We Love You, Charlie Freeman

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“This car doesn’t feel like ours,” I said.

“Well, it is now,” my father replied. “So get used to it.”

Outside of the car it was dark and hot and early morning August in Dorchester. Through the crack of the window, I could smell every part of the city — every slab of asphalt, every rotting plank of wood siding, every crumbling stucco wall, every scarred and skinny tree — I could smell all of it beginning to sweat.

I sat back in my seat. I knew I was right. Our old car was a used silver Chevy sedan, a dubious gift from my uncle Lyle, a mechanic. The Chevy’s backseats were balding, the foam cushions peeling with faded stickers from some long discarded coloring book. The Chevy’s body slumped over its axis, slung way too low to the ground, so that when you opened the car’s doors, their bottoms scraped the curb.

The new car was a 1991 silver Volvo station wagon, next year’s model. The Toneybee Institute paid for it. It had a curt, upturned nose that looked smug and out of place beside the lazing sedans and subservient hatchbacks parked on our block. Being inside the Volvo felt like we were in public. None of us could bring ourselves to speak. We were all too humbled by the leather interiors.

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