Interstate

by Stephen Dixon

  Kids in back making too much noise now. Or maybe they have been for a while but he just hears it now. But too much with that man having looked at him before like that and their car getting so close, though now it’s a good two hundred feet in front of him. So maybe he shouldn’t say it, leave them alone, they’re being all right, but the noise is kind of irritating if just as noise and he says “Kids, come on—Margo, be quiet, enough.” She says “Why’s it always have to be me just because I’m older? She could be doing something wrong too.” “Then Julie, Margo, both of you—anyway, I’m a little nervous, maybe just tired from the drive, and your noise is disturbing me, so please tone it down.” “What, Daddy?” Julie says and he says “I said, and come on, you must have heard me, I said to tone it down, be a little less noisy—you both are, so you both.” “We’re not doing anything. We’re playing games together, not hurting each other, and having fun. You want us to have fun, don’t you, and not pester you when you’re driving like you’ve said we do?” “Please, don’t, you’re too young for that, to also start trading cleverness or something with me, using my words for that—what I said I said and so on—to get out of it. I’m trying to concentrate on my driving, which you’ve got to on a big highway and so many cars and trucks, and I need you two to be a lot less roughhouse than you are.” “Be less what?” Julie says. “We’re not,” Margo says. “We’re even being quiet, playing well for a change, so you should be happy.” “Okay, nothing, really, fine,” he says, “but just try to keep your voices at that level you just spoke, both of you, kind of low. In fact, don’t try, just do it; please?” The other car’s slowed down to where it’s even with his again but back in the middle of its lane and man’s staring at him when he turns to it but with this new look of niceness and no sinister smile. He smiles, one of those flash ones which means he’s smiling because something isn’t nice or funny, and looks front. Probably shouldn’t have done that. Just smiled naturally or not at all. But what’s with them? Don’t they know they’re distracting him, which could be dangerous for him driving the car and then for them if he’s distracted into them or too near them by losing a little driving control? Well, it won’t go that far, but the level of danger is raised a little he’d think by their looks, even if those were nice ones they just gave, for something ugly’s obviously underneath, and now coming back and such and what went on before and also raised by their driving fifty in the speed lane which seems to be just to stay even with him—what else could it be for?—and they should know all that. They should just leave him alone. He has kids in the car too, goddamnit, don’t the idiots see? Forget it, they’re just trying to needle him, for some reason. He’s their target or mark on the road for the moment, source of entertainment because they’re bored with driving or their own conversation, the music on the radio—they can’t locate any station or bring it in clear in this sort of open-land stretch—or they’ve run out of tape cassettes or have none to play and to each other nothing much ever to say—but having kids’ fun in their own big dumb men’s way, or they just don’t like his face, he reminds them or one of them—the passenger—of someone the guy really hates or maybe the passenger even thinks he’s that man. He could speed up but feels they’ll only keep up with him. Or go into the next middle lane or even to the slow one and drive slower in either but how slow can you go on this big Interstate without being a danger yourself with all the cars flying by and buses and trailer trucks? Certainly first cop car he spots he’ll honk for or pull over if it’s on the side of the road or the divider, but he better keep a sharp lookout, and first turnoff or rest stop that comes up, he’ll pull off. He rolls his window up all the way. That’s at least some protection if he needs it or a signal to them to leave off or just enough of a shield between them where they’ll now feel they can’t get through to him. Other front window’s down a little but that’s okay, nothing wrong on that side. Kids’ windows are only pushed out a little at the back and clasped. Glances around to them and then in the rearview. They’re all right, playing quietly by themselves, Julie, because of her yawn, probably starting to nod off, but no sign they’re aware of any uneasiness in him. Senses some arm action from the car and looks and man’s smiling nice-like again and saying something like “Your window, your window, roll your window down,” and points to his chest and then his mouth and then to him as if he has something to tell him and now with this slightly urgent face, and then to the highway on their side and all the time the driver’s nodding agreeingly. “What?” he mouths. “Can’t make it out. What? Sorry,” and looks front and drives into the next middle lane. He thinks “They’re trying to inveigle me into something, that’s all, I can see it a mile away.” They drive into the lane he just left and stay even with him. He glances over and both are looking at him now and smiling, then the driver laughing, the passenger then laughing, the driver then laughing hysterically it seems like. “Hey, what gives already?” he says through the window. “What the heck you want?” “What’s that, Daddy?” Julie says and he says “Nothing, sweetie, go back to your nap.” “I wasn’t sleeping.” “Really, nothing, I was only saying out loud before something I was thinking inside.” “You were talking to those men there,” Margo says and he says “Those men, in the car beside us? No, but don’t pay any attention to them, wave or anything, you hear? Are you both listening to me?” and Julie says “What men?” and Margo says “The car outside my side,” and Julie says “I didn’t see them, I wasn’t waving, maybe Margo,” and he says “No fights, both of you, just play or be quiet,” and he looks in the rearview a few seconds later, has to shift it around a little, and they’re back to what they were doing or something else. He turns to the men. They’re still laughing or only started laughing again when he turned to them but not as hysterically and the passenger shaking his head at him as if how could anyone be such a jerk? and he looks front. Why’d he even answer them? They didn’t hear, but just with his mouth moving. They’re crazy or just bastards. Best to ignore them. They could sideswipe his car or whatever’s the word. Sideswipe. That what they’re after? Bump or graze his car a little with theirs to give him a scare? Even to send him off the road or into another car for all he knows? They might know how to do it without losing control of theirs, but he could lose control. That could be what they want, for him to crash, but more realistically to just scare him and they might be so stupid as to think everyone can get back control of their car once they lose it for a second, at least any man his age, so they actually might not have any thoughts about making him crash, but he could. He’s a good driver but not great. Car spinning on a slick or ice, he never knows what to do. Brake, no brake, left when it goes right, right when it goes right, steering the car where? and it’s happened. Then out the side of his eye the passenger’s hand out the window, which is all the way down now he sees when he looks straight at him, and pointing it to the front of his car and down, the wheel or somewhere near. “Something is wrong with your car,” the man seems to be saying. “Something is wrong where I’m pointing, up front.” “Something’s wrong with some part of the front of my car?” he mouths, not wanting the kids to hear, and the man nods and the driver, looking back and forth at the road and him, nods vigorously, saying “Yeah, babe, yeah,” and the man says with his expression and hand “Roll down your window so I can tell you what it is.” Wait wait wait. Something’s been wrong with his car and their staying even with him and everything all this time was for that? And the laughing before, even the hysterics, was because they knew he was thinking they were doing something terrible or nuts or intending to when it was only his car and safety and stuff and even his kids they were concerned about? Good intentions all along? So maybe it’s that, it seems to be, which he’s relieved about but now worried about his car, though it’s probably only the air in his left front wheel’s low or hubcap there’s loose, it’s not a flat, he’d feel that, nor his door the man’s pointing at and he can see it’s shut tight, or maybe something’s stuck to his fender or somewhere—the grille�
