By Porter Shreve
Late October, 1969. Iím three years old. Weíre driving at night
on a country road outside Culpeper, Virginia, to visit my recently widowed
grandmother. No moon or lights. We have only the reach of the high beams
to see by. I sit between my parents in the front seat. My mother is
six months pregnant with my sister, and my father is driving a Mercury
Comet Wagon, the car my mother has said is cursed. It had belonged to
her father, and one of the last things heíd ever said to her was, ďDonít
think youíre going to get that red car.Ē
My parents have moved to the Blue Ridge Mountains hoping for a quiet
place to raise a family. They teach at a boarding school in the foothills,
tucked behind fences inside twelve hundred acres of gently sloping lawn.
But the week before, as she turned away to unload groceries by our house,
I released the emergency brake and climbed out just before the car started
to roll, down the hill and into a tree. I couldnít have known what I
was doing, mirroring my parents, my mind still free of consequence.
Only this afternoon my father got the Mercury out of the shop.
Now heís gripping the wheel with both hands; my mother pulls me closer,
clear of the gearshift. Itís warm for late October. Our two dogs pace
in the back and rest their chins on top of our seats; their breath stirs
the close air. As we round another curve, my father rolls down his window,
letting a breeze into the quiet cocoon of our car. Do you hear something,
he says and begins to slow down.
The glass explodes in front of me. Loud snaps and a deep bellow. Then
Iím looking at a mass of black fur and bone where our windshield used
to be. I reach for my face and everything is wet, tiny shards dug into
my hands and arms. Iím so stunned by the world crashing in that I canít
scream or cry or move.
Even as my parents grab me, stumble out with the dogs and head for the
light of a farmerís house nearby, I remain suspended in my own disbelief.
Inside, my father calls an ambulance. Iím so perfectly still in my motherís
arms that she is too afraid to see what has happened. She goes into
the bathroom, turns on the light, and holds me up to the mirror. Itís
the only way she can bear to look. In the reflection I am covered in
blood and stray tufts of Angus fur. But my eyes are wide open, because
what my mother doesnít know is that I am looking at me, too, in the
very moment of my first memory, where the curse of the conscious world
is the author of two novels: The
Obituary Writer and Drives
Like a Dream. He is coeditor of several literary anthologies and
his work has appeared in Witness, Northwest Review, the Chicago
Tribune, and the Boston Globe. He currently directs the
Creative Writing Program at Purdue University.
Photo by Dinty W. Moore