Delores Parker's Arc

Chapter 1 of 8

Delores stands at the kitchen window and counts them again. Six Model A Fords sit in the yard like stubborn guests who never read the room. She had hoped, quietly, that one would be gone by Friday. She shakes her head. They aren't leaving. Not this weekend. Not ever. Her husband swore the last two were investments. He even keeps a folder of papers in a drawer, ownership slips and old receipts, proof he can wave when she raises an eyebrow. She has stopped raising it. Outside, her two younger ones climb a rusted fender. Her stomach tightens. She watches her husband wave them down, gentle as ever, then guide them toward the patch of yard where she dragged a wooden frame last week. She filled it with sand and a pile of toy trucks. They forget the cars in seconds. She looks past them at the new building he poured a slab for. Clean lines, big door, glass at the top. A real garage for a man who isn't pretending anymore. He built it slowly, on weekends, humming. Delores turns from the window and opens the shopping bag on the counter. Inside is a jacket she ordered, gray canvas stitched with bright flowers along the sleeves. Father's Day is Sunday. She smooths the embroidery flat. She folds the jacket and sets it aside. The cars are staying. The garage is built. She is done waiting for him to change his mind, and that, she decides, is fine.