�a dead animal, a bird, even, and he rolls his window down and says “What is it—the wheel?” and the passenger says “No, man, it’s nothing, but this,” and sticks his left hand out beside his right and there’s a gun in it. Guy’s got a gun, pistol, fingers around the trigger part. “What’re you, fucking crazy?” he screams and speeds up and they catch up and he yells “Girls, down, duck, duck,” and they say “What’s wrong?” “What’s the matter, Daddy?” “What’s ‘duck’?” Julie says and he yells, quickly seeing the guy alongside with the gun out on him, “Down in the seat, away from the windows, now, now, get down,” car staying beside his. He takes his hands off the wheel and keeps shaking them over it and says “God, God, what am I going to do? they’re trying to kill us,” before the car starts hooking right and he grabs the wheel and straightens it, man with the gun out and both men laughing, girls screaming. “Down, keep down,” he yells, “are you both down?” and in the rearview sees they’re down because he doesn’t see them and from below somewhere still screaming, or just one is, scream’s so loud. “On the floor, get on the floor if you’re not, even if you have to take your seats off, seatbelts, on the floor, now,” and floors the gas pedal till the car gets up to as fast as it can get and starts vibrating, men right beside him, arm out with the gun out, driver clutching the wheel but lunging back and forth in the seat and bouncing on it he seems so excited and passenger not laughing now, serious, both hands on the gun, arms resting on the window frame, finger seems to be on the trigger, head cocked and one eye closed, taking aim at him. “Don’t,” he shouts, looking front, “don’t, please don’t, I’ll crash and kill the kids, they’re in back on the floor,” and slows down, men’s car speeds past, good move, what else? slow down some more, into the slow lane, maybe off the highway, even into a ditch, anything better than getting shot at, slows down, into the slow lane, no cops around, no other cars or trucks except far ahead and in the rearview way back if that’s a truck, men’s car into the middle lane he was just in and slows down, another car in the passing lane speeds past doing eighty, maybe ninety and he honks and keeps honking and it honks back but never slows, no houses on the road, just fields and trees, way off a farm, dart off and crash if you have to but going slow and where you have some control. He see a good spot? Too many trees or steep inclines. Maybe shoot across the highway and stop in the grassy middle strip or even cross it if he can find an opening in the fence and then north, but some maniac doing eighty or ninety on this side might suddenly appear from nowhere and hit them. Can’t keep my eye on everything at once. Some cars and a bus pass in the passing and left middle lane. He honks. Men’s car’s slowed down till it’s almost even with his, gun out on his head again but with some kind of cloth over it and the arms, just the barrel he sees, passenger laughing and driver back into hysterics and slapping the dashboard with one hand. “You down, kids?” he yells, “you still on the floor?” and they just scream, never stop, two of them, blocking out his thoughts, and he yells “Stop, stop, I can’t think, speak, tell me where you are, you both on the floor?—I got to know,” and Margo says “Why were we—” and he yells “Answer me,” and she says “Yes, we’re here, but why were we going so fast before and now slow—can we get up?” and Julie says “We stopping, Daddy, those men with the guns away?” and he says “Not stopping, don’t get up,” and looks for them in the rearview, not there, “Or stopping, yes,” and slows down, more cars passing and pass in the two last left lanes and he honks, men alongside him, gun out, guy laughing, and goes off the road, on the shoulder, wants to get as far off the road as he can but tries to keep from getting too near the incline, which is only a couple of feet deep he sees—not even—but car can turn over if he gets only the right wheels in, though comes to that, chance it, they shouldn’t get too hurt if it just rolls over once and stops and he gets them out quick, wants to roll down the right window all the way so there won’t be any smashed glass but he can’t, seat belt, and unbuckles his and rolls the window down while he holds the wheel and yells “Hold on, stay down—kids, you hear? we’re going to stop,” and brakes hard, expects shots, kids bang into the back of his seat by the sounds of the two slams and his head’s thrown forward and bangs into the windshield but doesn’t smash it and he’s snapped back into his seat, looks up, car’s going on and arm’s in and in fact seems to be speeding up but still in the same middle lane and then arm’s out with the gun and no cloth and aimed back at them, two hands it seems around it and from in back the kids’ screams and he yells “Girls, duck, down, duck down,” and throws himself to the floor, shots, two, two more and screaming and ripping of metal in his car both. “Oh my God, oh Jesus, oh no, my darlings,” and gets up, car’s way off, jumps around on the seat on his knees and looks over it and down to the floor. Margo’s screaming, Julie, nothing, eyes closed, Margo’s opening on him. Blood around and on them both, blood running down his face but he’s too alive and alert and no pain so he knows he’s not hurt and it must just be some cut on his forehead, but Julie looks dead. She has to be hit. But maybe just her head slamming against the seat before and she’s stunned or out cold but she’ll be up or she’s faking and he says “Julie, you all right?” and there’s nothing and he says “Margo, you?” and she says “Daddy, your head,” and he says “Hell with my head, but you’re all right, right?” and she says “My head really hurts, I think I might’ve broken it,” and he says “No no, you’re okay—Julie, you all right? You okay? What is it, dear? Get up. Margo’s fine. We’re all fine. It’s over now. We’re safe. Don’t stay there. Tell me. Don’t pretend if you’re not hurt. Margo says she’s not pretending. Really hurt, I mean. Julie, lovie, do the same,” and Margo says “She’s not pretending, Daddy. She’s very hurt, look at the blood. It’s all over,” and jumps away as if suddenly afraid of it and sits up, legs tucked under her, on the seat. “It’s mostly from me, that blood there,” he says, wiping his head with his sleeves, “not her or that much of it,” and gets out on his side, cars passing, a truck, tries opening their door on that side, locked, beats the door with his fists and yells “Stop, stop,” then thinks “Quick, do something, save her if she can be saved,” and then shakes his head and says “No no, not that thought, never,” and gets on his seat and leans over the back to open their door and goes in back through it and sits on their seat, Margo in the corner, and lifts Julie up by her back and head and doesn’t want to look but has to and lifts her blouse and pulls down her pants and sees she’s shot in the chest near her neck. Blood’s coming out of it, has come out, one shot it seems and wipes the blood off her back and doesn’t see any place where the bullet could have come out, and presses his chest with his hand while holding her and screams “Oh no, oh my God, not my child, don’t do this, don’t, make her live, not Julie,” and Margo screams. “Shut up,” he yells and she says “My head hurts bad, Daddy, I feel sick,” and he yells “Fuck your head, your sister’s dying or dead,” and she starts crying and he says “I’m sorry, I’m going crazy, I don’t know what to do, what should I do? but be quiet,” and she’s quiet and he listens at Julie’s mouth for breathing but she isn’t. She is. Thinks he heard something, a gurgling, a voice. Then nothing. “What, what? You say something, Julie? Say it again.” Ear at her mouth. Nothing. Ear against her chest. The blood, which he feels on his cheek, and looks around for something to stop it, his hanky. Margo’s shouting something at him, the words “important, important,” and he says, pressing the hanky hard against the hole in Julie, “What’s that?” and she says “A hospital, it’s important we go to a hospital,” and he says “Where is one? You see a sign before for one?” and she shakes her head. “We could be driving around looking for one till she really dies. Right now let me just see. Maybe a police car will come and they’ll get an ambulance here quicker,” and listens against her chest around where he thinks her heart is. Nothing. Listens to other places where her heart could be. Parts her lips with his fingers, ear on her mouth. Thinks he feels something, breath, wet. Maybe it’s the blood again and h
