Interstate

by Stephen Dixon

  Few minutes later he yawns so big a yawn that his eyes squeeze tight and tears come and he tries opening them but for a couple of seconds can’t and he thinks Jesus, what is he, that tired? doesn’t want to stop but might have to—concentrate, concentrate, and while he’s staring front, head pitched a little over the wheel, trying to keep his eyes from closing like that again, he yawns, tries to stop it and is suddenly out, he thinks after he snaps awake, he’s been out, unconscious, but for how long? seconds, even a half minute, a minute, just sitting here sleeping but holding the wheel straight where it didn’t leave the lane. Checks and no cars around so nothing much would have happened if he did go into one of the next lanes and then awakened. But never happened, this. Or happened once, on a trip with his wife before she was his wife and they had kids, eleven hours on the road and he’d driven most of them and forty or so miles from the bungalow on a private cove they’d rented for a month…anyway, stop at the next rest stop. And that was eleven hours, since early morning, so they probably didn’t have enough sleep night before and had tired themselves out a little packing and loading for the trip and cleaning the apartment for the couple subletting it for the month, trying to make it in one day to avoid the costs of an overnight stay and to take full advantage of the cottage’s thirty-one-day lease. That’s right, think like that, of anything to stay awake, or stop on the shoulder to rest his eyes a few minutes, nap for ten, that’d refresh him, and kids won’t mind that much. But you never know. He sometimes gets scared like this. Car coming along could go off the road right into them, thinking it was another lane. Not that but a car in the slow lane might come too close or some thugs might stop to rob him, guys like those guys in the car before. They see a man and his kids: easy target, back up on the shoulder, “Say, you don’t have a jack we can use, for we think we have a flat,” bam, out comes the gun. Sometimes he wishes he kept a weapon in the car to protect himself, like mace. But then the kids could get hold of it accidentally or out of curiosity and then what? That could happen, much as he might warn them. So a baseball bat. Anyway, still thinking, and feeling more alert. Radio, and turns it on. He’ll take any show this time, religious, ridiculous call-in, but can’t pick up anything but two stations with the same kind of thumping music that makes him irritable it’s so ugly, and it’ll wake Julie, so turns it off. Talk. Whispers “Margo?” but she doesn’t answer. “Margo? Margo?” Quickly turns around and sees they’re both asleep. Just a glimpse of them, but little angels; at what age does that look stop? Next rest area shouldn’t be that far off, five, ten miles—forgets when he saw the last sign for one and how many miles it said next area was, but he’s definitely going to stop, piss, wash his face, have two coffees or just a big large one, though he’s not yawning anymore so maybe the crisis is over, though still stop.

  Little later Margo says “Julie’s up,” and he says “Oh, you’re awake,” and she says “I wasn’t sleeping,” and he says “You weren’t? What is it with you two where you don’t like to admit it? Okay,” and she says “Can I speak about something serious now without you getting angry like you can?” and he says “Why would I with just your asking me something—what kind of guy you think I am?” and she says “You have before when I asked you to do something you didn’t want to,” and he says “What is it you want? I promise I’m turning over a new leaf, no more anger or at least not as much—control, control and self-command is the word, or words, and besides, just ask it,” and she says “What time is it?” and he says “That’s what you were afraid to ask?” and she says “No, don’t be silly,” and he says “You can read the time—what time is it?” and she says “Do you think, you don’t have to if you don’t want, we can get home in time to drop me off first at Lillian’s ice-skating party?” and he says “That’s what you thought I’d get angry about? Anyway, it’s already started—I told you this morning I didn’t think you’d be able to go when I saw how late we were getting out,” and she says “But I’ve been thinking about it now and I don’t want to miss it,” and he says “We don’t even have a present,” and she says “Mommy has a whole bunch home for emergencies, I can tell her I’ll give it in school tomorrow,” and he says “That’d work but to get there we’d have to really rush and I don’t want to, right now what I’m doing’s a safe speed and just enough over the maximum, and even if we rushed, really broke the speed laws and everything, you’d barely make the last half hour of it,” and she says “I’ve been to two at that rink and they always went on a half hour to an hour more,” and Julie says “That’s not fair if she goes,” and he says “I don’t want to count on the party going over—it’s just too much out of the way, twenty minutes, then twenty minutes plus twenty in coming back to get you and returning home, and I’m tired, sweetie—did you see me yawning before?” and she says no and he says “You said you were awake so I thought you might have, but I did, I’m so tired I don’t think I should even be driving now—I want to stop for coffee and rest my eyes and mind a little from this driving and that’ll add another half hour to the trip, which’ll mean you’ll get to the party, if we make great time, exactly when it’s scheduled to stop,” and she says “I still want to try,” and he says “You should’ve thought of that this morning when you dillydallied in the john and I was pushing us to get ready so we could go, and also when we stopped for your tacos,” and she says “That’s not fair, we stopped for more—your men’s room, and you had a biscuit and coffee and the tomatoes from Julie’s hamburger,” and Julie says “I didn’t want them but Daddy told me to put them on so he could have them,” and he says “Listen, if we make exceptional time till the Beltway and if on the Beltway I see there’s no heavy traffic or there’s a way where I can avoid it and I think we can get to the party for at the very least, half an hour, then okay, but less than that it’s not worth it, don’t you agree?” and she says “No but okay,” and he says “Okay?” and she says “Yes, what else can I say?” and he says “Good, for then I’ll do my best to get you there, I swear,” and speeds up a little and she says “Like I said, you’re very nice and sometimes easy to talk to. I didn’t say the last thing, but easier than Mommy most times, and you make up with me faster,” and he says “Listen, I’ll have no comparative parent ratings please,” and she says “What’s those?” and he says “I said it wrong; I meant, your mother’s a much better parent than I, doesn’t get hotheaded or temper-tantrummy the way I do, she never really rants or becomes cross, and if I did grab your arms in a pinching sort of way as you said—left marks there, squeezed the skin too hard, but no punches; that I know I’ve never done—well, you know she’s never acted like that, right?” and she says “That’s right, not even a slap, which you once said you did,” and he says “So there. She’s as easy if not easier to talk to than I, more understanding and a lot quicker to forgive and let bygones be and so on and more patient and sensible about what might be bothering you; while my first reaction, if it’s not your health or safety that’s at stake, is to joke about it, but overall we’re both okay, would you agree?” and “You too, Julie—that we’re not total boobs and floperoos as parents or even near to that?” and Margo says “She’s shaking yes and I can say I shake along with that too,” and he says “Well, good.”

