:30 Minutes
by
BJ Neblett
©
1992, 2013
It was Sunday night, the kind of
night when windows were left open to a breeze that never came; a night before
air conditioning, before locked doors, before fear, before apathy.
Lights were turned off.
Shades were pulled up.
Sheets were turned down.
It was a hot Sunday night in July.
It was bed time but no one slept.
Outside, streetlights called to
mosquitoes.
Inside, mothers called to children;
lovers called to each other.
The small suburban community was
close. The people worked, played and prayed together. They knew and took care
of each other. They had grown up together. In a neighborhood where a single
fence stretched for blocks and the only difference was the color of the houses,
it only seemed natural.
Each house was the same; each house
different.
Each occupant was an individual,
each individual a neighbor; each neighbor a friend.
It was 10:45 on a hot Sunday night
in July. It was bed time but no one slept. The summer silence was shattered by
a car careening down North Street at top speed.
Rubber squealed on pavement.
Metal twisted against metal.
Glass exploded in the air.
Exhaust hammered.
It was a Sunday night in July. The
residence of North Street lay sleepless and frozen in their beds by the sounds they
heard coming from outside.
“Was that a car?”
“It sounded like trash cans.”
“Did it come from up the street?”
By the time reality seized the
startled neighbors the car’s muffled exhaust had paused briefly then faded into
the hot summer night. The momentary silence was broken by the sound of doors
opening and closing up and down the street.
Mother’s were in robes.
Father’s were in pajama bottoms.
Children with runny noses pointed.
Each looked at one another,
questioning, asking, puzzling.
“Two cars had been drag racing.”
“The police were chasing someone.”
It was the Kelly’s blue Chevrolet
that witnessed the truth. Once shiny and stately, now crumbed and humbled,
smashed against a telephone pole.
A spark ignited.
A flame caught hold.
A car blazed in the hot July night.
Bob Thompson ran to call the fire
department. Mr. Parker held his wife. Everyone listened to Mrs. Johnson exclaiming
it was all so terrible; everyone but the Kelly’s.
A shadowy figure appeared.
A man was running.
Mr. Martin carried a fire
extinguisher.
In seconds the white chemical had
choked out the red-yellow flames. A final gray cloud billowed into the black
summer sky.
“How could such a thing happen?”
“Did anyone see anything?”
“Where are the Kelly’s?”
At that moment, Mr. Martin was
pounding on the front door of the Kelly home. Lights hop scotched through the
darkened house, ending at the front porch as the door opened. Mr. Martin put
his arm around Mr. Kelly.
“It was an unidentified car.”
“It had raced down High Street.”
“It failed to make the turn.”
Mrs. Martin comforted Mrs. Kelly.
It was 11:05 on a hot Sunday summer
night in July. No one slept. A police car rolled up silently to the scene of
the accident. They had been in the neighborhood on a call.
It was one block over.
It had been a hit and run.
A young girl was walking with her
mother.
Twelve year old Carrie Walker was
dead. Everyone knew her. Her father had sold most of them their houses. Her
mother was head of the PTA.
It was a hot night in July. But
there was a strange chill. The small crowd shuffled about.
They felt the Walker’s loss.
They understood the Kelly’s anger.
Someone should be with the Walkers.
Mr. Martin offered his towing
service.
It was silent and still. The police
radio split the heavy night air. Twenty heads strained to hear. The accidents
were related. An eye witness had seen a car traveling at high speed, its right
front fender crumpled.
The car was a convertible.
It was dark green.
The license plate number was
familiar.
The words struck like a hammer blow.
The same thought was on everyone’s mind. Neighbors looked at one another
questioning, asking, puzzled; in disbelief.
“Young John Martin has a
convertible.”
“Didn’t he just paint it dark green?”
“There’s dark green paint on Kelly’s
car.”
Mike and Louise Martin shrank from
the crowd and slipped back to their house. Tom Kelly looked at his wife. Alice
Johnson mumbled something about teenagers. Bob Thompson gathered up his
children. Bill Hanks sighed, and Sam Parker took his wife’s hand in his.
No one spoke.
No one looked at the Kelly’s.
No one looked at each other.
The small suburban community was
close. The people worked, played and prayed together. They knew and took care
of each other. They had grown up together. In a neighborhood where a single
fence stretched for blocks and the only difference was the color of the houses,
it only seemed natural.
Each house was the same; each house
different.
Each occupant was an individual, each
individual a neighbor; each neighbor a friend.
It was a Sunday night, the kind of
night when doors were closed, locks were turned; windows shut and shades drawn.
Outside, streetlights called to
mosquitoes.
Inside, mothers called to children;
lovers called to each other.
It was 11:15 on a hot summer night
in July. It was bed time but no one slept.
Houston,
Texas
July,
1992
