"He's got a rope around my neck, I tell you. I can't breathe. I got to get loose from him. I'm sixteen years old."

The skinny red-faced boy sucked a deep breath and drew himself up to his full height, five feet, five inches, and stared across the tiny living room at Mother, who was ironing a pink skirt. She looked up at him with alarmed eyes, then put a finger to her lips and nodded toward the kitchen.

"Shhh. He might hear you."

The boy folded his bare, bony arms across his tube-like chest. "So what? All he does is sit out there on the back porch all day and all night, drinking that Muehlebach beer and telling me what I can and can't do, like he expects me to live in this house and take orders from him the rest of my life."

Mother's eyes dropped to the pink skirt stretched across the narrow board in front of her. "You mustn't speak of your father that way, Charles Francis."

"Call me Frank. I want to be called Frank."

It was the first week in September, 1939. Kansas City. The Nazis were Blitzkrieging across Poland. The Wizard of Oz was playing at the Summit Theater. Charles Francis Kellerman was secretly building a Model 18 Ford Deluxe Roadster from junked parts in old man Miller's barn at the south end of Fairmont Street.

Mother looked him square in the eye. "I know who you are. Your father and I named you."

Charles Francis met her stare but did not reply. He watched her finish ironing the skirt with short, heavy strokes. She was forty-eight years old. Her eyes were a deep impenetrable gray, the color of rain clouds moving beneath a dull sun. They seemed to bear the weight of every one of those years, and more. Her eyes, even more than her words, made Charles Francis pause. But Mother's eyes were by no means the clearest signs of the life she had lived, not to Charles Francis. When she finally turned away from him and bent over to grab a hanger that had fallen onto the floor by the chair behind her, the hem of her gray house dress rose several inches, and he saw the backs of her calves. Even from this angle, he could see the marks. Some of them had been there for eight or nine years: horizontal and diagonal lines an inch or two in length, creases a pinker, rawer hue than the pallid flesh surrounding them. The marks (he would not call them scars) were the recorded history of his own relationship with Father. They had been engraved on Mother's legs with a thick black leather belt, the one Father used to use when Charles Francis did something Father didn't like. As Father put it, he only knew one way to swing a belt. But first Father would shove him to the floor, then chase him across the room until Charles Francis was crouching in a corner like a dog. Mother couldn't bear to witness it. Over the years she had stepped between them many times, catching the full force of Father's blows on her own bare legs as Charles Francis cowered behind her. The belt would snap around her lower leg and pop like a horse whip, leaving the mark on the back of her calf. The long diagonal streak just above her right ankle–Charles Francis could see it clearly now–recorded the very first time she had wedged herself between him and Father, the day he lost the dime Father had given him for a sack of coal. The shorter, deeper crease just above that one was for the first and only time he had refused to go to Mass. That was much more recent, only two years ago, when he was fourteen. He hadn't cowered behind Mother that time. He had stood his ground like a man–until Father drove a fist into his face and sent him tumbling into a corner. Mother leaped between them as Father unstrapped his belt. That day Father also left a mark on Charles Francis: His nose, already overlarge and shaped like a parrot's beak, was broken. It had a permanent unnatural swell in the middle now, and was even redder than the rest of his face. He had gone to Mass that Sunday, and every Sunday since.

That was the last time Father had used his belt. A year ago he had lost his job at the brewery. Instead of joining the long lines of grim-faced men looking for another job, any job, he retreated to the back porch, rocking silently in the wooden rocker, drinking Muehlebach from a copper stein. He was sixty, twelve years older than Mother.

Charles Francis looked through the opening into the kitchen, to the small yellow-curtained window overlooking the back porch. From the living room he could not see Father's shadow rocking on the back porch, but pictured him clearly in his mind's eye. Before the lay-off, Father's eyes, a different shade of gray altogether from Mother's, were hard and bright and watchful, like a hawk's. In the past year Father's hawk eyes had faded day by day as he rocked silently on the back porch–until at last they turned dull and cloudy, much cloudier than Mother's, like the opaque eyes of a blind man. When he spoke, now, he talked only of things past–the Priest of Pallas Parades, the Battle of Verdun, building the Liberty Memorial in front of Union Station–as if the world he saw through his cloudy eyes had stopped turning years ago.

