14. Car Crashes

The first time, we didn’t even hear it. There was a ring at the doorbell, after dinner. No one ever rang the doorbell after dark. My father went to the door in his pajamas and bathrobe. He used to wear these almost sheer pajamas around the house and a graying terrycloth bathrobe. I was embarrassed he’d answer the door like that.

It was Mr. Zilwich from across the street. “Jack,” he began. My brother and I were pressed against the railings at the top of the steps. My mother was still on the couch, reading a newspaper. “Jack, I hit your car. Backing out of my driveway.”

Sometimes my father parked on the street instead of the driveway, if my mother was going to be leaving early the next morning to go somewhere.

“Really?” my father asked.

“Yes. I don’t know what happened. I didn’t even see your car there. I’m sorry. I can’t even tell if I did much damage.”

“Let’s go take a look.”

My father got a flashlight. It was low on batteries, but there was still some light in it. We went out and looked at the car. It wasn’t so bad. But there was a dent.

It was all of us, me, my brother, Mr. Zilwich, my father. Staring at the side of the car.

“How did this happen again?” my father asked. It was like he couldn’t believe it was true. Like he thought it was going to be some sort of Candid Camera trick.

“I was just backing down the driveway.”

“You’ve seen my car there before, haven’t you?”

“I have. There’s no excuse for it. I don’t know what I was thinking. I can give you all the insurance information.”

He did give it to us. But my father never used it. He drove around with that dent in the car until we sold it.

Mr. Zilwich avoided us after that. My father always gave him a big hello, but he wanted nothing to do with us. It was like he held a grudge against us for his own carelessness.

“Idiot Zilwich is mowing the lawn,” my mother would say, looking out the window. “Run for cover.”
At least we go some laughs out of it.

The second time, I was the one who heard it. This was a few years later. The car was parked in the same place, in front of our house at the curb, though it was a different car.

The crash was loud. I rushed up to look out my window. The car that had hit our car was backing up, driving up.

“Someone hit your car,” I yelled, running out of my room. “They’re taking off. They’re getting away.”
My father was half-asleep watching a baseball game. But he snapped his eyes open and started feeling around for the socks and shoes he’d thrown off at the foot of the couch. He didn’t even hesitate, just ran out the door and jumped into my mother’s car and took off in pursuit.

My brother and I waited there. My mother was already asleep. “Do you think he’ll catch them?” my brother asked.

“No way,” I said. “They were going about a hundred. They’re probably in the next state by now.”

My father returned about fifteen minutes later. My brother and I were excited. “What happened? Did you get them?”

“It was Kevin Reich,” my father said. “Can you believe that? Kevin Reich. He hits our car and then drives away. Doesn’t even have the courage to face us, after as long as we’d know him.”

It really upset him. He had one beer, and then another. I could see how angry it had made him. How helpless it made him feel.

I went to bed. I didn’t want to be around when he started drinking the third beer. I thought about how he’d just jumped up like that and ran out the door the instant I said our car had been hit. Protecting us. Believing me.