Interstate (39 page)

They're off the turnpike, across the big bridge and past the first rest stop on the left and about an hour and a half from home if they don't run into any heavy traffic or tie-ups, or even closer, hour and a quarter, hour and ten, but around that time in the trip when he usually starts thinking of what he has to do when he gets home and in what order and how much time it'll all take before he can sit down with the newspaper for fifteen minutes and have a drink, like unpacking the car—they didn't bring much stuff and this time his in-laws didn't load him down with presents for the kids and a couple of bags of deli and food his mother-in-law made, maybe for some reason because his wife didn't return with them—get the various things in their various places and the emptied valises back to the basement, but what else? Raise the thermostat from the 58 he put it at when they left. Open the curtains and shades, take the automatic light timer out of the socket and reconnect the lamp plug into the wall and replace the bulb in it with the hundred-watt rather than the twenty-five he put in for these few days. Turn the oven on even if he doesn't know what he's going to cook them. Maybe there'll be something in the refrigerator to reheat that hasn't started to spoil, or from the freezer but which can be thawed while baking—he, he'll just have wine and some mustard and cheese on the good bread he brought from New York and part of the salad plate or tossed salad he makes for them, but his own vinaigrette dressing, not their bottled creamy Italian kind they like, when a car in the fast lane a few feet ahead of him starts moving into his lane without signaling and he honks and it keeps coming and he slows down and starts moving into the slow lane and is halfway over the dividing line when he looks at the right side mirror and sees a van coming on fast. The van honks and he cuts back into the middle lane and waves without looking at the van and says “I know, I'm sorry, it's that stupid car,” and honks at it, though probably the van will think the honk's for it. The car moves slowly back into the fast lane and honks twice and he says, as the van passes him, “Oh Jesus, honk honk, bunch of geese we all are, heading south for the summer, though, and with no camaraderie or cooperation or concordance or just plain plan or whatever you want to call it—fool,
fool
,” in the car's direction and Margo says “What, Daddy?” and he says “Nothing, I should've expected it or at least expected anything and then corrected it better—it's essentially and evidentially partially my fault,” and she says “What is, correct what?” and he says “Oh, again, nothing, just talking faultily to my littlest self with my biggest words,” and she says “Huh?” and to Julie “Do you get it?” and he says “You know, you both do, the brain, for that's about how it feels right now, pea-sized, miniaturized, but without the intricate technics—forget it, my honeys, Daddy's just a-kiddin' again and wouldn't want to give you the impression he has a bad image of himself or any command of the language when he this minute does not—just a-kiddin' again, oh, can I never ever stop?—boing boing,” rapping his temple, “sorry, getting myself even deeper into what I won't be able to get out of unless I switch subjects or shut up.” Car to the left stays beside his and he wants to see who's driving, what kind of person, really, could be such a lousy driver, though he can try and guess if maybe only to see, even when he's thinking seriously, how far off the mark he can be: unaccompanied man, not a woman, alone because the passenger, if it were an adult, and this one wouldn't have a kid, would have tipped him off that he was driving recklessly and he would have corrected it sooner, and a woman wouldn't stay alongside the car she cut off and risk being needled if not taunted and propositioned and cursed, around forty and with a hat on, hunter's or trucker's cap or one they used to call and maybe still do a pork-pie, fatty face and about a hundred pounds overweight, torpid from his bloat and also the huge snack with a couple of tall sodas or shakes he had at the last rest stop, so another reason he was so slow to react, package of opened, no, open package of small powdered doughnuts or bonbons on the passenger seat, beanbag ashtray half-filled with butts on top of the dashboard, messy car, lots of dumb bumper stickers and window decals, dirty T-shirt, that should be it and he actually doesn't recall any stickers or decals but he wasn't looking for them then, looks and there are two men, young, passenger must have been bent over when he honked at them or could he have seen him from behind and completely forgot? look like brothers though driver's clean-faced and other's got a shaggy mustache, lean if not weightliffer-mus-cular, thick necks, beefy shoulders, work clothes or just not dress clothes—fancy catalog-type casual clothes, both staring stolidly at him, driver not glancing front once, as if saying “What's with you, dummy, got a problem?” and he nods and faces forward and thinks maybe he should move to the slow lane—checks the right wing mirror, that's what it is, wing mirror, no car there—nah, that'll just…that'll just what?