Samuel tossed his suit coat and briefcase in the back seat and got into the front passenger seat. The new-car smell was pleasant. Samuel looked at the gear indicator. You thought to check the weather but didn’t think to reserve a four-wheel drive? Maybe you’re not quite as bright as you think, Samuel thought.
Samuel picked up the rental agreement lying on the console. “Hertz?” he asked.
“They give a government discount,” Howard explained.
Traffic was heavy as they merged onto Interstate-95. Light was fading. In another month or so it would already be dark by five-thirty.
“You ever drive in slush?” Samuel asked.
Howard grinned as he started the engine. “There is first time for everything.”
“You’re kidding?”
“Not so much.”
“Remind me, where’d you grow up?”
“Florida.”
“But you don’t have the slightest Southern accent?”
“My mother insisted that we speak correctly. She could be very stern when necessary.”
“Uh huh. And you don’t drive in Washington?”
“I do not own a car. I rent one if I need one. My apartment is on the Metro line.”
“Stop in Windsor.”
“Is that not just up the road?”
“Windsor, Vermont.”
“You are going to drive?”
“I cut my teeth on snow and ice.”
“You sure you are all right, not too tired?”
“I had one beer on the plane. It’s two hours down the road. I’ll be fine.”
A car honked. Howard jerked the rental right, back into his lane. An angry driver rendered an open five-finger salute as he passed.
“Assuming you get us that far in one piece.”
“No problem.” Howard glanced right, left, and checked the rearview mirror. He would remain vigilant for the next two hours.
Samuel drifted into and out of sleep.
“Hey, Chief.”
The words woke Samuel with a start. Only Howard called him “chief” and only when they were alone or with a few trusted intimates and usually when he was trying to correct Samuel on some point or other. The unspoken question, “Why this time?” came to Samuel in a flash.
The headlights showed they were sliding on a river of slush.
“Take your foot off the brake,” Samuel commanded.
Howard shot him a look that asked, “Are you crazy?”
“Now!”
Howard did as he was commanded. The car continued sliding at an angle.
“Turn the wheel to the right.”
Howard yanked the wheel. The front wheels turned. The car continued sliding but at the reverse angle.
“Slowly! Turn left. Slowly. Very slowly.” Samuel’s words were deliberate and demanding.
Howard eases the steering wheel left. The front tires come parallel to the white lines mostly obscured by the combination of rain and wet snow. The car seems more under control as it follows in the tracks made not long ago by some large truck. The blackness of the road peaking through the slush is comforting. The constant swish, swish of the wipers against the falling snow is not. Neither is the sloshing of the wet stuff being thrown against the car by its tires.
“Hold it,” Samuel directs. “Steady.”
Howard stops turning. His face is whiter than the snow.
“Keep your feet off the brakes, off the gas. Just hold it steady.”
Samuel can focus now on the bigger picture. They are partway down a long steep grade. Though it’s impossible to see through the snow and darkness, he knows that at the bottom is a bridge spanning the river hundreds of feet above icy water. He knows precisely where they are; I-89 at White River Junction, well past the Windsor exit. The good news, the road is straight and on the other side is a hill as steep as the one they are descending. All they have to do is to maneuver the bridge without incident and the car will slow on the upward climb. He hopes. Should he tell Howard about black ice, the kind you can’t see even in daylight? Should he tell him bridges freeze before road surfaces? No, not the time for winter weather driving lesson. Just coach him through it.
“Steady.” Samuel sees Howard’s hands shaking. “You’re doing fine. Just keep it straight.”
Howard flashes a look at his boss.
“Keep your eyes on the road!” Samuel yells. “Stay in the tracks.”
Howard grips the steering wheel tighter. He hunches forward, peering into the dark.
They are nearing the bottom. Calmly, Samuel instructs him. “The bridge may be icy. Whatever you do, don’t panic. Keep your foot off the brake.”
