Interstate (21 page)

and he said “If there's one in the next two to three miles, or make that three to four or even five, but no more than that—the odometer here says 22-0-8-7 point 6, so we'll say anything past 0-9-3, no, 9-2, which is less than five miles but I want to be fair and take in the half-mile or so we've done since I started talking about the rules of how we'll stop. In fact why don't I set the trip odometer,” and he did, “this even littler mile measurer thing here for car trips and when it hits 4-0, to be really fair, for we've gone about a mile since I first started up about all this, then the first rest stop that comes after that number will be the one we stop at, okay?” and she said “I don't understand, you make it too complicated,” and Julie said “I have a poem. It's not one of the same ones I've said to you before and it's not good because I didn't take long in making it up, but here goes. ‘The radio's playing and went off. My daddy was saying and then became grorph.'” “Grorph?” Margo said and Julie said “For gruff. ‘The music was swaying and then got lost.' That didn't happen but I didn't want another rhyme with ‘off.' And I first had ‘and then like sounds got lost,' but then thought it sounded better without it. ‘Night isn't near and the stars aren't out yet. But I see clear. I see clear. For passing the time in a car, poetry's the best bet.' The end.” “God, that's something,” he said. “Even down to the contractions and the repeat line and that throwaway ‘lost' for ‘off,' and rhyming ‘best bet' with ‘yet'? Why'd you say it wasn't good?” and Margo said “May I say something?” and Julie said “I know you hated it,” and Margo said “No, it was fantastic. Recite it again though, I want to hear it whole,” and Julie leaned over, he saw in the rearview, and kissed Margo's shoulder and said “You're so nice,” and Margo shut her eyes as if touched and he thought “That's what I love to see, almost nothing better, more than their looking up with that look at me, wouldn't it have been great to have had an older brother to worship or a younger one I loved who worshiped me,” and said “I wish I had a pen around to jot the poem down,” and Julie said “Down and around, whole and though. Jot the dots. The pen and the…the…” “Men,” Margo said and she said “Doesn't fit with what I'm thinking. I got it. ‘Pen in my own den, when I'll write this down, all words all around, till then say it again and again.' Den is my room, you see; I'll remember it by then,” and he said “Good also, sweetheart, and do write them down, espe daily the first one, but second one if you can do it too, when we get home or at the rest stop where I'll borrow or buy a pencil or pen. I want to read them to Mommy on the phone tonight and also keep copies of them to show later on what a wonderful poet you were even back when,” and she said “When's that?” and he said “When you were a kid, now; for I'm talking about for when you get older,” and she said “Maybe you can help me type them on your machine—I have so many I can even make a book of them and Margo can draw the cover,” and he said “And Mommy can do the music—okay, will do or I'll even type them myself.” They drove. She recited the first poem whole. Margo said if Julie didn't mind she had some very small criticism; she didn't like that “‘best bet'—it sounds like something you buy in the supermarket,” and then to him she was starving even more than before, couldn't they take the next exit and go somewhere on that road and then back on?—they must have gone more than four miles and they wouldn't lose, by going off and back on, more than a few minutes, and he remembered the bagels he'd bought for the trip early that morning and slapped his forehead and said “Stupid Dada, I have bagels, plain and sesame, from Bagel Cottage in New York, anyone interested?” and Margo said “Plain, me,” and he pulled the bag out from under his seat, “Oh lucky bag,” he said, “saved the day, made a girl happy,” passed a plain back, Margo split it and gave Julie a piece and they ate. Then they played together and by themselves. Then what happened happened.

