Wave (28 page)

She got to the garage door and threw it up, the rollers rattling angrily in their runners. This revealed an awe-inspiring sight—a 1964 Jaguar XKE convertible, pearl with dark blue trim, and in absolutely mint condition. It had been backed in and parked diagonally for maximum showroom effect. With the exception of a handful of basic tools, a few rags, and a couple of jars of wax, the garage was otherwise empty; the Jag had the place all to itself. It even looked as though the garage had been built exclusively for the car; the wood—just bare studs on the inside—not only looked fresh, it smelled fresh.

BethAnn gasped. She also managed a smile for the first time all day—
It’s mine
, was her first thought.
This car is mine.

She ran around to the door and squeezed herself inside. It was tight, no doubt about that—this model Jag wasn’t designed for someone of her bulk. The steering wheel was just inches from her chest. This would not be a comfortable ride by any stretch of the imagination.

She began trying the keys, which was all guesswork because neither set had any identifying marks—no little leather Jaguar key chain or Jaguar logo stamped into the metal. One set had a die-cut Yankees’ logo hanging from the ring, the other had what appeared to be a pewter bottle opener with the word “Budweiser” carved in decorative script. Big help.

She tried all the keys in the first set, wheezing as she was forced to lean over the unforgiving steering wheel, her boobs pressed against it and barely letting her breathe. None of them fit. There were five keys on the second set, and after the third didn’t work she began to get nervous. A thousand pounds of worry slid off her shoulders when the second-to-last key slid neatly into the ignition and turned.

The engine rumbled to life, low and guttural, like a bear waking from its winter sleep. Everything shook; she could feel the raw power. This little car was a demon, a warrior. She didn’t know squat about the internal assets of an older Jaguar, but she bet this one zipped around like a dragonfly.

“Mine, all mine,” she said, clapping and howling. Down the end of the long driveway she could see the ever-moving line of cars heading toward the bridge. It was only about a mile away—one more mile and she’d be free. As she sat there waiting for the engine to warm up, she formed a plan in her mind—
get over the bridge, bypass the gathering point at Home Depot, get on the Parkway and head straight to Forked River and Sharon Leggett’s house
. Leggett was a friend she’d met a few years earlier when she and her husband were still barhopping on Friday and Saturday nights. Sharon’s husband, Vince, worked as an auto mechanic in Waretown.
They’ll love this
, she thought. Vince could probably help her get it painted and remove the VIN numbers.

Suddenly excited, she decided the engine was warm enough; time to get this baby—her baby—on the road. She reached down and grabbed the shifter, but it wouldn’t budge.

“What the….”

She tried it again. Again nothing happened.

Just what the hell is the prob—

When she saw that the bald head of the gear shifter had little numbers and a simple five-point diagram etched into it, her newfound excitement evaporated.

“Oh no….”

A manual transmission.

“No WAY!!!”

She slapped the dashboard hard; she had no idea how to drive a stick. Her ex had tried to show her a few times, but she never got the hang of it, mainly because she wasn’t really interested. She figured she’d always have an automatic, so there was no reason to bother.

Her immediate urge was to scream until her voice was gone, then grab anything nearby that was heavy enough and slam it through the goddamn windshield. (
If
I
can’t have the car, then no one else can, either.
…) But then she made a fairly intelligent decision—
I’ll try to drive it. I’ve got nothing to lose, and the clock is ticking away here.

She knew that getting a stick into gear had something to do with coordination of the feet. Something about releasing one pedal while depressing another. But which pedals did you use?

She opened the door and swung her bottom half out. Now she saw that there were three pedals. The one in the center, she was certain, was the brake—it looked like a brake pedal, and that was where all brake pedals were, right? The one on the right had to be the gas, as most people were “rightfooted.” So the only one left, which was on the left, had to be the…the….

“That’s the ‘other’ one,” she said to nobody, pointing to it. “The ‘gear’ one or whatever.”

I think.
…

She wiggled back into position, shut the door, and released the emergency brake. Then she put her right foot on the gas pedal, and her left on the “gear” one. She wasn’t quite sure which one got pressed first, so it was time for a quick test.

She engaged the gas first, pushing it down until the engine sounded downright angry. Then, very slowly, she began pressing the other one. She pushed the stick into the “one” position then let up on the pedal. For a second nothing happened. Then the clutch reached the point of engagement, and the car jumped forward. BethAnn’s head snapped back like the top of a Zippo lighter. She grabbed the steering wheel out of pure reflex and jammed the brakes with both feet. The car screeched to a halt, stalling about ten feet from where it had been, and about three inches from the corner of the garage door.

The sudden halt brought her forward with such force that, as her torso more or less consumed the steering wheel, she felt like she was going to explode out the sides. Her mouth dropped open and her tongue shot out—both involuntary movements —and for a fleeting moment she was sure she was going to coat the dashboard with vomit. She pushed the door open and spilled onto the neat cement floor in one fluid motion, gasping for air.

She got back up, wiping her hands together, and gave the car a murderous look. It was the look she’d given to other objects in the past just before reducing them to rubble. How badly she wanted to; how very badly.

“All right, you bastard, you better not try that again.”

She climbed back in, determined to take a different approach—clutch first, then gas, releasing the former slowly. This time, before starting the car, she moved the shifter into the “R” spot (at least what she thought was the “R” spot—it was so hard to tell). Her nerves frayed as she brought the clutch up—slower…slower…. When nothing happened, she thought she was simply doing it wrong again. Then the car jerked back, and again her feet went to the brake pedal before her brain engaged.

