(This story has been told twice. First, I told it at Camille's 80th birthday party at a posh DC hotel in front of a group of her friends. Finally, what appears here was read by my friend, Ron Talley, at Camille's funeral.)
Since the statute of limitations must have expired decades ago, I’ll tell you a true story.
It was 1964 and I was 16 years old.
Auntie Camille was friends with my mother and father, Charlie and Dorothy Duncan, for as long as I can remember. She was blonde, bold and bodacious. She was fun, and I loved to see her coming. She drove a just-out-of-Detroit, metallic champagne beige Mustang coupe, and oh, how I loved that car.
In those days folks dropped by to visit unscheduled and unannounced. On those terms, Camille was a regular at our house. Conversations with my parents were loud, laugh-filled and always involved lots of martinis and cigarettes. We lived on 18th street, Camille and her mother, Mary Cottrell, lived a few blocks away on 17th.
On one visit, Camille mentioned that she and Mrs. C were going to Greece for the summer. With instant nefarious intent, I volunteered to stop by their house occasionally to fire up the Mustang, just to keep its juices moving, a better option, I suggested, than letting her fierce thoroughbred sit idly, unattended and uncharged, for so many weeks. I was charming and persuasive – she gave me the key.
The minute they were gone I was in their garage eyeballing that sleek steel, thrilling to the low rumble of the engine, with grand larceny beating heavy in my heart.
But, to my surprise, they had smartly left an apparently insurmountable 2800lb obstacle in my path to automotive bliss. Mama Cottrell had parked her skylight blue Ford Falcon behind the Mustang and, of course, to it I had no key.
But never underestimate the lust or determination of a teenage boy. In fairly short order, and with the aid of a simple wire coat hangar, I had unlocked the offending, now-rolling blockade and pushed it down the long, but accommodatingly flat, driveway, and out of my way. We were free.
For weeks that summer I showed up for dates, house parties and street cruises in Camille’s beautiful new Mustang. My friends were mystified and awestruck - and I wasn’t talking. They knew it wasn’t my parent’s car, and they knew for certain that it wasn’t mine, but there I was, time after time, in the hottest car any of us brand new drivers with brand new driver’s licenses could get our greedy little hands on. I was rolling large.
And while I drove her car regularly, I was extremely careful with it. I checked the oil and tires, kept it clean, and I went so far as to disconnect the odometer, so there was no record of my outings. After each drive I put it back in the garage on 17th street, and pushed the little Falcon back in place.
My deceit was joyous and complete – or so I thought.
On returning from what was to be my last blast of ’64, I pulled up to find a matronly Cottrell family member, who unbeknownst to me, was checking on the house. She had caught me at my criminal undertaking, and standing there with both hands on her hips and a look of loathing and disgust on her face that promised she could not wait to reveal the heinous act she had discovered. There was no sweet-talking my way out of this one, not with that lady - and I didn’t try.
I put both cars in their proper place, and closed the gate at the end of the driveway for the last time. She demanded the key and left me to my shame and punishments.
I was busted. It was by far my greatest infraction of my Family’s Rules to date. Oh, I’d been in a few fights, or more rightly, I’d had my behind whipped a few times, gotten drunk (only once, which was enough for my then-tender constitution) but I’d never been in any real trouble with the law, never arrested.
It was only a matter of days until Camille would return and report to my parents, and most regrettably, to my father - a man who suffered absolutely no foolishness from me. He was about find out that for much of the summer of 1964 his son had been joy riding in a stolen car. This was ending very badly for me.
Camille came home from her long vacation and called me to come to her house. I had never seen the look on her face. She was beyond angry. She ranted and raved, fussed and cussed, and read me the Riot Act, as we said in those days. The worst part was hearing her say that I had let her down and that she was disappointed with me.
I had lied to her. I had cheated and I had stolen from her. I was mortified and defenseless. I apologized – really apologized.
But to my absolute amazement, that was the end of it. As far as I know, she never told my parents – and trust me on this, if she had there would have been everlasting consequences. (I bet she knew that.)
She never mentioned it again. Never held it over my head. Never reminded me that she had dirt on me. Never used it against me. I brought it up a few times over the next 40 years. She always just smiled.
I am Todd Duncan. Camille was my parents’ friend, and she was my friend. I loved her dearly and I will miss her always.