e isn’t feeling anything like breath, or can’t hear it and closes his eyes and concentrates but there’s nothing, no breath, sound, gurgle. Wipes his ear where it felt wet and looks at it; was blood. Parts her lips and sticks his ear inside her mouth far as he can get it. Cars zip by, what sounds like a big truck. “Shut the noise,” he shouts, “shut the fuck up,” and Margo says “I’m not saying anything, I’m quiet,” and he says “The cars, trucks. Shh, I’m listening, I have to listen,” and sticks his ear back in, closes his eyes and holds his breath. Nothing. His ear out, lets her lips close, kisses them. They’re not warm, they’re not cold. That wasn’t why he kissed them but feels them again, kisses them. Same thing but colder than lips usually are he thinks. “Oh my God, help, someone help, we need help.” “Breathe into her,” Margo says. “What?” “Breathe into her. They do that; it could help.” “Oh fuck, I forgot,” and pounds his head with his fists and she says “Daddy, please, breathe into her. Down and up like I’ve seen, down and up,” and he says “I know how, I think, but nothing’s going to work, I know it,” and lays her on the floor and breathes into her mouth, comes up and takes a deeper breath and breathes into her, twice more, listens, nothing. “More, more, those times aren’t enough,” she says and he breathes into her, takes a deep breath, breathes into her, deep breath, eight more times till it’s ten, listens at her mouth and chest. “Go out, I’ll continue,” he says. “Flag down a car. That’s with your arms,” waving. “Stop one. Stop a lot. Maybe one will have a doctor.” “I still think we should go to a hospital, look for one.” “We will but first do what I say. We just need help. Now go.” She opens the door to the ditch side, starts to step out, he yells “No, don’t, you can get killed, the cars. What am I doing? Stay with your sister. She starts moving, yell for me.” He goes out, flags car after car. None stop or slow down. “I have to do this quickly,” he yells at the next few cars, “so someone stop. I got to get back to helping her—Margo, can you breathe into her?” he yells. Her head pops up; what was she doing? “If you can, do.” “What?” “Breathe into Julie, into her, you saw me. Anything might help—Stop,” he yells at a car that just passed in the slow lane. “My kid’s been shot,” pointing to his car, thinking the driver might be looking back in his mirrors. “Stop, stop, she’s dying, I need help,” running into the middle of the slow lane, looking at a car way off coming in it and then to the one that passed. “She may be dead. Please, please.” Other cars and trucks in all four lanes. One that was in the slow lane moves into the nearest middle lane when it gets about two hundred feet from him and the driver points to his own head and then him with the motion “You’re nuts.” He was going to stay there till it was about fifty feet away. He stays a few feet into the slow lane yelling. Most people look, several honk, some point, a little girl waves back at him, a few seem to say to each other “You see that?” a couple of them signal with their faces and hands “Sorry, can’t stop,” a motorcyclist goes past in the fast lane but never seems to see or hear him. “My daughter, my little girl, stop, I’m not kidding,” pointing to his car, front door open. “She’s shot, hurt, maniacs on the road, she was shot by a maniac.” Makes his hand into a gun and shoots it at his car. “Like this, a gun, don’t you hear?” All the cars in the slow lane go into the middle ones to pass him. “Shot, maybe killed, my kid, over there. Oh fuck it.” Starts running back to his car when he sees a car’s stopped about a hundred feet past him, now driving in reverse on the shoulder till it’s right in front of his. “What’s up?” the driver says from the window, “something the matter I can help?” a kid, around eighteen. “My daughter, in there, she’s shot. Some guys from another car. I think she’s dying or dead. I’m going crazy what to do.” “Better get her to a hospital fast. There’s one a few miles from here. Next exit. No, exit after that. What the heck’s the exit number? I know it, every day, and now I have to forget? But one of the next three exits for sure. They’re all one quick after the other, the first about five miles from here. There’s a big blue H sign with an arrow on it by the exit sign you’re to get off. Follow it to the hospital, there’ll be other H’s, a mile, no more than two from it.” “Please get out and stop other cars. I’ve got to get back to her. Maybe one will have a doctor. They’ll see our two cars here and think something’s wrong and stop.” “Put your emergency flashers on, that’s a signal,” putting on his. “And let me see her,” getting out. “I don’t know anything but I think I can tell if she’s too far gone.” “No, just go, even to call nine-one-one. Get an ambulance here; you know where we are. My other kid will wave down cars while I keep the shot one breathing. They’ll stop for a kid waving.” “Daddy,” Margo yells, “you have to come here. She’s changing colors and didn’t feel right when I touched her.” He drops to the ground and pounds it and screams “Oh my God, please don’t, You got to do something.” “You really better get her to the hospital,” the man shaking his shoulder. “That’s the quickest. They can pull her back even when she’s dead a minute. I’ll lead you.” “Right,” and he jumps up and gets in his car, man runs to his, and he says “Margo, buckle up,” looks back, Julie’s where he left her, man’s honking, wants to go. “She didn’t get up, did she?—make a move, a sound, nothing like that?” and Margo says “I don’t think so but I wasn’t always looking—what about her strange color? She’s not dead, is she?” and he says “She’s the same, no new colors, alive, only hurt, she’ll be fine, fine,” but doesn’t remember seeing. Just there, that’s all he recalls, on the floor, same spot, eyes closed, too peaceful, maybe with some new blood on her. “It’s smelling back here, Daddy.” Blood; has to go back to help her, stuff it up, get her breathing, keep her, he means. Man’s honking and pulls out. “Okay, okay—my keys, oh no,” and looks for them above the dashboard, feels his pockets, screams “My keys, where are they, why am I always losing things?” in the ignition, turns the key and there’s this ripping sound from it, ignition was still on and he says “Oh my darling, my darling, and I could’ve killed them both,” crying. Man honks and he screams “I can’t take it, I want to kill myself,” and follows the car into the slow lane and along the highway. “Daddy, you’re not going to crash us, are you?” and he thinks, “Oh I wish that was Julie saying that,” and says “No no, it’s just I feel so bad,” and she says “Me too—your lights on like that man’s?” and he puts the flashers on and says “How’s Julie doing? Some movement, anything with the eyes?” and she says “The same. I can’t look at her anymore, Daddy, I can’t,” and he says “Just tell me if you see any part of her move or breathe. I don’t know what to do. What should I? Go back and breathe into her, try and stop her cuts?” and she says “You’re doing right, Daddy, the hospital. They’ll do it better, they know how.” “Faster,” he yells out the window to the man, “go faster,” for the man’s only doing fifty-five, then sixty and then fifty-five again and keeps turning around to see if he’s still behind him. “I’m here, what do you think? just use the mirrors, you fucking idiot, don’t waste your time turning around to me and cutting your speed,” and honks and honks, gets very close as if to say speed up or move over, but the man looks back again and looks alarmed when he sees how close the cars are and waves for him to get farther back and he waves for the man to go faster, faster and yells “Faster, faster,” and the man speeds up to sixty and stays there. “Jerk, fucking schmuck, move, move,” and sees a sign for the next exit one mile ahead, no H on it, maybe it’ll be on the exit sign, but the man isn’t signaling right, maybe he never does when he’s changing lanes or leaving one for an exit, lots of drivers don’t, but it’d be a signal to him that this exit’s the one they get off. They approach the exit and the man passes it and soon after it is another sign for an exit a half mile ahead, H on it and he signals left and skirts around the man and speeds up and the man honks and tries keeping up with him and he gets off, doesn’t look back to see if the man’s behind, maybe he should because maybe the man’s trying to tell him that this is the wrong hospital, the next one which might
