Читать книгу Endings - Barbara Bergin - Страница 7

Left hand tightly grasping the steering wheel, the thumb hyperextended, like a hitchhiker. The right hand more relaxed, but placed firmly in the two o’clock position. It’s one of the only things she does the same every time, especially now. Now that she tries to do nothing like before.

But her hands are driven to rest in the familiar pose and it triggers unwanted memories. She looks in the rear view mirror, imagines the reflection of matching car seats. Keeping her left hand on the steering wheel, her right hand became an experienced proboscis which could retrieve fallen pacifiers or bottles. When they were little the objects fell accidentally. When they were twelve months old, they dropped them to get attention.

“Mommy! Tell him to get off my side!”

But there was nothing in the mirror. Only spidery black etchings of water streamed down the back window. Black on black. The road from Brownwood dropped imperceptibly away.

Stop now. Pinching her cheeks to the point of pain. Do something to force the images out of her mind. She focused on the raindrops which moved to the beat of little second hand timers, coalescing into larger drops that slid down the windshield to end up on the highway. Leslie quickly moved her hands from ten and two, to eleven and one. Focus on the car in front of her.

But it wasn’t a car at all. It was the back of a horse trailer. She hadn’t been paying attention. Gradually slowing down. Someone hauling a trailer had to go around her. It was raining hard. The windshield wipers were slashing frantically side to side and still, seeing in front of her was difficult.

Where had the past twenty miles gone? A sign up ahead, color green for locations in Texas, listed several cities along with their distances. Rising Star, Cross Plains, then Abilene, sixty-six miles. She was tired and knew she should pull over. Only another hour. She could do it. She’d done it lots of times.

She focused on the trailer. Someone once told her if she got behind something that took longer to stop than she did, it would be safer because there would be plenty of time to stop, even if they slammed on their brakes. She dropped back a little. The water on the road was deep and every once in a while she could feel her wheels hydroplane on the low parts of the highway. It made her heart skip. Why did she care? The important time to feel scared and prepared had passed three years ago. She had failed then. Her sympathetic nervous system should be numb. Should be rock solid now. But when she felt the deep water in the road and the transient loss of control, her heart sped up, her stomach tightened and she knew her pupils dilated.

She remembered that time when the kids were riding bikes in the neighborhood and Vic had an accident. They were about six or seven. They had been out riding at dusk. Victor had crossed the street without paying attention and had carelessly run into a parked car. He was not wearing his helmet and had sustained quite a bump on the head. The neighbors called EMS and Leslie was contacted by the emergency room physician. When it was certain that he was okay, she and her husband discussed the lessons to be learned. Should he be grounded from use of the bicycle? Must he always come and do a “helmet check” before going out to ride. Should there be rules regarding careless mistakes? The rules that would help him become a responsible adult. But what if he didn’t live to become an adult?

The trailer spewed up rain clouds, swirling on either side. Where was a horse trailer going in this weather, this fast? Leslie had grown up with horses and was somewhat of a hand at one time. In another life. She couldn’t recall any truck that could pull any trailer at that speed when she was growing up. Her daddy used an old diesel truck to pull their two-horse trailer. He could shift gears without pushing in the clutch.

As they drove into each curve she could see this wasn’t some old truck. In New York she never saw trucks. People just didn’t drive trucks as a rule. No space for parking, gas prices too high, politically incorrect. But when she passed from Louisiana into Texas, trucks became the rule. Big trucks, jacked up trucks, off road tires, bright colors, four doors and lots of ranching accoutrements like tool boxes, wenches, and deer guards.

From what she could see, this was a matched set. The trailer, white and polished aluminum with red and black trim. She could see wide dual fenders peeking out from in front of the trailer. The truck was white. Dad’s truck had been brown and mustard yellow. His trailer was primer red, mostly rust. They were proud of that rig, especially when there was livestock in it.

