Sabbath

  • Chapter One

  • Profile Picture of Dad in Sabbath

    Dad

    “Damn, rush hour traffic’s brutal,”

  • Susan

    my father complained, though the words he actually used were a bit more colorful.

    Profile Picture of Susan in Sabbath
  • Forehead wrinkled, he slammed his hand on the steering wheel.

  • For all the movement on it, the Belt Parkway to Brooklyn might as well have been a sculpture garden.

  • Susan

    Car engines revved next to us, in front of us, behind us.

    Profile Picture of Susan in Sabbath
  • That September afternoon was unseasonably hot.

  • As if the rubber had melted and fused to the pavement, tires tried fruitlessly to inch ahead.

  • Susan

    With no air conditioning in our 1961 Buick Roadmaster, the windows were cranked down so that an ocean breeze could cool us.

    Profile Picture of Susan in Sabbath
  • Except there was no breeze.

  • The only relief from the monotony of an endless train of cars was a few billowing sails on the Atlantic Ocean beyond the wide sandbar that lined the road.

  • Profile Picture of Dad in Sabbath

    Dad

    “Damn!”

  • Susan

    Dad leaned on the horn.

    Profile Picture of Susan in Sabbath
  • The smell of smoke from tail pipes drifted through my window.

  • Maybe the carbon monoxide would kill me, I thought.

  • Susan

    Hoped.

    Profile Picture of Susan in Sabbath
  • I wasn't looking forward to what loomed ahead.

  • Sabbath dinner with my grandparents.

  • Susan

    Boring.

    Profile Picture of Susan in Sabbath
  • Instead of a night with my friends, I’d wind up watching television while my parents and grandparents talked about old people I didn’t know.