Wave (32 page)

“I know, I know.” She moved the stick around to make it seem as though she was regaining control of the situation.

“You’re going to cover the damage to my car….”

“Of course,” she said, lying through her teeth. “Meet me in the Home Depot parking lot. I’ll give you all my information and we’ll work it out.” She couldn’t wait to floor the Jag on 72 and leave this asshole in the dust. “I’m really sorry.”

Others had begun honking at this point. The car in front of them was pulling away. This was not the time to be arguing about a fender bender.

The Lexus’s owner lingered for another moment, staring at her as if he couldn’t believe morons like this really existed. He made a short, snotty sound through his teeth and retreated, stopping to assess the damage one more time. He got back in, shaking his head, and slammed the door mightily. In the rearview mirror BethAnn could see a woman in the seat next to him. They began discussing what had happened. He was very animated, using his hands for emphasis. The woman, on the other hand, simply nodded.

The last thing in the world BethAnn wanted was to nail him again. She had to pull away cleanly, as if she’d been driving this car all her life. The trouble was, she had no idea how to make that happen.

As she fiddled desperately with the stick, praying for a miracle, the burning smell returned. More smoke appeared and drifted over the hood. Some came through the vents on the dash. The gap between the Jag and the car ahead of her was widening. The honking began in earnest and quickly heightened to a bizarre automotive overture. The man she’d just struck joined in, leaning on the horn rather than tapping it, producing a single, ear-splitting tone that bore into her brain like an ice pick.

Convinced she had somehow suddenly “lost” the skills she’d developed in the last twenty minutes, she tried every clutch-stick-gas combination imaginable, and all within the span of about ten seconds. All four limbs were in motion, creating a series of semi-hilarious octopusian gestures. Nothing worked; nothing happened. The Jag didn’t lift off the Lexus’s bumper, didn’t even “hop” forward like it had back in the driveway. Her heart was pounding like it was about to explode. Cars in the left lane were swerving back to the right, populating the space in front of her. Others couldn’t get to it, as she was blocking them.

She heard the Lexus’s door open, glanced fearfully into the rearview mirror and saw the guy coming toward her again. He was moving quickly and decisively, the way you walk when you’re really pissed. She could only see his torso and his legs down to his knees. He was wearing jeans and a denim shirt that matched perfectly.

“What the hell’s the problem? Come on!”

She continued with her octopus aerobics while the guy waited. She suddenly had the feeling he knew she couldn’t drive this car. He watched her like an impatient teacher giving a student one last chance to prove herself before throwing in the towel.

“Well?”

The honking overture now included the angry shouts of others.

“I’m trying, I’m trying!”

“I don’t think you have a clue about driving a stick.”

“Of course I do—”

Smoke started leaking around the hood as if something was being barbecued underneath.

“Ohhhh,” she groaned.

“Your clutch is burned out!” the man said, throwing his hands up. “You have no idea—this isn’t even your car, is it?”

“Push me!” BethAnn pleaded.

“What?”

“Please get back in your car and push me over the bridge!”

“Screw you, honey. Get this piece of junk out of the way, now!”

BethAnn heard other doors opening. A quick check in the mirror confirmed her fears—a small gang of irritated-looking people had formed and was heading in her direction.

“What’s the problem?” someone shouted.

“She doesn’t know how to drive a stick,” Mr. Lexus informed them. “She just cooked the clutch.”

“Yeah? Then let’s move the damn thing! There’s no time for this!”

A face suddenly appeared in her window—brown hair, bushy beard, sunglasses. It was the face of someone you might see at a roadhouse bar or an Allman Brothers concert.

“Get moving, lady.”

“Fuck you!” she screeched, and the moment she did she knew she’d made a mistake.

The Allman Brothers guy’s face turned bright red. In a singular fluid motion he reached in, popped the lock, and opened the door. Then he hooked his hand under BethAnn’s arm.

“What are you doing? Get your hands off me!”

His strength was unbelievable. He lifted her out of the seat and flung her onto the road like a doll. Her first instinct upon hitting the pavement was to get back up, jump on his back, and scratch his eyes out. What halted her was pure instinct—she had a feeling, in fact was damned certain, that this guy was as accustomed to violence as he was to breathing. He’d be able to handle whatever she threw at him.

“You asshole!”

“Hey, give me a hand!” he said to the others who’d gathered around. He shut the door and leaned down, grabbing the Jag at the edge of its undercarriage. It looked like he was trying to hug it.

At first BethAnn had no idea what he was doing. But when five or six other men, including the Lexus driver, joined him, the realization struck home like a missile.

“Okay, on three….”

“Oh no, don’t you dare!” she squawked, scrambling to her feet. Futile or not, she was going to make him think twice. She leaped on him like a monkey, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling backward.

“What the—?”

He staggered back, barely able to maintain his balance with this 250-pound woman attached. Others from the crowd rushed to help. The pair went down in a heap, and it took four people to separate them. BethAnn squirmed and kicked like a rabid animal in a net. Two more people were enlisted to subdue her. The man she’d attacked, much to her surprise, did nothing in retribution. He didn’t even acknowledge her, really—he simply got back up, hair running crazily in every direction and a slight trickle of blood oozing from one nostril, and went back to the Jag. The entire incident consumed no more than ten seconds, but it seemed like an eternity.

Hurriedly taking position again, he said, “Okay, ready? One…”

“No!” BethAnn screamed.

“Two…”

“Don’t you dare!”

“Three!”

“NO!!!”

They rocked the car back and forth a few times, just to build some momentum. It was surprisingly light, but then perhaps that was just the psychology of the moment—under less stressful, less urgent circumstances, it might have felt much heavier.

