"Rather a lively bunch, aren't they," Michael said, continuing to watch them.
Aha, I thought. Second thoughts already. Well, he wasn't drafted.
"I egged them on. The more energy we bleed off now, the less hellish the drive will be."
"Good plan. You did bring the stun gun, I hope?"
"It's all packed."
"By the way," he said, "have you seen Spike? He never came home yesterday."
"No, not since we lost him chasing the peacocks."
"Maybe I should ask someone to keep an eye out for him," Michael said. "Feed him when he shows up."
"I'm sure Dad would do it; we'll ask him." Just then I saw Dad's car turn into the driveway.
To my surprise, instead of slowing down as he approached the house, Dad began blowing his horn at us. We jumped aside as he whizzed by at nearly forty miles per hour and, instead of following the curve of the driveway back out to the street, plunged full steam ahead across the yard, sending the peacocks running for their lives in all directions. He lost some speed going through the grape arbor, then plowed through the hedge that separated our yard from the one next door and came to a halt when he ran into a stack of half-rotten hay bales left over from when the neighbors used to have a pony.
"Something must have happened to him," I said, dropping my carryall to run to the scene.
"Grandpa!" Eric shouted. "You wrecked your car!"
The car was, indeed, something of a mess, but once we'd gotten him out from under the hay, Dad was unharmed. In fact, he was positively beaming with exhilaration.
"Grandpa, why did you wreck your car?" Eric asked as we hauled Dad out. Good question. The approaching next-door neighbors would soon be asking similar questions about their hedge and haystack. The peacocks had disappeared but were shrieking with such gusto that I was sure the entire neighborhood would be showing up soon to complain.
"Call the sheriff," were Dad's first words. "I think someone's tampered with my brakes."
Pam, who had come running out when she heard the commotion, ran back in to call. Eric and his friends looked solemn.
"Grandpa, what's tampered?" Eric asked. His grandpa, however, was crawling under the car. As was Michael. I didn't know about Michael, but I knew perfectly well Dad was incapable of doing anything underneath a car but cover himself with grease. Fascinating the way even the most mechanically inept males feel obliged to involve themselves with any malfunctioning machine in their immediate vicinity. And usually, at least in Dad's case, making things worse. The small boys were crouching down and preparing to join their elders.
"Tampered means Grandpa thinks somebody messed around with the car to make it crash," I said. "So all of you stay away from that car until Grandpa and Michael are sure it's safe." They were ignoring me. The lure of male bonding beneath an automobile was too strong. Then Michael's voice emerged sepulchrally from beneath the car.
"Anyone who does come under here will be left behind!"
The herd backed up to a respectful distance. About then the sheriff turned up. Dad and Michael emerged from beneath the car for a conference with him. The sheriff crawled under the car, popped out long enough to ask Pam to call a tow truck, and then disappeared again, followed by Dad. And then one or two deputies.
"You seem very calm about this," Michael remarked, as we watched the growing number of feet sticking out from under various parts of the car.
"I'll postpone my hysterics until later," I said, feeling a little shakier than I'd like to admit. "I think it's important that we stay calm and avoid traumatizing the children."
"Are we going soon, Aunt Meg?" Eric asked. The children didn't seem particularly traumatized. The excitement of the car wreck was evidently fading. There was a growing herd of small boys swarming over the haybales and getting in the deputies' way. I made a mental note to make sure only four of them came with us to the amusement park.
"Yes, let's maintain a facade of normality," Michael said. "I'll get Mom's station wagon. They'd kill each other stuffed in the back of your Toyota, and my car's a two-seater."
By the time we got the boys loaded into the station wagon and drove off, Dad was recounting his wild ride through the yard for the third time, to a spellbound audience of deputies. The sheriff was down at my sister Pam's house, interviewing any neighbors who might have seen someone tampering with the car. The cousin who ran the local plant nursery and gardening service was working up an estimate for replacing the damaged portions of the hedge for the neighbors' insurance agent, who happened to be another cousin. A wonderful day in the neighborhood.