Chapter 2: The Walk to the Dark Car
The air hit my legs first.
Dad's hand was tight around mine, not hard, just tight enough that I couldn't let go even if I wanted to. We didn't look back. He'd said not to and I didn't. The sidewalk was cold through my white tights and my Mary Janes made a little clicking sound on the concrete that got swallowed up by the dark. I could see our breath. His came out in big clouds, mine in smaller ones, and both of them disappeared fast.
Behind us the house was still lit up. All those warm white lights on the big tree in the window, the chandelier spilling light onto the driveway. I knew without turning that the French doors were still open, that someone was standing there.
Then the screaming started.
It wasn't words at first. Just a sharp, high sound from inside the dining room, cutting through the glass. I flinched and my fingers squeezed Dad's harder. He didn't stop walking. He didn't even slow down. His shoulders went up a little, like he was bracing against wind, and his jaw did that thing where it got tight on the side.
"Dad," I whispered.
He looked down at me for half a second while we kept moving. His eyes were wet but he wasn't crying.
"I know, honey," he said quietly. "Keep walking with me."
The screaming got louder, turning into my grandma's voice, then another voice over it. I couldn't make out what they were saying. The sound bounced off the other houses on the street where every other house had Christmas lights still on. Nobody came outside.
Our car was at the end of the driveway, the dark one Dad had backed in earlier. It was an old dark blue Accord and the roof was cold when we got to it. Dad let go of my hand only to open the back door for me. The handle was freezing.
He knelt down a little so we were eye level. The wind moved his blazer.
"You okay to get in?" he asked.
I nodded. My throat felt too tight to talk. He helped me up onto the seat and I had to pull my red dress down over my knees. He buckled the seatbelt for me because my hands were shaking. He didn't say anything about the chair by the trash can, or the name cards, or any of it. He just clicked the buckle and smoothed the velvet over my shoulder where it had bunched.
"Dad, should we—" I started, and glanced back toward the house. The screaming had turned into someone calling his name. I could hear it clearly now. "Dad!"
He didn't answer right away. He closed my door gently, not slamming it, and walked around to the driver's side. I watched him through the window. He opened the front door and before he sat down he took the cream envelope out of the inside pocket of his blazer. For a second I thought he was going to open it. Or turn around and go back with it.
He didn't. He set it on the dashboard right above the steering wheel, face up, sealed. The little light from the house made the paper look yellow. He stared at it for a breath, then at the house.
My grandma was in the doorway now. I could see her burgundy dress in the light from the hall. She was holding the door frame with one hand. I couldn't see her face well from that far, but I could see she wasn't smiling anymore.
Dad got in and shut his door. The car was freezing inside and smelled like the pine air freshener he kept under the seat. He put his hands on the wheel and I saw his knuckles go white.
The screaming had stopped. Now it was just my grandma calling, "Michael! Michael, don't you do this!"
Dad didn't roll the window down. He didn't look at her. He reached forward, turned the key, and the engine caught on the second try with a rough cough. The heater started blowing cold air.
He put the car in reverse. In the side mirror I could see the house getting smaller, the Christmas tree still glowing in the front window, and my grandma still standing there with her hand on the door.
I thought he'd hesitate. I thought he'd put it in park and get out. My chest got tight waiting for it.
He didn't. He turned the wheel and backed out onto the county road, smooth and slow, like we were just leaving any other dinner. The envelope slid a half inch on the dashboard but stayed put.
He put it in drive and we pulled away. The house lights got smaller behind us and then we turned at the stop sign and they were gone. It was just dark road and the white lines and the sound of the tires on cold asphalt.
I looked at the back of his head. His hair was neat even with the wind, and his neck was red from the cold.
"Where are we going?" I asked, my voice small.
He met my eyes in the rearview mirror. His expression softened for the first time since we'd stood up from the table.
May you like
"Away," he said. "Just away for tonight."
And we kept driving, just the two of us, with that sealed envelope on the dash between us and the whole lit-up house left behind.