The change shocked Charles Francis, and made him afraid to challenge Father's authority directly, though every day he was tempted. He and Dottie supported the family now. Dottie was twenty-two and still lived at home. She worked at the beauty college over on Troost. At night Charles Francis was an apprentice mechanic in Otis Schmidt's garage. He and Dottie gave their weekly checks to Father, who still handled all the money and made all the decisions for the family.

"Well, just tell me one thing," Charles Francis said in a slightly lower voice as Mother turned back around to face him. "How come he keeps all the money I make? How come every time I wanna do something I got to ask him for money when I bring money home every week? How come I don't get any of it for my own?"

The base of Charles Francis's throat tingled as he said these words, for they weren't completely true. He had an arrangement with Otis Schmidt to give him part of his wages every week in cash. Just enough to buy parts and paint and incidentals for the Model 18 Ford he was secretly building in old man Miller's barn. Six months ago Father had forbidden him to build the automobile, even after Charles Francis had explained he could do it on his own time with his own money he earned at the garage. Your own what? Father had replied. He set the copper stein down on the dark porch and rocked forward until Charles Francis could see his face clearly in the twilight. For a moment Father's eyes once again looked hard and bright. As long as you live in this house, everything you do, everything you make, goes to me–for the family.

"That's for him to decide," Mother said as she folded up the wooden legs on the ironing board. "He's still your father."

The tingle at the base of Charles Francis's throat became an itch, but he resisted the urge to swallow. He glanced at the kitchen window overlooking the back porch, then shook his head.

"He ain't the same man."

* * *

Two weeks later, on a Saturday morning when everyone else in the house was still sleeping, he slipped out the front door and hurried down the steep hill on Fairmont Street to old man Miller's barn.

The air was crisp and cool, the sky an unbroken blue from rooftop to rooftop, as he padded over the chalky gravel in his good Florsheim shoes, the ones he wore only on Sundays, beneath the hems of his cassock and surplice when he lit the candles for Father Jaworski at nine o'clock Mass. The gravel dust coated the black leather and turned his shoes slate gray, but he didn't notice. He was wearing his best brown cotton trousers with the extra wide cuffs, and his one good white shirt, pressed and starched cookie box stiff by Mother the night before. The cool breeze made his flushed cheeks feel raw. In the bathroom this morning he had taken Father's straight razor and scraped his face until it bled.

Even before he swung open the heavy wooden doors, a sharp stinging smell reached his pink parrot beak nose, making his nostrils quiver, his eyes begin to water. And yet he paused at the crack between the doors and inhaled deeply, drawing the bitter burning air into the very bottoms of his lungs–because wafting through bitter air was the hint of another, sweeter scent–one he knew existed only in his imagination, but was all the sweeter for that–the smell of fresh strawberries.

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He swung open the double doors, the scent washing over him like a wave of liquid perfume–and let in the light. The luminous shaft struck the only object in the barn and seemed to set it aglow from within, like the golden chalice on the alter of the Church of the Sacred Heart on Sunday morning, when rainbow beams struck it after passing through the stained glass figure of Saint Christopher in the round window above the balcony. But in the barn Charles Francis saw only a blaze of red. It’s fire engine red, he'd said to old man Miller the night before, as he stood back and eyeballed his work after applying the last brushstroke to the last louver on the driver's side of the hood. Just like the hook and ladder at the Summit Street Station. Old man Miller squinted at the gleaming red metal and rubbed the gray stubble on his chin. Looks more the color of strawberries to me.

Now, as the morning light flooded through the open doorway, Charles Francis looked at the finished automobile before him and tasted the bittersweet tang of red paint and fresh strawberries. The headlights of the Model 18 Deluxe Roadster stared back at him like the pleading eyes of a thoroughbred, ready to run. It’s mine. I made this. He stepped up to the driver's side and touched the red hood. It was dry. I can drive it now. The cloth top was down, folded neatly between the front seat and the trunk lid containing the rumble seat, and suddenly Charles Francis could smell the richer, softer scent of new brown leather. But he made no move to climb into the driver's seat that Buster the upholstery man had helped him restore. Instead, he ran his right hand along the length of the strawberry hood, feeling its smoothness with his fingertips, then ran his left hand over the equally smooth curve of the jet black fender above the white-spoked wheel. Beautiful.

He'd been lucky, like his nickname, to spot the roadster the moment Harley towed it into the salvage yard next to the garage. Not only was the Deluxe Roadster beautiful, the Model 18 was a V-8, the first ever made by Ford. All the guys wanted them. And this one ran slick as the blood through your veins. After he'd replaced the points, plugs, rods, rings, and gaskets, Otis helped him tune it like a Swiss watch.