N
otices the car on his left. Nothing unusual. Car driving alongside his, two guys in it. Looks at it, passenger in front smiles at him, he smiles back, looks front, car stays even with his, looks over, no particular reason, just something to do on the road, passenger talking to the driver, he accelerates a little to get ahead of them, for he doesn't like driving alongside another car on the highway or really anyplace at the speed they're going, sixty, sixty-five. It's dangerous or could be. One wrong move and their cars might touch. Then he's thinking about other things, what mail might be waiting for him at home, drink he'd like to have sometime soon after he gets home, kids are quiet in back, maybe sleeping or looking out the windows, and that's that. Then the car's on the other side of his. How'd it get there? Could it be the same car, for it was just over here. Looks more closely and it is. Same men, driver with the same two fingers from each hand, ones to the left and right of the thumbs, hooked under the top of the steering wheel same way as before as if he doesn't really have that much control over it or wouldn't in the slightest kind of ticklish driving situation. Couple of years later he thought maybe that's what first gave me the impression it was a bad idea driving so close beside them. That if anything was unusual at first
that
was, driver holding the wheel with just four fingers and from under rather than over so opposite from the way he should if he was going to do it that way and loosely it seemed, though he had a strong face and the confident look of someone who was competent and experienced behind a wheel. And maybe he was holding the bottom of the wheel straight with his thighs or even his belly—he seemed heavyset—but that still wouldn't have given him much control over it in an emergency situation. What he also should have done, he thought, was drop back instead of move ahead, for moving ahead of a car you've been even with awhile and which is being driven by a man and certainly when there's nothing but men in it is a challenge of sorts to some guys, especially when you're doing it from a slower lane. The guy might have looked like a good driver but not very bright, and neither did the guy with him, so that should have been another tip-off not to move ahead of them, for neither of them looked the type to say to the other “Hey, leave the guy alone.” Maybe in fact that's when they thought “Let's get on the other side of this guy as a joke, and without him even knowing we're there till he suddenly sees us, which should freak him out good, for who's he think he's speeding ahead of? Hey, he wants a race, we'll give him one and something more. We'll give him a piece of my fucking fist if that's what he wants,” they looked like they could also have said. He at least, if he was going to move ahead of them, he also thought, should have done it slowly, inconspicuously, so they wouldn't think he was trying to show them up in any way, for he did at first sort of dart out, wanting to get away from them fast. Driver looks at him. He smiles, driver smiles and takes the left two of those four fingers off the wheel and waves them at him, as if he knows he's concerned about them, and then speeds up and in a minute or so is about half a mile in front of him and then he loses sight of them or just stopped looking or caring about them, when he thought about it years later. He goes back to thinking about the first things he should do when he gets home. Go to the basement and turn the hot water heater dial from Vacation to Normal just in case the kids want a bath or his wife, when he later talks to her on the phone, tells him they should have one or one of them should. He might want a shower right away too. Driving a distance of around two hundred miles makes him feel clammy and a shower always feels good after the trip. Saved about fifty cents the past three days by putting the dial on Vacation, or maybe a dollar, who knows? But what the hell, it's just a few seconds out of his time and he doesn't like the idea of water staying piping hot while nobody's home for days. He'll also probably have to go to the basement to do a wash, for there are the kids' clothes and his for the last few days and maybe some dirty clothes in their rooms. So the water will have to be hot for that too, or what does he usually set the washing machine at?—warm, not hot, so as not to stretch the clothes or run the colors, or something; forgets. Get the mail, of course, and put the trash cans out for tomorrow morning's pickup and maybe raise the heat thermostat a few degrees if the house feels cold. Raise it something, that's for sure, for he lowered it to sixty when he left to save a dollar or two on gas, or maybe for the time they were away, three or four. Open the curtains downstairs if it's still light when they get home, which it should be unless there's a major tie-up somewhere between here and there, and disconnect the automatic light control or whatever it's called that turned the living room floor lamp on at six every night and shut it off next morning at two. Why two? Why didn't he adjust the dial to shut off at one, or