The Accident at P.S. 122Q
On this day, my father was a hero
President’s Day is my cue that another year has passed since my father’s death. Every year since, I use that reminder to recall something I keep about him. This is the fourth year.
When my father was working the nightshift at the bank, he was free to pick us up after school. Our designated spot was on 21st Street in Astoria, just of Ditmars Boulevard, by the doors with a half-moon driveway where where the early grades were dismissed. My fourth-grade teacher, Mrs. Frankson, had just dismissed my class on the other side of the school. I was almost to 21st Street, walking through the school yard when I was jolted by a piercing screech, then a crash. The sounds came from right where my father’s station wagon was parked. Now paying close attention to the scene, I saw that a boy had been swallowed and rolled under a car. I remember seeing his shoes off his feet. The car didn’t come to an immediate stop either, rather it seemed to lurch forward then back. In an instant, I was in the middle of a nightmare.
My father jumped out of our car, saw me, and yelled over the top of our wood-paneled station wagon, “Get in the backseat and don’t let your sisters look out the window.” He slammed his door and quickly moved around to the driver’s side of the vehicle which had finally come to a full stop just in front of us. He reached in for the keys and turned off the motor. Next, he came back around to the passenger’s side of that car, got on his knees and under it, presumingly attending to the boy who had disappeared under the vehicle. By then, I had climbed into the backseat, keeping my sisters away from the left side of our car while trying to take it all in. They were curious, but I shielded them pretty good.
I looked out the back window, toward the school doors, where another chaotic scene was developing. Parents and teachers were screaming and crying, some rushing toward the accident. One teacher came running towards us with her hands waving straight up in the air like a possessed person. The nightmare was real and getting worse.
Soon there were many adults on their knees, some of them teachers I recognized, reaching to rescue the boy from under the car. A crowd had gathered around the accident blocking my view. A few moments later my father opened the door to check on us, his short-sleeve dress shirt now stained with car grease. He told us we would go home as soon as possible. That all would be okay, but to stay seated in the car, and better if we looked the other way. My father then walked over to the driver who was standing a little bit behind the turbulent scene around his car. The driver was distraught, overwhelmed as the realization of what happened set in. My father seemed to be consoling him, and he stayed with him until a policeman came to talk to him. He handed the policeman the keys he had taken while in conversation with the two of them, then he turned his attention to us, motioning to the policeman where we were.
We were locked into our parking spot, with the accident about a car length in front of us. He worked out a way to get us clear of the maelstrom, which must have been on his mind all along. My father got into the car and with help from one of the many policemen now on the scene, he backed up slowly away from the accident, and onto the sidewalk and the circular driveway in front of the school. Soon we were free and away from the chaotic scene full of emergency vehicles.
On the short drive home, my father recounted what happened and what he had done, staying away from any gory details. No doubt, the boy had been badly hurt. If the PTA provided updates on his status, these were not shared with us children. I can only hope that the boy’s young age helped him overcome his injuries. I also hope that the driver was able to put the terrible accident behind him. He seemed like a nice person caught up in a most difficult position. I don’t know how I know that, but likely my father said something about him that led me to that conclusion.
Witnessing my father’s reaction to this terrible accident only confirmed what I already knew as a fourth grader, that my father was special. Of his calm quick thinking, we had seen plenty. That he acted when strangers needed his help made him an action hero as well.
That was my father.
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