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Black Bonneville

Edward N. McConnell

    Jack Thompson’s business in Niagara Falls was completed. The sale of his last four industrial warehouses netted him a healthy profit. With time on his hands before catching a flight to Des Moines, he decided to visit the graves of his parents and brother one final time.
    As he arrived at the Oakwood Cemetery, the sun was peeking over the horizon. Driving through the open gate, he followed the narrow access road until reaching the caretaker’s tool shack. Locating the graves of his parents and older brother, Barry, he got out of his car and walked to the spot.
    The air was cool, almost cold for that time of year. Passing a row of lilac bushes, the pleasing scent surrounded him. A slight breeze caused the leaves on the sycamore trees to rustle. All in all, the scents and sounds made for a good counter to the cold air and his location.
    Barry was six years older than Jack at the time of his death. Despite being brothers, they had few interests in common and were not close. Jack always lamented that, but many times that’s the
way it is with siblings, sometimes they click, other times not.
    The graves, marked by gray granite stones facing east, had a yellowish red glow from the morning magic hour lighting. They stood out among the surrounding monuments.
    Barry’s marker, containing his name, birth and death dates had the usual inscription, “beloved son, brother and friend” chiseled into the stone. Jack was thankful there were no irritating cherubs or other Christian iconography.
    Reading the span dates, a vision flashed into Jack’s head, taking him back many years. It was big, black, and powerful, with a V-8 engine, a drop top and a roomy front bench seat, great for drive-in
movies.
    That 1966 midnight black, Pontiac Bonneville convertible was Barry’s pride and joy and off limits to his little brother. Jack was not allowed to wash it or do anything near it for fear he’d scratch it. Still, that car was a central character in one of the happiest days of his life.
    Before he could drive, Jack walked or biked everywhere. He
could only dream of the day when he would sit behind the wheel of his own car, cruising the Pine Avenue business district of Niagara Falls.
That dream though never included being behind the wheel of that black ’66
Bonneville.
    About a week before Jack’s sixteenth birthday, Barry, catching him on the front porch looking at his car, said, “If you get your license on your birthday, you get to take my car out for a spin by yourself.”
    That next Friday was Jack’s birthday, making him eligible for a driver’s license if he could pass the exam, but there was a problem. He had a track meet that day. Fearing he would not be able to run his race and make it to the test on time, the problem was solved when his father was able to schedule him for the last test on that Friday.
    When Jack told his friends the great news, they said that test time was the “death spot.”
    “Taking the driver’s test at the end of the day means you fail. First thing in the morning is better. By afternoon, the tester has spent all day with pinheads who can’t drive. It makes him cranky.”
    Jack laughed and said, “I’ll pass it. Look for me on Pine Avenue in Barry’s Bonneville.” That drew laughs from his friends.
    Friday came. At the stadium, he scanned the stands for a sign of his dad. Spotting him, he knew right where to go so they could leave immediately after his event.
    Jack’s half mile race was third on the schedule behind a couple of sprint events. When the gun sounded, Jack pulled away from his competitors, winning with his best personal time. He did not hang around after the race, instead he ran straight to his father, and they left for his driver’s test.
    Once there, Jack demonstrated he knew how to use his turn signals, parallel park, and how to keep his acceleration smooth from stop lights. He did not speed and observed all traffic signals and signs. When finished, the examiner went into the office and returned with an official New York State driver’s license.
    His father, happy for him, asked, “So what now, do you want to drive home?”
    “No, I’m gonna wait and drive Barry’s car.”
    “You sure about that. He won’t even let me drive it.”

    “Oh, I’m sure, Dad. Head home, I’ll show you.”
    When they pulled up in front of the house, the black convertible sat by the tree in its normal spot as if it were waiting for Jack. As they walked up the porch stairs Barry waited, looking at Jack, he said, “Well, did you pass?”
    “Got it,” Jack said, holding up his brand new driver’s license.
    Smiling, Barry threw Jack the keys which he snatched out of the air. Rushing down the porch steps, Jack approached the car with a mixture of fear and anticipation. Opening the driver’s door, he climbed behind the wheel. With a glance toward Barry, he said, “I’ll be back soon.”