midnight, which would have been a lot closer to when he normally shuts off all the house lights? But first thing to do—that's right, he chose two because he'd read where most burglaries occur between eight and one in the evening and as a safety margin he extended it to six and two—but first thing to do before he does anything, or maybe right after he switches the water heater dial to Normal, is feed Brad. And replace his water and clean his cage, for the bird's gone almost three days with the same seeds, water and floor liner, and lettuce and apple slices stuck between the wires. Water probably has his shit in it and apple slices might have ants on them, even covered with them, which happened the last two- or three-day trip they took to New York, which he hates though he loves spraying the bastards out of the cage till they're all down the kitchen sink drain and then turning the garbage disposal unit on, something he doesn't like but has to do to finish them off. In fact, maybe with Lee away for two days he'll spray the house for ants, outside and in, which she won't permit because of the spray smell and what she says are dangerous poisons. The house has a serious ant problem, where they sometimes swarm around the bathtub and sink on the second floor, even on the toothpaste tube and toothbrushes, but she won't let him deal with it except with boric acid in cupboard corners and places. He bought the ant spray months ago and never used it, but he will, maybe tonight when the kids are asleep. He'll shut their doors, open all the windows downstairs, put the bird in the basement and all the exposed food, dishes and utensils away. She'll never know, or he'll lie if she says she can still smell some of the ant killer and say the oven pilot light was out for a day without him knowing it and he just relit it today: he must be coming down with another head cold. Also rub Brad's chest a little, talk to him awhile, maybe lift him on his finger inside the cage if he lets him—does about one time out of five—for he must have been lonely last couple of days. Maybe also cold, for is sixty really high enough for him, and at night when it's chillier and nobody to cover his cage? Hopes he doesn't come home to find him dead and with ants on him. If he did he'd just chuck the whole thing into a plastic trash bag and put it out with the garbage inside a can and say never again a bird, though the kids would probably insist on a burial in the backyard. If they did he'd give it but just the bird dumped out of the cage into a shoebox into a hole and no words after he kicked the dirt in. Wonders if he sang while they were away. Would if he heard birds singing outside or some rattling truck noises from the street, which often set him off. Does having the family around inhibit or encourage him to sing? Should have brought him with them as he wanted to, but his in-laws don't like pets, especially noisy ones—“Singing isn't noise,” he told them, but that didn't do it; “What's music to you,” his father-in-law said, “could be noise to me, and same thing reversed”—and thought he might get out of the cage and mess up their place and worse yet get lost where he wouldn't be found till after Lee left. “What would you do then?” he asked them and his mother-in-law said “Let him out the window and tell him to fly home, what else?” “He'd probably hook up with some outdoor birds in the park and wouldn't live through the next winter,” he said and she said “Birds like that have a short life anyway so one half-year free with friends would be worth another year or two alone in prison, I'd think. Naturally, I'd hold him for you if you wanted to drive up to get him and he'd flown back into his cage, but for no more than a day; I couldn't take the squawking and I wouldn't know how to take care of him.” “It's simple; what is this, run in the family? He was originally Margo and Julie's but they also say it's too difficult looking after him. You change the water—that takes ten seconds; you dump the top of the old seeds and put in some new ones—that's another thirty seconds. And as sort of a treat for him, if you want, you squeeze a lettuce leaf and fruit slice between the wires someplace where he can reach. Then you put a fresh paper towel on the liner and maybe clean any kaka that might have stuck to the wires, which you do with a damp paper towel, and comes to all told about three minutes, and for someone new at it, four. I do this once a day because I think every caged animal deserves a clean roost and fresh food and I feel it's the least I can do till I train him to fly out of the cage and then back when I want him to, but if you did it every other day that'd also be okay.” Then he notices a car on his left, same one, how'd it get there from where it was way up front before? Well, he hasn't been following it, but it could have slowed down and got around him somehow. Passenger looks at him, snaps his fingers and points to him as if he wants to say something pretty important, rolls his window down, smiles as if he recognizes him, “Oh you, how ya doing, buddy?” passenger seems to say and he nods and says through his window “Fine, thanks,” but also doesn't like quick