He opened the driver's door and climbed inside. "OK, Girl, let's hear you purr." When he hit the starter the engine turned over once, twice, then roared into life as he stepped on the gas. He eased off the petal and the roar became a soft hum.

"Now. Where to first?"

He gripped the wheel with both hands and stared straight ahead, through the open doorway into the brilliant blue day. He couldn't quite see it from the barn, but only a couple of houses further down, at the very bottom of the hill, the chalky gravel of Fairmont emptied into the smooth blacktop of 31st. From the intersection he had a number of choices. He could turn east, toward Penn Valley Park and the tall needle monument of the Liberty Memorial. No. Not that way. Or he might turn off 31st south on Broadway toward the Country Club Plaza, where the rich folk from Society Hill cruised brick streets in their Packards and Lincoln-Zephyr Continentals. Or he might even turn west instead, and cross the Kaw River over the Seventh Street Bridge into Kansas City, Kansas, and wave to the winos and thick-ankled girls in the Argentine district. Every street, every road was connected. He had his own car and a full tank of gas–he might go anywhere.

But he knew where he would be at eleven thirty.

* * *

The Nuberg Drive-In specialized in pig snoot sandwiches. If he had fifteen cents, Charles Francis would order one with extra mayonnaise every Saturday morning at eleven thirty, when he stopped in the Nuberg with Ninny and Yanny Yorkovich after cruising up and down Wyandotte Avenue most of the morning in their green LaSalle. Eleven thirty was when Bonnie Parscales went to work in her high heels and pink Hollywood shorts. Or at least she used to; Charles Francis hadn't been to the Nuberg on a Saturday morning since he started restoring the Model 18.

He wheeled the strawberry roadster into a stall in the center island and gave the horn a toot. When a pair of long tan legs and pink shorts appeared, he settled back into the seat and propped his elbow, as casually as he could manage, on the edge of the driver's door.

"Lucky! Where'd you get this?"

Charles Francis turned his head and looked up in feigned surprise. "Oh, Bonnie. How've you been?"

She seemed not to hear him. Her round brown eyes, the ones he could see so clearly when he closed his own, were sweeping back and forth, checking out the roadster from bumper to bumper. He couldn't stop himself from glancing at the twin bulges in her white cotton blouse. The shape of Bonnie Parscales chest made him think things he was afraid to mention to anyone.

"Is this yours, Lucky?"

He smiled and looked through the windshield at the strawberry hood, then gave the wheel a pat. "All mine. Call me Frank."

Still staring straight ahead, he felt Bonnie's eyes focus on him for the first time. He tried to hold his chin at exactly the right height: not too proud, not too shy. He wished he could make his misshapened nose appear smaller somehow, less like a pink parrot's beak. Very slowly, he inhaled, expanding his tube-like chest to its full capacity beneath the white starched shirt. He started to flex his left bicep and make a knot in his skinny upper arm just below the short sleeve, then thought better of it.

"So where are the jailbird twins?"

He looked up and found her brown eyes staring into his own. For a moment he could say nothing, as she was leaning over the driver's door now and the musky scent of her perfume drifted into his nostrils and made his head feel light.

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"I haven't seen Ninny and Yanny for a long time now," he said finally.

She cocked her head and lifted one dark eyebrow. "Stepping up in class now, are you?"

He smiled again. "You might say that." Her long raven-colored hair was coiled in a tight bun tucked beneath her pink carhop's cap. He imagined the dark tresses suddenly unbound, cascading over her bare tan shoulders like black water flowing over copper. "What time do you get off?"

She lifted both brows and smiled at him. Or was it a smirk? "I'm just working the lunch shift today. But I have a date with Bud tonight."

Charles Francis forced himself not to react. Bud Schaefer was a big blond-headed basketball player for Manual Vo-Tech. A pretty boy with muscles, Ninny Yorkovich liked to call him. Hitler Youth, Yanny Yorkovich said.

"Well, I've got something too," Charles Francis said finally. "Two tickets to the Blues game this afternoon. Last game of the season–what do you say?"

Bonnie shifted her weight from one copper leg to the other. "I don't know . . . You know Bud."

"Bud who?" Charles Francis said, and ran his right hand lightly over the ribbed leather. "I believe this side of the seat has your name on it."