—suggest to them he's intimidated or scared and thinking him weak that could start who knows what with them, where they stay alongside trying to rile him even more: gibes, glares, threats, fingers, fists, as if he almost got them killed in an accident, dumb idiot, but they stay even with him anyway and he'd like to know why, hasn't looked to the side at them since that one time and he didn't do anything then but nod and maybe flash a nothing smile, doesn't try going faster for he's already doing seventy and that's about as fast as he wants to get when the speed limit's fifty-five and if they stick with him at that clip it could make driving even more dangerous than it now is and they also might take his going faster as some kind of whatever they take it as, a contest they're going to win no matter what, and he's seen lots of cars stopped by cops on this road in the past and he doesn't want to get tagged when he's sort of anxious to get home, and really, he might be exaggerating the menacing from them and also with the ticket he doesn't want to pay through the nose, for he thinks the fine's up to around a hundred fifty now. Fact is he's never been ticketed, all his years driving. Been stopped a few times, maybe twice, and once, second the cop reached his window, he said “I'm sorry, I must've been doing ten over the limit,” and the cop said “Twelve, but at least you're honest about it; most drivers, you wouldn't believe the excuses. I'll let you off but don't let me catch you going even five over on this street or I'll ticket you for both at the same time,” and another time, twenty years ago, made a U on some boulevard and two cops stopped him in their car. Early morning, five-thirty, six and he was driving home from a woman's house because she wanted him out before her kids awoke, didn't want them seeing him in bed with her, just seeing him in the kitchen, even, and they could tell their father and it could hurt her chances in the divorce, and the cops warned him about making a U. “It's not heavy traffic, so no big danger now, but in an hour you could get killed doing it, so don't, as a standard rule, make a U.” “What's the law on it, just out of curiosity?” and they said they didn't know. Those, far as he remembers, were the only two. Looks over, casually, blank expression, as if something caught his attention on that side and he's going to have a peek and then look back to the road, hoping those guys aren't looking at him anymore and he can take his mind off them. Passenger's staring at him with a tough look, driver's just driving, pinky reaming his nose. Should he face front quick? but nods, passenger nods and then a little smile and then a broad one, throwing up his shoulders and raising his hands as if “What can I tell you? We made a mistake and we're sorry,” and then points to the backseat, still smiling, as if “Hope we didn't scare your girls none,” and then salutes him and waves to the girls with wiggling fingers and the car shoots ahead and soon they got to be doing eighty, eighty-five, maybe even ninety or more and he watches them awhile speeding out of sight and then turns on the radio and moves the dial around. Maybe now would be a good time to go seventy-five or so, he thinks, for if anyone's going to get caught by radar somewhere or just a police car on the road, it's them, but no, sixty-five's fine. They could be slowing down, now that he can't see them—all that shooting out and speed for his benefit, for whatever reason—and he could end up being the sole speeder on the road.

Seems nothing much is ever on the radio in this area but various kinds of obtuse music and the same kind of religious bilge—always a male and “I've seen the Lord and He's me and you and you'll see Him too if you listen to me and do what I say which is what He's told me is for you and that's to do God's work,” and so on, and sometimes even worse. How could anyone…?—oh, he knows: people like to believe. Must be the hills—“And don't forget to send me your moolah so I can carry on our cause”—but must be the hills around why he can't get the good stations from his city or Wilmington or is it Newark, Delaware, pronounced “new ark,” or even way back and to the right, he thinks, Philadelphia, and shuts it off. What was that look by that guy all about? No, forget it. No, really, think, what started it, continued it, and then the end? Oh, first terrify you or use whatever punk means to try to and then when they've done a pretty good job of it or think they have, smile but really a big phony one and be nice and their gestures even polite and “Oh, hope we didn't disturb your ride and your cute bitty kiddies,” for they got what they wanted and now just don't want to get in trouble for it—you could have a car phone and call the police and give them their license plate number and so forth—something, anyway, for them to change their tactics like that, but exactly what he doesn't know. But dopes, that's all, pure dopes. As for their dangerous driving, face it: you've done as bad if not worse. Made mistakes like they did, drove too close behind a car where when it suddenly slowed you almost plowed into it, pulled away from the curb without looking into the street to see what was coming and almost got into you don't know how many collisions, drove