From then on, he became known as the little white boy who acted Black. Whatever that meant. The Black kids at school started calling him Midnight and he wasn’t sure if it was because they liked him or because they were making fun of him.

The seat reclined, and Daddy leaned back, still fuming under his breath, his long brown rattail hanging below his wool hat. He guided the steering wheel with one hand, small red scratches dotting his white knuckles, with a Camel dangling from his fingers.

“Did you know you can hold your breath for seventeen whole minutes without passing out?” Midnight leaned forward with his elbows on the armrest between the two front seats.

“Sit back.”

“Oh, and if you cut a snake’s head off, it can still bite you hours later.”

The traffic light at Shepherd Street had just turned yellow and Daddy floored it, making the truck skid, forcing him to jerk the wheel to keep them going in a straight line.

“Damn ice,” he said.

“Did you know there’s ice on Mars in the polar ice caps and on some glaciers? They say that people may be able to live there someday.”

When Daddy turned his head from side to side to watch traffic, the rattail he’d been growing for years slithered across the headrest. He raked his hands over it, something he probably didn’t even realize he did. Whenever Granny asked when he planned to chop it off, he flipped it, a way of flipping her off, too.

“You do your homework?” Daddy said, not sounding too interested in the answer.

“School’s out for Christmas the end of this week. We don’t go back till it’s the new year.”

“Hmm.”

Midnight opened his backpack and took out a pair of scissors, the ones with the green rubber grip handle and blunt tip, school-sanctioned official scissors. With a shaky hand, he opened the scissors and placed the rattail between the blades, and that’s when Daddy slammed the brakes. The truck’s wheels ground in the snow, throwing Midnight forward into the back of his father’s seat. The scissors fell to the floor.

“What the hell?” Daddy yelled, either at the red light he almost ran or at the tug he felt at the nape of his neck. Midnight wasn’t sure whether he would’ve had the guts to go through with it or not, but because of Daddy’s crazy driving he’d never know.

On the side of the road he saw Tank, a guy who used to work with Daddy at the plant, but who now spent all day collecting cans he could trade for cash. He was one of those people who always wore a stupid grin even when nothing was funny.

Tank motioned for Daddy to pull over to the shoulder of the road. The hazy lights of a police car came into focus through the rearview mirror.

“Get out, kid,” Daddy said.

The cops weren’t chasing anybody. They were leading a procession of long black cars with dark windows, the kind where those inside can see you, but you can’t see them. Following was a line of regular cars and pickup trucks, all with their lights beaming in the heavy fog. Snow hit at a strange angle, hurling little spiky balls at them, and Midnight buried his head in his jacket to shield his face.

Daddy grabbed Midnight’s good arm. “Get your hands out of your pockets and put your head up. Show some respect.”

The cold and snow stung Midnight’s eyes and he squinted against the force of it. Daddy saluted, and Tank did, too, as the funeral cars rode by with the American flag waving frantically on sticks in the windshields.

A few cars in the funeral procession honked their horns in greeting, breaking the silence of respect like some guys did when they laughed too hard at the pastor’s joke, as if they were in the bar and not church.

“That was Elroy Richards, you know. When he retired from Fernwood, he always said he wanted to own a bait and tackle shop. He did it. He did the damn thing,” Tank said, holding his dingy baseball cap over his chest.

“Hell, yeah, he did. One of the best guys on the line. Put in his thirty years. Never let anybody down. A good man. What happened?” Daddy dropped his head.

“Cancer. He was bad off and Marie said they couldn’t afford chemo or any of that.”

“That’s rough. A damn shame.”

They watched those slow-moving long black cars with their bright lights until they blended into the afternoon sky.

When they got back in the truck, Daddy got real quiet and ran his hands through his greasy hair. He was in a bad mood. He had been in a bad mood for a long time. For years.

“Thinking about Mom?” Midnight said.

“I’m not always thinking about your mother. Will you give it a rest already? Sit back and be quiet. Fasten your seat belt.” Daddy gunned the engine, maybe to drown out anything else Midnight might have said.

Midnight stopped talking, but not even Daddy could control his thoughts. What went on in his mind belonged to him, no guardrails, no judgment from the grown-ups, no rules to break, just a private space in a cluttered world that was his and his alone. A space to be with Mom.

She used to move around the kitchen in their old house, her hands soaking wet with Dawn dishwashing liquid, her hair growing wild as prairie grass. She always winked at him when she made his scrambled eggs and pancakes in the mornings, her eyes a deep blue or maybe green. He couldn’t remember. He never saw her mad. Sometimes she mussed his hair and called him her little mad scientist, just like Einstein. When she smiled, her whole face lit up and you wanted to get closer to the flame.