The once-proud front end of the Teller’s wood-panelled station wagon had bent and crumpled like a concertina mid-squeeze. Beneath the buckled hood, steam rose hissing from a cracked radiator. A steady trickle of black oil dripped onto the pale gravel driveway, forming a spreading pool around the stricken vehicle.
“I can explain,” said Marshall, attempting in vain to close the driver-side door behind him. Despite his best efforts, it continued to sag forlornly at half-mast, the hinges wrenched out of true.
Marilyn stood on the front steps, her hands to her mouth.
Edgar managed to force the passenger door open on the fourth try and half-climbed, half-staggered into the torn-up flower bed where the car had eventually come to rest.
“The important thing is that we survived,” added Marshall, his palms already up in a combined gesture of surrender and appeasement.
“What happened?” his mother demanded.
“Yes,” said Edgar, glaring at his son. “I think I’d like to hear this as well.”
“It wasn’t my fault,” said Marshall. “If people in this town would pick up after themselves, it would have been fine.”
“He swerved to miss a paper napkin,” said Edgar.
“I thought someone had run over a baby ghost!” Marshall protested.( Read the rest of the Teller Family History here )