be off one of the next two exits might be the right one for emergencies, looks in the rearview but man’s not there, no no, there couldn’t be two hospitals so close or the chances of it are very small in what seems like such an unpopulated area and besides that the man would have said something about it before they took off, or even if the man just realized it it’s too late and this hospital will have doctors and stuff to help and going fast as he can he follows the H signs and then Hospital signs and sees the hospital, it’s a large one so will probably have an Emergency and goes down its road and looks for a sign saying emergency, “Margo, look for a sign that says emergency,” he yells, “e-m-e-r—you know how to spell it. Is Julie all right, everything back there okay?” and she says nothing and he sees the sign and then the emergency entrance and parks in front, “There’s Emergency,” she says and he says “I know,” and honks and honks and nobody comes out or is around and he yells “What do I have to do, go in to get you?—this is an emergency, I’m honking emergency,” and looks in back, Margo’s crying, “Oh this is so tough for you, darling, I know,” Julie in the same place, “Julie, my love, Julie, how are you? Please be well. We’re here, getting help, dear, help,” and gets out of the car, says into the back “Stay put, both of you, I’ll fetch them,” and runs in thinking “‘Fetch,’ what a dumb word, how could I have used it?” and yells to a man behind a window in Reception “Emergency, emergency, my daughter’s been shot, someone, someone, I almost know it’s too late but help me, help her,” and a nurse charges through the double doors next to the reception window toward him and just as she’s about to say something he grabs her arms and shouts “Where were you? Why wasn’t someone outside? Get a doctor, breathing equipment, something to stop the blood, she’s in the car outside, dark gray one, charcoal,” and runs back out and into the backseat and sits her up and breathes into her, comes up, breathes into her, lips are cold but that can be just that she’s very hurt, the opposite somehow of a temperature from an infection or cold where the body’s doing something he doesn’t understand because of the hole in her and loss of blood. Breathes into her, listens, nothing, but he might not be hearing, where’s Margo? “Margo,” he yells, “Margo.” “I’m in front. I couldn’t stay. Is that all right? Did I do wrong?” She’s so sticky and limp, back, wrist, forehead, cold all over, she’s dead, has to be, the purple coloring and film, there’d be some life sign, eyes, he opens one, it looks dead, he didn’t act fast enough to save her, just should’ve kept breathing into her with Margo waving for help on the shoulder till someone came. Or taken her outside the car and breathed into her there so other cars would see and stop. Didn’t do what he should’ve done on the road to get away from the men which would have been what? Swerved more, tried earlier to dart into the median strip and then gone north on it, got off sooner onto the shoulder and immediately driven in reverse. Moment he knew she was shot, without even going in back, should’ve raced down the highway till he saw a sign for a hospital—just should’ve believed one would come. If only they’d stopped at the rest stop twenty miles or so back as Julie had asked him to instead of his insisting on getting home soon as they can, eager to get their things away and dinner prepared so he could read the mail and newspaper over a drink. She didn’t have to go to the bathroom—he asked her—she just wanted water, maybe a soda, she said, “No soda,” he said, “and water you can get at home.” Margo wanted something to drink too but also didn’t have to make. If only one of them had wanted to go to the bathroom badly, just said that, even lied they did and then got water or asked for soda there, he would have stopped. If only he’d wanted to pee, but really had to, was about to explode or felt it coming, or twenty miles or so back he’d been so tired that he needed a break and cup of coffee, he would have stopped and never have come up against those men or probably not. But don’t get sick over it. He can still help, who knows? and breathes into her, listens to her mouth, nose and chest. Stop kidding yourself, there’s nothing there and hasn’t been for minutes, she’s dead, that’s all, but you’re not a doctor, you don’t know, so she might not be, but she’s already started what’s got to be an impossible-to-change change, he can see and feel it, so she’s dead. “Oh God, she’s dead,” he thinks, and bursts out crying and cries hysterically and Margo leans over the seat and rubs his back and says “This is very sad, Daddy, I don’t know what to do either.” Hospital people are there now, may have been there awhile, all the doors open, nurses, doctors, aides, equipment, with so many people and stuff they’ll be certain to help her, each of them has that competent look and this is the country, not the city, where people are eager to help and do their job well and no one’s on the run, and someone says, pulling his arm, “Please come out, sir,” and he thinks “That’s a good sign,” the relaxed voice and calm look and pleasant manner, just by looking at her they can tell things aren’t as bad as he thought and maybe not even an emergency and he says “Wait, I have to put her down first,” but she’s not in his arms, not even in the car now, he must have put her down, or dropped her, God forbid, or handed her to someone or they took her away from him, even out of his arms, without him even knowing it, so what does that say? A bad sign, but he’s not sure. And where is she? He’s escorted out, Margo’s already out, and he’s looking around for Julie, best place he bets is on the ground and he looks down and doesn’t see her and up and sees a crowd of hospital people whisking a wheeled stretcher toward the emergency doors, her feet sticking out or rather her shoes and little socks and a bit of her legs, then they’re through the doors which fly open, second set of doors which fly open and they’re gone, he can’t see them and he yells “Julie,” and a man, probably a doctor because he’s in white, says “She’s in the treatment room, we’re trying to revive her, just tell me quick, is she allergic to anything?” “I don’t think so, I don’t know, my wife knows all that.” “How long ago would you say she was shot?” “Half hour or so, I think, twenty minutes, longer, twenty-five, maybe more.” “Was any other harm or blow done to her, knife, head injury in the car?” “No, it was from another car, guy with a gun on the highway, we didn’t crash but I did come to a quick stop and she might have hit her head against the back of the front seat, but minor, minor compared to the gunshot.” “Anything else about her medical history, can’t clot, prone to seizures, any severe recurring illnesses, is she on any drug now, anything to do with the heart, congenital, recent operations, like that?” “Not that I know of, healthy, normal, colds, flu and that thing with the throat, strep, operations I know there’s been none of, only one time when she was very young there was a scare, pressure behind the eyes they thought could be a brain tumor, but it turned out to be nothing,” and the man says “Stay here, or preferably in the lobby, but somewhere where we can speak to you immediately if we need to, and if we don’t then someone will come out to see you after we’re done,” and runs to the emergency entrance so fast that the doors don’t open when he gets there, has to step back and walk forward and they open and then the next ones open and the man’s running someplace and then’s gone, and he’s looking for Julie again, maybe they didn’t take her, on the ground, nothing there, I should go to her, he thinks, but what use could I be, since she has pros taking care of her now and they probably won’t let me in. But maybe I could get in, “I’m her father,” I could say, “I’ve rights and I could be of some help,” to comfort her, from the sides saying “You’ll be all right, you’ll be all right, dear, do what they say, Daddy’s here, your daddy who loves you.” Margo’s holding his hand and says “This is so awful, Daddy. What will Mommy say if Julie’s really dead? Please hold me,” and he thinks “That I should do and can use a little of too,” and he tries but is too weak to. He knows he should comfort Margo also, say something like “It’s going to be okay, you’ll see, with so many nice capable people helping and in a treatment room where they can treat her capably, how could it not be?” but he’s crying and says “Oh no, I was all wrong and you’re right, it really is awful, how could it be worse?”