“GODDAMMIT!” she screamed, sending dots of spittle onto the glass. “COME ON! COME ON!” She launched into a bizarre visual symphony of shifting and pedal-pressing that had no focus, no intent. The idea was to “try everything.”

Miraculously, it worked—at some point during the fit, the car started forward slowly and easily. BethAnn quickly identified what she had done—clutch down, shift into gear, then clutch up while the gas pedal was pressed gently.

Clutch comes up as the gas goes down.

She heard this in her ex-husband’s voice and could actually picture him sitting there with his red-checked flannel jacket, looking at her earnestly, hoping to God she might start paying attention and actually care.

She let go of everything in order to start fresh, then pressed the clutch all the way to the floor. Studying the baldheaded gear shifter for a moment, she set it into first, gripped the wheel, and began pressing the gas while bringing the clutch up at the same time. In her mind she pictured them passing each other at the halfway point.

As the transmission engaged, the car lurched—but only slightly. It was working now.

Clutch comes up as the gas goes down, clutch comes up as the gas goes down.

She had to stop when she reached the end of the driveway. The Jag leaned down, ready to enter the flow. BethAnn noticed her old car sitting on the shoulder to the right. The junk food was still in there, as were the tapes. She wanted desperately to get them—just jump out and grab them. It would take all of five seconds. But someone would see her—someone who knew damn well what she was up to. The tapes were the symbolic sacrifice she was required to make.

She rolled the window down, manually, and put on her best wide-eyed “please-let-me-in” face. The first person who saw this stopped to let her in. She smiled and waved, trying her best to appear casual, i.e., in a car that she drove all the time, every day. She prayed to no particular God that she could get it moving again.
Clutch comes up as the gas goes down.

She tried engaging the gears again, and the car jumped like a jackrabbit. She was unable to keep her foot off the brake, and the tires screeched on the exhaust-stained pavement. She gathered her nerves and tried again. This time the results were a bit more satisfactory—the Jag hopped slightly, then ran smooth. As she straightened out to take her place in the line, she realized the steering was also manual, and quite an effort. For an instant she wondered if perhaps it would be best just to sell this thing because of all the work required to drive it. If it came to that, at least she’d get a good piece of change for it. The fact that she didn’t possess the title was a detail that could be ironed out later.

She stopped about a full length from the vehicle in front of her in order to provide a safety buffer; she had no doubt she’d need it. Her heart was pounding, her face covered with sweat, her senses sharper than they’d been in years. She felt like every set of eyes was on her, that every driver around her was somehow aware of her thievery. She imagined roadblocks and police with rifles and mirror sunglasses waiting for her, their faces blank. Far from the truth, she was sure, but she couldn’t help feeling that way.

She let the car in front of her get a little farther up, then moved up as well. More jerking, more halting, more abuse to the ancient transmission.

She was getting the hang of it.

Officer Jeff Mitchell knew they were running out of time. In fact, he was all but certain they wouldn’t be able to get back.

Even if we find these two kids waiting for us at the entrance, we’ll have to turn around, race back, and hope all the cars ahead of us make it over the bridge in time.

He glanced at the dashboard clock. If the estimates on the tsunami’s arrival were accurate, they had less than a half hour left. About twenty-seven minutes, in fact.

We won’t make it. There’s just no way.

He took the microphone and called in to the dispatcher, praying to God Terri was still there.

“Go ahead,” she said after the longest pause of his life.

“Terri, it’s Jeff. Look, I’m still with Mrs. King, and we’re almost to the refuge, but we’re going to run out of time. I need some help.”

“Like what?”

“Something in the air. A helicopter, preferably. Didn’t they say the National Guard and the Staties were sending a few?”

“Yes, they’re all here already.”

“Can you ask them to send one over there?” He disengaged the button, then pressed it again and added, “I don’t think we’re going to make it, Terri.”

“I understand. I’ll ask them right now.”

“Great, thanks.”

He hoped Mrs. King didn’t pick up on the noncommittal nature of her response—“I’ll ask them right now.” That, Mitchell knew, translated to, “I can’t make any promises.” Which, of course, further translated to, “If I can’t get one, you’re dead.”

He spied his passenger from the corner of his eye again. She was sitting there with her back straight, eyes forward, hands folded neatly in her lap, acting every bit the proper lady. Twenty minutes ago he would’ve translated this impenetrable facade as coldness, detachment, and a bit of superiority. Now he was thinking it was more the case that she had trained herself to be like this for the benefit of her children, to set an example—
Always be strong
, she’d tell them.
Especially when the chips are down
. Like any good and decent parent, she was always teaching them, giving them the tools they needed to survive in the world. What he had earlier sensed as lack of emotion was in fact her way of dealing with every emotion in the book.

“Thank you for making that call,” she said suddenly.

It pulled Mitchell out of his trance, the one that had formed while analyzing her. “Huh?”

“For the helicopter. I’m very grateful.”

He smiled. “I promised you we’d get her, didn’t I?”

She smiled, too, although she kept her ever-hopeful eyes on the road. She also nodded. It was a quick, happy gesture, almost like that of a little girl who’s just been asked if she’d like an ice cream cone. In that instant Mitchell saw the real Carolyn King, or at least the one who had been in control of her personality at some point in the past.

“You have children of your own, don’t you, Jeff?”

“Yes, two,” Mitchell replied.

They kept talking.