Free The Last Cadillac by Nancy Nau Sullivan

keys in my hand. He was proud of that special set of keys hanging on a ring with the familiar Naval crest.Holding them, bouncing them in my open palm, I felt the weight of them. The responsibility. The heavy responsibility.
    â€œYou don’t get it,” he said.
    â€œYes, I get it.”
    â€œTake the keys; take the Cadillac. I want you to drive now. You’re in charge.” He straightened up, his eyes clear and blue.
    â€œThanks, Dad. I’ll try.”
    â€œDon’t take any guff.” Then he turned to go back inside.
    â€œWhat’s that supposed to mean?”
    â€œJust keep your eye on the ball. You’ll be fine.”
    I dropped the keys into my pocket. Such a small thing, and so heavy. I patted them, then looped my arm through Dad’s. “I hope I know what I’m doing, what we’re doing,” I mumbled, as I steered him back into the house.
    â€œWell, damn it, I hope so, too,” he said, shaking his head. He put his weight on my arm. “You can handle it. I know you will.”
    His walker rattled back to the table, and he sat down again with his sandwich. He took a large bite. Then he smiled up at me. “When do we blow this pop stand?”
    Later that afternoon, when Dad was napping, I went out to the driveway of the dollhouse and looked at the 1994 Mocha Deville. I didn’t get the “Mocha” part, because the car was definitely a mix of silver and purple and hadn’t a thing to do with any shade of coffee brown. The leather interior matched the exterior, and the whole job looked like a large, shiny boat.
    I climbed in, scorching the back of my legs on the wide seat. Since I hadn’t driven it much, it would take somegetting used to. I adjusted the seat forward and back, floating smoothly with each automatic surge. This would certainly be better than driving my seven-year-old Taurus—“The Shark,” the kids’ nickname for it—which was on its second transmission, thanks to my brainy idea to use it to pull a U-Haul full of our belongings. The car had certainly lived up to its name for its ability to eat every last dollar in my checking account. I loved The Shark (eventually my godson Peter ended up with it), but I much preferred Dad’s last Cadillac.
    I slid out of the car and shut the door crisply.
    â€œWell, dearie,” I said to the Caddy, “we’re going to Florida. I don’t know how, but we’re going.”
    â€œWe be stylin’,” Tick said. I hadn’t heard him come up behind me.
    I turned around, grinned at him. “Don’t get any ideas.”
    Suddenly, I remembered Lucy and me, and all the times in high school—and even before high school—when we took turns sneaking out with the family car. One Saturday afternoon when our parents were away, I talked Lucy into going for a drive in our enormous, grey Ford station wagon. I was just shy of a bold thirteenth year. We ended up crashing into a gas pump in downtown Lansing, and somehow, miraculously, the impact didn’t do any damage (and, thankfully, police were not involved). That was a time they knew how to build cars—childproof cars with steel parts, not plastic. Lucy wouldn’t go out with me after that, but the trip had been worth it. The thrill of driving that car, the thought of getting caught, knowing I had crashed it, and the fear of that excursion ending my secret rides were truly among my fondest, crazed, childhood memories. Didn’t Dad know that we knew about the extra set of keys in the pitcher on his nightstand? If he did, he never let on. We finally told him years later whatwe did, and he even chuckled. I guess with relief that we hadn’t killed ourselves or someone else.
    Tick and I stood in the driveway, musing at the Cadillac, each for different reasons. He put his arm around my shoulder, and I reached for his strong hand. I stole a look at him, tanned and smiling. He was such an