dreamily alongside some parked cars and nearly hit a woman holding a kid getting out of the passenger's door, didn't let the truck pass first when you were entering a highway and it nearly went over you and the kids. You even did something like those just before when you started moving into the right lane without looking and that van was coming. But when you have done things like that you usually if you could apologized right off to the driver you did it to, as you did with the van. But you never that you can remember gave the driver of the car you just scared half to death or nearly killed with your lousy driving any kind of terrifying or cynical or “You're to blame, dumbo, you, so just go screw yourself” look. You have, first chance—oh, a few times when you were in a miserable mood or something, you didn't, and you blamed the other driver and a couple of times raised your hand or even once your fist in a threatening gesture and called him an asshole or jerk—but thrown up your shoulders and hand as the passenger only did later, but surely no sinister…anyway, usually totally apologetic or close, at times mouthing “I'm sorry,” or if your window was open and theirs too, or even if theirs wasn't, saying or shouting it: “Excuse me, my blunder, stupid of me, I'm sorry.” Smart, though, not to have messed with those men. They didn't look like nice guys despite the last nice-guy gestures and look of the passenger and you wouldn't have been surprised, if you had looked toughly or cynically back at them or given them any kind of rebuke with your look, if they wouldn't have—passenger, at least, driver as much as he could from his seat—raised a middle finger at you or even shook a fist or done something like point a hand at you in the shape of a pistol and with the index finger made believe they were pulling the trigger a few times. Enough, they're gone, incident's done, think of other things or just don't think. You just hope you don't run into them on the road again or in a rest stop along the way if you have to stop. You'll have to, you always do, if just for a quick take-out coffee to keep you awake for the rest of the trip and for the kids a large box of popcorn to keep them fed and occupied, and if you get that coffee you'll also need to piss, since your bladder always fills up with a couple of cups. But even if you do see them, and odds are slight, by that time you're sure they won't recognize you but you think you'll recognize them. What happened meant more to you than them, that's probably why, and because of the kind of guy you are compared to them: things sink in, you usually try to understand why they happened, and when you do something wrong intentionally or by mistake it hits you harder than what they do hits them. You see them forgetting it, after a quick joking exchange not talking about it, maybe scaring the shit out of someone else if the feeling nudges them and another car like yours with kids or just to them some dumb-looking schmuck at the wheel happens to be driving alongside theirs. Anyway, that's how it is on the big road: so anonymous though tough and scary every so often and sometimes heated and dangerous for a few seconds before the cars go their own way or one or the other disappears.

Few minutes later he's talking to Margo. Starts when he says “So,” for he has nothing else to say and nothing much is on his mind and definitely nothing's on the radio and to pass the time he'd like to talk or just hear their voices and what they have to say, “so, anybody missing Mommy yet?” and Julie says “I am, when will we see her next?” Actually, started when he was thinking of his wife and how odd it'll be going to sleep tonight without her, not only because there'll be no one in the bedroom to speak to but they do it what? every day, almost every day, morning, little before he gets up, or afternoon if he's home and kids are in school or away, or night soon after they get into bed and one of them turns off one of the side-table lights, and just holding her, mornings around four or five when it's coldest in the room he almost always snuggles up and holds her from behind, for that's the way she usually faces, his hand on her thigh or breast or in her pubic hair, sometimes clutching a bunch of it but gently so it doesn't hurt or wake her, how he might even masturbate tonight for the first time in he doesn't know how long, could be a couple of years, for he never does it when he knows she'll be there that night or the next to make love with, feels if he jerks off that same day or even the one before it might stop him from getting or keeping his prick even semi-stiff and that when there's less to shoot it reduces the final kick, and at his age when for years he's been feeling there's little by little less thrill at the end he doesn't want to lose any of it, and he won't be seeing her for two nights, no, tonight and two make three, and then what brought all these thoughts and this image of her up: back to him while she's seated on her end of the bed, taking her bra off from behind, so he'd be observing this while lying or sitting up reading in bed, way her hands and arms twist around till the hook's unhitched, light plop of her large breasts against her chest when the bra's pulled away, two-or-so-inch