He doesn’t want to, more for her sake, but slips his hand out of hers and holds his head, tries to think. There’s something I should be thinking of, he thinks, but I don’t know what. No, there’s something I should be doing—that’s it—but what? What is it I should do? I should do something. I should go into the lobby, stay there, waiting to be of help, that’s true and I will, but something else. I should wake up. Oh, that’s the easiest way out, isn’t it? and the least realistic, though wouldn’t it be nice. But I should. I should really wake up. This is too terrible a dream, they don’t need me in the lobby, everything with her is okay, some would call it a nightmare—it is a nightmare, but why quibble over definitions?—and if I can wake myself up from it I should, for then everything would change, but there I go again, the world’s easiest and most desirable cop-out, the dream. But where will I be if I could? Julie will be here, Margo. Lee will be with her folks and I’ll call her soon as I can and say “Well, we just got here and everything’s fine. How you doing? Kids and I miss you.” Here is home and wouldn’t that be grand. But how do I get from this place to that, with Julie still being worked on in the treatment room, or so it seems like. There’s nothing wrong, that’s how, no treatment room, everything’s fine, or she is there but suddenly jumps up fully recovered, or just needs a little bandage here, some other place, and I sign a couple of papers, even write out a check, and we drive home. But it doesn’t even have to go that far—all that was a dream and you are home, that’s where you are. I’ll cook dinner for the kids, make sure they get to bed on time. School’s tomorrow, how about that? “We have clean clothes for tomorrow? You know your dresser drawers better than I, but if you need help, even if you want me to do a wash for tomorrow, let me know.” I’ll read Julie a story while her light’s out and they’re both in bed, Margo reading in her own room. Lately Julie’s been engrossed in Greek myths. Or I’ll sit in the hallway between their rooms, lights out for both of them and maybe on in the hallway, or only the hallway bathroom light on but with the door mostly closed, or their night lights which they haven’t had on for a week—“I’m too old to still be scared of the dark,” Margo had said, so Julie said she didn’t want hers on either but she’s been waking up and going into their room almost every night since because of it—and I’ll tell them a story. Continuation of the Nancy Drew and Ned Nickerson saga after they got married and had a child whom they lug around in a back or chest carrier while solving crimes, or just a story started by the first thing that pops into my head. Moral or folk tale, fantasy, biblical or chivalric story retold mostly with dialog, but better, with my kind of mind, something made up on the spot and new. One incident leading to the next, usually humorous and where most of the characters have accents, and the ones I’ve had the best success at and with some great endings that even surprised me. Stories where they both said when I kissed them goodnight “That was a good one, you should write it down so you can tell it to us again.” I usually said “Don’t worry, I’ll remember,” but I never do. Or I can have one of them choose what kind of story she wants me to tell and even what characters she wants in it. “Who picked the topic last time?” I’ll ask, and whoever did it’ll be the other’s turn tonight. That is if they don’t say right away they want the same one. If they want, or Lee says they need a bath before bed, I’ll run one and make sure they dry themselves well, especially their poupies and hair, and then that they brush and floss their teeth. In other words, everything they’d do if their mother was here, though maybe not the flossing. If they want their dessert after the bath, then the teeth-brushing after. Maybe they have to brush their hair too before they go to sleep. I’ll ask them or Lee when I speak to her, which probably should be after dinner and before the bath but certainly at a time when they can both speak to her. If braids are needed, which I’ve seen them go to bed with, that I can’t do. TV? None, or a half-hour show at the most, preferably a public one. And where would Lee be now? Probably at her parents’, maybe helping her mother with supper or having tea with her dad. And the men? Get to where they were going? They think they have to make a detour? Still talking about what happened before, making jokes about it—Fucking great shot, probably got the two snotnoses with one bullet—or they even know how it came out? Maybe the man intentionally shot over their car just to scare them but his aim was bad or the driver made a sharp turn or car went over a bump moment the gun went off and they never saw the bullet or bullets go into the car. It certainly wasn’t anything the driver could see in his mirrors, since the windshield was smashed. He should tell the cops about them, give descriptions, but can he even remember what they look like? Clothes, even their hair? One wore a red tie, but who? Color of their car he knows but was it a two-door, four-door, station wagon, even a van? Seemed to be fairly new and the exterior shiny and clean and something seems to stick in his head that says it was a fancy model of some kind, but he’s not sure. What good would it do? Well, stop them from doing it to other people on the road or elsewhere, and to get even, of course. He should do that now, or later. Write it down, but who’s got a pen? And now, not later. Lots of it should come back, but for now it’s a jumble. Margo! and wheels around for her, yells “Margo,” sees she’s standing beside him, head against his side, frightened now she did something wrong, squeezing his hand. Gets on one knee and hugs her, starts crying and she cries and says “I love you, Daddy,” and kisses his head. If Julie were here she’d make a face and say “You kissed his hair; you’re not supposed to, it’s unsafe.” Wants to say “I love you” back, but no way to, not even nod. Doctor approaches. Doctor comes over. Stands in front of them. He’s sitting with Margo on the curb where the car was, someone must have moved it away; she sprawled across his thighs, though he doesn’t remember sitting down or how she got there and if he stroked her head and back, which is what he’s done other times when she was so distressed, till she went to sleep or shut her eyes. Someone in white at least, looking seriously at him and as if preparing a speech. Probably a doctor: whole outfit white, even the shoes. “Dr.,” tag on her jacket says, and after it—strains to read—“Lynette C. Jones.” Millions of Joneses but always a surprise to meet one. “Lynette” to do what: individualize, particularize, set apart or off?—heck, no reason he should be expected to come up with the right word now—like the Harrison Jones he once met, and another: Severen or something, and a Velásquez, that’s right. Why’s he thinking this? Fool, stupid, and bangs his forehead with his free palm. And who were those people in uniforms before who came over while he was in a stupor, he thinks, or just asleep but feeling drunk, and asked questions? They were told by him or someone else, he thinks, another doctor, male, that he’d see them inside. What color men? they asked, race, they mean. How many in the car? What make, car color, how many doors, did he see the license plate, what color plate then, did he know the men, any distinguishing features other than a red tie on one of them? Then they were gone, as if given strict orders to go, something he’d never do to police. Police. Margo answered some of it but they wanted him. Doctor’s hands cupped in front of her—clasped, he thinks he means, and at her chest, serious expression unchanged, takes a breath to speak. He looks away and says “I know she’s dead, that’s what you came over to tell me, let’s keep it between us and not the kid, but isn’t that so? Don’t answer if it is, and notice I’m not looking at your face to see what your expression says. Or maybe she’s alive. That you can tell me—no, don’t answer that either, for now if you didn’t tell me that’d mean she was dead, right? But if you just threw out that she was alive you’d see a man jump or rise but go clear up to the sky and take you and my daughter Margo here with him. Tell me she’s saved,” still not looking at her, looking at the curb, road, doctor’s shoes, even white eyelets for the white laces, car driving past, Margo still sleeping or resting or pretending to sleep or rest, not at the walk to the entrance where they were working over Julie on the run, or something they might have dumped or dropped on the ground along the way, a towel, tubing, syringe cap, bloody stri