She took a step backward and stood erect on her long copper legs, then regarded him in silence for several moments. He felt himself being measured. He matched her gaze and tried to breathe without contracting his chest.

Then her lips, exactly the same shade of pink as her Hollywood short-shorts and carhop cap, crinkled upward at the corners. "You don't say. All right, Lucky. I get off at one thirty."

Charles Francis felt something inside him break loose, soar straight up into the blue sky. But before he could say anything, she plucked a pencil from behind her ear and raised her order pad.

"So. You want the usual?"

He kept his eyes locked on hers. "No. Not at all."

* * *

On 25th Street he wound out the gears, listening to the V-8 whine as they passed a slow-moving DeSoto. He could feel the power of the V-8 through the round pedals at his feet, and the strength of his own intentions in the wheel he gripped with both fists. Bonnie sat close beside him–the cab was small–and traced the curving line of the dash with a long pink fingernail. She was wearing the same white blouse, but a gray skirt had replaced the pink Hollywood short-shorts. He hardly noticed, though, for when he returned to pick her up at the Nuberg she had also taken off the carhop cap and let down her black hair. Now, as the wind rushed over the open cab of the strawberry roadster, long tresses lifted on each side of her head like raven's wings.

Neither of them spoke, until finally Muehlebach Field came into view ahead. He pointed at the left field scoreboard, just visible above the stands. "When I was a kid I saw Hal Trosky hit a ball over the very top of that scoreboard."

She frowned. "Who?"

A musk-scented lock of hair blew across his chin as they pulled into the ballpark lot.

He opened the door for her, but was careful not to touch any part of her body as she stepped onto the gravel. When she stood next to him, he noticed that even in flat shoes she was at least an inch taller than he.

"Well, are we going in?" she asked.

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"Sure. Right now."

The further they got from the strawberry roadster, the less certain he became. There was only he now, to impress her. He squared his shoulders and walked erect like a soldier, but felt his confidence vanishing like the crowd disappearing into the tunnels beneath the stands ahead.

Then, as they moved through the turnstile, she spun toward him and winked. "Maybe we'll see somebody we know."

And suddenly his confidence came rushing back. She wanted to be seen–with him. As they made their way beneath the stands, he beamed. His step was light and jaunty, and he dared to lay his palm on the small of her back, just beneath the dark hair that swished back and forth as she walked, as he guided her around a hot dog vender's cart. His eyes swept the moving crowd ahead, looking for familiar faces. He wanted to be seen with her. He hadn't been to a single ball game all season. He'd been too busy restoring the strawberry roadster. But they were heading for the entrance to the left field bleachers, where he and Eddie Magril and the Yorkovich twins used to sit every Saturday afternoon the summer before, game or no game, sipping moonshine from a bottle in a brown paper bag, with the No-Neck Girls from Sacred Heart School. Now he was here with Miss Hollywood Short-Shorts herself.

He was picturing the stunned faces of the No-Neck Girls when in the shadows beneath the bleachers he bumped into something rock hard.

"Bonnie!"

Charles Francis hadn't even regained his balance when he saw Bonnie's brown eyes gaze brightly on the tall, immovable figure of Bud Schaefer.

"Well, hi there, Bud." Her voice was light; this was funny.

The tall blond figure didn't seem to get the joke. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Bonnie smiled shyly. "It's the last game of the season, Bud. You know what a fan I am."

Schaefer gave her a furious look, then turned toward Charles Francis. "And who's this runt?"

Charles Francis felt something hot burst inside his chest and neck and face. He was half the basketball player's size, but thrust himself between Schaefer and Bonnie. "My name's Frank Kellerman–and she's with me."

For about three seconds Schaefer looked down at him with what appeared to Charles Francis to be surprise, even uncertainty. Then Schaefer's square face turned business-like. "Better stay away from women till you grow up, runt. Now move. Get on out of here."

Charles Francis stood his ground.

"Now, Bud," Bonnie said.

Suddenly the underside of the bleachers spun out of sight. It was dark for a moment, then colored lights flickered all around, like Christmas Eve. Then darkness again, followed by a dim glow that slowly assumed the shape of Bud Schaefer's frowning face. Charles Francis tried to turn away from the sight, then realized he was lying on his back.

"He's coming around. He's all right."

"For goodness sakes, Bud. Why'd you have to hit him there?"

