by Brian Aldiss
‘Oh, David, I…’
Ah, humanity. Non-resistance. Gandhi. I’ve never shot at anything but a target. At a time like this. But they don’t understand.
‘I could use the rifle from back here,’ suggested Jir. ‘Can I, Dad?’
‘I can reach the shotgun,’ said Wendell. ‘That’s better at close range.’
‘Gee, you men are brave,’ jeered Erika. Mr Jimmon said nothing; both shotgun and rifle were unloaded. Foresight again.
He caught the hiccuping pause in the traffic instantly, gratified at his smooth coordination. How far he could proceed on the shoulder before running into a culvert narrowing the highway to the concrete he didn’t know. Probably not more than a mile at most, but at least he was off Rambla Catalina and on 101.
He felt tremendously elated. Successful.
‘Here we go!’ He almost added, Hold on to your hats.
Of course the shoulder too was packed solid, and progress, even in low gear, was maddening. The gas consumption was something he did not want to think about; his pride in the way the needle of the gauge caressed the F shrank. And gas would be hard to come by in spite of his pocketful of ration coupons. Black market.
‘Mind if I try the radio again?’ asked Erika, switching it on.
Mr Jimmon, following the pattern of previous success, insinuated the left front tyre on to the concrete, eliciting a disapproving squawk from the Pontiac alongside. ‘… sector was quiet. Enemy losses are estimated…’
‘Can’t you get something else?’ asked Jir. ‘Something less dusty?’
‘Wish we had TV in the car,’ observed Wendell. ‘Joe Tellifer’s old man put a set in the back seat of their Chrysler.’
‘Dry up, squirt,’ said Jir. ‘Let the air out of your head.’
‘Jir.’
‘Oh, Mom, don’t pay attention! Don’t you see that’s what he wants?’
‘Listen, brat, if you weren’t a girl, I’d spank you.’
‘You mean, if I wasn’t your sister. You’d probably enjoy such childish sex-play with any other girl.’
‘Erika!’
Where do they learn it? marvelled Mr Jimmon. These progressive schools. Do you suppose…?
He edged the front wheel further in exultantly, taking advantage of a momentary lapse of attention on the part of the Pontiac’s driver. Unless the other went berserk with frustration and rammed into him, he practically had a cinch on a car-length of the concrete now.
‘Here we go!’ he gloried. ‘We’re on our way.’
‘Aw, if I was driving we’d be half-way to Oxnard by now.’
‘Jir, that’s no way to talk to your father.’
Mr Jimmon reflected dispassionately that Molly’s ineffective admonitions only spurred Jir’s sixteen-year-old brashness, already irritating enough in its own right. Indeed, if it were not for Molly, Jir might…
It was of course possible – here Mr Jimmon braked just short of the convertible ahead – Jir wasn’t just going through a ‘difficult’ period (What was particularly difficult about it? he inquired, in the face of all the books Molly suggestively left around on the psychological problems of growth. The boy had everything he could possibly want) but was the type who, in different circumstances, drifted well into – well, perhaps not exactly juvenile delinquency, but…
‘… in the Long Beach–Wilmington–San Pedro area. Comparison with that which occurred at Pittsburgh reveals that this morning’s was in every way less serious. All fires are now under control and all the injured are now receiving medical attention…’
‘I don’t think they’re telling the truth,’ stated Mrs Jimmon.
He snorted. He didn’t think so either, but by what process had she arrived at that conclusion?
‘I want to hear the ball game. Turn on the ball game, Rick,’ Wendell demanded.
Eleven sixteen, and rolling northward on the highway. Not bad, not bad at all. Foresight. Now if he could only edge his way leftward to the southbound strip they’d be beyond the Santa Barbara bottleneck by two o’clock.
‘The lights,’ exclaimed Molly, ‘the taps!’
Oh no, thought Mr Jimmon, not that too. Out of the comic strips.
‘Keep calm,’ advised Jir. ‘Electricity and water are both off – remember?’
‘I’m not quite an imbecile yet, Jir. I’m quite aware everything went off. I was thinking of the time it went back on.’