The trailer slid on the wet pavement as it took the curves and when it did she knew to get ready for the hydroplane. She was becoming more comfortable with the conditions now and settled into her space behind the trailer, not noticing that they were going seventy on a two lane highway in the middle of a thunderstorm. Leslie was mentally and physically locked in behind the trailer. They were alone, moving in tandem. Going into a turn, the capsule shaped tail-lights suddenly became bright red and the trailer slowed down. Then she could see the truck in full to the left of the trailer. Odd, because she could never see more than the fenders on any other turn. The truck had a black brush guard. Why could she see it? Then it was gone and the trailer started sliding, sliding until she was looking squarely at its broadside. It was a gooseneck trailer and she was facing the back of the truck underneath the gooseneck. She was confused. Was she just a spectator in a truck and trailer dream?

Suddenly startled, she slammed on her brakes. She forgot the rule about turning into the spin. Instinctively she turned the other way and crashed sideways into the back of the truck. The trailer was behind her, also sliding sideways. In slow motion it began to swing back behind the truck, crashing into the little Ford Taurus. Leslie began to give up. Why not? Why had she put her seat belt on? Was she screaming? Screaming like she did when she saw her husband and her children facing her in the opposite lane when they had been going her way only one second before. Screaming like when the eighteen-wheeler hit their midsized sedan sideways and it began to spin like those carnival pictures made with paint squeezed onto a piece of cardboard on a centrifuge. Screaming didn’t do a damn bit of good then. It never does. It just comes out.

As the trailer righted itself there was no room for her Taurus. It shoved her toward the shoulder and she slammed into the guard rail with her right front fender. The Taurus began to go to work to save her. The airbag deployed. For a split second she saw the truck and trailer moving away, pulling over. Now a crash into the guardrail on her left front fender was followed by one from behind. The car came to rest. She was facing the guardrail.

She was alive. She felt a sense of elation. Natural instinct. The inherent struggle to live. Now the doctor in her began to go to work, second nature, learned behavior, but after almost twenty years of combined education and practical experience it was fairly intuitive. There was pain in her left shoulder. A broken clavicle? Not uncommon when the seat belt is in place. She reached up and pressed. No crepitus, no fracture. There was pain in the right ankle. Please, no open ankle fracture. With the advent of airbags, people traded life for bad ankle fractures, but sometimes after the agony of trying to heal those fractures, one might rather have taken the airbagless route. She wiggled the ankle up and down. She couldn’t reach it because of the airbag. No crunching. Some pain and she could feel the swollen flesh starting to press up against her hiking boot. Hopefully, just a sprain.

She looked out of the window and through the cracked safety glass she saw a man running toward her. “Hey, you okay?” he yelled. She could see the trailer behind him, emergency lights flashing.

“I think so,” she mumbled to herself.

He pulled on the door and when it wouldn’t budge, ran back to his truck and returned with a crowbar. He pried the door open. She felt his hand on her shoulder. “Are you okay?”

“Yes. Can you give me a hand with this seatbelt?”

“Yes ma’am,” he said, with a slight Texas drawl. Not the kind they made fun of in New York. Pleasant. Concerned. She couldn’t remember the last time someone called her ma’am.

He reached in to help her out of the seat. “Easy now.” Like she was a horse or something. Like she would start flaring her nostrils and snorting, paw at the ground. She stood and followed his directions. First step on the right foot and it hurt like hell. She stumbled forward and he grabbed her.

“Okay, le’me give you a hand here.” He-er, a slight two syllable sound.

“I think I just sprained my ankle.”

“Let’s get out of the rain and we’ll take a look. Think you can make it to my truck?” A little flag went up about getting into cars with strangers, but they didn’t ever say that there was anything wrong with strangers who had horses and it was probably okay when it was raining really hard.

He was holding her up on the right side, like a human crutch. He opened the door and the passenger seat was instantly drenched with water which beaded up on the leather seats.

