I have always been the kind of man who believes that things used to make more sense. People talk about the good old days like they are just a ghost story, but I remember when a handshake meant something and when a boy wouldn’t even think about pulling up to a girl’s house without tucking in his shirt first. My youngest daughter, Chloe, turned seventeen back in October, and the world has been spinning a little too fast for my liking ever since.
She is the youngest of three, the caboose as my wife Clara used to call her before she passed away four years ago. Clara would have known how to handle the boy situation better than I do. Clara had this way of looking at teenagers that made them want to stand up straight even if they had never met her before. I am just a quiet man who works the third shift at the county transit garage, fixing diesel engines that have seized up from the winter salt, and I never pretended to be an expert on modern dating.
The whole thing started on a rainy Tuesday afternoon when Chloe came into the kitchen while I was wiping down the grease off my forearms. She was leaning against the doorframe, chewing on the end of her pencil, doing that little dance with her foot she has done since she was six years old whenever she wants something she knows I am going to hate.
She told me about this boy from her third-period history class named Tyler. Apparently, he plays second string on the varsity soccer team and drives a car that rattles every time he shifts into second gear. She kept talking about how nice he was, how he shared his notes when she missed school with the flu, and how he had finally asked her out to the diner down on Main Street for Friday night. I listened while I dried my hands on a shop rag, feeling that old familiar knot tighten up under my ribs. I agreed to let my youngest daughter go on a date with this one kid, mostly because I knew that if I said no flat out, she would just find a way around me, and I wanted to keep some kind of bridge standing between us.
The rest of the week dragged on like a slow leak in a tire.
Clara always said I worry too much about things I cannot control, but I spent those three days wondering if Tyler was the kind of boy who knew how to change a flat or if he was the kind who would call his mother the second a warning light flickered on his dashboard. I even caught myself checking the oil in Chloe’s little blue hatchback twice just in case they decided to take her car instead. Friday came around with a heavy, damp chill that smelled like wet oak leaves and exhaust. I spent an extra ten minutes scrubbing the grease out from under my fingernails in the utility sink, putting on a clean flannel shirt because I wanted to look like a father who cared about who was taking his girl out into the world. Clara always kept the front hall smelling like lemon oil, and I tried to make the place presentable even if I was mostly just sitting in my armchair with the evening paper waiting for the clock to hit six.
When Friday came, a guy pulled into my driveway and started blowing his horn. It was not a polite little tap to let someone know you had arrived. It was a long, obnoxious blast that rattled the glass in the front storm door and sent our old ginger cat streaking under the sofa. My daughter ran down the stairs before the echo of the noise had even left the porch, her coat half on, her schoolbag slung over one shoulder like she was running for a bus that was already pulling away. I stood up from my chair so fast I nearly knocked over the end table where Clara’s silver-framed picture sits. I walked into the front hallway just as Chloe reached for the deadbolt, my boots heavy and loud on the hardwood floor. I asked, “Do you know him?” She turned around, her face flushed red, and said, “Yes, it is my date!” I looked right at her through the narrow space between the door and the frame and told her, “Not anymore!” I did not yell, but my voice had that iron flat tone I usually reserve for apprentices at the garage who try to cut corners on brake lines.
I walked outside and told the young man driving, “Don’t ever pull up blowing for my daughter!” The boy behind the wheel froze, his hands locked onto the steering wheel at ten and two like he was taking a state driving test. His car was an older model sedan with a primer-gray fender on the passenger side and a bumper sticker from some travel soccer tournament peeling off the glass. I leaned down a little bit so he could see I wasn’t playing games, and I told him, “Get out of your car and ring the doorbell and come in and at least speak like a decent, young man!” He didn’t hesitate. He killed the engine right then and there, the key turning with a sharp click that sounded loud in the quiet driveway. He pushed the door open, his sneakers crunching on the gravel, and stood there looking about three inches shorter than he had when he was sitting behind the windshield.
He had a cowlick at the back of his head that wouldn’t lie flat and a cheap nylon jacket that looked too thin for a November night in Wisconsin. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down, and looked right at me. He said, “Yes, sir!” I stood there on the top step for a second, watching him wait for the next instruction like a recruit on day one of basic training.
After that, I didn’t have no more problems with him. He walked up those three wooden steps like he was walking across a minefield, wiped his boots twice on the rubber mat even though it was dry, and actually extended his hand to me when I opened the door the rest of the way. He told me his name again, clear and steady this time, and asked if it was alright if he brought Chloe back by ten o’clock sharp. I looked past him at his little silver car idling quietly by the garage, and for the first time all evening, the knot in my chest loosened up just a fraction. I told him ten was fine and to watch out for the deer on County Road K because they have been terrible this year. Chloe looked at me like she wanted to murder me on the spot, but she also looked a little bit proud, standing there in her navy blue sweater with her coat zipped up properly. They walked out to the car together, and this time, he opened her door for her and closed it gently before walking around to the driver’s side.
I watched them back out of the driveway without a single honk, the taillights cutting red streaks through the falling dark until they turned the corner past the old maple tree. I went back inside and sat down in my armchair, the house suddenly feeling much larger and quieter than it had five minutes before. The ginger cat crept out from under the sofa, stretched his front legs out one by one, and hopped up onto the cushion next to my knee. I picked up the evening paper again, but the words didn’t seem to stay still in my head the way they usually did. I kept thinking about the look on that boy’s face when he climbed out of that car, and how quick he was to fix a mistake once somebody finally bothered to point it out to him. It made me wonder how many other things in this life people just let slide because nobody wanted to be the one to walk out into the driveway and tell them how it’s supposed to be done.
Clara always said people will rise to whatever standard you set for them, provided you don’t lower the bar first. I sat there in the quiet living room for a long time after that, listening to the old kitchen clock tick off the seconds, waiting for ten o’clock to roll around.