‘Furcrysay, Mom, you worrying about next month’s bills now?’
Mr Jimmon, nudging the station wagon ever leftward formed the sentence: You’d never worry about bills, young man, because you never have to pay them. Instead of saying it aloud, he formed another sentence: Molly, your talent for irrelevance amounts to genius. Both sentences gave him satisfaction.
The traffic gathered speed briefly, and he took advantage of the spurt to get solidly in the left-hand lane, right against the long island of concrete dividing the north from the southbound strips. ‘That’s using the old bean, Dad,’ approved Wendell.
Whatever slight pleasure he might have felt in his son’s approbation was overlaid with exasperation. Wendell, like Jir, was more Manville than Jimmon; they carried Molly’s stamp on their faces and minds. Only Erika was a true Jimmon. Made in my own image, he thought pridelessly.
‘I can’t help but think it would have been at least courteous to get in touch with Pearl and Dan. At least try. And the Warbinns…’
The gap in the concrete divider came sooner than he anticipated and he was on the comparatively unclogged southbound side. His foot went down on the accelerator and the station wagon grumbled earnestly ahead. For the first time Mr Jimmon became aware how tightly he’d been gripping the wheel; how rigid the muscles in his arms, shoulders and neck had been. He relaxed part-way as he adjusted to the speed of the cars ahead and the speedometer needle hung just below 45, but resentment against Molly (at least courteous), Jir (no time for niceties), and Wendell (not to go), rode up in the saliva under his tongue. Dependent. Helpless. Everything on him. Parasites.
At intervals Erika switched on the radio. News was always promised immediately, but little was forthcoming, only vague, nervous attempts to minimize the extent of the disaster and soothe listeners with allusions to civilian defence, military activities on the ever advancing front, and comparison with the destruction of Pittsburgh, so vastly much worse than the comparatively harmless detonation at Los Angeles. Must be pretty bad, thought Mr Jimmon; cripple the war effort…
‘I’m hungry,’ said Wendell.
Molly began stirring around, instructing Jir where to find the sandwiches. Mr Jimmon thought grimly of how they’d have to adjust to the absence of civilized niceties: bread and mayonnaise and lunch meat. Live on rabbit, squirrel, abalone, fish. When Wendell grew hungry he’d have to get his own food. Self-sufficiency. Hard and tough.
At Oxnard the snarled traffic slowed them to a crawl again. Beyond, the juncture with the main highway north kept them at the same infuriating pace. It was long after two when they reached Ventura, and Wendell, who had been fidgeting and jumping up and down in the seat for the past hour, proclaimed, ‘I’m tired of riding.’
Mr Jimmon set his lips. Molly suggested, ineffectually, ‘Why don’t you lie down, dear?’
‘Can’t. Way this crate is packed, ain’t room for a grasshopper.’
‘Very funny. Verrrry funny,’ said Jir.
‘Now, Jir, leave him alone! He’s just a little boy.’
At Carpenteria the sun burst out. You might have thought it the regular dissipation of the fog, only it was almost time for the fog to come down again. Should he try the San Marcos Pass after Santa Barbara, or the longer, better way? Flexible plans, but… Wait and see.
It was four when they got to Santa Barbara and Mr Jimmon faced concerted though unorganized rebellion. Wendell was screaming with stiffness and boredom; Jir remarked casually to no one in particular that Santa Barbara was the place they were going to beat the bottleneck oh yeh; Molly said, Stop at the fi
rst clean-looking gas station. Even Erika added, ‘Yes, Dad, you’ll really have to stop.’
Mr Jimmon was appalled. With every second priceless and hordes of panic-stricken refugees pressing behind, they would rob him of all the precious gains he’d made by skill, daring, judgement. Stupidity and shortsightedness. Unbelievable. For their own silly comfort – good lord, did they think they had a monopoly on bodily weaknesses? He was cramped as they and wanted to go as badly. Time and space which could never be made up. Let them lose this half-hour and it was quite likely they’d never get out of Santa Barbara.
‘If we lose a half-hour now we’ll never get out of here.’
