run over

a vignette set in a small Kentucky town in the springtime; the fractious relationship of mother and oldest daughter; an accident, oddly enough, clears the air.

       

     As the sound of heavy clumping of her mother’s sturdy work shoes tumbled down the stairs like a brick dropping on each step, Catherine tried to hold herself perfectly still in the chaotic vortex of her mother’s cruel anger; her mother’s sotto voce grumbling and huffing as she mounted the stairs finally faded away.  The deep burgundy of the velvet upholstery on the replica Victorian furniture turned the air heavy, and she felt strangled as if her throat was filled with blood.  Surrounded by marble, mahogany and the endless accoutrement of the fragile bric-a-brac so treasured by her mother, Catherine remembered that as a child, she was terrified to even approach this room, her fate seeming to be that she would break something as diligently as she tried not to.  That familiar cloud of doom settled on her now.

       Catherine’s mother Laura had always condemned, bullied and rebuked her oldest daughter’s behavior and accomplishments.  Catherine thought, I’m like her pincushion, something to pierce and stab with needle-like contempt, criticisms and chastisements.  She looked down at her work-worn hands, wound together to choke the trembling her entire body was resisting.  As she recalled Laura’s hateful barrage delivered before the noisy trip upstairs, hot tears ran down her cheeks, and she wiped them away with the hem of her apron.  She thought, for this, I married and left home, left this town �" I thought a husband and a baby would make her see me differently �" but nothing is different.

          “You went and married that ignorant, vulgar hillbilly, always bragging about his war heroics �" his family would never be genteel enough to darken our grandmother’s front door �" or back door either!  For God’s sake, Catherine, they are coal miners from Logan, West Virginia. He doesn’t have the manners of a mongrel. You ruined your life, girl, so don’t expect me and your daddy to save you from that madwoman of a mother-in-law up in Logan.  Thank your lucky stars they’ll put a roof over your head, because me and your daddy got two other girls to raise, girls that are gonna amount to something more than you ever could, something that your braggart of a husband never will.  This is just how I figured you’d end up.”

          Laura’s words were now burned into her memory, and Catherine could almost smell the searing of flesh on hot iron.  Though over time the tapestry of that tirade would float to cloudier depths of her memory, it would never disappear.

          Catherine heard the giddy, high-pitched laughter and giggles of her sisters walking up the porch.  The screen door screeched and the front door burst open; dark and petite Punky led the way, dumping her books and bag on Laura’s pristine burgundy sofa, followed by chattering blonde Bobbie, relieving herself of her books just like Punky.

          Punky, staring wide-eyed at Catherine’s red face, asked, “Well, Catty, where’s the baby?  I figgered he’d be here with you.  Ain’t that his little jump chair turned over on the porch with some kind of dish towel tied to it?”

          “Ohmigod,” Catherine leaped up to run between her sisters out to the polished concrete porch.  Stopping to stare at the empty, upturned chair, she realized that the restraint to keep Tommy in his chair had failed.  Gradually she forced herself to tear her eyes away from the chair and to search the small area of the hilltop neighborhood of her parents’ house; theirs was the next to the last house on the hill, just a woody thicket across the street, and next-door Claris and Louise’s stylish bungalow.  The curbs parallel to the houses dated from the days of horse and carriage, about eighteen inches from the street level.

          She saw that the neighbor’s son Donny, practicing for his driver’s license, was in Claris’ huge new Buick, having backed it out of the driveway to head downhill; Donny was hardly tall enough to see over the wheel, so it was certain he could not see the tow-headed curls of the ten-month old child slowly toddling towards the curb, Donny and the car.  Frozen to the porch, Catherine could hear nothing but Tommy, gurgling and giggling, “go bye-bye Donny �" go go …”

          Just as Tommy reached the brink of the curb, Donny tackled the mystery of the clutch and the accelerator, trying to attain the miracle of motion.  The car’s engine roared and the Buick lurched forward.  Startled by the noise, Tommy fell off the curb as Donny inched the car forward again.  Everyone screamed:  Catherine, Punky, Bobbie and of course, Tommy.  Donny threw on the emergency brake when he saw the girls at Mrs. Merritt’s house carrying on; he leaped from the car and headed for Tommy’s screams.

          “Gawd Almighty, Tommy, Tommy -- are you all right?”  Donny’s adolescent voice squealed, as if poor little Tommy would answer.  The baby’s head was wedged between the high curb and the Buick’s whitewall tire, his temple seemingly buried under the tire, compressing his face into a weasel shape.  Catherine and her sisters rushed to join Donny.  They all screamed again, and this time the commotion brought Mrs. Laura Merritt outdoors to join them.  Punky and Bobbie continued to scream and threaten to faint and wail about poor little Tommy being dead. Catherine was on her hands and knees on the street, trying to comfort her child and pushing ineffectively on the tire.

          Well, she might have been a virago and she might have been hateful beyond comprehension to Catherine, but Laura was the master in a crisis and she wasn’t about to lose her first grandchild, even if he was half-hillbilly.

          “You keep doing what you’re doing, Catherine.  Donny, get back behind the wheel �" don’t do nothing till I tell you.”

          She knelt in front of the car and peered towards the tire imprisoning Tommy.

          “All right, Donny, put your foot on the brake real gentle �" don’t do anything to make the car move �" that’s right.  Now -- Tommy is caught at the rear of the tire, so what I want you to do, Donny, is turn the wheel very slowly to your right �" just a little bit at a time �" that’s it, that’s it �" once more oughta do it.”

          Catherine swept Tommy up into her arms, kissing his face and crying and hugging him as closely as she could.  Besides his tender baby skin being scraped and embedded with tiny pebbles, his temple and cheeks were streaked with blood, and Catherine tasted it in her kisses.

          “Catherine, you get in the back seat with the baby.  Punky, go get my purse.  Now, Donny, you are gonna drive us to the hospital.  Don’t worry, you are not gonna get in trouble with anyone.  This was nobody’s fault, Donny �" things like this happen no matter how careful we try to be.  Hurry up, Punky.  Bobbie, stop blubbering and go in to call your daddy at the railyards and tell him where we’ll be.  Now, let’s go.”

          Laura settled herself into the passenger seat and patted Donny’s arm to reassure him.  Laura did not drive, but she’d ridden enough with her husband and knew the philosophy of “back-seat driving” as well as anyone.  Slowly they drove to the hospital, Laura uttering words of comfort alternately to Donny and Tommy.  Her driving advice was scant, and for that, Donny was glad and began to feel his confidence recover somewhat.

          Catherine rode silently holding her child, for once thankful her mother was in control and, thereby amazed.