The website for Trusty Transport, the company bringing Matthew’s BMW, claimed door to door service. But when Jeff called from Evansville to say that Rick couldn’t drive to his house, and that he had to pick an abandoned K-Mart parking lot, I knew there would be no front-of-my-house delivery. Luckily, we live a mere two miles from a major highway and it was there that I directed Rick, with his seventy-six foot long, fourteen foot high truck, to meet us. Just off route 2, on Central St., in the Tech Central parking lot.

A mere two miles as a registered, licensed driver drives, a hellava long way if you’re towing your own flesh and blood.

Thinking I was going to reassure him, I walked back to Matthew sitting in the BMW and said,
“Matt, there are four things that can happen. And only four.
You’ll go straight, you’ll turn right (into our driveway), we might pull over to the side of road, and related to number three, we might get stopped by the police. That is it. No left turns, u-turns, stopping for gas, or whistling at friends. Oh, and one more thing, you have to have the engine on.”

“What are you talking about?” Matt asked with that, I ëm only fifteen and you’ve already put my life in jeopardy more times than I can count, look.

I said, “Trust me,” thinking this was different from the moose and her calf in Alaska. I didn’t know the calf was going to walk within petting distance, right between the picnic table where we sat and the RV where Diane was safely ensconced. And as far as all those other events, the changing table, the high chair, the swing, the ice cube are concerned, you’ll have to discuss those with your shrink, I don’t have time now.

The truth is, I was worried about my tow rope breaking and he needed to be ready to drive to the side of the road, but for some reason I couldn’t tell him that. I didn’t want him to be more concerned than he already was
about: steering a car towed through Acton, at fifteen, with no license, with Indiana plates that expired in 1999. And did I mention, no driving experience other than our side yard and moments before, the parking lot where Rick from Trusty deposited the car?

With the yellow tow rope tied between my commercial-grade tow hitch and the wire loop on the front of the BMW that resembled my belt buckle, I told Matt we would practice in the parking lot. Which we did. We made one circle at which time, like Ward Bond in the classic fifties western, Wagonmaster, I thrust my left arm out the window, hoped that Matt in his tiny car two feet behind my rear bumper could see, and shouted – FORWARD HO. As he pointed out later, it wasn’t enough practice. As I admitted only to myself, it wasn’t about his comfort, it was all about me getting brave enough to hit the road. One loop and away we went, directly into the path of a landscaping dump truck.

Rattling in my brain was Jeffrey’s comment about how he had to drive past an Evansville cop. It was relevant because on the way to Tech Central Matt and I passed an Acton cop in the cemetery near our house, waiting for speeders. That’s when I thought to myself, way out of shouting, maybe even telepathic distance, “Matt there’s a fifth thing I need to tell you. If that cop comes out of the cemetery after us, I’m not stopping until we get home.” I’d rather talk to him in my driveway, not on the road where I would have to pay a tow truck to move the car a block. What kind of self preservation instinct would prevail, I wondered? Would Matt see the flashing blue light and try to stop, thereby leaving his engine on Central St., or would he follow his father who would appear to be fleeing (tho slow mo, ala you know who) justice?

I did my best to stay ahead of the landscaping truck, and in my rear view mirror, and Matthew’s too, the driver exhibited the patience of an out-of-stater. Maybe he was enthralled by what he was watching, I don’t know. I do know that at times I would speed up, out of respect for the truck driver, and at others I’d slow to a crawl, not wanting to attract attention. Matthew said I mostly swerved.

Our one stop, the traffic light at Rt. 111, worried me the most. Matthew was two feet behind me, and his only warning would be my brake lights. I had no choice but to trust his video game honed reflexes, and when I slowed to a stop, he did too. Flawlessly. When we got to the cemetery and saw only gravestones, I knew we were home free. And when we pulled into the driveway, my smile was eclipsed by Matthew’s, or was that a demonic, you’ll never do anything like this to me again, grin.

If Matthew had a choice, it would have been the red ’86 Porche.


I drove this car thirty-five years ago. Where is Rod Serling?

Dan tells me that he’s been working eighteen hour days on his brand new Tufts contract that will provide him with work for the summer, and then he sends me this picture.