‘Well, now, David, that wouldn’t be utterly disastrous, would it? There are awfully nice hotels here and I’m sure it would be more comfortable for everyone than your idea of camping in the woods, hunting and fishing…’
He turned off State; couldn’t remember name of the parallel street, but surely less traffic. He controlled his temper, not heroically, but desperately. ‘May I ask how long you would propose to stay in one of these awfully nice hotels?’
‘Why, until we could go home.’
‘My dear Molly…’ What could he say? My dear Molly, we are never going home, if you mean Malibu? Or: My dear Molly, you just don’t understand what is happening?
The futility of trying to convey the clear picture in his mind. Or any picture. If she could not of herself see the endless mob pouring, pouring out of Los Angeles, searching frenziedly for escape and refuge, eating up the substance of the surrounding country in ever-widening circles, crowding, jam-packing, overflowing every hotel, boarding-house, lodging, or private home into which they could edge, agonizedly bidding up the price of everything until the chaos they brought with them was indistinguishable from the chaos they were fleeing – if she could not see all this instantly and automatically, she could not be brought to see it at all. Any more than the other aimless, planless, improvident fugitives could see it.
So, my dear Molly; nothing.
Silence gave consent to continued expostulation. ‘David, do you really mean you don’t intend to stop at all?’
Was there any point in saying, Yes I do? He set his lips still more tightly and once more weighed San Marcos Pass against the coast route. Have to decide now.
‘Why, the time we’re waiting here, just waiting for the cars up ahead to move would be enough.’
Could you call her stupid? He weighed the question slowly and justly, alert for the first jerk of the massed cars all around. Her reasoning was valid and logical if the laws of physics and geometry were suspended. (Was that right – physics and geometry? Body occupying two different positions at the same time?) It was the facts which were illogical – not Molly. She was just exasperating.
By the time they were half-way to Gaviota or Goleta – Mr Jimmon could never tell them apart – foresight and relentless sternness began to pay off. Those who had left Los Angeles without preparation and in panic were dropping out or slowing down, to get gas or oil, repair tyres, buy food, seek rest rooms. The station wagon was steadily forging ahead.
He gambled on the old highway out of Santa Barbara. Any kind of obstruction would block its two lanes; if it didn’t he would be beating the legions on the wider, straighter road. There were stretches now where he could hit 50; once he sped a happy half-mile at 65.
Now the insubordination crackling all around gave indication of simultaneous explosion, ‘I really,’ began Molly, and then discarded this for a fresher, firmer start. ‘David, I don’t understand how you can be so utterly selfish and inconsiderate.’
Mr Jimmon could feel the veins in his forehead begin to swell, but this was one of those rages that didn’t show.
‘But, Dad, would ten minutes ruin everything?’ asked Erika.
‘Monomania,’ muttered Jir. ‘Single track. Like Hitler.’
‘I want my dog,’ yelped Wendell. ‘Dirty old dog-killer.’
‘Did you ever hear of cumulative –’ Erika had addressed him reasonably; surely he could make her understand? ‘Did you ever hear of cumulative…’ What was the word? Snowball rolling downhill was the image in his mind. ‘Oh, what’s the use?’
The old road rejoined the new; again the station wagon was fitted into the traffic like parquetry. Mr Jimmon, from an exultant, unfettered – almost – 65 was imprisoned in a treadmill set at 38. Keep calm; you can do nothing about it, he admonished himself. Need all your nervous energy. Must be wrecks up ahead. And then, with a return of satisfaction: if I hadn’t used strategy back there we’d have been with those making 25. A starting-stopping 25.
‘It’s fantastic,’ exclaimed Molly. ‘I could almost believe Jir’s right and you’ve lost your mind.’
Mr Jimmon smiled. This was the first time Molly had ever openly showed disloyalty before the children or sided with them in their presence. She was revealing herself. Under pressure. Not the pressure of events; her incredible attitude at Santa Barbara had demonstrated her incapacity to feel that. Just pressure against the bladder.
‘No doubt those left behind can console their last moments with pride in their sanity.’ The sentence came out perfectly formed, with none of the annoying pauses or interpolated ‘ers’ or ‘mmphs’ which could, as he knew from unhappy experience, flaw the most crushing rejoinders.
