weeks, Iâd been strolling my Baby Alivearound the neighborhood, looking for someone to play with. But all my friends were either on vacation or more interested in playing indoors. And besides, in one corner of the wagon, tucked below the lip, sat a plastic cup full of milk and a stack of graham crackersâmy favorite.
It was Indian summer, a Saturday, and I couldnât believe what I was seeing. Never before had my brother gone to such lengths to assist me in any game. His role had always been to ignore, tease, and berate me, then tickle me until I peed my pants. But now, the snack-filled wagon was ready, sitting at the top of our driveway. Chris helped me in and encouraged me to zip my sleeping bag up to my neck. I tucked my arms alongside my body while he worked the zipper up. Soon, the only thing sticking out of the bag was my face, shaded beneath the rim of my bonnet.
âYou snug as a bug, half pint?â my brother asked. But there was no time to answer. Knocking on the box with a wooden stick, he yelled, âGit up now, horsies!â and pushed the wagon down the steep pitch of our driveway.
For the next twelve seconds, then, I was Laura Ingalls Wilder, rolling down a rutted wagon-train road on my way to Kansas City. I had my lunch pail (a plastic beach bucket) and my baby sister, Carrie (a Madame Alexander doll), next to me, and grand visions for the future. Sitting in front of us and guiding the horses was my one and only favorite and forever father, Pa, on the lookout for Mormons and marauding Indians.
It was the best twelve seconds of my life. And then, on the thirteenth second, I was crashing into the pavement at the end of the driveway, where grey cement met gravelly black tarmac. Rolling out of the wagon but still wrapped in my sleeping bag, I wassuddenly awash in a tornado of milk and graham crackers. Toys and dolls flew through the air, whacking me in the face and body. When I landed, I was head down in the gutter and already wailing. Footsteps pounded toward me, interrupted by the sound of my brotherâs cackling. And then, from the top of the driveway, another voice called out.
âDammit, Chris, what the hell are you doing?â yelled Dad. âCanât you leave your sister alone for one single goddamn second? Get in the houseâor Iâll give you a beating.â
Dadâs footsteps hustled down the driveway and stopped outside the wall of cardboard. He was still cussing, which scared me to death. Iâd been at the receiving end of his belt-whippings before and fully expected him to lift up the box, rip off his belt, and whip me, like the time heâd found Chris and me shoving and hitting each other in the downstairs shower and spanked us until we were bawling. He didnât hit us often, but from time to time Chris and I could drive our dad to corporal punishment. I hoped today there would be no spanking.
There wasnât. My dad lifted me out of the gutter and wrapped me in his arms. The harder I cried, the tighter he held me, until it was time to go inside.
Even though we lacked the same genes, it seemed my dad came preprogrammed to protect me. The previous summer, when I could barely swim, the family had gone to Nat-Soo-Pah hot springs. After a few rounds of Jaws and seeing who could hold their breath underwater the longest, Dad got out of the pool tochange his clothes, leaving Chris and me under the watchful eye of our mom. Mom had never learned to swim, so I didnât take chances when she watched us. But for some reason, I decided I needed to prove how brave I was to my dad.
While Dad blow-dried his hair in the dressing room, Chris and I clung to the side of the pool, playing Motor Boat and pinching our noses. We probably farted in each otherâs direction. At some point, I got out of the water and migrated toward the deep end, careful not to slip on the slimy cement. I was perched above the ten-foot-deep mark when Dad stepped out of the change