by Bill Henderson
What I couldn’t tell him was that back then, most of my fares were dead folks...
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It’s a creepy job, I guess, driving a cab all night, but what else is there to do in this town at four in the morning? My TV’s busted. I used to read, but I can’t concentrate anymore and there’s nothing worth reading anyhow. So I drive.
I’ve been with Bay State Taxi a while now, long enough that when I call myself a cabbie, I don’t shrug it off. You are what you do, right? Whatever it was you thought you were, or hoped you’d be, one morning you wake up and you just are this thing, and there’s no backing up and doing it over.
Mom and Dad got it finally. I’ve stopped hearing about college or getting my own place. Not that they ever nagged me—we’re not that kind of a family—still I had a good idea what passed between them late at night: when’s he going to move on and give us our life back—what’s left of it? But one Sunday I was watching the Red Sox with my dad and Mom drifted through like she sometimes did on her way to the backyard. This time she stopped and stood without moving, which meant she had something to say. I knew she was looking at me so I kept my eyes on the TV. If it was something I’d done, I didn’t want to get into it with her. She snatched up the remote and muted the commercial. Then she snapped the TV off altogether, and silence took over the room. I heard a screen door whap shut up the street.
“Your dad and me,” she said, then stopped. A quick glance at Dad and she tried again. “We, your dad and me, we want you to know that, with all you been through—“
“We been through,” Dad corrected her, in a whisper.
“That’s right, we…” Her mouth sagged at the corners and her eyes got even bigger. A thin little river started down one side of her nose. “We. All of us…” She said the words again with her lips, but no sound came out, so she turned toward Dad, who cleared his throat and took the cue.
“You got a home here, son, is what Mom’s trying to say. Always, okay. No questions asked. Drive a cab, work at the bake shop, car wash, whatever, it don’t matter. We understand.” Now they were both looking at me. “We know what’s going on.”
Only they didn’t. They didn’t have a clue. . .
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