  Little later he thinks maybe he can get to the rink in time for her to skate even if they stop for a short break, and drives a little faster, for he slowed down last time, soon after he’d speeded up, to what he’d been doing, and reaches seventy-five, more than he likes to and had got up to last time, slows to seventy-one for he doesn’t want to get stopped by a cop for that would end it, no party, he’s only trying to do something nice for her, hundred-to hundred-fifty-dollar ticket and who knows what else, humiliation, explaining to his wife why he was speeding and with a fine so high and just endangering the kids she’d really be pissed, and what’s four fewer miles an hour anyway in what’s left of this trip, five minutes, six? when he sees a car ahead in the fast lane, doesn’t like passing on the right and why the hell is i
t in that lane if it’s just going to putt-putt along at sixty? so he gets behind it, a man, and judging by the back of him, pretty old, now down to sixty, fifty-eight and the man probably thinks that’s speeding, and stays about thirty feet back but it doesn’t move over, and he flashes his brights, okay, it’s so, he gets a little pleasure or some power thing forcing the cars in front to move over, flashes the brights repeatedly and waits and again and waits and then says “Oh the hell with you, you putz, for what’re you doing there, dreaming?” and Julie says “What, Daddy?” and he says “Nothing, I meant some thing else,” and checks his mirrors, no car behind in the center lane, none in sight in any of them, and darts into it but same time car in front does and he brakes and honks and hears a thump from the backseat into the front and one of the girls screams and the other car goes back into the fast lane and speeds off and he yells “Margo, girls, you all right?” and Julie says “Yes, that was scary, I thought that car would kill us,” and he says “That noise—the bumping sound I heard,” and Margo says “It was my hands against the back of the front seat here, I was pushed forward, my seatbelt must be on too loose, but I’m okay,” and he says “And who screamed?—but forget it, I’m sorry, it was my fault, I never should have tried passing him like that,” and has slowed down, other car’s already a few hundred feet ahead, and thinks that’s enough, too fast, no sense in speeding up and taking chances, and that’s crap you don’t like passing on the right, do it from the slow lane then if there are three lanes and you feel you have to pass the car in the fast, and you’re not tired anymore and that power thing before about forcing the guy over is just ego-building horse-shit you’re going to have to can, for think what could have happened if that man had cut into the center lane just one second after he did, your car would have been clipped, yours doing seventy or so, his, sixty, it could have been disastrous, you could have crashed, turned around, spun around, smashed, gone off the road, over the shoulder, rolled over, kids killed, all of you killed, car in flames, worst of all, them killed and not you. Oh brother, someone’s watching over you—not that, luck and maybe that man’s skillful driving in pulling to the left so quick and good brakes on your part and so on, and stays in the center lane and tells himself to stay in it rest of the trip, though first get off at the next exit even if it’s not a rest stop but only a regular highway exit with those little picture signs that say a restaurant’s near, but don’t hurry your stay there, coffee, maybe a sandwich, where you can sit tight and rest your nerves and eyes, and sees a sign for a highway rest area coming up in three miles, another answer to his prayers if he believed in them, and says “Hurray, rest stop’s heading our way,” and Margo says “We’re really going to it?” and he says “I’m sorry, I know what you’re thinking, my darling—we’ll worry about your party after, but for now I absolutely without question need a break.”

