Unmanageable

The 3-year old boy cried by the side of the street. Thirty, forty, perhaps fifty neighbors stood on the grass, watching the tow truck pull the light blue 1964 Bel Air wagon out of the driveway, where it'd crashed into the stone wall. The boy sobbed and moaned. When Daddy pulled him out of the driver's seat, he'd fallen onto the pebbled driveway as the car went by him, careening down the hill. Daddy was painting the garage and when the boy had released the brake, he let out an “Oh, shit!” heard all the way from McCall Road down to Shakespeare Court. The little boy cried because the burns from the pebbles hurt his knees and he was bleeding.

Daddy stood with his head in his hands, complaining about how much it would cost to have the Bel Air towed to the Chevrolet repair shop. Where was Mommy? The boy wanted his mother, but she was doing something with his brothers and sisters. But all the kids and all the adults in the neighborhood stood by, gawking at them. There was Lynn McCarthy with her long red hair, Dusty Anderson with her dark brown ponytails, and even Ernie Whiting had wandered over from Springer Road.

Mrs. O’Malley picked the little boy up. "Come with me, Timmy Lane. I'll wash you up and put a bandage on that knee. Everything's going to be okay –“

“What has that boy done now?” Timmy heard his mother say, her voice a crescendo from one word to the next. “Sally, give me that boy. You’re in big trouble, Timmy. No ice cream for you for six months. Come with me.”