I am five years old and riding in the back seat of my father’s smelly old Plymouth. This is in 1947, long before the days of car seats for children. It’s freezing cold outside, and I am dressed in a snug pink snowsuit with a scarf tied so tight around my neck that I can hardly breathe. My seven-year-old brother and I are playing hide-and-seek inside the car: I try to hide so that, when he sticks his head over the passenger seat, he can’t see me.
First I lie with my face pressed into the crease between the seat and the backrest, but of course I’m in plain view. Then I lie down on the floor and try to cram myself under the front seat. This works for a moment, until my brother stands up on his seat and leans out over the backrest — and there I am. I feel a familiar frustration: no matter what game we play, he always wins. Just once, I’d like to beat him.