The smell of a new car, new leather. Like her BMW, when she cared about that smell. Like Chris’s Volvo before the kids stunk it up with food and juice.

Chris never cared. Within a year of getting the car it smelled like a kindergarten classroom. Not the Beemer. No food or juice was the rule. Clear liquids only. As if they were in the recovery room or something. They needed to learn to take care of nice things. Not like Chris’ car. That would only lead to a lifetime of sloppy cars. There was always syrupy goo around his cup holders.

She would let them eat a whole fucking Happy Meal in her car now if they wanted to. They could eat all of the stinky foods, like Cheetos and Cornuts if they wanted to. They could leave the half empty bags in her car. Leslie remembered the hash brown potato bags in Chris’ car in the junkyard. Silent sentinels of carefree eating. They weren’t among the valuables collected and given to her by a clerk at the police station. Who defines “valuables” anyway?

The truck had a step on the side and she had to climb up on the seat. He helped her in, shut the door and ran around the front to the other side. The truck was warm. The engine had been running. Diesel fuel. Dad always said it was cheaper to keep a diesel truck running rather than turn it off and on. Was that true or just diesel folklore? The engine was loud, but not like dad’s. More like a deep, smooth rumbling. White noise. She felt warm and comfortable.

The door opened, letting in a rush of rain and noise, the engine, the wind. He hoisted himself into the seat and slammed the door. “Man, can you believe this rain? Your car is bad. I can’t believe you only sprained your ankle. Are you sure we don’t need to get you to the emergency room?”

She smiled. “No, I’m fine, really. That was so weird. What happened? What happened with your trailer?”

“Well, I’m not sure, but, maybe I was going a little fast into that turn, and when I applied the brakes, well, it’s kinda hard to explain, but the dually with those tires, they just don’t have the same kind of traction as regular tires and they locked up on me. Then here comes the trailer. It can’t go over me, so it just starts to swing out to the side and since the road was wet, it just went sideways. It may have looked weird to you, but I’m looking out my side window at the mirror, and here comes my trailer. Well you know you’re supposed to turn in to a spin so that’s what I did. Fortunately, no cars were coming in the other lane, or we’d’ve been dead. That was pure luck for you. As soon as I started turning in to the spin, the trailer began to come around. Then, I swung back straight and figure I’m home free, except for you’re in that spot, and you know the rest better than me. You’ve been behind me a while and I didn’t really realize just how close you were. God, I’m sorry. I should have been paying more attention, with the rain and all. I’ve got my horses back there too. I’m sure they’re going, ‘damn.’ ”

“Damn” was a melodic two syllable word.

As he was talking, Leslie began to relax. She felt safe, and a familiar sound and sensation filled the cab. Horses, in a trailer, attached to a truck. They move, stomp and shift their weight. That movement is transmitted to the truck. It’s a good feeling. A sign that they’re there, and okay. Some horses get anxious standing still. They think it’s time to unload. They might kick the side of the trailer, just like one was doing now.

“That’s Gomez. He can’t stand to be stopped. I keep sayin’ I’m gonna have to hobble him in the trailer, but I just can’t do it. Imagine if he’d been hobbled tonight! I need to check ‘em out. Be right back.” He lowered his head and looked at her as one would look over the top of glasses. “Sure you’re okay?” He hesitated briefly for an answer and hearing none he continued, “Listen, I already called nine-one-one, and they’re sending a tow truck, but it’ll be a little while.”

The door opened and he jumped out, letting in another blast of diesel noise and rain. She looked around. Looked for hints of life. No hash brown potato bags. A black felt hat turned upside down on the back seat. Some kind of access sticker on the driver’s side of the windshield under the inspection sticker. She felt the slight shift in weight as he stepped up into the trailer. Very slight. Two hundred pounds compared to thirty-five hundred, if he had three horses. The horses began shifting. They think they’re unloading. Where were they going? There were two starched shirts hanging on the hook in the back and a canvas duffle bag on the floorboard. Standard issue key chain. Everything was clean. Spartan.

He was back. “Horses okay?”

“They’re fine. Listen, I’m Regan. Regan Wakeman.” And he put out his hand to shake hers.

She handed him hers. He had a firm handshake and she returned it. He smiled, “and you are…?”

She sighed. “I’m sorry. Leslie Cohen. Pleased to meetyou, although maybe not under the circumstances. This is so strange. I can’t believe we’ve had this big wreck and we’re just sitting here, uninjured.”

“You got that right. For a second, I thought about giving up. I figured the worst was going to happen anyway. It was like slow motion. Me and my horses were going to die. That’s rich. Me and my horses. Like a cowboy’s way to go.”

“So you’re a cowboy?”

In the distance lights were flashing, coming toward them. Reflecting off raindrops on the windshield, there were lots of tiny yellow sparkles. She could hear a siren. Now a police car with its red, white and blue lights flashing. Her question went unanswered.

“Here we go.” Regan reached down and flashed his lights. “We should exchange insurance information.” He reached in his glove compartment and handed Leslie a neatly laminated insurance card. “I guess I kind of lost control of my vehicle. You can copy this stuff down while you’re waiting and I’ll help them get your car situated. Paper and pen’s in there.”

She reached forward to open the glove compartment again.

“Is your insurance card in the car?”

She nodded.

“You stay put. I’ll go get it after I talk to this guy.”

“Listen, I’m probably at fault since I’m the one who ran into the back of your truck.”

“Well, I lost control of my rig.” He looked straight ahead, then turned to Leslie. “It all happened so fast.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Hey, that’s what insurance companies and the police are for. We’ll tell them the story. One of us will probably get a ticket. The important thing is, we’re alive. It could’ve been a lot worse.”

The police car and the tow truck were pulling up. The police stopped in front of them and the tow truck went around back. The siren was turned off in mid-bleep, making a bloop sound instead. Just diesel engine and rain noise again. Regan jumped out of the cab and into the rain. He had taken control of the situation. Leslie wasn’t sure she liked it, but right now she didn’t have the energy to do much about it. So what was she going to say? “Now, let’s just hold on here Mr. Wakeman and don’t put the cart before the horse.” That would be putting things in his terms, wouldn’t it?

She watched him through the rain. He was a big guy, but not heavy. Maybe a defensive end in high school. She laughed at her habit of describing a man’s phenotype based on high school football player body types. Chris had taught her to identify football players by their build. They had loved to talk football. Especially after Vic started playing pee wee ball. So did Regan have a big gut? Offensive lineman? Hard to tell because he was wearing one of those gold canvas jackets with the brown corduroy collars that she had seen a couple of times in rural areas. She couldn’t tell if he had a beer gut or not. He had on starched blue jeans. They were wet and bunched up down at his boots. He shook hands with the policeman, pointed toward the car, then toward the back of the truck. He shoved his hands in the coat pockets and hunched his shoulders forward to shelter himself from the rain and wind. As if that would make a damn bit of difference.

Regan stood with his legs apart. They looked thick and strong. Defensive end. He had short hair but she couldn’t tell much about it because he had on a baseball cap. The bill was curved, hand curved, like Vic used to lovingly shape his caps. And hers. “Mom, you don’t wear ball caps flat like that. It’s gay.” Then he would bend the bill to the desired curve of stylishness.

Leslie thought to herself, he’s probably giving the policeman his version of me smashing into the back of his truck and I’m going to get the ticket. Insurance companies and policemen, my ass. Try good ol’ boys. Oh, well, that’s what insurance is for. It struck her funny because in the past, every other time she rented her cars, she initialed the part indicating she wanted the full coverage thing. Not every time. Just every other time. It was a rip off, really, she thought, but it was just something she started doing and this was one of the times she had signed for it. “Yyeess.”

The policeman turned to get in his car. Regan walked to her side of the truck and signaled to her to roll down her window by scrolling his finger. She did as she was told. They had sign language now.

“Is there anything you need out of your car?” He was bouncing on the balls of both feet as though he might be trying to dodge raindrops and it was definitely cute. He was definitely cute. Simply making an observation.

“Just the insurance papers in my purse. Front passenger seat I think. Could you grab the rental car papers there too?” He looked at her quizzically for a second. People probably don’t rent cars around Abilene as a rule. She was used to getting those kinds of looks because people associated rented cars with tourist areas, not small towns in the middle of nowhere, which was often where she ended up.

He soon climbed back in the driver’s seat, handing her the papers and her purse. They were soaking wet. “Window’s broken. Everything got wet. Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s not your fault, really.”

“Hey, that’s what I told the officer.” He paused and looked her straight in the eyes. Very serious look on his face. Then he smiled.” Just kidding.” She gave him a mad look and they both laughed. She felt like laughing right now. Things were already too serious. She looked down at her lap and then got busy with the purse. She jotted down her insurance information for him, both insurance companies. Thank you very much, she thought.

“Now, where did you say you were from and what are you doing out here…in a rent car?” There was a knock on the window.

“I didn’t say…” He was rolling down the window. Asked the trooper if he wanted to get in the truck.

“No sir.” He looked down the road. Maybe thinking about it. “But thank you anyway, sir. I’ll just need both of your proofs of insurance and drivers licenses.” They complied and he returned to his car. Regan didn’t repeat his question. She was glad. No need for small talk. There was no point in it. He put his seat back a little and she stared straight ahead, focused on the raindrops and the police car lights.

The officer returned and went to the driver’s side again, handing Regan all of the papers. The licenses were stuck into a slot on the top of his small metal clipboard in the universal ticket writing position.

“Unless you object, I’m not going to give either of you a citation. Both of you may have failed to maintain control of your vehicles, and the weather certainly played a part. Do either of you have any objections?”

They looked at each other, as if to ask, “Do you?” Then, “No” from both of them.

He handed Regan his license. “Mr. Wakeman.” Next he handed Leslie hers. “Miss Cohen?”

“Mrs.” She took her license from his hand.

Regan looked at her left hand as she reached for the card. There was no ring. She was sure he noticed. She stopped wearing the rings on her finger about a year ago. They made people ask questions. “Where is your husband? Do you have children? How do you live away from your family for so long?” Answers led to more questions, curiosity and the worst, sympathy. It was easier not to wear the rings but they hung, always, on a strong gold chain around her neck. They were safe that way and it was convenient. She had to remove them frequently anyway to scrub her hands for surgery. She used to pin them to her scrubs but on more than one occasion had lost them in the laundry. She had to dig through bloody scrubs to find them.

“They’re going to tow the car to Abilene. Do you care where they take it?” She shook her head. “Then, if you’re ready, Mrs. Cohen, I’ll take you to town so you can check into a hotel or wherever you were headed.”

Regan looked at her like, “and you were headed where?”

“Actually, I already have a reservation.” There was an awkward moment, when she thought Regan might offer to drive her, and in a way she might have expected it. She quickly added, “Regan, I’m really sorry we had this accident but it was nice to meet you anyway, and thanks for helping me out.”

“Hey, no problem. Same here, I mean, glad to meet you too. Can I help y’all with her bags or something?”

“No, sir, that won’t be necessary. The tow service will take care of that in the morning when they get her trunk open.” He turned to Leslie. “Ma’am, if you’re ready.” She smiled at Regan and shook his hand. Again, a strong handshake and as she squeezed back he held it for a split second longer. Their eyes met. She saw brown eyes, smile wrinkles on the sides, a small vertical wrinkle in between soft eyebrows. He smiled, and there was something else in the smile. Regret? Did she want regret? The trooper was doing the hopping thing outside the window. Was that a Texas guy thing? Cute.

She got out and pain shot through the ankle. She tried not to flinch and held her ground. Pain is just pain. It can’t hurt you. She didn’t want Regan to come around and do the human crutch thing again. She stiffened up her foot and ankle and stepped with a respectable limp.

“Do you need help there, ma’am?”

“No, I’m fine.” And she was.

The tow truck, purple with black and gold lacey decals, itself a work of art, pulled out and for the first time she saw her rented Taurus on the flat bed. Its condition was shocking. It was totaled. It was crushed on the three sides she could see. She wondered about the damage to Regan’s truck. Thank goodness she had not run into the horse trailer. She pictured their delicate legs getting knocked out from under them. Innocent animals, they were never meant to ride in an aluminum box. The truck labored up to speed, straightened out and headed toward Abilene.

Now Regan. Left hand signal light flashing, the truck slowly pulled up and over the ledge of asphalt on the shoulder, each tire rolling over it sent a lurch through the truck and trailer until all ten wheels were on the highway. The engine noise grinding to a higher and higher pitch until it slipped into the next gear automatically. The goose neck compartment over the truck slowly swung into place and the whole rig moved past like a ship. She turned to look at the capsule shaped tail-lights through the raindrops on her window.

Voices came across the police radio, scratchy, incomplete. Does the technology of police and taxi radio dispatching ever improve? She couldn’t make it all out but soon the officer responded with their location and his plan to take her to the hotel.

“Where’re you staying, by the way…chk, schk, chk, the irritating hen scratch from the two way…No I’m trying to get that information right now, hold on. Mrs. Cohen, your hotel?”

“Holiday Inn Express.”

“Holiday Inn Express, on Interstate twenty. No one’s hurt. She has denied emergency treatment so we’re on our way.”

“Mrs. Cohen, you’re gonna need to contact your insurance carrier in the morning. We’ll take care of the accident report.”

She was starting to feel sorry for herself and she hated herself for it. Tears began welling up in her eyes and there was that familiar tingling in the nose and under the eyes that preceded them. She was not going to let a tear roll down her cheek or sniff one up her nose. She started blinking. One single tear filled the corner of her right eye, stayed suspended there for a second, then fell over the edge. It rolled down the side of her nose and lost momentum when it reached her lip. She tilted her head back and forced the feeling out of her mind. Think of a funny thing or an angry thing. The tears that were marching to freedom, through a combination of will power and pressure from repeated blinking, were forced back into the tear duct to wait until later when they, and hundreds more like them, could flow freely as always.

The officer looked straight ahead and put the car into drive. He recognized the signs of a woman thinking about crying and did not want to help it along by asking if she was okay. Didn’t want to go there. No way. No how. It was never as simple as “Wrecking my car makes me want to cry.” He let her be and didn’t look over until they got to the hotel.

“Here we are. Abilene’s finest. The restaurant out front here’s pretty good. When the tow truck gets your trunk open tomorrow they’ll deliver your stuff here. I’ll make sure they know where you’re staying.” He handed her a wet business card. “Here’s their card if you wanna call them. They’re good guys. My brother-in-law’s one of the drivers. Anyway, I guess that’s about it. Anything else you can think of?”

She pulled the handle on the door and stepped out, the ankle still there. “Thanks for your help. G’night.” The car pulled away and she stood alone in the portico of the hotel.

Abilene, Texas. There was a wonderful smell in the air. Clean, west Texas air after a rainstorm. Some combination of ozone and miles of dusty roads soaking up the long awaited rain. She breathed it in deep.

That smell was something her mom defined for her when she was a kid. When it would start to rain they would go outside to smell the air. If they were driving, they would open the vents to let it fill the car. She, in turn taught her kids to love it too. “Turn on the vent, mom! Let’s smell the rain!” The longer the drought, the better the smell. The air from the vent would be steamy and fog up the window. She took a big breath and was smiling when the automatic doors opened and she walked into the lobby.