p of gauze, but he doesn’t look. “Or just still alive, that she is, but not out of danger and that I can speak to her, even if for now she wouldn’t be able to hear. Too critical, but that can change, and it seems when people are critical, young people particularly, they always rally. Rally, what a word, Let’s all rally around, really rally around. If only we could, and prayer helped, and so on. My father, the doctors used to say, was a goner I can’t tell you how many times when we took him to the hospital in a coma, but he always, till he died at home in one—our home, a coma, meaning my home as a child, though I was a grownup when he died—managed to survive. I didn’t make myself clear then and haven’t been, but as I was telling myself before, something personal between me and me, I shouldn’t be able to—expected to, is what I told myself. Another bad example. And he was old and she’s so young, his body had gone through lots of drink and cigars and all that crap, while she hasn’t even started—milk and English muffins are what she loves most to drink and eat, chocolate milk, even better, and the muffins buttered with real butter—so I don’t have to believe in miracles regarding her survival. The young always have a greater chance of beating the odds or just surviving a tremendous body trauma, as they say, isn’t that true? And they should too, for reasons of living and right and what ought to be and what’s due them and also if there’s a God in heaven or some place, just because they are young and haven’t, so to speak—and not just the cigars and drink—lived, though there’s a lot of life in six years, little that it is. You must know what I mean. And six years, that’s how old she is; this one’s nine, and that’s it for my kids, meaning all there are. Anyway, I can believe anything you say so long as it’s good and hopeful, and I’m not taking you away from her, am I? and please excuse me that I didn’t go into the lobby to make it easier for you to speak to me and not have you come out so far, but there are people and police there I didn’t want to see. Keeping you, I mean,” looking at her, “I’m not keeping you away from her where you can be an important part of her surviving?” “No.” “You are a doctor, yes?” “I’m a doctor. Doctor Jones.” “I can see that and I can believe anything you say if it’s good or just a little hopeful, but I said that. I should say something I haven’t said, but what? I’m obviously in bad shape, that’s obvious, and you’re obviously a doctor, I can see that as I’ve said, the tag, but she’s dead, right? Don’t say it or even give it away with your face, try not to, at least, but she is, isn’t she, which is what you came over to tell me and I absolutely don’t want to hear. No one wants to die before his kids do more than I.” “We probably shouldn’t talk about it here, Mr. Fry.” “Frey, it’s pronounced, Frey, but that’s not important, so what is? Not my name.” “Mr. Frey, excuse me—but it’s probably not a good idea to discuss this in front of your daughter unless you’re sure she’s asleep and can’t hear.” “You mean this one.” “Yes.” “She’s asleep. I can tell by her light breathing and easy way she’s lying on me. But the other one. Don’t say.” She bites her lips. “There was no conceivable way,” she starts to say. “No conceivable way,” he says. She nods, is talking, saying something, something’s being said, thought he told her not to say anything, but she did, so what? Won’t listen, or can’t hear. No insides, nothing inside, so cold inside, no conceivable way she started to say, or said but it was part of something else she started to say that he missed, because nothing to hear with, everything’s frozen, all of him’s sick but he doesn’t want to vomit, can’t, if it’s coming up, even feel it, though he is faint, so good, let me go. Screens coming down around him, bang-bang. Shields, really, sky to floor. She’s talking, saying something, something’s still being said, she’s still standing, shaking her head now, commiserative look, though he told her not to look, whatever you do don’t give it away, windows closing around him, thick, then door following door following door, slamming shut and closing him off, voice in his head saying “I’ve been cut short,” but not his, knows whose it is. He believes in quick spirits? Thinks he gets what the whole thing means. Hears a bird and there is one, at first thought, well at first thought, it was just in his head, but a bird in a tree near them, answered by another in a tree across from it or one not too far away, same call, back and forth, cheep-cheep, cheep-cheep-cheep, and so on, like Morse, saying in code “We’re bell-like birds, knelling death.” Bellbirds, bell-bell-bell-birds. Grabs his ears, folds them over the holes and squashes them closed. It would be nice not to breathe now, not to breathe from now on in, just to instantly stop or disappear, right now and here the end, kaput for good. But Margo, his darling Margo, what would she do if he did and that sort of thing? Mein licht in heaven, huh? And Lee, for then there’d be two gone when she’d need him for Julie when that time comes, which it will, just wait. But Margo. Minor light in nacht, nicht in what, huh? Panic, her dead or disappeared dada stopped, run out into the driveway, under a car wheel, if one didn’t get her before that: all the way back to the highway to die. What’s he talking about? That plus the nicht what. She’d stay put but would never be the same. Hold her, stay, best thing, now you’re talking. But so fucking co, so co, can’t for the life of him stand it. And what’s there? Body all bare, blank and hollow and wet with icy sweat but why wipe it? besides: can’t. “Yes,” she’s saying, which he can hear now, her head bent to one side to show sympathy, and that sympathetic puss, one of her hands taking his which he shoves off. Don’t show, yes means death, show means no, co means what? can’t she see that? but “Yes, yes,” he says, hates them: give life, take life, work with their picks and drills on life, don’t be irrational, “that’s right, no,” since she seems to have answered something he seems to have said and in a way where he’d made sense, but what, he doesn’t know. “Yes, I’m afraid so,” she says, “I’m so sorry. I can’t tell you how much. What in the world can be worse? Doctors know. We haven’t seen it all, believe me. We’re human beings first—mothers, fathers, just people. One doesn’t have to have children to understand. I wish—we all do—some of them were crying when they were trying to revive her—it could have been otherwise. How much we do, honestly, sir, Mr. Frey. I’d have given anything. We all would have. But she wasn’t breathing and her heart had stopped and rigidity was already setting in.” Tries closing her off by waving her away with both hands. Wants her to disappear. The whole scene to go except Margo, and Julie, of course, but hears her. “When she got here we couldn’t do a thing. There was no conceivable way as I mentioned before. She arrived in an exanimate, unresuscitable, deceased state and we couldn’t for anything get her around, what more can I say?” Nothing, none, thank you, he thinks, you’ve said everything inconceivable, go away. “Nothing, none, inconceivable,” he says, “I heard. Amazing, just amazing. I always thought kids were so strong and savable no matter what the obstacles, but of course up to a point. But that point way beyond our point and that they bounced back, like that, or sort of,” snapping his fingers or trying to but they don’t snap. She’s saying no, it’s not always the case, that “up to a point” he said, though their reviviscent and recuperative chances are usually enhanced because of their youth, but again up to a point. Then he says “Injuries, not obstacles, and I want the truth. This some kind of ruse? I’m—even my other daughter here—are we being tested for some reason in this way? No of course not, why would anyone? no rest or ruse. Seeing is believing, hey? Feeling is. You feel and her skin’s got the feel of slick dried leaves and things are hardening up in her limbs and there’s no beat and nothing brings anything back and the rest of it, her breath and brain waves, and that’s the reason for your belief? Well why not. Let’s not just think of the poor survivors. She was dead coming here, dead down that road and along the way, over the overpass, under the under-something, onto the ramp and across the bridge, that’s from an easy-reader book I used to read to her when she was even a littler kid and then she learned by heart and ended up reading on her own, under, over, by the, all prepositions I for some dumb reason only just realized, out of, into, down the path, between th
