Too Bright to Be Night

They raced past my childhood home. On sweltering summer nights, the sounds of revving engines roared through the humid night air past farmhouses, acres of tall rows of sweet corn, narrow gravel-covered country lanes and red-freckled fields of ripe tomatoes. The acrid smell of burnt rubber would seep through my cracked bedroom window to taunt me as I lay awake awaiting the approaching night visitors. Brilliant light would flood my bedroom. Within seconds, darkness returned. Sometimes, the distant whistle of an approaching train signaled farewell to the receding hum.

* * *

“They’re racing tonight,” said Jack as he snatched a maple key fluttering down from the bright blue sky. Summer vacation was drawing to a close with the first day of grade four only two weeks away. We spent a lot of time together that summer, all of it at my house. I liked the company; Jack liked the escape.

My childhood home was a few hundred yards from a busy paved road. Cars whizzed by stirring the humid August air, making the helicopter seed pods dance before gently landing into our outreached hands.

“How do you know?” I asked, flinging the seeds at him. They fell feebly at his feet.

"‘Cause, Rob said so. It’s supposed to be a full moon and no rain. Rob, Pete, Joe, and maybe Mike, they’re all ready. I’m going to watch. But it’s a secret. Don’t tell anyone.”

“You think I’m a blabbermouth? I’m not going to tell anybody. And just because Rob’s your big brother, doesn’t mean he’s always right. Maybe he’s just pulling your leg.”

Jack hopped on his bicycle without a backwards glance. Leaning far over his handlebars, he pointed his bike towards home, a farm two miles away, where cows and chickens and corn fields and Rob and five other siblings waited impatiently for his return. His piston-like legs pedalled furiously, too quickly. He landed hard on the gravel. I ran to him, but he was back on the bike in seconds, tiny stones pelting the tarmac in his wake.

“Bye!” I shouted to Jack’s back. Our neighbour’s dog started barking.

Later that night, a ghostly orb slowly rose into the darkening sky behind clouds still blushing from a crimson sunset. Lingering scents of a fried perch dinner and freshly baked McIntosh apple pie filled the house. It was a quiet night; no yelling. Hours of warm sunshine had dulled simmering frustrations.

“Beth, come dry the dishes. What are you looking at?” asked Mom as I opened the kitchen screen door. The tell-tale squeak echoed in the fading light.

“Nothing. Just looking. Thought I heard something, that’s all.” I quickly shut the door and picked up a worn, blue tea towel as I grabbed a plate in the drying rack.

Mom ignored my pleas to stay up late that night. I made promises I could never keep, but kept my promise to Jack.

Teeth brushed and face washed, I crawled into bed and played with Jack’s discarded toy Mustang he gave me for my birthday. I braided my long, frizzy brown hair and then slowly unwound each braid. I stared at the pathetic plastic glowing stars stuck to my bedroom ceiling, each vainly attempting to break free. Even standing on my mattress, I couldn’t reach their tiny curling arms to rescue them. A cricket chorus lullaby finally lulled me to sleep as we both welcomed the deep, dark night.

* * *

I awoke to see Mom nearly trip on a pile of dirty clothing as she rushed into my room. Sirens screamed. Red, blue and white flashing lights flashed across my bedroom walls. I jumped out of bed.

“Beth, stay here!” Mom said, grabbing my arm.

Someone yelled, “Turn off the engine!”

“Why are there flashing lights and sirens? Where’s Dad? Is that a fire truck? No, it’s an ambulance. Right? It’s an ambulance? Let me go! I promise I’ll be good,” I pleaded as I pried her fingers off my wrist.

Mom pulled me down into her arms and held me close.

“I’m scared, too, Beth.” I pushed her away.

“I’m not scared. I want to see.”

The sirens were silenced and replaced with hushed voices. The flashing lights and whisperings continued for what felt like hours. Constant coaxing didn’t loosen mom’s vise-like grip. Each attempt to escape only tightened her embrace. Eventually, darkness slowly started winning back the night as my exhaustion won over any curiosity. I pulled the pink bedsheet over my face, closed my eyes to the sounds, and finally fell asleep.

* * *

When I awoke for the second time, it was too quiet to be day, but also too bright to be night. Mom was gone. Morning traffic was silent. Sunrise’s soft golden glow had replaced the flashing lights. I jumped out of bed and ran into the kitchen where a tall, slim cop was slowly rising from the dining room table and grabbing his cap. Mom was still in her powder blue nightgown. Dad’s shoulders sagged like the nights he smelled of cigarette smoke and stale beer. Overnight, our kitchen window had transformed into a spider web of cracks. Mom quickly hugged me as I took a step toward the front door.

“What happened? I wanna see what happened,” I said. She kissed my cheek. 

“Why is he here? What is he doing in our house?” I pointed at the cop. He reached down and gently patted me on the head.

“Don’t be rude,” Mom said as she walked over to the kitchen sink. She handed me a glass of cold water, smoothed my unruly hair and slowly lowered herself into a nearby chair.

I remember hearing Mom scream as I rushed outside and stepped on a small piece of jagged metal on our front porch.

* * *

Today is the 10th anniversary.

“You should burn it,” Jack says. I turn around to see him staring at me as I quickly stuff the worn newspaper clipping into my pocket.

He fumbles with the brakes on his wheelchair and narrowly misses scraping his hand on the kitchen doorway in his haste to leave the room. The door frame is not as lucky. Another chip of wood falls to the linoleum flooring as the wheelchair leaves yet another mark, one quickly lost amidst the many collected over the past year in this home built on promises and dreams. Jack leans forward while he furiously drives the wheelchair down the hallway. He looks back over his shoulder at me, briefly, before disappearing into our bedroom.

I wait a few seconds before carefully removing the paper. Yellowed tape covers the torn headline: “Midnight racing kills local teenager”. Below it is a photo of a child in red pajamas standing in front of a brick bungalow. To her left, a Chrysler Daytona, dirty beige and looking forlorn, waits patiently for someone to remove part of a wheel protruding from its rear window. A few feet away, a car door straddles a once manicured hedge.

Dad had frantically rushed outside, wrapped his warm hands around my waist and quickly, gently lifted me up, up high into the summer air to where I saw an alien landscape before I buried my face in his chest.

Police tape and traffic cones barricaded curious onlookers from a chalk outline on thestained tarmac. Diamonds of glass sparkled along the edge of the road. Long, red tassels hungfrom each end of the handlebar of a mangled bike leaning against our maple tree. Jack was set on getting Summer-Sky Blue tassels; I convinced him to buy Fire-Engine Red.