The Complete Collection. William Wharton
they disappear. He turns on the motor.
‘Well, Bill, I guess there’s nothing more we can do.’
He puts her in gear and waits till the highway is empty end to end before he pulls out. Now he’s driving all of thirty-five miles an hour; but I’m not fighting. I’m considering walking the rest of the way.
We stop at the next gas station and tank up. There’s a small snack place there, so we go in for a cup of coffee. My stomach’s so empty now the back’s hitting the front. I buy a piece of blueberry pie. I’m beginning to feel better, but Dad’s still white.
‘Billy, would you drive for a while?’
I nod.
‘And take it easy, please, I’ve about had it.’
He takes out a bottle of Valium from the glove compartment and pops one.
‘Boy, Bill, I can feel the blood pumping through my heart like a hydraulic press.’
I keep it at fifty-five and the old man lies back in the seat the way I left it. He isn’t watching the road at all, just lying back staring at the headlining. It’s the first time he hasn’t had his eyes glued on the road. It’s spooky, as if he’s given up running things.
‘What do you think happened, Bill? There wasn’t any other car. It’s the middle of the day; I can’t see the guy falling asleep. I checked the tires; there wasn’t any blowout. What the hell could’ve gone wrong so this guy ruins everything, his wife, his children, even his dog? What the hell did he do wrong?’
He gives a big sigh and I look over at him. There are tears in his eyes. He really is about ready to crack, but he’s not finished.
‘Maybe his kids were bugging him and he leaned back to give them a whack and lost control. God, I hope not, that’d be an awful thought to have at the last minute. Maybe the steering wheel cracked or the brakes gave out. So many things can go wrong, no matter how careful you are.
‘I only hope he never had a chance to look back and see it all, wife twisted like a pretzel against the dirt, his son gutted, his daughter poleaxed and his baby standing there like a walking piece of hamburger on the road crying, surrounded by strangers. It’s enough to make you hope there isn’t any life after death. How the hell could you live any kind of life, anywhere, doing anything, if you had to live with that?’
Oh, God, I wish he’d only shut up. I’ll be upchucking that blueberry pie and coffee if he keeps on with this.
‘And damn it, Bill, there’s no way to get out of driving. It scares the hell out of me. I hate getting into one of these metal boxes and I’m glad every time I step out alive. I know I’m too tense when I drive but I keep seeing that kind of thing, only it’s us. It’s us, publicly dying on hot, or wet, or icy asphalt with strangers pawing over what’s left.’
Jesus, you think he’s the iron man, getting things done, carrying through; then he collapses. I’ve slowed down to forty-five! I juice her back to sixty. He doesn’t even notice; only stares some more at that headlining.
‘It’s just destiny, Dad. Accidents are a question of bad luck. You can only do so much. There’s no sense sweating it; you can worry yourself straight past any fun in life.’
He doesn’t move. Maybe he isn’t listening. It’s getting dark so I switch on the lights. It’s not that late but some big black clouds have blown up between us and the sun. I’m hoping we can make it to the other side of Indianapolis and find a motel. I’m pooped. We slept last night but it wasn’t real sleep. I was only unconscious; some part of me was fighting rain, thunder, lightning and trucks.
Then he starts in again.
‘I used to feel that way, Bill; it’s part of being young. It’s also a question of recklessness. I looked up the word “reck” once to see if there really was such a word. It means worry or care. As people get older they get more “reck”. Bad experiences, accidents, near misses – seeing things like we just saw – pile up, accumulate in the brain. A person becomes more “recky” every year; continuity, survival, gets bigger and bigger.
‘Also, the brain itself is changing. Certain kinds of mental and physical skills begin declining as early as seventeen.
‘I’ve watched myself becoming less sure, Bill, less capable of making decisions. When I’m driving, I feel caught between the reckless, the twenty-year-old, and the inept, the fifty- or sixty-year-old, who might not have the skills to cope with an emergency. And I can’t help projecting my limitations onto others, like you, Bill. I can’t be comfortable when you drive in ways I couldn’t handle.’
It goes dark fast and then the first big raindrops start. The road here outside Indianapolis is packed with giant semi-trailer trucks. I pass one about every quarter mile. Thank God Dad’s all cranked up on the decline and fall of the human animal. He’d be a raving lunatic helping me get around these big bastards.
When I turn on the windshield wiper, there’s only a humming sound. I look at the dash to check I’ve pushed the right switch. I joggle it on and off a few times.
Man, this is going to be fun with the dark, the rain, the trucks and the voice of doom beside me. He leans forward, leaving the chair back. He fiddles with the switch; it’s kaput all right. I’m sure glad this bucket of bolts isn’t mine; I’d need to work full time just keeping it running.
The rain is coming down in sheets now; I aim on the taillight of the truck in front of me; it’s the only thing I can actually see. I can’t pick up the white lines or the edge of the road. I’ve only got the two red lights repeated about a hundred times by each water splash on the windshield; and I’m afraid to stop.
‘Can you see at all, Bill? I can’t see a thing. Maybe we’d better pull over!’
‘I can see OK, Dad; I’ll just stay behind this truck. Long’s I see those taillights we’re all right.’
He’s quiet. I know he doesn’t want to go on but what the hell else can we do? There’s no real shoulder on this road and it’s beginning to go under water already.
‘Look, Dad, you keep watch for a turnoff. If you see one, yell.’
He rolls the window down two inches on his side so he can see out. The rain comes pouring in and swishes around the inside of the car. Even with the window open he can’t see; and with that big truck in front of us, there’s no way to pick up signs till they’re almost behind us.
I’m tailing my truck at less than fifty feet; if I get farther behind I lose him. I’m going to get wet anyway so I roll down my window. It pours in like a boat sinking in a catastrophe movie; in one minute I’m soaking wet. I hang my head out to see if it’s any better, but the rain whips in my eyes so it’s worse than with the smeared windshield. I pull in my head and roll up the window.
I catch some blinking lights coming up behind. I hold on to the wheel and hope for the best. It’s another semi who’s impatient with this big Lincoln tailgating one of his buddies. He steams by, and I lose whatever vision I had. The semi is throwing up dirty water and mud faster than clean water is coming down. I hold the wheel tight, keep up my speed and wait till I can see the taillights again. Our whole car gets a tug in the semi’s slipstream. I’m doing forty-five and he must be doing sixty. It’s almost a half minute of absolute blind driving, the windshield tinted brown mud, before I pick up the taillight again.
But I’m getting the hang of it. If he puts on his brakes, the brake lights come on and I put on mine. The problem is I’m getting hypnotized by those two lights. They shimmer on the road and on the windshield; no hypnotist could think up a better gimmick.
Just then, Dad hollers; more like yelps. There’s an exit coming in one mile. I put on the direction signal and ease to the right. I hope to hell I can pick up the turnoff. It’s pouring horse and elephant piss now. The roof of this crate’s howling with sound.
Dad sees the turnoff arrow just in time