e rocks, along the lake, through the woods, up Spook Hill, probably the hardest words for a kid to comprehend the meaning of, wouldn’t you say, for what are they? Nouns name things, verbs are active, even adjectives have a little more life or something to them. No,” and inside: all a lie. This, that, everything about her today. She wasn’t in the car; yes she was. She’s home, sleeping peacefully, missed her flight. Huh? There are drawings of hers at home. Oh boy there are. She loved to draw. “I like art best,” she used to say, for years. As a very little kid always scribbling pictures and recently subscribing them with titles and dialog. “The owl flies away.” (“Daddy, how do you spell ‘flies’? Not the flies that are pests but the ones where something flies away?”) “Mommy, Daddy, Margo, me and the Iguana I want them to buy for me.” (“Does ‘guana’ start off with w or g? Do you think I drew him well? It’s from memory.”) “Leave! Get out!! Help!!!” the princess demanded. “Someone, save me!!!!” All over the place and he knows he’s going to worship them every time he stumbles on one which he’ll do a lot unless he junks his entire library, for he’s put them away in books and between them on bookshelves and in his work drawers at home and work. And what will he do when he finds one, which he’s sure to: tear it up or throw it away? And the framed ones above his desk at home and on the walls at work and the big one of Demeter and Persephone in the living room, tear them down and smash the frames and glass and dump them in someone else’s trash can or one of the ones in the men’s room? There are things to attend to, nothing he looks forward to, and suppose Lee wants things to be left as they are? “No,” he yells and Margo’s startled and sits up and grabs his arm and says “I think I heard what you were talking about before you screamed. I first heard it in my dreams, I think, or maybe I wasn’t, but I’ve been listening in and out of them a long time, so I know. We have to call Mommy, Dada, we have to. I need her around.” “You’re right, we have to, I’m not doing right by you or just what I should for you, soon. Because we can’t just stay here like this bawling and screaming and acting babbly forever. But it just happened, dear, not even an hour ago. I didn’t see the time then and I won’t look at my watch now; I don’t want to know even what time of the day around any of it took place, but do you really know what this all means?” “With Julie I do.” “It means that the worst possible thing that could ever happen, happened. No, it would’ve been worse if you had died too. And worse yet if Mommy had been in the car with us and she had died with the two of you. It wouldn’t have been worse if I had died with all of you. That would have been better. Then I wouldn’t know anything that happened, as I now do. It would, in fact, be better, if Julie died, that nobody died with her but me. Of course. But better yet, absolutely best of all, if somebody had to die in that car, though I don’t know why anyone would, that only I had, that’s true too. If only that had been the case. If only that could be made to be the case. How do we go about doing that? It would be bad for you all but not as bad as just Julie dying. Now that’s a tragedy. So in moments like this, can’t we all just crack up, or each to his own? Anyway,” to the doctor, “what happened is just about the worst thing that could ever possibly happen, don’t you agree with me?” “I’m sorry, sir, what? I didn’t quite catch all that or realize till late that you were talking to me.” He looks up at the sky. Hopes to see the bird from the tree again, cheeping. And then to sort of sweep down and pick him up some way and haul him off somewhere. In other words, death, to replace hers, a miracle, with him the most eager party to it, where she suddenly springs up wherever she now is and acts alive. No, doesn’t want to see anything in the sky, and doesn’t know why. No, hopes to see Julie in the tree but a little lower in it, waving at him. “Here I am, look at me, peekaboo, hide and seek, fooled you. It was a big trick, with the whole wide world in on it, even the two men on the road. They were actors. The gun was a phony. Mommy hired them. Don’t ask us why. We have no answers for we didn’t have a reason. Unless just having crazy fun and playing a joke on the old joker and maybe scaring him is one. Oh Daddy, I’m so sorry, did it upset you that much? We went too far. Margo, we’ll have to tell Mommy. Doctor—for she is a real doctor, Daddy—do you think he’ll be all right?” Keeps looking at the branches and leaves in the tree for some sign of her, then thinking if he thinks hard enough, and he’ll have to close his eyes for this, and does, clenched tight, maybe she’ll really appear in them. The power of something. He’s become a believer. By all that’s mighty and strong and so on, he means it. A great one, maybe never one better. He will give anything, he will do anything, his life, as he said, and how many are willing to give that? Well, for something like this, probably a lot, almost all fathers. Or just on the ground for her to appear, moving, even twitching. One little breath or twitch and he’ll pounce on her and save her, he swears it, he doesn’t know how but he will. Give him a chance. Give him this chance. Give her, give her, he means, just one, only one, and he also swears by everything he’s Yours. He opens his eyes on the tree. Nothing there and he’s not that surprised: too high for her to climb. Slowly moves his eyes downward to the walk on which they ran her in. “You should come inside with me,” the doctor says. Nothing’s where she was; place has been emptied and cleaned, even the stuff that must have fallen out of his car when they grabbed her away from him to put her on that cart. Few people around anywhere, even; thing’s over, other duties, next emergency or just to get the cart cleaned and equipment they used on Julie ready for one. “Margo and you both. There’s a bit of business to do, I’m afraid, which only you can take care of, or your daughter’s mother if she were here. Some signing, identification, nothing you’ll like. What kind of coverage you have, for instance. I only want to prepare you. After you see her she’ll be taken to the county medical examiner’s office, which by the nature of the crime she’s required to. After that you’ll have to arrange for a funeral home to pick her up from there, of whatever kind you want. But I’ll try to make everything as easy as can be for you here. We won’t be asking for organs or parts. We’re not that kind of facility for most of them and the ones we’re usually interested in were mostly lost and it’d be too big a strain on you and also our facilities for her to be brought back here. Incidentally, I’ve been told to tell you there are several state troopers and other police people who want to speak to you some more. They’re in the lobby and I’m sure by now are getting impatient and want to see you and inspect your car.” “Where is it? It’s not here and I don’t ever want to see it again, so good. But