Chapter Text
May 13, 1972
Steve scrapes his fire truck along the uneven cement, his knees sinking into the soft, squishy grass of his front lawn as he moves with the toy. It is warm out, sunny, and his parents had been thrilled when he’d asked to play outside instead of sitting in front of the television this morning. Though Cal and June Harrington are doting parents, they often relish those moments of quiet in the house, in between Steve’s rambunctious running around, his teary tantrums when he misbehaves, and the general calamity that comes with raising a six-year-old boy.
This week, a healthy dose of nightmares had been sprinkled in, thanks to the boat scene in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. This means that Steve and his trusty blanket have been nestled between his parents in their bed nearly every night since Monday. And so, while Steve plays outside, his parents are squarely inside enjoying the first bit of adult alone time they’ve had all week.
A siren wails out as the fire truck hits a bump in the sidewalk. Steve slowly winds the toy back, and then, with a mischievous grin, slams it into the hump of cement with a gleeful ”Bam!” He does it again and again, until the plastic tires are all scuffed up and the siren's wail begins to warp and warble.
Steve soon grows bored with the fire truck. He abandons it in the middle of the sidewalk for a white plastic tee ball and his yellow bat. Launching the perforated ball in the air, he watches it crest and fall before swinging the bat with all of his six-year-old might. The bat connects, sending the ball flying into the street.
He watches its arc with wide, brown eyes that sit below a pair of lashes that his mom’s lady friends always seem to gush over during their weekly get-togethers, their faces curiously close to his own as they fawn and frown and shake their head with jealous huffs.
“Good eyelashes are wasted on the youth, June."
“Just look at those eyes. Like Bambi!”
“I’d throw out my Great Lash if I had those.”
Steve has never understood the meaning behind their comments, but what he does know is that he’s always happy when his dad interrupts them, ushering Steve out of the room with a droll smile on his face. “Come on, Stevie,” he’ll say, over tinkling laughs and the glug of wine being poured. “You don’t need to be a part of all that woman talk.”
Steve has never understood what that means either, but if his dad thinks something is dumb, then he does, too. Cal is a man’s man, the kind that likes the taste of whisky and a good cigar after a steak dinner. He isn't yet a partner at the company for which he works, but he is making his way there quickly. Steve watches his dad with awe when he takes phone calls at home, barking orders with an air of command that makes Steve instinctively straighten. He wants to be like that one day.
“If you work hard, Stevie,” his dad likes to say, “you can do whatever you want.”
Whatever you want.
The options are limitless. Steve wants to be lots of things: an astronaut, a superhero, a firefighter. Today, he wants to be a baseball player, just like Pete Rose. Only Pete Rose wouldn’t hit a tee ball into the middle of the street.
The ball is just sitting there, smack in the middle of the small, unlined road, where the only cars that tend to come through belong to the residents of Steve’s upper-middle-class neighborhood. His parents won't let him go in the street. What is he going to do now?
The soft, mid-May breeze prickles the back of Steve’s legs, which his mom had dutifully dressed in a pair of navy shorts paired with a yellow and white striped T-shirt. Steve ruffles his soft brown hair, bottom lip sticking out in deliberation. Looking back and forth, he doesn't see any cars coming. He can make it to the ball and back before anyone even notices.
As he crouches down to grab the ball, Steve hears the slow crunch of gravel. It is getting louder and louder. He pauses, ball in one hand and bat in the other, and looks up to see a car, sleek and blue like one from his Hot Wheels collection.
A window rolls down. “Excuse me,” comes a man’s voice. “Have you seen my puppy? She ran away from my farm.”
The man is flame-haired, with light eyes and a scatter of freckles across his pale skin. He has a boyish face, but by the lines on his face, Steve can tell that he is older, like his dad. His thin lips are drawn into a concerned frown.
Steve shakes his head hesitantly.
The man scrubs his face with a soft wail. “Oh. Oh no. I’m so sad.”
It makes Steve feel bad to see the man cry. He tucks the ball to his chest and approaches the car, peering up at the man shyly. “I can help you find her.”
The man looks up with a hopeful grin. “You will? That’s so kind of you.” He leans back, unlocking the back door. “Climb in, and we can look together.”
Steve glances nervously over his shoulder. He isn't supposed to talk to strangers, let alone get in a stranger’s car. But the man looks so sad, and Steve really wants to help him find his puppy. Maybe he'll even get to play with it, too, because he's such a good helper.
And so he does.
Scrambling to his knees in the backseat, Steve twists around, watching through the window as his house grows smaller and smaller and smaller.
Soon, he can't see it at all.