Charles Francis rolled his eyes toward the second voice and spotted Bonnie bending over him. Her long hair hung dark and feathery on each side of her face. Her brown eyes were fixed on him, the brows above them furrowed, and her pink lips were twisted in an expression halfway between horror and delight.

Then he felt the pain in his nose. A burning coal, melting through his face. He touched the pain with his fingertips, and found his hand covered with red.

"I'll get you, Schaefer."

The blond athlete smiled. "Sure, runt. Anytime."

Charles Francis tried to rise as Schaefer took Bonnie's arm and led her back toward the exit, her dark hair swish, swishing behind her shoulders. When he lifted his head, a rush of light and heat and noise swirled all around him, and he collapsed flat on his back. He closed his eyes and lay motionless until finally the spinning stopped.

When he reopened his eyes, he thought Schaefer's fist had made him suffer double vision: Two identical pairs of pinched-gray close-set eyes stared back down at him.

"Lucky," one pair of eyes said. "Long time no see."

* * *

That night Charles Francis drove the strawberry roadster up the long hill on Summit Street to The Rendezvous tavern. Ninny and Yanny Yorkovich were waiting in the dark alley on the north side.

"I can handle my own goose," Charles Francis protested as he stepped out of the car and approached them on foot. The thick gauze Doc Poholski had taped over his nose made the words come out flat and tinny.

"Sure you can, Lucky," Ninny said.

"Yeah, we just want to watch you pound the kraut," Yanny explained.

"Hey–I'm a kraut," Charles Francis protested.

Yanny looked at his brother, then shrugged.

"Yeah, you're a sour kraut," Ninny said, then cackled like a turkey.

Charles Francis sighed and said nothing. The day had started out so good. Now everything was all twisted around. He didn't really like the Yorkovich boys anymore. They were too mean and crude. But here he was, standing in a dark alley with the two of them, waiting to get into more trouble. He hadn't been home yet. He didn't want to face Father until he had changed things back.

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The night air raised goose bumps on Charles Francis's bare forearms. He shivered, and rubbed each arm in turn. "I'm faster than he is."

"You are for a fact, Lucky," Ninny said.

"Call me Frank, damn it. Lucky's a kid's name."

The door to The Rendezvous opened and two figures stepped out: a tall man and a dark-haired woman clinging to his arm.

"Here I go."

He started to step out into the light when two powerful pairs of hands grabbed him by his arms and flung him back into the shadows. He tumbled into a row of garbage crates, then fell into one, sprawling flat on his face in a pile of rotten vegetables. His nose exploded with pain. Then he heard Bonnie scream–and turned and looked back in time to see Ninny and Yanny drag Bud Schaefer into the deeper dark of the opposite alley across the street.

* * *

It was mid-morning when he finally returned the strawberry roadster to old man Miller's barn and walked the steep hill up Fairmont toward home. He had driven all night, over dark streets he could not recall, all the time thinking, trying to figure out what had gone wrong. He still wasn't sure what had spoiled it, the feeling of power and freedom he had felt behind the wheel of the Model 18 only yesterday. It wasn't just Bud Schaefer or Bonnie or the Yorkovich boys. It was something else he couldn't quite wrap his mind around. He knew only that he had to get the feeling back.

And now, as he walked up the hill, he knew what he had to do.

"Charles Francis!" Mother cried when he pushed open the front door. The sight of his face made her gasp. "What's happened to your–"

His raised palm silenced her. "Where is he?"

The gray eyes that showed years regarded him for a long moment before she answered. "Upstairs. Getting ready for Mass. Dottie's already . . . "

Charles Francis was already on his way up the stairs. The bedroom was at the end of the short hall. The door was open and he could see Father's narrow stooped back as he sat bending over the edge of the four-poster feather bed, tying his shoes. He was wearing his good white shirt and his good black trousers with the black suspenders. From behind, Father looked shrunken and very old, older even than old man Miller.

The board in the doorway creaked, and Father turned. The hard bright hawk eyes Charles Francis remembered were cloudy and dim, but they registered surprise.

"What happened to your face?"

Charles Francis felt a twinge beneath the bandages and tape, but resisted the urge to raise his hand and touch it. "It ain't important. Look, I got something I got to show you. Down at Miller's barn."

Father's gray brows lifted. He rose slowly from the bed and adjusted the suspender over each shoulder. "Later," he said at last. "You get ready for Mass."

