The Power of Testimony

MARK BOUMAN || 25
Raindrops ran out of his hair and down the back of his neck. He put
both hands on the steering wheel.
“We’re going back to Grandma’s,” he announced.
He cranked the engine once, twice, and when it caught the third time,
he yanked the gearshift into reverse and floored it. There was a moment
when nothing happened, and then the wheels found just enough traction
to propel us backward down the hill. Dad spun the wheel hard right, and
Jerry, Sheri, and I were smashed into one another in a pile against the
door. Then we were bouncing down the driveway, sliding out onto the
road, accelerating.
Mom stared at Dad. In a voice barely loud enough to hear, Dad
answered her silent question. “It’s gone.”
Mom began to cry into her hands. I grabbed the back of the front seat
and levered myself to my feet, ready to shout one of the dozen questions
I’d just thought of. Jerry did the same. Dad killed our questions before
they could begin with a single gesture, his right hand coming up into a
fist below the rearview mirror. We plopped down and closed our mouths.
We drove back to Grandma Jean’s through the black night. The
drone of the car was interrupted only by Mom’s sobs in the front seat.
When Grandma opened the door, wearing her nightgown and holding
a flashlight, she didn’t seem surprised to see us.
The next morning, Grandma’s voice woke us, calling us to the
kitchen for oatmeal.
“Where’s Mom?” Jerry asked.
“She and your father went to look at the house,” Grandma answered,
setting three steaming bowls in front of us and handing us silver spoons.
“But is Mom okay?” Sheri worried.
“She’ll be fine,” Grandma answered. “And you’ll be fine if I get you
some milk, hmm?” She poured it from a tall porcelain pitcher that
matched our bowls.
Jerry lifted his bowl slightly off the table, examining the delicate
designs traced around its rim. “Where’d you get these, anyway?”