‘Oh, the end can always justify the means for those who want it that way.’
‘Don’t they restrain people –’
‘That’s enough, Jir!’
Trust Molly to return quickly to fundamental hypocrisy; the automatic response – his mind felicitously grasped the phrase, conditioned reflex – to the customary stimulus. She had taken an explicit stand against his common sense, but her rigid code – honour thy father; iron rayon the wrong side; register and vote; avoid scenes; only white wine with fish; never re-hire a discharged servant – quickly substituted pattern for impulse. Seventeen years.
The road turned away from the ocean, squirmed inland and uphill for still slower miles; abruptly widened into a divided, four lane highway. Without hesitation Mr Jimmon took the south-bound side; for the first time since they had left Rambla Catalina his foot went down to the floorboards and with a sigh of relief the station wagon jumped into smooth, ecstatic speed.
Improvisation and strategy again. And, he acknowledged generously, the defiant example this morning of those who’d done the same thing in Malibu. Now, out of re-established habit the other cars kept to the northbound side even though there was nothing coming south. Timidity, routine, inertia. Pretty soon they would realize sheepishly that there was neither traffic nor traffic cops to keep them off, but it would be miles before they had another chance to cross over. By that time he would have reached the comparatively uncongested stretch.
‘It’s dangerous, David.’
Obey the law. No smoking. Keep off the grass. Please adjust your clothes before leaving. Trespassers will be. Picking California wildflowers or shrubs is forbidden. Parking 45 min. Do not.
She hadn’t put the protest in the more usual form of a question. Would that technique have been more irritating? Isn’t it dan gerous Day-vid? His calm conclusion: it didn’t matter.
‘No time for niceties,’ chirped Jir.
Mr Jimmon tried to remember Jir as a baby. All the bad novels he had read in the days when he read anything except Time and the New Yorker, all the movies he’d seen before they had a TV set, always prescribed such retrospection as a specific for softening the present. If he could recall David Alonzo Jimmon, junior, at six months, helpless and lovable, it should make Jir more acceptable by discovering some faint traces of the one in the other.
But though he could recreate in detail the interminable disgusting, trembling months of that initial pregnancy (had he really been afraid she would die?) he was completely unable to reconstruct the appearance of his first-born before the age of… It must have been at six that Jir had taken his baby sister out for a walk and lost her. (Had Molly permitted it? He still di
dn’t know for sure.) Erika hadn’t been found for four hours.
The tidal screeching of sirens invaded and destroyed his thoughts. What the devil…? His foot lifted from the gas pedal as he slewed obediently to the right, ingrained reverence surfacing at the sound.
‘I told you it wasn’t safe! Are you really trying to kill us all?’
Whipping over the rise ahead, a pair of motor-cycles crackled. Behind them snapped a long line of assorted vehicles, fire-trucks and ambulances mostly, interspersed here and there with olive drab army equipment. The cavalcade flicked down the central white line, one wheel in each lane. Mr Jimmon edged the station wagon as far over as he could; it still occupied too much room to permit the free passage of the onrush without compromise.
The knees and elbows of the motor-cycle policemen stuck out widely, reminding Mr Jimmon of grasshoppers. The one on the near side was headed straight for the station wagon’s left front fender; for a moment Mr Jimmon closed his eyes as he plotted the unswerving course, knifing through the crust-like steel, bouncing lightly on the tyres, and continuing unperturbed. He opened them to see the other officer shoot past, mouth angrily open in his direction while the one straight ahead came to a skidding stop.
‘Going to get it now,’ gloated Wendell.
An old-fashioned parent, one of the horrible examples held up to shuddering moderns like himself, would have reached back and relieved his tension by clouting Wendell across the mouth. Mr Jimmon merely turned off the motor.
The cop was not indulging in the customary deliberate and ominous performance of slowly dismounting and striding towards his victim with ever more menacing steps. Instead he got off quickly and covered the few feet to Mr Jimmon’s window with unimpressive speed.
Heavy goggles concealed his eyes; dust and stubble covered his face. ‘Operator’s licence!’