into the night. He’s dead. Has to be. ‘Cause when I stare as hard as I can to see if he blinks, he doesn’t. Not even once.

“Why don’t they cover him up?” Mom asks. She’s got tears in her voice. “Kids, please,” she says.

I keep staring out the back window until the accident disappears behind a curve in the road. I will never forget this.