Our house was on the slope of a grassy hill. Out from the west, Route 40 curved along the hill and crossed a bridge before it arched up and slithered into the mountain. Dad spent lots of time sitting on our front porch and watching the oncoming traffic which, after a long time staring, seemingly headed right into your face. “Ugly car, ugly car, and… another ugly car,” he murmured. 

In his mind, I guessed, the only non-ugly car was the Mustang that Mom bought when I was born. It was pure metallic blue with countless tiny sparkles. Dad washed it every weekend. He towel-dried it and patted the hood as if it were a horse or something. Three years ago, it rolled down a cliff in the mountain. Now we depended on a coffee-colored Chevy to carry us around. It screeched when it turned right, and the front fenders had rusted away.

In winter, clouds sank down to embrace the earth. The road was damp and slippery, and the cars usually slowed down to avoid flipping into the river. One evening, a minivan failed to hold the grip and slipped into the ditch at the root of the hill. A man came out, stomped, and kicked the tire. Dad grabbed his coat and stepped out. He and the man stood by either side of the tailgate, buried their heads between their arms and pushed. A girl remained inside the car. She flattened her face on the glass in a way that it looked like she was beaming at me. The next day, Dad hammered down a wood board by the roadside. In large red letters he wrote, CHANGE TIRES.

Hanging over the fireplace was a 76×51 of Mom wearing a one-shoulder white dress and a million-watt smile, a twenty-year-old poster from the Miss Tennessee competition. She didn’t make the final, a failure for her but a lucky day for Dad. I was always wondering how he found his tongue to ask her out after the pageant, and how he lost all the words during the time they lived together. Why did he stand mute when she slammed the door and why on earth did she have to drive on a foggy day? They didn’t allow me to see her after the accident. I was told that, on the front seat of the unrecognizable wreck, she was stuck between the airbag and headrest without any apparent wound. Her face was immaculate as the one on the poster.  

I’d read about it, that wifeless men usually drank and drank until one day their livers burst. For my dad, his only addiction was watching the traffic and appraising cars like a judge in a fashion show.  

I also read that a motherless daughter tended to marry early and make herself a parent. Bull shit. My dates were the classic novels stacked up in the corner of the living room. High school would end in one year. After graduation, I would move to a place where I could always see the horizon out from the window of my bedroom, no curves, no mountains. I’d ride my bike in and out and adopt a Bearded Dragon as my child.

Dad put out more signs, CHECK WIPERS, TAPPING BRAKE, IF YOU CAN NOT SEE THIS TURN ON HIGH BEAM. Our front lawn was like a small graveyard with all the sticks and red paint.

Occasionally, Dad dropped a twenty-dollar bill on the table and disappeared for the whole weekend. I was the only thing breathing in the house. I lived on microwave dinner and ice cream, gulping cranberry juice until I was about to puke. On Sunday afternoon, I heard tires squeaking outside. The Chevy bounced up the driveway and Dad staggered into the door. “There’s never a decent car,” he grunted. I sniffed, expecting alcohol, perfumes, or weed, but I only caught the moldy smell of his jacket.

April came with lots of rain. The hill was tender green and the air was so fresh that I could suck nectar out from it. On a Saturday morning, an eighteen-wheeler snake down from Route 40. The cab was violet, with an aqua-blue stripe drawing out on either side like a silk scarf blowing in the wind. The colorful vehicle weaved all over the road, like a plus-sized beauty wiggling her hips down the runway. “The driver must’ve driven all night,” I said. 

Dad leaned forward in his lounge chair.

“Maybe it’s a new guy.” I turned to look at Dad.

Dad squinted. Inside the tall cab, a young man held the wheel in one hand and gripped a phone in the other, eyes shifting between the road and the screen.  

“He’s texting!” Dad hissed. He stormed into the house and rushed back with a megaphone speaker slung across his body. He jumped in his Chevy and started the engine. 

“Dad! What’re you doing?” I ran after him.

He didn’t answer. The Chevy swerved onto the road, coughed out fumes, and lurched forward.

“She’s out of your league!” I shouted. 

I knew it sounded foolish. He didn’t hear me anyway.  With the megaphone high up in the air, he yelled “Stop texting!”

His deep voice was amplified by the speaker and boomed in the hollow space between the river and the mountain. “Stop! Can you hear me? Stop right now. You can’t run away from me! I’m telling you…” 

Following the trailer truck, the Chevy soon vanished into a vast deep green, from where I only heard a fading echo.

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Image: “Pull Up to the Bumper II” from The Dollar Store Estate Sale Collection