chats with cars alongside, feels they're even more dangerous than just driving beside them and close, and looks front and picks up speed and their car speeds up too and stays even with his. What's with them? he thinks. Years later he thought I should have known something was wrong right off and not looked at them or rolled down my window or smiled and said “Fine, thanks” or just not looked after my first look, rather, or played around or anything. I didn't play around, but just not bothered at all with them after my first look. Or maybe “Fine, thanks” was enough, for saying nothing, ignoring them completely, might have triggered them too. I should have switched to the slow lane after my “Fine, thanks” and when I saw they were staying even with me, and if they started switching lanes to stay next to me I should have stopped on the shoulder first place I could and I'm sure that would have been that. I also should have started looking for a state trooper, for maybe there was one on the road or median strip then or in one of the opposite lanes going north and I could have flashed my headlights that something was wrong and maybe it would have worked and he'd have slowed down and crossed the median and eventually pulled me over to see what's up. But by staying in the next lane to them, having an exchange of sorts with them, maintaining some contact with them, in other words by not doing more right away to get away from them other than speeding up some, it started things—familiarity, whatever—where they thought they got to know me in a way, something, but enough time had gone by where they'd decided I was going to be their target of the day, of the week, the year, even if there were kids in back—just their target, period, and maybe for some peculiar reason they even liked the idea better that there were kids with me; more to scare; more targets if they knew all along they were going to shoot at our car. It could even have been that enough time had gone by where they had begun to dislike me for some reason, though I didn't do anything I know to encourage that. It could have been my face all along and only my face that they didn't like, an expression I'm unaware I give to people in passing cars when I quickly look at them, or to people in general—unaware of till even today. No, today my expression's different than it was then, I just know that. I'm sure it's almost never been the same anytime since that day—since that moment when the guy started shooting—when he first stuck the gun out the window, even—except maybe when I sleep. When I'm driving, for instance, I rarely look at people in other cars and when I do, and it's almost always because I think their car's getting too close, it's with a dead expressionless look I'm conscious of giving—I'm not even giving it, it's just there. Or at least I think it's dead and expressionless—again, I might not know my own look—but anyway the feeling is that every time I look at another car and especially on an Interstate or any main highway, I bring back to myself that particular day. It also could be those guys didn't like my look from the moment they saw it when they were on my left the first time; in the end, who the hell knows? But what I'm getting at is that if I'd acted sooner—got on the shoulder sooner, let's say—things would have been different. Much different. Altogether different. They would have passed us, I feel, and disappeared. Maybe. Or maybe nothing I did would have changed things except maybe if I'd had a gun and shot them first, and they would have followed our car to the shoulder, if I'd gone there sooner, and pulled alongside instead of shooting from a few hundred feet in front and opened up on us broadside with two guns instead of one, the passenger with two guns, the driver still driving or maybe getting in on the gun fun and shooting past the passenger at us too, with a semiautomatic rather than just a pistol or something like a machine gun and sprayed our car with bullets and killed all three of us but definitely one or two of us and wounded badly the third. Did I ever once think I would have preferred dying with Julie that day? Sure, thought of it before, plenty. And of course I would have wanted Margo to stay alive and unhurt, of course both of them alive and unhurt and me dead if anybody had to take Julie's place. Thought all that before. But it probably would have been, if I'd gone to the shoulder sooner, different in a much better way. They would have driven on, never seen again. Wouldn't that have been something. I would have then started up the car on the shoulder—but I actually never would have turned the ignition off. I'd have kept the car running in case they got on the shoulder in front or behind us and I had to go forward or reverse. Or maybe I would have turned it off unconsciously, doing what I usually do when I make a complete stop like that, even shifted into Park and pulled the key out and done what with it—put it in my pocket, thrown it on the dashboard?—but what did I do with the key that day? I forget. And if the key was out and they had stopped on the shoulder, what would I have done then? Stuck it in the ignition fast, but why my thinking