Kill Switch

“I owed you this, son. I’ve owed you this ride for a long time.”

He doesn’t drive much these days, so under the best of circumstances he’d be a little rusty. Under the circumstances we have, it’s pretty hairy stuff. He seems to be fighting the wheel as much as steering it. It’s a big thing, like a bicycle wheel, and appears to take a large turn in order to make a small one. So he’s all over the wheel, and the car is all over the road.

“Pop,” Dad says, “are you sure about this? I mean, I am glad you think you owed me a ride in a nice vintage car and all but-”

Another mood shift. A soft anger comes over Da. “This car,” he snaps. “This car. My car. I owed you a ride in this.”

“How is this your car?”

The radio comes on, out of nowhere. It took its sweet time, and it’s as if it had this song stuck in its throat since the sixties. Frank Sinatra sings at us that “it was a very good year,” and Da’s beaming mad, happy expression hints that he agrees.

“How did it do that?” I ask.

“Because it’s got tubes in it,” Da says, “like an old television set. Takes time for the tubes to heat up.” He strokes the dashboard like it’s a good, loyal old dog. “You just take all the time in the world, pal,” he says.

His foot is all the way to the floor, and old pal is quite obviously going to take its time.

“Pop,” Dad says, “how is this your car? That’s kind of wild talk.”

“Because it is mine. Because I bought it and took care of it and loved it. Until they took it away from me.”

“Who-?”

Da takes a sharpish turn, and we all slide sideways with the Rambler’s squishy suspension.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

Da answers, sort of.

“Oh, jeez, Pop. Really?”

I look ahead just in time to see the handsome stone-and-steel archway of the cemetery pass overhead.

“We need to make a quick visit,” Da says. “She needs to see us men all together, on a day out together. And she needs to see the car. She loved this car and will be very pleased we took it back.”

That “we took it” thing has me suddenly getting visions of jail. I look back to Dad, who has sat way back in his seat now and looks a bit shrunken.

I guess we’re going visiting. And, from the sound of the sirens, I think we’ll be a large visiting party. Hope you are ready for company, Gram.

She looks ready. We drive the car so far up the winding roads of the place, I am sure we are on hallowed, unallowed ground. We pile out of the car and walk over the twenty yards to the grave, silent as monks, solemn as altar boys.

It is the simplest of simple stones. White granite. Dates of birth and death. And

ELLA CAMERON

BELOVED

She was a simple woman in her tastes.

We all stand around her, staring for a minute or so, before Da steps aside like a game show host with a big cheesy smile and a sweeping arm gesture, introducing the car.

“I got it back, Beloved. How’s that? How’s that?”

“Um,” Dad says softly, “the girls, they’ll probably be mad with worry about us…”

The cops have entered the gates, cut the sirens, and slowly cruise their way up toward us.

“Pop?” Dad asks. “Pop? Are you aware…?”

“Of course I’m aware,” Da says. He’s still talking to Ella, though. “I am aware, and I am sorry. I said I would get it back, when the time came. I only wish you could have waited. If only you could have waited.” He turns to us. “She was a very impatient woman. She was a very feisty, impatient woman.”

The cops are standing about eight feet off now, patient and polite, like they are officiating at a funeral rather than hauling in a team of car thieves.

Then, before we even have a chance to say anything, another car pulls up, and it’s Zeke.

He steps out of his car and walks right up to Da.

“No finer woman,” Zeke says, arm around my grandfather’s shoulders.

“None finer,” Da says, Dad says.

“No finer man,” Zeke says, squeezing him harder so that Da’s shoulders compress into a small-man frame.

“I’m sorry,” Da says again. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what, Pop?” Dad asks. “It was just a little confusion, that’s all. Nobody’s going to-”

“Sorry for… everything. Nothing. Never mind. Nothing, sorry for nothing.”

It is all coming on fast now, and the confusion is alarmingly visible on my grandfather’s face. I step up, like he is mine, like he belongs to me, because these days he does. “Come on, Da,” I say, putting an arm around his shoulders and helping him back to…

Some stranger’s lovely little stolen classic.

I realize what I am doing, and turn to see the two cops, and Dad, and Zeke, but mostly the two cops.

“You don’t really have to…,” I begin. “You can see what we have here, right? Is it really necessary, since he didn’t even realize the car didn’t belong to him?”

Dad tries to help. “We got in the car with him to try and talk him down. To see that he didn’t maim anybody, but the purpose was to get the car back to the owners just as soon as we could.”

“I am the owner,” Da says, low and serious as he and I move toward the car again. We stop at the driver’s door. “If you want to arrest the car thief, arrest whoever stole it from me.” He turns again. “Arrest him,” he says, pointing to his old colleague and friend Zeke. “He’s one of them. He’s one of them, took my car away from me. This was only just right. Just getting back what was mine.”

This is a very uncomfortable place right now, and a very uncomfortable group. Zeke leans up and whispers a few words in the lead cop’s ear. The cops both nod, very understandingly, but what could they possibly understand? I have been right here all along, and I don’t understand. Da is living through it, and he doesn’t understand. I guess the police simply understand that the old man doesn’t understand, and that’s why they can be so understanding.

“We are going to have to go back to the mansion,” says the lead cop, “and see what Mr. Rose wants to do about this. If he wants to press charges, certainly he would be within his rights to do so.”

“Rights?” Da spits. “It’s my car, not Rose’s.”

Zeke comes walking toward us, and Da bristles.

“Why are you even here?” Da asks.

“Because I am your friend,” Zeke says.

“How did you know we were here?” I ask him. Da is getting so red and puffed in the face, I fear he’s going to blow like a bloody tick all over Zeke.

“I was at the auto show when I saw the show was becoming my old pal here.”

Zeke unwisely does a little chuck move at Da’s shoulder. Da slaps the hand away.

“You seem to be lots of places we are,” I say.

I see a slash, brief, of tension cross his eyes. “We came to this show together practically every year. We love it. We have always had a lot in common, your granddad and I. Peas in a pod, weren’t we, Darius?”

Suddenly, Darius demures.

“Why don’t we all go back to the mansion,” says the second cop, a larger, younger, more sneery-looking law enforcer. “Something will work out, I’m sure. Why don’t you let me have the keys, sir.”

“Keys? Junior, I lost the keys sometime around 1967.”

Junior smirks, walks over, and leans into the front seat. He looks around the steering column. He pops up, shrugs toward the other officer. “Don’t appear to be any keys,” he says.

Da walks over, pushes the big cop in a way I never would dare to, and leans in. He runs his hand around a bit under the wheel, wiggles his fingers.