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Charles Francis shook his head. "No. I ain't going to Mass until I show you."

Once more the cloudy gray eyes registered surprise. Charles Francis felt the soles of his feet begin to itch as Father looked at him in silence. I ain’t backing down, even if have to stand here all day.

Then Father's voice shocked him: "All right."

They walked down the hill in silence. Charles Francis could feel Mother's eyes following them from the living room window until the houses and the bend of the hill cut off her view. They walked slowly, at Father's shuffling pace. Charles Francis glanced at him only once, noting how the once-lean muscles of Father's forearms had shriveled, the firm line of his jaw had gone slack. With each step, the soles of Charles Francis's feet itched worse, and he squirmed his toes inside his good shoes as the black leather once again turned slate gray in the gravel dust.

As they neared the barn Charles Francis noticed something was different. He couldn't pin it down until at last they stood before the big double doors: There was no smell, no scent at all except the faintly pungent odor of dry hay. Charles Francis felt a wave of panic as he shoved over the bar latch and flung open the double doors, filling the barn with sunlight.

And it was there, right where it should have been, shining back at the two of them from the middle of the barn exactly where Charles Francis had backed it in. The strawberry metal glowed like a red dawn. Charles Francis heaved a long sigh, then turned to face Father.

"I made this. On my own."

Father's cloudy eyes stared into the barn. "Made what?"

Charles Francis's own eyes swelled round and white. "Are you blind?"

Father craned his neck forward and squinted at the gleaming metal before him. "It's too bright. I can't–"

Charles Francis grabbed Father's wrist and pulled him roughly into the barn until they were only a few feet from the strawberry roadster. "This! This! I made this! Look at it!"

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He had never touched Father this way. As the knowledge of what he had done began to grow in his brain, he let go of Father's wrist and shrank back a step.

Father seemed not to notice. He stood before the automobile and stared at the radiant red metal. As Charles Francis watched, something began to happen inside Father. He could see it in his eyes, a light beginning to shine through the murky gray. Suddenly Father turned toward him.

"I told you not to do this."

Charles Francis drew himself erect. "I know. But I done it on my own time. With my own money."

Father's eyes flickered. His hands moved quickly to his waist, but grasped only the empty belt loops below his good suspenders. The purposeful look on his face dissolved, and he looked around the barn blankly, as if he had suddenly forgotten where he was. Charles Francis felt something inside himself begin to deflate as he watched Father fade.

Then, without warning, something else began to happen inside Father. He pulled back his shoulders and straightened his spine. He looked at Charles Francis and his eyes flickered once more. "You wait here."

Without another word, he turned and strode out of the barn, his step brisk and firm.

Charles Francis stood beside the strawberry roadster and began to tremble. He’s gone to get his belt. He thinks I’m gonna wait right here for a licking. Charles Francis felt his throat begin to constrict, as if something were choking him. He’s got a noose around my neck. I got to get loose from him.

He stared through the open doorway. Father was already out of sight around the corner of the barn, but Charles Francis could see the gravel path of Fairmont Street running down the hill into 31st and all the other streets and roads and highways that connected with it, highways that could take him anywhere he wanted to go. He sucked in a deep breath. No. I’m not gonna run from him. And I’m not gonna take a licking. Not this time. This time I’ll fight him. He pictured the marks on the backs of Mother's legs. Old and weka as he is, I’ll stay right here and fight him. And then I’m gonna get in my car and drive right out of this barn and never come back.

The sound of footsteps approached from the north side of the barn. Charles Francis bit his lower lip and took his fighting stance: feet spread, left foot forward. But something was wrong. He couldn’t of gone all the way home and back by now . . .

Then Father stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the morning sun. His shadowed figure was tall and straight. Somehow Charles Francis could see Father's eyes staring out of his shadowed face, as if they shone of their own light. Then Charles Francis's own eyes fell to Father's hands, which held not a belt–but a double-edged ax.

"No," Charles Francis said.

Father did not reply. He strode past Charles Francis toward the strawberry roadster. Charles Francis could not move. He stood frozen in his fighting stance, his feet encased in ice. "No," he pleaded, twisting around to see what he wanted desperately not to see. "No. Don’t."

"I'll teach you now," Father said softly. "One last time."

Then, as Charles Francis looked on in helpless wonder, Father raised the ax above the hood of the strawberry roadster–and cut him free.