  Once they’re out of the restrooms: “Get anything you want, so long as it’s popcorn or something healthy, not sweet, and of course if you want real food too, fine with me,” and gives Margo a five-dollar bill for the two of them, “Can we get soda?” Julie says and he says “Only if it’s a diet or natural-flavor one; okay, we’ll celebrate getting here alive, but I’d prefer just juice—I’ll be sitting over there,” and they get on line at a take-out stand where there’s a popcorn machine and he goes to the Roy Rogers, coffee, sits and thinks Jesus, I still can’t shake what happened. So don’t shake, think why it’s bugging you. One second, that’s all, one, or at the most two. How many times has that happened to him? Too many; half a dozen, full, and he didn’t start driving till he was twenty-five; never hit but lots of near misses. Did hit a bridge railing once on the outskirts of D.C. but that was the car designers’ or engineers’ fault, which the company clammed up about before the car was built rather than redesign the chassis or whatever needed redesigning, or that’s what the newspapers said: rear-wheel lockup that got about ten people killed, or the accident deaths this independent watchdog group said it knew about, and almost wiped them out too: Lee in the front seat screaming when the car spun around out of control toward the bridge railing “We’re dead, we’re all dead,” Margo in her car seat in back, on their way to the National Gallery to see a show of minor French Impressionists: he remembers it all, discussing whether to drive the junkpile the rest of the way or turn back, drinking cappuccino in the East Wing cafeteria there and thinking, while Lee walked around looking at the paintings with Margo in a baby carrier on her back, Damn, now I gotta go around getting body-repair estimates and deal with my insurance company and rent a car while this one’s in the shop. No more taking car chances, as he said. Definitely not with the kids or Lee and not with himself either. For what would they do without him? Eventually they’d be okay, but they’d be devastated for a while and it could wreck them for years, maybe affect the kids the rest of their lives, if he died or was left severely paralyzed. You want to stay healthy and alive for them long as you can. Sixty-five, that’s the max speed anywhere from now on, even in the states where the limit’s now sixty-five but where you can go ten over without being touched. You had the kids late and want to be around to put them through college and graduate school if they want to go, and more—if they need help starting out or buying a home or happen to get stuck with some permanent or chronically progressing crippling disease or such, when he sees those two guys from the Interstate an hour or so ago. Driver’s dumping their used stuff off a tray into the trash can, other’s sticking a cigarette between his lips but making no move to light it, and now they’re heading past him—doesn’t want to have anything to do with them so looks the other way—and passenger says “Isn’t that the fella…?” and driver says “Who?” and passenger says “There, one we almost bashed into on the highway way before?” and driver says “Beats me—you’re talking like I got a good look at him,” and passenger says “Sure, it’s him, you saw,” and comes over, he knows it’s inevitable so he turns their way and passenger’s smiling, cigarette clutched in his fist now, driver’s disinterested, just wants to get out of here and on the road again, and says “Excuse me, but weren’t you the fella on the road before and we got into your lane a little and where we all like nearly collided?” and he says “That’s right, I thought I recognized you—say, I’m really sorry about it,” and passenger says “Why? It was our fault and mostly mine—I felt shitty about it, you had these kids in the car, didn’t you? Boys or something? Where are they?” and he says “Girls, and up front somewhere getting food,” and passenger says “Yeah, girls, but they had short hair,” and he says “Actually, both have long, but it was quick and we were all going pretty fast,” and driver says “Hey, when have you ever mistaken boys for girls, that’s a new one,” and passenger says “Kids. And I know I tried apologizing to you back then but I even told my friend here—he’ll vouch for me—‘You see that worried look on that man? I wish I could tell him more some way how rotten I feel about what we did,’” and driver says “Not in those words so much but something, and he took the blame for he was distracting me. Got me involved in something else where I took my eyes from my driving, which I never do, never,” and he says “It’s all right, lots of close calls, won’t be our last, just a good thing, that’s all it was,” and driver says “But what I told him too was ‘Impossible, no way you’ll see that man on the “I” again for your whole life, or if you do, you won’t know it’s him, it’ll be that far along in years, you’ll have forgotten his face and he’ll have aged like you’ve never seen, so stop mauling yourself over it, and me too with your groans,’” and passenger says “Oh what’re you talking of?” and driver says “I’m being honest for once—you were rattling on like that, making me almost into another close accident shave if there was any other car near,” and passenger says to Nathan “Don’t listen to him—once he starts, never stops; mouth like a runaway can opener. Anyhow, no harm meant, right?” and driver says “Of course none meant, he knows, you can tell by him there isn’t, so let’s get with it, we got to go,�
� and he says “No harm meant, certainly, and thanks,” and sticks out his hand and passenger says “Hey, good, we get to shake on it, more than I could have asked for—but boy, it’s weird, us meeting up again,” and shakes his hand and driver waves goodbye and they start to go and passenger turns around and says “One last ask, man—let your girls know what I said too, that I felt rotten for them if I scared them, or if we did, but I’m the one who felt bad,” and he says “Will do, thanks again,” and they leave.