When Daddy Let Me Drive

The moment CJ stepped outside the sliding glass doors of her uncle's three-story "cottage" on the lake, the moist air dank with things rotting slathered her from head to foot. A fish would fare better in the sweltering humidity of Georgia in August. It slowed her breath and movement to that typical Southern pace. "No wonder they talk like that," mused CJ. "This stuff messes with my brain." Chr-eee-us, suuun, why don' yew git yer cuzin an ahhhst-teah? [Chris, son, why don't you get your cousin an iced tea?] No, Chris, please get her a ticket back to Colorado. That would be refreshing. Wondering if they made a dictionary for Southern, CJ slipped on sandals for the walk to the dock. She'd need a whole manual to navigate the undercurrents of this culture and of the chaos called family.

A clearing had been cut through the velvety dark green that covered everything in sight except for the lake itself. And watch out for the shiny three leaf pattern- that's poison oak. And the dark shiny vines, well, that's poison ivy. So don' y'all go wanderin' off, y- hear? How beautiful the wall of lush green seemed. How utterly, ruthlessly it choked the life out of the trees it mounded over. CJ picked her way down the wide path toward cousins, uncles, dads, sisters, and brothers jostling on the dock for turns with the new waverunners or for turns behind the boat.

The dock rocked under her feet from the wakes of the machines as they roared off in hot pursuit of the horizon. Maybe she'd take a quiet swim, she decided as she padded toward the ladder that descended into deeper water.

"Better put a life-jacket on." CJ followed the voice, flat with resignation and disappointment, around the corner to find her father sitting alone and staring after the receding figures. Decked out in his faded red swim trunks and his new red Georgia Bulldogs baseball hat, he slumped in the weathered chair; his skinny legs and his chin jutted out while his arms fell loosely to his sides.

CJ studied him for a moment. Even in her earliest memories, he had silver hair. Now, it was thinning and starting to tinge to yellow from the goop he used to slick it into place. Sun spots on his hands and face reminded her that she,too, needed to check with a skin specialist. Like father, like daughter. They even shared the same name- Christopher Joseph / Chrissy Jo. But not so fast. Maybe they did share skin type, flat butt, and name. But that's where the similarities stopped, she told herself. No, she resembled her mother in personality: strong, independent, fun. Really.

Life's ups and downs had creased lines into his face, but they had deepened even more in the past few days. Voices late at night carried tension in their tenor. Of course, her aunt and uncle always fought: they fought loud, but behind closed doors. Sometimes it'd spill over into a public berating, like that morning when the eggs weren't done just right. It was about presentation- it was always about presentation.

Old habits surfaced in her father in his old environment, habits of disrespect and impatience and status measurement that he had worked hard to eradicate from himself as he raised his family far, far away from the South. This tense old man before her just wasn't the father she knew.

No amount of money and prestige could hide the pain and dissention in her uncle's house. And no amount of money and prestige would make CJ want to trade her calm, happy, poor childhood for her cousins'. But she had seen the way he'd shrivel a little when her uncle would insist on the most expensive meal in town. The sibling rivalry of their childhood never died; it did, however, get more expensive.

"Where're your glasses?" CJ asked her father. With them, he was only half-blind. Without them, the world was only shadow, light, and vague form.

"Honey, I can't risk losing them in the water." His voice dropped. "Thought I'd be on the boat. Not enough room, they said."

A wave runner roared back into the cove. A cousin leaped off, yelling something about a forgotten appointment, and took off for the house. CJ took a long look at the idle machine and another long look at the idle man.

Handing her father a life-jacket, she began buckling her own. "Come on. Let's go." Ignoring his protests, she herded him in to the water and on to the machine.

"Don't go too fast, now," he cautioned. CJ motioned him to move forward. "Hey, shouldn't I ride on back?" he asked.

"Oh, no, Dad. It's your turn to drive."

"But-"

"I'll be your eyes. Trust me."

As they put-putted out of the cove, CJ's mind flashed back to 13 years old, not even close to old enough for a permit. Skinny, swathed in braces and stringy hair, she felt awkward and out of place pretty much wherever she went. They had been visiting her grandmother's church, and groups had gathered outside after the service to chat. Mom planned a potluck with the women, Dad compared notes with the men, and CJ, well, poor CJ did her best to endure the banter of the local junior high school idiots. Talk soon turned into a game of one-up-manship ("Bet you've never . . ." "Oh, yeah? Been there, done that, bought that t-shirt. . .") which culminated in the ultimate challenge:

(Village idiot) "Well, I kin drive."

(CJ, with a blustering hmmph) "Well, so can I."

(Village idiot) "Prove it."

CJ approached her father, a military man fond of rules, and tugged on his sleeve. "Dad, can I drive the car?" Dread of imminent exposure and ridicule knotted her stomach.

Her father's eyes rested on his daughter, flicked to the expectant group that waited behind her to devour her, and back again. "Sure, Hon." He tossed her the keys with a wink. "Just pull it up front to curb." And back he turned to his conversation without a ripple.

Swallowing astonishment, CJ sauntered out to the two-toned Oldsmobile station wagon. Her younger siblings climbed in, regarding her with saucer eyes, not wanting to miss a thing.

Foot on the brake. Key in the ignition. Column gear shift from P to D. Slowly let off the brake and coast by the village idiots, through the parking lot, to the curb. D to P, ignition off. Lean against the Olds in faked boredom. Twirl the keys on index finger. Stop shaking. And smile.

The lake opened before them. "Let 'er rip, Dad!" CJ shouted above the motor. Across sparkling water the machine skipped at full throttle, the air alive with laughter and whoops. Weaving around islands, CJ senior listened for CJ junior's prompts, descriptions, and directions until the gas gauge read low and the sun began to set.

"Well, Dad, looks like the whole clan's returned ahead of us," CJ told her father as they pulled into the cove.

"Uh-huh," he said, lifting his chin a little. She watched the vaguely familiar routine:

Cruise by the astonished faces on the dock. Cut the motor. Dock the machine on shore. Dismount nonchalantly. Lean against waverunner. Twirl key on index finger. Stop shaking. And smile, smile, smile.

They joined the crew as they roughhoused their way up the slope to the cabin. That night, they all went into town for an expensive meal- at her dad's suggestion.