I)
Showroom ready, black, sleek, with two sets of gold keys and a fob. Brushed and beautiful, its Stayfast canvas rooftop against a backdrop of suburban boxwood—a black panther basking in the sun. The elegant lines promise smooth Sunday drives, and the luxurious leather interior is a haven from the homespun. Mom makes a point of telling me she bought it for him with her money. She's triumphant with the big-ticket token. Dad drives the sedan only on sunny weekends; our paver driveway is always a welcome runway for their milestone visits. Then it's back in the garage, a safe sanctuary from the elements that steal its sheen. They must keep it out of harsh wind and rain. Promissory note honored.
II)
The only light from the sole window of the garage door warms its back or a passing breeze from the hoisted gate for my daily entry. Desperate for attention, the mirrors are starved silver hands clawing at my pockets and sleeves as I pass, laden with groceries, to get into the house. Besides a cross glare, the occasional drop and roll of stray cat food cans coax me to glimpse the undercarriage in the dark for retrieval. A dusty tarp shrouds it, extra protection because the tomb isn't enough. Tired of pretense, Dad pushes for a pact since they can no longer drive. He wants to sell it, but Mom, the harsh custodian, won't hear of it. The chronic argument persists each time we sit at the kitchen round table. I am always the referee.
III)
Days before the house's closing, I buy a new battery, and my husband puts it under the car's hood. It coughs and sputters to life, begrudgingly so I can back it out of the garage. The smell of the leather seat butter was still salient, with mileage shy of 24k. This ride was my first and last time ever in the car. The junkyard guy, a mechanical vulture I found on Google, pulls up in the middle of the street and calls me over with a nod. We struck the deal in a silent handshake shielded by the half-open truck door, and I surrendered the golden keys. The chains descend, lifting the Cadillac slowly, unceremoniously. I watch the event from the walkway, swallowing hard. As it disappears up the block and around the corner, I pocket the $275 severance pay. The garage is empty. Free.
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