The Scene of the Accident

An excerpt from "Finding the Road Rebels" A memoir about my quest to uncover my birth father's life and the truth about the accident that caused his death in 1966.

I thought I would share a portion of this chapter because the scene I describe occurred on Thanksgiving weekend sixteen years ago.

Trigger Warning: contains disturbing image of the accident scene

On Sunday morning, my alarm jolted me awake at 6:30. I wasn’t used to getting up early on weekends, but Glenn wanted to meet at Dunkin’ Donuts in Malden by 8:00 a.m. He seemed like the kind of person who expected punctuality.

I arrived early and sat in my car, tuning into the UMass folk radio station while I waited. Glenn’s smiling face appeared at the passenger-side window a few minutes later. He looked sharp in his orange-and-black Harley-Davidson jacket.

“Hi, Cutie,” he said, opening the car door.

I grabbed the wooden planter I’d bought for my father’s grave the day before and handed it to him.

“This is for the cemetery,” I said.

He carefully placed the planter in the backseat of his truck. I climbed into the passenger side, and we drove up the road to a massive, white, aluminum-sided Victorian.

Vinny wasn’t exaggerating, I thought as I stared at the sprawling house. Glenn did live in a 17-room home by himself—just him and his cat.

Glenn helped me out of the truck and led me up a steep flight of back stairs to his apartment on the second floor. He explained how he used to rent out the other units but had grown tired of being a landlord. With its ‘70s décor, the apartment felt cozy despite the outdated style.

The galley kitchen was paneled in dark brown wood, and a two-seater Formica table sat in a corner. Down the hall, the bathroom had yellow fern-print wallpaper and a brown vanity. In the living room, a faded brown velour couch anchored the space.

A fluffy, charcoal-and-white cat scampered into the room as I took it all in.

“Road King, say hi to Doreen!” Glenn said in that silly, high-pitched tone people use when they talk to their pets.

Road King inspected me and meowed.

“How about we go by the accident site first, then to the cemetery? After that, we can head to Revere,” Glenn suggested.

He locked up, telling Road King to “be a good boy” as we left. The cat meowed loudly in response.

---

The accident site was on Brookside Avenue in Medford, parallel to Route 93 South. Years ago, the highway had carved through the neighborhood, leaving houses clustered along its edge. Brookside was a narrow, one-way street with pastel-colored two-family homes and small 1930s-style bungalows.

Glenn pulled into a tiny cul-de-sac that abutted the highway. Across the street stood a dove-gray house with white and red trim. The back of the house faced the highway, separated by a fence and a steep embankment overgrown with brush.

“This is it,” Glenn said as he crossed the street.

My instinct was to silence him. The neighborhood was quiet, and I worried someone might question why we were there snooping around so early on a Sunday morning.

We approached the fence at the edge of the embankment. Cars on the above highway swished by, and the constant hum of traffic played in the background. I tried to imagine the scene from the photos I’d seen: my father’s car sailing over the guardrail and then crashing to the ground behind the house with devastating force. My chest tightened, and my mouth went dry.

“There’s the embankment,” I said, pointing. “The paper said the car landed down there.”

“Yeah,” Glenn replied, gesturing to the house. “The transmission blew apart and hit the third-floor window.”

I stared at the house, trying to grasp the enormity of the impact.

“Imagine what that noise must’ve been like,” Glenn said softly.

I nodded, repeating what I remembered from the article. “The homeowners thought someone had rolled a car off the road because my father’s body was not at the scene where the car landed.”

“The paper said his body was discovered a hundred feet away, in a field.”

We walked to the area Glenn pointed out. The distance felt significant. I leaned against the chain-link fence, gazing into the overgrown brush.

This must’ve been where they found him, I mused. My stomach churned as a sickening thought crossed my mind: Where did they find his leg? Eddie Connors had said it was torn off in the crash.

Glenn stood beside me, his arm around my shoulder. A profound sadness washed over me. What a horrible way to die.

“Did you ever come here after the accident?” I asked.

“No, but my friend Mike did. He was fifteen. He said you could see the imprint of your father’s body on the fence. Pieces of his flesh were stuck into the fence, too, and the authorities left them there as a warning against racing.”

I winced at the image, silent for a moment. Glenn suggested we walk up the embankment to the highway.

At the top, cars whizzed by, their speed whipping air past us. From this vantage point, I saw where my father’s car must have veered off the road.

“People used to stop here just to gawk at the site,” Glenn said. “It became a morbid attraction.”

We returned to the street. As I glanced back at the field, I realized being here hadn’t given me the answers I’d hoped for. I still wondered: How did this happen? Who was at fault?

---

Oak Grove Cemetery was only a few blocks away. Having Glenn with me felt validating. My father had existed. He had friends who loved and grieved for him. For the first time, I saw him as more than just a figure locked away in my family’s silence.

We parked near a line of scrubby pine trees by my father’s grave. I noticed the sunflower I’d placed there weeks ago was now dried and withered. I picked it up and tossed it aside as Glenn carefully put the new arrangement at the base of the headstone.

He bowed his head, folding his hands in prayer. I made the sign of the cross.

“You were a great guy. We all miss you,” Glenn said aloud as if speaking directly to my father. Then, turning to me, he added, “I hope he understands how I feel about you.”

His words caught me off guard, leaving me deeply moved.

Our visit was brief. Glenn announced to my father as we left, “We’re going to Revere. I’m going to show her where Hurley’s used to be. I can still see you, clear as day, dancing to the G Clefs.”

I wished I could see the images Glenn had in his mind, if only for a moment.

“Watch over us,” Glenn said as we walked away.

---