BY EMILY RUIZ Every Saturday afternoon, he would honk the horn and we would run downstairs. There he was in his big brown Cadillac with his wife in the front seat. The four of us would sit in the back and hardly any words were spoken. She would turn her head slightly to the left and just nod, never making eye contact. He just looked at us from his rear view mirror. There we were, four innocent kids who took a five minute ride around the block every week. He would give us each $1.00 and send us on our way. There was never any conversation. We were never asked how we were doing. How is school? Are you okay? Do you need anything? No Happy Birthdays, no Christmas cards or presents, no hugs, no I love you… It was the longest, silent 5 minutes of our little short lives. Nevertheless, within the confines of those four doors, there was this unforgettable resonance… The sound of her red, freshly painted finger nails tapping the back of his driver’s seat.
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