could you promise me, as one of the things you can do, to get rid of it for me? Sell it if you want, I’ll hand over my registration, and use the money for the hospital.” He sticks his hand into his back pants pocket for his wallet. “We can talk about that later, Mr. Frey.” “Margo, was there anything you wanted in the car before we give it away?” “I’d have to see.” “It’s possible they’re already looking at it,” the doctor says, “but someplace else so they wouldn’t have to do it in front of you and maybe they just needed better light. Judging from previous incidents here, they want to help and time’s of the essence if they’re to get your assailant. But give them only as much time as you wish. They understand what’s occurred and the effect on you both.” “Me? What’s to say? Two men, one drove, the other shot. I don’t know their faces anymore. It’s funny because that’s what I was just telling myself before. Blurs. In a car, I don’t know what kind and I’m not even sure if it wasn’t one of those small wagon-trucks, a pickup that you always see on the road, sometimes driven by guys in ties. One of them had a red one, and wide.” “It was a regular car,” Margo says, “no wagon, new and white.” “That’s right and I think what I already told them, no wagon and white, but you’re sure new?” “I don’t know.” “To me it looked recently washed and waxed. But what make and how many doors? These particulars are essential, dear, they’ll need to know for sure. Windows, though, one to stick a gun out of, the right one, if you’re standing behind the car and facing front, all the way rolled down. I told you I’m no g
ood,” to the doctor. “I can tell you what his hands looked like—Mr. Killer. The fingernails were bitten down—but not the face, though he had big teeth, or at least that’s what it seemed. I might be imagining that part of the horror. I see my youngest daughter’s not around the area any longer, just like my car, any reason for that? Everything’s getting lost. Today’s minute is not tomorrow’s, and so on.” “Excuse me, sir?” “May I please see her? This is important. I want to see her before she completely deteriorates.” Glances at Margo, no reaction to what he just said, she’s staring at her arm and pulling up the shirtsleeve. “Daddy, there’s a bad bloodstain here. Lots of them, little and big, and some on my pants. I don’t want to wear them.” “I know, it’s okay, we’ll wash them out later and change soon as we can.” “There’s clothes in the suitcase.” “It’s in the car; we can’t get it now. Please, dear.” “But if we wash out these clothes, they’ll be wet. I can’t wear wet clothes.” “Please, dear.” And to the doctor: “If there is something you can use of hers—Julie—sure, go on, take, why not? I’m talking about parts. I even like the idea that something of hers is walking around on or in someone else, and not clothes. Oh, that’s an old thought, thousands must have had it. You look in someone’s eyes—I’m being extreme now—and see your wife’s corneas, when of course you couldn’t. But what would you do—what would I if it was Julie’s and I somehow knew—swoon? Ask that person to come home with us and put her up in Julie’s room? Would I tell bedtime stories to just that person’s eyes? The person could say, to make this possibility more plausible, that she got them from such and such hospital on such a day, today, and even give the donor’s name. I in fact could first say, after meeting this person at a party, for example, what beautiful or more likely just clear eyes she has for someone her age, and that’s when she could say ‘Well, some of it isn’t mine.’ But the hospital probably covers up records like that for insurance purposes or something else—to avoid the lunatic reactions I just gave, taking that person home for her eyes—and corneas don’t have to be immediately transplanted to someone else, but you know what I mean.” Hears Margo crying, he went too far, and puts his arms around her head and presses her into him and says “I’m sorry, dear, so sorry. Is it still the bloodstains?” “No.” “So, I’m getting carried away, I know, forgive me, but what can we expect? This is what happens. If it happens to you, let it—shriek, crazy, cry—it’s probably good. To us both, I don’t know, let them straitjacket us. No, I’ll come down, you go ahead, and I’ll take care of you, I swear. But something else,” to the doctor. “I’d like a phone and a private room to call from, if you have one.” “For Mommy?” Margo says. “Oh, I don’t know if I really want one. And we have time, dear, don’t we?” to Margo. “Why rush her? She may just be sitting down now for dinner. Wouldn’t that be nice if all were right. But we have to think about this hard. You and I and our brains and some advisors, like this doctor and maybe the police. They’ve been in situations like this or close to it and will know what to do and how to, what’s the best time and so on. But I don’t know if she has to know, ever. Really. No, that can’t be. But why go so fast and how could we do it? Not when she just goes to sleep, not when she just gets up, and she’ll call tonight if we don’t, so we’ll have to tell her then if we don’t before and we’re home, and think up what and how and words and then words after we tell her if they’re needed. Can’t just be on the phone, can we? Better she see it on our faces first, faces only, and then together we can all just die. But then how do we get there, and by the time we do you’ll be asleep and she might be too, which could be good, and we’re not going to wake her up, or I won’t, because you’ll be asleep. No, nothing will work and I’m in no shape to speak or help and don’t know when I’ll ever be and I don’t want anyone else doing it for me but me. She’ll need someone there when she hears. She has your grandparents but someone like me, I think, around, when we tell her, when we do. Or just I will, of course, but you beside me, if you don’t mind.” “I don’t.” “You don’t mind, dear—you’d do it?” “It’s not what I want but I will if you want me and it helps and to stay near you.” “Good, what a doll you are. But here I am, still doing nothing much good for you, isn’t that true? It’s awful,” and kisses her hand and heads inside holding it. “I’m going the right way, aren’t I?” to the doctor as the first automatic door opens. “Though I don’t know for what. My stomach’s shriveling. Am I going in here to see her? She’s in here, just wasn’t a guess, right?” and the doctor nods, looks at her watch, says “If you could give us twenty minutes more, sir, I’ll take you to her. Meanwhile, I’ve asked for the priest, who usually makes his rounds about now, to come down here, and also the resident psychiatrist, just in case you need them.” “Religion, the mind, what about a general?” “I don’t understand.” “I’m not sure myself. What did I say? Something about war. Alluding to it, though I don’t see where. Law of the jungle? Maybe I just meant law, and instead of a general I meant a judge. No, that can’t be: mind, religion, law or war.” “Daddy, please stop it. You’re making things worse.” “But why can’t I go right now to see my younger one, Julie?” he says to the doctor. “What’re you doing to her?” “Don’t you want to continue, Mr. Frey?” for they’ve stopped in the entryway between the doors. “I only want to just touch her when she’s not—you know…” “It’s your privilege, I’m talking about seeing her, if you want to do that now.” “I do. And whatever you want to do, Margo.” “No, sir, I don’t think it’s a good idea for the girl,” the doctor says, “at least not now.” “Then I won’t,” Margo says. “If you don’t,” he says to her, “maybe then I shouldn’t too. I don’t know what to do. And there’s so much to. I think I should stay with you, for your sake and mine.” “Give us the twenty minutes or even a bit more,” the doctor says. “Then maybe decision-making will come a little easier, and there are the police who want to see you right away.” “I don’t know. What am I going to do about my wife? That’s something I’ll never be able to know, though I know I’ll have to do something.” “As you said before, you have time to think about it and decide, and I and several other people on the staff will be more than glad to assist you.”