Dad Washes the Car

Word Count: 299

         

Dad had washed the car.  It gleamed like polished onyx in the afternoon sun as he pulled in front of school.  But aside from the clean car, everything seemed normal. 

Mom worked on Thursdays, but Dad got off early, picked us up at school and took us out to eat.

“Shotgun,” I yelled, smirking.  I wasn’t looking at my brother, but I knew he was pissed.  Too bad!  I was older and faster.  I slammed the door and wrinkled my nose.  It smelled like our Aunt Ethel’s house— of soap and furniture polish.

“What made you decide to wash the car, Daddy?”  I couldn’t ever remember him washing our car.  To the other dads on our block, this was a ritual—but it was one my dad never participated in.

“I don’t know.  I got home earlier than usual and noticed how dull the car looked.  I couldn’t even tell it was black.  So I washed it.  Looks nice, huh?”

“Yeah.  Mom will be surprised.”

“I hope so,” he said turning onto the main road. 

We hadn’t gone far when the police car pulled up behind us, turned on it’s lights and gave out one blast of the siren.  Dad pulled over.  I thought they’d go around us—but they got out of the car and walked up to us—one on each side, hands on their guns.

“Is there a problem, Officers?”  Dad croaked.

“We hope not, sir.  The bank was robbed about an hour ago, and they escaped in a shining black car.

“But I live in this neighborhood, Officers, just around the corner, on Greenwood Drive.”

“I’m sorry but several people on that street reported seeing a strange car on the block—a shining black car.  So if you would just step out of the car…”