Free The Last Cadillac by Nancy Nau Sullivan Page A

easy-going kid, almost a teen, and growing fast, with none of that impossible, withdrawn, sullen angst teens are so famous for. I couldn’t figure out where he got his quality—to rise above it—except for, maybe, a gene from his beloved deceased grandmother. His irreverent teasing, however, was another thing.
    â€œNice, Mom,” he said. “Are you going to let me pimp the Caddy?”
    I poked him in the armpit. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, and if I hear you use that kind of language again, I’ll give you a good one. And don’t even think about taking the car out.”
    â€œOooooooooo.”
    â€œDon’t be smart.”
    â€œOK, sorry, Mom. I’ll be dumb.”
    â€œYou’re being smart.”
    Tick was a long way from a driver’s license, but he was dreaming of the day. I saw it in his eyes—I could see me in his eyes.
    â€œSomeday you’ll drive it,” I said, reluctantly. Time flew very fast, and, in a blink, he, too, would be driving his first Cadillac. When he ran for president of the United States.
    Next on my to-do list was to find a way to get the Cadillac to Florida. Our realtor recommended Mr. Karr of Karr City, who transported her car to Florida every winter. “Sure,” hesaid, “no problem. I’ll get it down there in fine shape for $550.”
    The day finally came when I drove the Cadillac to K-Mart and met Mr. Karr in the parking lot. I handed him the keys and watched as he pulled the Cadillac up into a berth on the car-hauling trailer for the trip south. A silver-purple ship ready for launch.
    â€œIt’ll be all right there?” I said.
    â€œHaven’t lost one yet,” he said.
    Let this not be your first, I thought, watching Dad’s last Cadillac bounce one more time, and then settle down for the trip.
    â€œMeet you safe and sound in Florida,” he said.

9
WONDERFULAND
    The first time I left for Florida was on a January morning in 1952 when I was six years old. My grandparents invited me to drive south with them in their new hunter green Cadillac, the early ’50s bulbous version with pokey little fins. They spent half the year up North, next door to us on Bernice Road in Lansing, and the other half down in Bradenton near Anna Maria Island. Out of the dozen or so grandchildren, it was my turn that year to go with them to Florida.
    That morning, dressed up in a new, maroon coat with a fur collar, direct from Little Bramson’s in Chicago, I walked over to my grandparents’ house with Dad, our feet crunching on the frozen grass and cracking the thin ice in the dip between our houses. The sun was just reaching over the trees, shining on the leafless, ice-covered poplars and housetops. It was a wonderland. A frosty, candy-coated morning. And I was on my way to Florida.
    I was glad to be leaving home. Mom was expecting another baby, and that was a lot of babies in less than six years. It was chaotic and messy. Every morning, a baby wasstanding in the crib crying and wet with a runny nose. I already knew how to change a diaper and give the baby a bottle. At first, it was thrilling, but the thrill wore off—fast.
    Even though I was glad to be going, I didn’t want to leave my dad. He sang Irish songs and tickled us. He stood on his head, and we raced around to pick up the coins that fell out of his pockets. I loved that he had wavy black hair and was tall and handsome, with the distinction that he had a nose all over his face because he’d been a Golden Gloves boxing champ.
    He picked me up and hugged me, then looked me in the eye. “I know you’ll be a fine girl.”
    â€œI will.”
    â€œI’ll miss you.”
    â€œMe, too.”
    â€œWho’s the strongest man in the world?”
    â€œYou are. My dad is.”
    The seats in my grandfather’s new Cadillac were plush, grey-striped, and scratchy. And the back seat where I spent four days