buttocks' crack rising above her old loose-fitting briefs. Came out of nowhere it seemed, just flashed in his pan or maybe something from underneath to temper being alone tonight in bed. Oh, “temper,” now where'd that one come from? And he says “In two days from now or, if Mommy's having too good a time without us—only kidding. If she's got something she has to do there that needs a third day, or let's face it, if she just wants to spend another day with your grandfolks or they sort of put the screws on her to because they see so little of her and when they do it's always with us. And she is their favorite child, you know, as much as they love your aunt—then a day more, which means altogether four nights.” “Three is how I count it,” Julie says and he says “If it makes you feel better, and maybe you're right, for you're tops in your class in math, then three,” and she says to Margo “Three, I know it—Daddy's wrong and I'm right.” “We'll all drive to the train station to pick her up,” he says, “—she's arranging it to come in around five or six so we can do that,” and Julie says “Whoopee, I love trains—I want to take one,” and he says “One day, to New York—they're faster and all-around safer I bet, with no possible problems on the highway and we won't have to find a place to park or worry about our car being stolen there or pay through the nose for a garage, but Margo,” for he hasn't heard from her yet, “my Margo, sweetheart, you love trains too, don't you?” and she says “Can I stay home when you go?” and he says “Of course not, you can't be home alone—not at your age; you're too beautiful and you might be stolen—only kidding. Mommy hates when I make jokes like that, says they scare you,” and she says “They do.” “Well, don't be, nobody's stealing you; we live in a safe neighborhood and all our doors at night are always locked and windows too. Besides, someone tries to break in, bam, one sock in the kisser from me and he's gone forever if not knocked unconscious. But why wouldn't you want to go pick Mommy up with us? We can go to the platform when the train comes in and help her with her bags and things—might even be a present or two for you in them,” and she says “Mommy's been mean to me lately, I hate her,” and he says “No you don't, and if you did, it could only be for a few minutes; your Mommy's a darling,” and she says “I do, you don't know,” and he says “Okay, why? I'm going to be reasonable, why?” and she says “She yelled at me—she had no reason to,” and he says “For not getting out of the bathroom sooner this morning? I heard; you were in there brushing your hair and she had to go to the john badly,” and she says “She could have used the other bathroom and she didn't have to scream,” and he says “She only raised her voice and that bathroom's in your grandparents' room and they were sleeping, so she didn't want to wake them,” and she says “She's their daughter, she could do it like I do when I have to go in your bathroom and you're in bed, and how do you know they were sleeping?—she didn't even knock,” and he says “Because their door was closed,” and she says “That doesn't mean anything,” and he says “It means they're not ready yet to be disturbed even by their favorite daughter unless it's an emergency, but something more serious than just number one,” and she says “Number one?” and he says “To pee, to urinate; the other's number two, defecation. And Mommy thought it'd be easier, instead of disturbing them, for they are fairly elderly people, for you to get out of the bathroom if you were only brushing your hair,” and she says “How do you know I was only doing that?—there are no peepholes there,” and he says “Because you said so. I'm brushing my hair, can't you go to the other bathroom? My hair's important; you want me to look nice, you always say.' Sometimes, you know, you can get a little disrespectful and headstrong, kid, so she thought she had to raise her voice to get through to you. But don't worry about it, it's over. Mommy for sure doesn't think any less of you because of it, and when you speak to her on the phone later, you'll see: everything will be fine. In fact, everything's going to be peachy cream cheese for the rest of the day. We'll have some fun when we get home, what do you say?” and she says “What?” and he says “I don't know; reading, maybe playing Scrabble together or Monopoly—something, after supper. I might even break my cardinal hatred of TV and watch it for an hour with you,” and she says “Okay, and this is good, talking personal-like; Mommy might be mean sometimes but you're mostly nice,” and he says “Isn't that the same thing? So Mommy and I are even in your feelings—great. And when, long as we're talking, haven't I been nice? Only kidding, but really, when?” and she says “Like today when you punched me. I should be madder at you than I am at Mommy for what she did, but we made up,” and he says “When did I do that and when did we make up?” and she says “You punched my arm right before you said you were very sorry you did and me and you hugged and made up,” and he says “Wait, I don't remember—you kidding me now? And it's something I should remember—I hit you? I mean, I've done it before, not hard, just little hits or smacks, and so few times that I remember