    From the porch, Barry watched as his prized possession, now under the control of his younger brother, was about to be taken on the road. The smile belied the fact that he wished he had not made that promise, but Barry always kept his word.
    There was no need for Jack to adjust the seat. He wanted to experience driving this beauty like Barry did. He had to reach a little to hit the gas or brake, but it was manageable.
    Turning the key in the ignition, the V-8 engine lit up and purred like a kitten. With the mirrors adjusted, Jack pulled that beauty out onto the street. Waving goodbye, he set off for Pine Avenue, in Barry’s car, to show off that he had his license.
    Barry’s Bonneville, well known around town, caused other drivers who saw it coming down the street to hit their horns with a double beep, thinking they were greeting Barry.
    On Pine Avenue, Jack noticed girls waiving and shouting at him. At first he couldn’t figure out why. Then, realizing people mistook him for Barry, he kept up the charade. Clamping his hand around the top of the steering wheel with the underhand grip his brother used, he sat lower in the driver’s seat. The ruse worked.
    At a stop light, two girls shouted as they approached the car, “Hey Barry, can we have a ride?” Once at the passenger door, they were surprised to see Jack. He knew they wanted to “cruise,” but he wanted this drive, this time, to be all his.
    For Jack, the cherry on top of this ride was when he saw his friends standing in front of the burger joint. He honked the horn and gave them a toothy smile as he passed by with his middle finger pointed toward the sky.
    As Pine Avenue became Main Street, Jack wanted to continue, but headed home instead, knowing this would be a day he would always remember. It was the best joy ride he ever had.
    Once home, handing the keys back to Barry, Jack said, “Thanks.” Barry punched him in the arm, smiled, and said, “Someday, maybe you’ll have a car like this, but it won’t be this one.”
    ###
    As the magic hour light ended, Barry’s gravestone returned to a dull gray. Jack, focusing on the date following the dash, had another memory rush forward. He recalled “that night”, a couple of years later.
    During Jack’s first semester in college, he suffered second degree burns to his face and hands in a lab accident and was hospitalized. After his parents visited the campus to be sure Jack would recover, Barry decided he’d make his own visit. He called the hospital to have them tell Jack he was coming the next day.
    When he arrived the following morning, he was shocked by all the bandages on Jack’s head and hands. His folks hadn’t prepared him for that. Barry dragged assurances out of the doctor that everything was going to be all right.
    Then, sitting with Jack in his room, Barry said, “So, you go away to college to learn how to blow yourself up, that’s really slick. I thought I better drive down and poke around to be sure you’re gonna be okay. You know, to make sure for myself the people taking care of you don’t have a screw loose.”
    They spent the day in the type of conversation brothers often have, not weighty, but meaningful to them. This was the closest he felt to Barry since he got to drive the Bonneville on his sixteenth birthday. Jack hoped their relationship would stay like this.
    As afternoon came, satisfied his brother was going to be fine, Barry decided to make the three hour trip back to Niagara Falls. On his way home, a pop-up rainstorm caught him with the top down. He tried to outrun it. Outside of Erie, Pennsylvania he reached a stretch of Interstate 90 that was notorious for being slick during rainstorms.
    The State Police figured he must have been going too fast for conditions and slid off the hard top where the road bends to the north along the lakeshore. His car hit the soft edge of the shoulder and rolled over.
    The police told Barry’s parents he died instantly, as if “instantly” somehow soften the word “died.” Jack and his folks were never the same after that.
    Barry and that ’66 black Bonneville convertible were gone forever. Since that night, Jack felt had he not gotten hurt, Barry would never have made the trip and would still be alive. He carried that guilt all his life and looked for a way to honor his brother’s memory.
    He then realized it was time to get to the airport for his flight back to Des Moines. Arriving with time to spare, he returned his rental car, only to find his plane was delayed.
    With time to kill, Jack slipped into the airline’s first class lounge. While looking at his phone an ad popped up. Normally, he ignored those but this one caught his eye.
    For sale: 1966, black Pontiac Bonneville convertible. Fully restored. Only serious inquiries. Ask for Scott to make an appointment. Call for details, 555-754-4382
    Jack’s business ventures allowed him to amass considerable wealth. With it, he spent years and thousands of dollars putting together an enviable classic car collection. He claimed it was “because he liked old cars,” but he knew the real reason.
    Try as he might, he was never able to find the right 1966 Pontiac Bonneville convertible to make his collection complete. Maybe this time his luck would change. Jack called Scott, then cancelled his flight home.
    
Later that day, Jack, in his new acquisition, prepared to take a road trip to Des Moines, but first he went back to the cemetery to show Barry what he found. Standing alone at the grave, he thought he heard someone speaking, but dismissed it as the sound of the wind.
    On the road, heading west in his black Bonneville convertible, a sudden emptiness overcame him. “This car is perfect. It’s the same make, model and color as Barry’s. I should be having fun, yet something doesn’t feel right,” he thought.
    As he continued down the road, it dawned on him. His final visit to Barry’s grave made him realize the truth. For all these years, Jack believed that money and possessions could turn back the hands of time, assuage a guilty conscience or fill a void in your soul.
    Instead, the real way to honor loved ones and friends is to keep them alive in your memory and cherish that smile you get when you think of them. Beyond that, everything else is just details.

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