They got it onto its side first, then leaned it against the guard rail. The crowd of onlookers had grown, and the Allman Brothers guy hastily recruited another bulky male or two to help with the final effort.

BethAnn lost what little control remained and went berserk in a desperate final attempt to free herself. At one point she kicked one of her captors in the side of the face. All that did was double the guy’s determination to hold her down.

A combined groan came from the heaving team, who slowly but surely lifted the Jag up and onto the steel-tubed guardrail. It hung there for one brief but fascinating instant, balanced like a dinner plate atop a pool cue in a circus act. Then it finally gave way to gravity and tipped over, slipping off the rail at a 45-degree angle.

Most people ran back to their vehicles, but a few couldn’t resist standing there to watch the Jag’s descent. It whistled quietly through the warm spring wind, its sooty black underside fully exposed, then slammed mightily into the bay. The gentle current carried it for a few seconds before it slipped below the surface.

BethAnn was released, the people responsible fleeing to their cars.

“YOU ASSHOLES!” she screamed, picking up a little stone that was lying nearby and chucking it at one of them. It missed by a mile.

The line started moving again, and she had little doubt they’d run over her if she didn’t get out of the way. She got up on the sidewalk that followed the guardrail. A quick look over the side confirmed that the Jag—her symbolic entrance into a better world—was lost forever. The spot where it had gone down was bubbling and fizzing like seltzer, but even that wouldn’t last long.

With an open road in front of them, the cars zoomed over the bridge. Turning away from the Jag’s final resting place, BethAnn was suddenly struck with the realization that she now had no way of getting to the mainland besides walking.

Actually, running might be a good idea.

She couldn’t remember the last time she had run anywhere. Probably not since gym class in high school. But now wasn’t the time to be thinking about this. Traffic was racing by, and she figured there was a fat chance of anyone stopping to pick her up. Percolating with a combination of rage, despair, and more helplessness than she’d ever known, she turned and began jogging up the incline. The peak looked like it was a million miles away. She didn’t look back because there was no reason to. She wasn’t just running from the tidal wave, she was running from everything she’d known over the last ten years. That thought didn’t eclipse the physical strain she was already feeling. After only a few minutes she was huffing and puffing. She paused to catch her breath, leaning against the rail for support and hoping her heart didn’t explode.
One of the things I would’ve done if I’d been able to keep that Jag is get into shape
, she told herself.
Slim down, maybe look for a man again.
But it was all academic now. The Jag was gone. All she had left was herself, and saving her ass was the priority.

When she felt better, she began jogging again. She’d only gone a few steps when she heard a voice—“Excuse me, miss?”

She turned to find an elderly man leaning out of a maroon minivan. Wispy white hair covered all but the very top of his head and added contrast to a remarkably deep tan. His mouth was small and upturned in a warm, grandfatherly smile.

“Do you need a lift?”

The man kept the vehicle moving, slowly. BethAnn, although she barely realized it, kept moving, too.

“That would be great.”

“Then hop in—but quickly, please. I don’t want to hold everyone else up.”

The side door slid back automatically, revealing a handful of other passengers. They were all very young—no more than teenagers—and they all wore white crewneck T-shirts with red trim. “Highway Holiness Church of Jesus” was printed on the front.

The little group moved back to make room for her. After a moment’s hesitation, she climbed in. The door slid shut again.

As they reached the top of the bridge and began down the other side, the priest glanced into the rearview mirror and said, “I’m Father Brad, leader of the Highway Holiness Church. What’s your name, dear?”

The others waited for her response with what seemed like unusually high anticipation.

Karen was sure the car was going to flip—she’d never gone into a turn so fast. The tires squealed, just like in the movies. At least the two on the driver’s side did—the other two lifted a few inches off the pavement. What amazed her, though, was that the car didn’t flip. She had to be doing at least eighty.

What’s the difference? I’m dead anyway.

As she straightened out on the Ericksons’ street, she checked her watch—less than ten minutes now. This was an exercise in futility; she’d known that for some time. What did she think, she’d pick up her children and then fly away? Did she really believe she’d have time to go all the way back?

Those damn soldiers, if they just hadn’t slowed me down.

Would her death weigh on their minds? Would it keep them up at night? Would they even speak of it? Probably not. The men responsible would keep it locked inside. If the topic ever did come up publicly, they’d cover for each other. That’s what people like that did.
Those thirty minutes I wasted.
Then a corrective thought—
No, those thirty minutes they wasted.
They were playing with your time, and it’s so much easier to play with someone else’s time.

“Bastards,” she mumbled, tears rolling again.

As soon as she reached the house, she pulled over crookedly and jumped out, leaving the car running. Halfway up the front walk she noticed the Ericksons’ car still parked in the driveway.

Oh Jesus, no. Don’t tell me….

The nightmare scenario came rushing forward—they were all in there, in their little vacuum, blissfully unaware. She would have to die with them, would have to see their faces, explain to them what was about to happen. No chance to say goodbye to their father.

She ran to the door, yanked it open, and bolted inside.

“Nancy? Bud? It’s me!”

She paused for only a moment, and upon receiving no answer began opening other doors. First the bedroom, then the sewing room.

“Patrick? Michael?”

The notion that they were still here was unnerving for all the obvious reasons, but the idea that they weren’t was, to her surprise, equally harrowing. If they weren’t here, where were they?

In the backyard, gardening?

She opened the back door and scanned the fenced-in landscape that sloped down to the bay. As beautiful as ever, green and brown and meticulously maintained.