Samuel isn’t sure if Howard is nodding that he understands or that his head bobs from fear. He checks the speedometer. 75. 77. 80. 80. 80. “Steady. You’re going to feel it when we hit the bridge.”
“What?” It is more a scream than a question.
“When the tires hit the steel. There’ll be a little bump. Don’t panic. Sorry.”
This time the head-bob seems to indicate comprehension.
There is a tiny thump. Howard lets out a breath. It is less than he expected. They are on the bridge.
Samuel tries to unobtrusively check their speed.
“How fast?” Howard’s voice is an octave higher than normal.
“Not important. Just keep it straight. We’ll probably glide right to the top. Then you can stop.”
The vertical supports for the steel guardrails shoot past rapidly. If they spin out at this speed they’ll go over for certain. Samuel tries not imagining how it would feel in the few seconds they’d have hurtling towards certain death on impact with the rocks in the shallow river below.
Another hundred feet and they will be home safe. Samuel can make out the end of the guardrails. “You’re doing great. Almost there.” So close to safety. Samuel’s grip on the overhead assist bar tightens.
Ice! They both feel the difference between it and slush. The front wheels are sliding on ice, no longer controlling their direction. Now all four wheels. The slightest bump, a mound of frozen slush, anything could turn their free-floating car into a spinning coffin. “Okay. You’re fine.” Even Samuel doesn’t believe his words.
The front wheels grips clear pavement. The tail end of the car slides left on the ice. “Turn into it! Turn into it.”
Howard turns left slowly.
“Right, right!” Samuel admonishes but it’s too late.
They fishtail the last twenty feet of the bridge. Right. Left. Right. Out of control.
What the hell. “Brake,” Samuel commands.
Howard stomps on them. The car clears the bridge, sliding uphill perpendicular to the road. The rear-end slides to the front. A 360-degree slide. A second donut. A half-donut. The tail end leads the speeding missile sideways to the highway into the grassy median.
Wet snow, grass, and dirt fly behind them a good hundred and twenty, hundred and forty feet. The stop is sudden. Samuel pushes back from the dash with both hands, adrenalin still pumping.
Howard’s whole body is shaking, his right leg bouncing but his foot remains frozen to the brake pedal. Both hands still hold a death grip on the wheel.
Samuel reaches across and puts the car in park. He pats Howard on the shoulder. “Hell of ride. You did good.”
Howard remained shaking, unable to move voluntarily.
“You can relax now.”
Samuel’s voice carried a calm assurance. Howard peeled his hands from the wheel as if held in place by glue. He leaned back against the seat, breathing shallow and fast.
“Now the foot.”
Howard’s look at Samuel asked, “Are you sure?”
Samuel nodded.
The foot slipped to the floor. Howard’s breathing was deeper but still fast.
“Why don’t you let me take it from here?”
Howard nodded but made no effort to move.
“You have to undo the seat belt.”
He looked at Samuel, wide
-eyed, but then complied.
Samuel unsnapped his own seatbelt. He tossed the briefcase in the backseat. He felt a twinge in his back as Howard slid over him.
“We’re going to go downhill a little before we can go up,” Samuel said from the driver’s position.
Howard didn’t respond. He was clinging to the fastened shoulder belt.
Samuel turned the wheels at a downward angle to the road. He gave it a little gas. The tires spun but didn’t grip. Grass and mud shot back at the car. He turned them straight. More gas. More grass.
“Maybe not.”
He pulled out his office cell phone. “This is going to be a little embarrassing. Vermont Senator can’t negotiate a little inclement weather.” He smiled at Howard.
Howard stared back blankly.
Samuel dialed 911. No service.
“Give me yours.”
Howard’s shaking hand offered his cell.
“We’re changing positions before the tow truck gets here.” He tried 911 again.
Howard nodded.
“Hope you took out the extra insurance.” He paused. His tone went serious. “This isn’t in my name is it?”
“No, Chief, mine.”
“Good. Hello? Yes, I need a tow truck. We slid off the road. … No, no ambulance. … Police? Do we have to? It’s just us, no other vehicle. … Yes, it’s me. Are you a registered voter? … Good. I hope this won’t affect you voting … Yes, that was presumptuous of me. … Thank you. I’ll wait.”
He handed the phone back to Howard. “How come you have a better phone than I do?”
“Satellite,” Howard stammered. “My dime, not the office,” he was quick to add.
Samuel noted that Howard’s speech tended to be less than grammatically correct when he was under stress.
Red lights. Blue lights. Yellow lights. Flashing, spinning. Howard shivered uncontrollably, blanket around his shoulders, standing, watching, barely comprehending.
“Have you been drinking this evening?” The State Police officer asked.
Howard could only shake his head. In the car, the rush of adrenalin had overpowered him. Now that the danger was past, the sudden loss of adrenalin had him shaking again. Words refuse to form, in his mind or on his lips.
“He’s never driven in snow.” Samuel offered an explanation.
The officer nodded. He seemed satisfied. He walked away to the cruiser. He reached in the open door and made a call on his radio.
“Have ya out inna a jiff, Senator,” said a young man, jeans, work boots, heavily worn parka, unkempt longish hair.
An older man at the rear of the tow truck pressed down on a lever. Intent on his work, he paid no attention to the little cluster of men. Instead, he concentrated on the rental car sliding towards him, drawn by steel cable. He released his grip. The car stopped in the breakdown lane, it’s front tires barely on the slush-covered pavement.
The older man, the younger man, Samuel, and the police officer crouched in front of the car, shielding their eyes from the beam of its headlights. Howard stood, trying to regain control over his body. The officer aimed a large, black flashlight at the right front wheel and then the left. The wheels were at differing angles. A flash of light came from behind them. The men stood upright, the officer annoyed at the intrusion. It was apparent to all that this car would not be going anywhere under its own power for some time, if ever.
The older man resumed his position at the controls. The bed of the tow truck angled down. The car skidded begrudgingly onto it.
“Senator,” asked a young woman holding a camera, “can I ask you a few questions?”
Samuel turned quickly to face her. “Hello, Sara. What are you doing here?”
The annoyed officer asked Samuel, “You know this woman, Senator?”
“She’s my daughter,” Samuel answered.
The officer walked away to finish his report.
“I thought you were in Boston,” Samuel said to her.
Another smaller flash of light as she snapped a full-face photo of daddy.
“Didn’t mommy tell you? I got a job. I’m a reporter now, for the White River Valley News.”
“Is that a paying job?” The words came out before he thought.
“About the same as you pay interns,” she snapped back. “Were you driving?”
He shook his head. “No, my chief of staff, Howard Mills.” He pointed at the calmer Howard standing by the police car, silhouetted like a dancer in strobe lights by the cruiser’s flashing blue bar lights.
“Then how come you’re standing on the driver’s side and he’s on the passenger side?” she asked.
“What?” Samuel responded. “I don’t know. We’ve been walking around. It’s cold. We’re still a little shaky. Ask the tow truck driver if you don’t believe me.”
A dark colored Ford Bronco with an old fashioned, revolving red globe on top pulled next to them. The sheriff stepped out.
“Mornin’, Sam. I see Sara found you,” the sheriff said.
Samuel’s mind is clearer now, the fog from the near-death experience lifted. He looks at the State Police officer who is showing a hint of a smile. Quid pro quo? State Police calls local sheriff who sees publicity opportunity and calls local reporter? Possible. Also possible, Sara and the sheriff heard the news on the police-band radios. Less probable.
“Art.” Samuel acknowledged the sheriff. “I’d forgotten you moved to this neck of the woods.”
“Well, it ain’t Washington but it’s better’n Saint Pierre.” He leaned in, studied Samuel’s face. “It don’t look like Saint Pierre’s favorite son was damaged much.” The metallic sound of the flatbed locking down caught his attention. He looked. “Can’t say the same for your car. Thought you knew how to drive in slush, Sam.”
Samuel cringed.
“I can give you a ride into town if you’d like, Senator,” the police officer said, walking up behind them. He looks at the still shaken Howard. “I should write you up for driving too fast for conditions. But I think you’ve learned that lesson.” He winks at Samuel.
“Thank you, “Samuel answers. “Sara. Art. You get everything you need?”
“I’m fine,” replied the sheriff.
“Tell mommy I said hello.” Sarcasm is unmistakable in Sara’s voice.
“Glad I could help your new career.” Samuel returned the sarcasm.
In the warmth of a dingy diner, Samuel and Howard warmed their hands on hot mugs of coffee.
“Could I have a glass of water, please?” Samuel asked. The thin, middle-aged waiter/cook/cashier with un-kept brown stringy, blonde-highlighted hair wearing a faded plaid flannel shirt over a stained tee shirt shuffled away from behind the counter.
“What was that all about?” Howard asked, his hands barely shaking now.
“You never met my daughter?”
“No.”
“Now you have.”
The waiter deposited a glass of tap water in front of Samuel without a word. He ambled away, eying both men like a detective trying to connect their faces with wanted posters.
“And the sheriff?” Howard asked.
“Art Lampson. High school classmate.”
Samuel pulled a prescription bottle from his jacket pocket. He swallowed a pill and half a glass of water.
Howard stared at him.
“Hydrocodone,” Samuel explained. He rubbed his left lower back. “Think I pulled something. If I get some of this stuff working fast enough it sometimes isn’t so bad.”
Howard nodded, burned his tongue on the coffee. “I take it that the sheriff is not a supporter.”
Samuel noted Howard’s calmness and wit had returned. He blew on his coffee. “He thinks I stole his girl in high school. Truth is, Jane only went out with him ‘cause she felt sorry for him.”
“That is a long time to hold a grudge.”
“People up here can be like that.” Samuel pulled Howard’s phone from his pocket. He punched in an entire number. “Ed? You still u
p? … Ayaught. Need a little help. … White River Junction. The old diner. … Long story. It’ll be in next week’s edition of the ‘White River Valley News.’”
Chapter Six.
Samuel’s eyes snapped open. Total blackness except for the green glow from the alarm clock. On his back, in his own bed, paralyzed with all consuming fear. His stomach churned. He willed himself not to be sick. His mind raced. He could think of no discernable reason why he should feel this way.
His arms lay at his side on top of the heavy, multi-colored, patchwork quilt, hand-sewn by Jane’s grandmother. Slowly, as though restrained by invisible chains, he spread the fingers of his left hand. He swept them back and forth on the quilt. He turned his head slightly to watch them move. It took tremendous effort to turn his head back to be able to see his right hand. He slid it until it barely touched the lump that was Jane under the covers. She stirred, her legs relaxing from their fetal position.
He slowly moved his hands back to his side. The movement seemed to have broken the invisible chains. The fear abated but not entirely. He stared at the ceiling. Why? What was he afraid of? What was his subconscious trying to communicate? Then it hit him. The check.
He cautiously slipped out of bed, disturbing the covers as little as possible. He stepped onto the throw rug partially covering the spruce flooring. Jane had left the upstairs bedrooms pretty much in tack.
There was something comforting about walking on and looking at two hundred year old floors, cold as they were in winter. Three oval throw rugs, braided of deep maroon and purple, one on each side of the bed and one at the foot, provided some comfort to bare feet.
The other three upstairs rooms were not as luxurious appointed. Two store-bought rugs in Sara’s bedroom, one each in Jane’s sewing room and Samuel’s office. All the single-pane windows had been replaced with double-pane with great care and expense to maintain as much of the original framing as possible.
Samuel quietly opened the briefcase on his bureau. It was an odd piece of furniture, pine, nearly four feet high, a chest with hinged top and two drawers below. At one time it had been painted green but Jane had it stripped to a natural finish. It had been made as a fair box for his grandfather, Henry, by a local cabinetmaker.
Mid-Life Friends and Illusions Page 5