every one of them, but today?” and she says “In Grandma's apartment, this morning. You wanted to leave fast and thought I was slow and then when I was out of the door going to the elevator and forgot something and went back in to get it, you followed me and grabbed my arm and punched it. I hurt and it still hurts, my arm,” and he says “I never punched you. What do you think, I'm stupid—I'd forget that? I remember the scene now and there was no punch. I did grab your arms, or shoulders. Not ‘grabbed' them—held them when you turned around. And besides, I wasn't in such a rush. I still hadn't said goodbye to Mommy and I can't just do it in a second, race over to her, quick kiss and goodbye. It's not the way we do it. I wouldn't be seeing her for a few days so I'd say something, she'd say something to me, we'd hug and stuff—like that, same as I'd do for my kids, but different. But as for you, it's true, I said let's get going, meaning you kids should start for the car, since Grandpa wanted to go downstairs with you. Maybe he did that to give Mommy and me a moment of privacy, but I also had to stay behind a couple more minutes to see if I forgot anything for the car and to say goodbye to Grandma. And you flew out the door and then flew back and I said ‘Where are you going, I thought you were leaving?' and you didn't say but continued to run past me and that's when I grabbed you, or held you—sort of snatched you out of the air, you were running so fast—just to get an answer from you, since I didn't like you racing past without giving one,” and she says “You grabbed my arms tight—clenched them hard, so it felt like punching and I didn't see all the time your hands, so it could've been one. And you yelled ‘Hey, listen, where the hell you going? We've got to go, so stop wasting time,'” and he says “I didn't say that,” and she says “You did, everybody heard except maybe Grandpa in the elevator. Mommy must have heard you from wherever she was in the house. And I had a mark where you grabbed or punched me and I bet I still have it—I looked at my arm in the lobby when we were waiting for you and Grandpa said where'd I get that? I didn't tell him; you wouldn't want me to. But you were too rough with me and you have been too rough lots because of little things I do, but you're still nice most times, or half of them,” and he says “No, really, I didn't, you're imagining it, no, and unless I convince you otherwise you'll probably think I did this to you today for the rest of your life. I wasn't rough with you this time though I admit I have been a bit too rough with you other times, or just demanding. Or, you know, when the house suddenly looks a chaotic mess to me and I can't find anything or am always stumbling over everything and have to get the whole joint cleaned up in five minutes or I feel it'll overwhelm me. When I get like that, a bit carried away, true, or can't find my wallet or glasses or keys when I'm leaving the house…but I always apologized for it or did nine times out of ten. In other words, I think I recognize my mistakes right after they happen but maybe don't do enough to stop them from returning,” and she says “I'm not talking of those times with your glasses and things. But Mommy knows what I'm saying how rough you've been, Julie's seen it, almost everyone we know has, but they don't tell you because you're my father and they don't think it's up to them to say. And maybe because they're scared of you when you act like that—pushing people around and screaming and grabbing their arms hard; I know I am,” and he says “Mommy thinks I punched you today?” and she says “No, I didn't tell her because I was angry at her too, but Julie saw the mark on my arm downstairs,” and he says “Hey, is Julie sleeping?—I have a feeling,” and she says “You're just changing the subject,” and he says “I'm not, but is she?” and she says “She fell asleep while we were talking,” and he says “So let's talk in whispers; she needs the rest and I don't want to wake her anyway. And if I did grab you too hard today—I don't think I did and I certainly didn't punch you, though there could be a chance I forgot on the first score—then I'm sorry. You know I have a temper sometimes and occasionally even go way out of control and my sense of how everything has to be just so-so to perfect, not sloppy, and on time and stuff and how it gets to me when it isn't sometimes, foolishly though and beyond my powers to stop it, or just can't. I don't like it and I'm sorry if I acted that way to you today, let's say, and surely sorry if I left any marks on your arm, but most of all sorry if I ever made you scared of me,” and she says “You have, to every—” and he says “Shh, shh, lower,” and she says “To everybody in the house but I think especially to me,” and he says “Not everybody, or not so much,” and she says “Yes, to everybody, and much, too much, where we hate you,” and he says “Okay then, I'm sorry, I apologize, to you and through you to everybody, you can even tell them that if I forget to,” and she says “All right, and I'm sorry too but glad we spoke about it, are you?” and he says “Sure, it's always smart to talk things out that are bothering you,” and she says “I'm glad you think that because that's what I'm starting to think too.”