I do not expect forgiveness.
I only wanted to say this without excuses.
Derek Whitmore
Theodore read it twice.
Then placed it in a drawer.
Elliot asked:
“You writing back?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“He did what he needed to do.”
“What’s that?”
“Tell the truth without charging me for his relief.”
Elliot nodded.
“What about forgiving him?”
Theodore looked out the window.
“I forgave him before he asked.”
Elliot seemed surprised.
“Really?”
“No.”
Theodore smiled.
“Not that fast.”
Elliot laughed.
Theodore became serious.
“I stopped carrying it.”
“That’s different.”
“Yes.”
The Ferrari remained another question.
The crimson 296 GTB sat untouched at Fifth Avenue for three weeks after the incident.
Elliot refused to sell it.
One Sunday morning, he drove to Theodore’s house.
Theodore was beneath Danielle’s Civic again.
Elliot stood in the driveway.
“Dad.”
No answer.
“Dad.”
Theodore rolled out.
“What?”
“You’re supposed to be resting that knee.”
“It rested.”
“You are under a Honda.”
“Observant.”
Elliot held up keys.
Theodore sighed.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Birthday gift.”
“My birthday was three weeks ago.”
“Delayed delivery.”
“I don’t want it.”
“You never drove it.”
“That day ruined it.”
Elliot became quiet.
Then said:
“Do not let Derek Whitmore own a Ferrari in your head.”
Theodore stared.
That was annoyingly good.
“Your mother would have helped you write that.”
“She would’ve driven it before you.”
Also true.
Theodore wiped his hands.
“Ten minutes.”
They drove for ninety.
At first Theodore complained.
Seat too low.
Controls too complicated.
Steering wheel had too many buttons.
Then they reached an open stretch of road.
Elliot said:
“Go.”
Theodore pressed the accelerator.
The hybrid system delivered power so instantly Theodore laughed.
Not smiled.
Laughed.
A loud, shocked laugh Elliot had not heard from his father in years.
They stopped at a gas station thirty miles away.
Theodore stared at the car.
“All right.”
Elliot waited.
“Engineers did something with this.”
“That is the highest compliment you have?”
“It’s significant.”
“You keeping it?”
Theodore looked at him.
“Your mother would like the red.”
Elliot knew the answer.
The Ferrari spent its first week in Theodore’s garage beside the old Chevy.
Neighbors discovered it quickly.
Children appeared.
Theodore let them sit in it.
Every one.
No shoes on the seats.
No touching random buttons.
Otherwise:
“Go ahead.”
Danielle’s eight-year-old son sat behind the wheel.
“Mr. Foster, how fast does it go?”
“Faster than you need to know.”
“Can you drive me?”
“When your mother says yes.”
Danielle shouted from the sidewalk: