Beyond the foggy windshield, he saw the man hop clear, glaring back over
his shoulder with his wild eyes. But at the same moment, from behind, came
the trouble—another car rear-ending them.
It was a hard enough hit that he felt the snap of the seatbelt across his
chest, and at the same time felt the thud against the seat—Valerie being
thrown forward. Valerie gave a small, plaintive cry—“Shit”—as though it were
she who had done something stupid. No sound from the baby.
He got out of the car. There was a small black pick-up truck smack against
the back of the Taurus. The driver was a teenaged girl, hopping out now,
coming toward him. He opened the back door of the Taurus to look in.
“We’re fine, Pop-Pop,” Valerie said, and gave a weak laugh. She had one
hand on the infant seat and the other on her forehead. She hadn’t been
wearing a seatbelt, and had been thrown clear off the seat. Andrew was
unperturbed, still asleep with his pacifier balanced on his little shoulder.
The teenaged girl was at his elbow now, peering into the back seat too.
”Oh my God,” she squealed. “A baby—Is he OK? I’m so sorry. I tried to
stop. Oh my God.” He saw she was wearing a nametag on the pocket of
her white oxford shirt—Casey.
“We’re all right,” Valerie said. “Really.” She smiled at the girl and pointed to
Andrew. “See? He didn’t even wake up.”
The girl was crying now, punching her cell phone, turning her face from
them. “Mom?” she wailed into her phone, and burst into tears.
Jim got back in the car for the registration, which was in the glove
compartment, in the pocket of the manual, exactly where he’d kept it when
the Taurus was his.
“Poor thing,” Valerie murmured.
He pressed his lips together and shook his head.
By then the girl—Casey—had managed to get a grip. Together they surveyed
the damage. The truck was fine, but the dent on the Taurus ran the full
length of the back panel. The girl proved to be surprisingly mature about it,
accepting that the fault was hers without question, though they both knew
the one really to blame was wild-eyed pedestrian, who had disappeared
instantly of course.
They moved the vehicles to the side of the road, though there was hardly
reason to. Few people were out on the road at that hour.
Peculiar, Jim thought, that the girl should be following that close, at just the
wrong moment.
“Are you sure you’re OK?” Jim asked the girl. “You might feel sore later—
Whiplash, you know.”
“I’m fine. How about you?”
“I’m OK.”
Valerie opened the car window. The girl went over to speak to her.
“I’m so sorry,” the girl said.
“It’s OK. It wasn’t your fault.”
“How old is your baby?”
“Seven weeks.”
The girl closed her eyes and shook her head.
“Hey—” Valerie said, reaching out to pat the girl’s arm. “This little guy is
tougher than you think.”
“You should bring him to the Wild Blue Sea Café some day,” the girl said,
“and I’ll serve him a plate of pancakes, no charge.”
“OK, I will. You’re a waitress?”
“In the summer.”
The girl gave Jim a polite wave then, hopped into the truck, and drove away.
When she was out of view, he got in the driver’s seat, and turned around to
look at Valerie. The right side of her face was pink—the brow and the
cheekbone, the point of impact. She had that sort of pale skin that showed
the slightest brush.
“You hit your face,” he said. “Does it hurt?”
“It’s OK.”
“Maybe you should put some ice on it when we get home. Well, at least
now you’ll have something exciting to write to Scott about.”
She rolled her eyes. “I don’t think I’ll tell him about this one. I should have
buckled up.” There was something in her expression he couldn’t read. She
swallowed hard, a symptom he recognized—She was sad about something.
He glanced at Andrew, who was sleeping so peacefully that the usual
ruddiness had drained from his face. His skin was as delicately pale now as
his mother’s.
“Look at that, will you,” he said, giving Valerie an encouraging smile.
“I mean, you’d think he’d wake up for a car crash.”
She laughed, but he could see she was struggling now not to cry.
“What is it, Valerie?” he asked.
“I don’t know.” She looked away, out the window, in the direction of the bar
on the corner. A woman with her hair in rollers was picking up the trash
from the sidewalk.
“It was that man,” Valerie said. “I mean he came out of nowhere.”
Jim nodded. “He was damned lucky we didn’t kill him.”
“I know, but the thing is—I felt so sorry for him.” Her voice was constrained
now to a whisper. She swallowed again. “For a second I thought it was my
dad.”
Jim was so unsettled he continued nodding his head, as though he
understood, as though he agreed it might have been possible.
“I mean the last time I saw my dad I was six years old,” she said, “but every
now and then—it’s always when I see some homeless guy on the street,
some poor old drunk—I get this awful sadness.” She smiled at him
apologetically. “I know—It’s weird. And I can’t believe I just said drunk. I
hate that word.”
“I hate it too,” he said—couldn’t believe he said—but kept on going anyway.
“It’s offensive. My father was an alcoholic.”
And now she was the one nodding, taking it in. “Scott didn’t tell me.”
Scott. There it was again, that shock of her speaking his name. “I don’t
think Scott really knows.”
“Oh.” She put her hand on her chest. It appeared she was about to about
to pledge allegiance, but lightly. It appeared that it hurt. At last she took a
deep breath, and smiled at him.
He smiled back. “Well, this has certainly been my most interesting trip to
Britton’s,” he said, starting up the car.
She laughed. “Well, I don’t think we want to make a tradition out of it. At
least not the crash part.”
It occurred to him that he ought to say something more, maybe get back to
what she said about it being hard for him with Scott not there, because she
was right about that. But then he thought it best to give it a rest, for the
time being.
As they approached the bridge to Stone Harbor, they passed a man and a
sunburned boy, walking along the side of the road with their fishing poles.
He thought of Scott, heard his voice on the phone: It’ll be all right. I’m fine—
Fine as the blonde, sunburned boy grinning out of that old photograph with
his arms around his buddies. The dread enveloped him, but he drove on
through it.
A few blocks from the beach house, Andrew woke up. By the time they
pulled into the driveway, he was screaming at the top of his lungs.
Betsy was standing on the porch in her bathrobe, poking around in her
flower boxes.
“There’s Grandma,” Jim said.
“There’s Grandma,” Valerie echoed, working to free her screaming child from
his safety straps, as though it were second nature and she’d been doing
that sort of maneuver all her life.
his shoulder with his wild eyes. But at the same moment, from behind, came
the trouble—another car rear-ending them.
It was a hard enough hit that he felt the snap of the seatbelt across his
chest, and at the same time felt the thud against the seat—Valerie being
thrown forward. Valerie gave a small, plaintive cry—“Shit”—as though it were
she who had done something stupid. No sound from the baby.
He got out of the car. There was a small black pick-up truck smack against
the back of the Taurus. The driver was a teenaged girl, hopping out now,
coming toward him. He opened the back door of the Taurus to look in.
“We’re fine, Pop-Pop,” Valerie said, and gave a weak laugh. She had one
hand on the infant seat and the other on her forehead. She hadn’t been
wearing a seatbelt, and had been thrown clear off the seat. Andrew was
unperturbed, still asleep with his pacifier balanced on his little shoulder.
The teenaged girl was at his elbow now, peering into the back seat too.
”Oh my God,” she squealed. “A baby—Is he OK? I’m so sorry. I tried to
stop. Oh my God.” He saw she was wearing a nametag on the pocket of
her white oxford shirt—Casey.
“We’re all right,” Valerie said. “Really.” She smiled at the girl and pointed to
Andrew. “See? He didn’t even wake up.”
The girl was crying now, punching her cell phone, turning her face from
them. “Mom?” she wailed into her phone, and burst into tears.
Jim got back in the car for the registration, which was in the glove
compartment, in the pocket of the manual, exactly where he’d kept it when
the Taurus was his.
“Poor thing,” Valerie murmured.
He pressed his lips together and shook his head.
By then the girl—Casey—had managed to get a grip. Together they surveyed
the damage. The truck was fine, but the dent on the Taurus ran the full
length of the back panel. The girl proved to be surprisingly mature about it,
accepting that the fault was hers without question, though they both knew
the one really to blame was wild-eyed pedestrian, who had disappeared
instantly of course.
They moved the vehicles to the side of the road, though there was hardly
reason to. Few people were out on the road at that hour.
Peculiar, Jim thought, that the girl should be following that close, at just the
wrong moment.
“Are you sure you’re OK?” Jim asked the girl. “You might feel sore later—
Whiplash, you know.”
“I’m fine. How about you?”
“I’m OK.”
Valerie opened the car window. The girl went over to speak to her.
“I’m so sorry,” the girl said.
“It’s OK. It wasn’t your fault.”
“How old is your baby?”
“Seven weeks.”
The girl closed her eyes and shook her head.
“Hey—” Valerie said, reaching out to pat the girl’s arm. “This little guy is
tougher than you think.”
“You should bring him to the Wild Blue Sea Café some day,” the girl said,
“and I’ll serve him a plate of pancakes, no charge.”
“OK, I will. You’re a waitress?”
“In the summer.”
The girl gave Jim a polite wave then, hopped into the truck, and drove away.
When she was out of view, he got in the driver’s seat, and turned around to
look at Valerie. The right side of her face was pink—the brow and the
cheekbone, the point of impact. She had that sort of pale skin that showed
the slightest brush.
“You hit your face,” he said. “Does it hurt?”
“It’s OK.”
“Maybe you should put some ice on it when we get home. Well, at least
now you’ll have something exciting to write to Scott about.”
She rolled her eyes. “I don’t think I’ll tell him about this one. I should have
buckled up.” There was something in her expression he couldn’t read. She
swallowed hard, a symptom he recognized—She was sad about something.
He glanced at Andrew, who was sleeping so peacefully that the usual
ruddiness had drained from his face. His skin was as delicately pale now as
his mother’s.
“Look at that, will you,” he said, giving Valerie an encouraging smile.
“I mean, you’d think he’d wake up for a car crash.”
She laughed, but he could see she was struggling now not to cry.
“What is it, Valerie?” he asked.
“I don’t know.” She looked away, out the window, in the direction of the bar
on the corner. A woman with her hair in rollers was picking up the trash
from the sidewalk.
“It was that man,” Valerie said. “I mean he came out of nowhere.”
Jim nodded. “He was damned lucky we didn’t kill him.”
“I know, but the thing is—I felt so sorry for him.” Her voice was constrained
now to a whisper. She swallowed again. “For a second I thought it was my
dad.”
Jim was so unsettled he continued nodding his head, as though he
understood, as though he agreed it might have been possible.
“I mean the last time I saw my dad I was six years old,” she said, “but every
now and then—it’s always when I see some homeless guy on the street,
some poor old drunk—I get this awful sadness.” She smiled at him
apologetically. “I know—It’s weird. And I can’t believe I just said drunk. I
hate that word.”
“I hate it too,” he said—couldn’t believe he said—but kept on going anyway.
“It’s offensive. My father was an alcoholic.”
And now she was the one nodding, taking it in. “Scott didn’t tell me.”
Scott. There it was again, that shock of her speaking his name. “I don’t
think Scott really knows.”
“Oh.” She put her hand on her chest. It appeared she was about to about
to pledge allegiance, but lightly. It appeared that it hurt. At last she took a
deep breath, and smiled at him.
He smiled back. “Well, this has certainly been my most interesting trip to
Britton’s,” he said, starting up the car.
She laughed. “Well, I don’t think we want to make a tradition out of it. At
least not the crash part.”
It occurred to him that he ought to say something more, maybe get back to
what she said about it being hard for him with Scott not there, because she
was right about that. But then he thought it best to give it a rest, for the
time being.
As they approached the bridge to Stone Harbor, they passed a man and a
sunburned boy, walking along the side of the road with their fishing poles.
He thought of Scott, heard his voice on the phone: It’ll be all right. I’m fine—
Fine as the blonde, sunburned boy grinning out of that old photograph with
his arms around his buddies. The dread enveloped him, but he drove on
through it.
A few blocks from the beach house, Andrew woke up. By the time they
pulled into the driveway, he was screaming at the top of his lungs.
Betsy was standing on the porch in her bathrobe, poking around in her
flower boxes.
“There’s Grandma,” Jim said.
“There’s Grandma,” Valerie echoed, working to free her screaming child from
his safety straps, as though it were second nature and she’d been doing
that sort of maneuver all her life.
Pop Pop Page Four
Summer-Fall Fiction R.KV.R.Y. Quarterly 2007
Summer-Fall Fiction R.KV.R.Y. Quarterly 2007
Photo:
Bansky
Bridge by
Mell
Bansky
Bridge by
Mell