Wave

by Mara, Wil

  She ran up the brief flight of carpeted steps to the kitchen, which featured more oak cabinets, offset lighting, and an industrial-size, stainless-steel refrigerator. Everything was so perfect that she almost felt sorry the house would be destroyed in less than an hour. But the part of her that despised the wealthy and privileged suppressed any such sympathy. In fact a stronger part of her savored the idea with considerable delight. Bastards probably have maximum insurance anyway. Probably end up with an even nicer place.

  She found another plastic container of milk in the fridge and emptied it. The chrome, hook-shaped spigot on the kitchen sink was so high she had to carefully “aim” the milk container under it. Once it was full, she turned and lumbered back out. On her way she noticed a wooden plaque in the distinct shape of a key hanging next to the cordless phone on the wall. Along the bottom was a series of brass hooks, and from two of them hung two sets of actual keys. I’ll bet their cars don’t have radiator problems, she thought bitterly.

  As she re-emerged in the late-morning sunlight, she saw that the brown van containing her two hippie friends was much farther down. Good, at least the line is moving. She covered the radiator cap with the front of her shirt (she could still feel the heat of it underneath) and gave it a twist. A guttural wheeze came out as if the car were a living thing.

  She poured until the fluid level reached the top, then waited for it to go back down to add some more. When the container was empty, she ran back inside to refill it. She did this three times before wondering why it wouldn’t stay full. How many gallons of water does this thing need? It wasn’t until that third try that she heard—really heard and registered—the sound of water spattering on the pavement.

  Is that supposed to happen?

  She thought at first it was simply runoff from her sloppiness—in her rush, she wasn’t going out of her way to pour neatly.

  But it kept running, even when she wasn’t pouring.

  She got down on all fours and peered underneath. Water was leaking not from one but three different places. Two of the leaks were steady but relatively minor; if they’d been the only ones, the car might have had a chance to make it up and over the bridge. But the third was a doozy—a steady stream about the width of a pencil, as if someone had shot a small-caliber bullet through the radiator shell. The damn thing looked like it was taking a piss.

  She let go a rash of expletives as she reached over and put her forefinger into the hole. The flow of water stopped and she trolled her mind for a more permanent solution. I could tear off a piece of my shirt and stuff it in there.

  And then, to her surprise, she heard the voice of her ex-husband—“No, the pressure will blow it right back out.”

  That’s right, she remembered, pressure builds up in there. That’s why fluid shoots out like a geyser when you open the radiator of a car that’s running, especially a hot one.

  So what was the answer? she wondered as her knees began to hurt from the sand and the pebbles they were resting on. She didn’t know. Maybe there wasn’t any answer. Maybe this was the end of the line.

  Should’ve taken that ride, sweetheart.

  “I think not,” she said out loud.

  You might’ve had to do a few favors for those two freaks, but at least you’d be alive.

  “Yeah, uh-huh.”

  When she couldn’t take the pain on her knees any more, she got up and brushed them off. Standing up and straightening them out was somehow even more painful, although only for a few seconds. The radiator continued to urinate at her feet.

  With her mind racing and her breathing growing heavier by the second, she considered the idea of just getting back in and driving the damn thing until it was stone-cold dead. Once this nightmare was over, she was sure she could wangle a new car out of her insurance company. She did still have insurance on it—not because she wanted to, but because you had to, regardless of what a flagrant rip-off it was in Jersey. Maybe she’d even get something nicer, like the people in the house in front of her no doubt had….

  That train of thought carried her to the solution to this problem. It was like a light had been turned on.

  The keys. The ones hanging in the kitchen.

  The image of them flashed through her mind, followed by a second—Wasn’t there a garage around the back?

  She was sure there was. Sure enough, at least, to invest a few seconds in checking it out.

  Bud Erickson grumbled as he stood in his sunny kitchen, cutting up an apple with his penknife. He’d had the knife for more than fifty years; the relief image of the infantry division’s emblem on either side was worn down like the face on an old coin. He grumbled because he didn’t particularly care for apples, or oranges, or salads, or pretty much anything else that was good for your health. But he didn’t have much choice anymore—a cholesterol level of 277 caused his doctor to declare sundown on his glory days of eggs and sausage in the morning, pork roll and cheese for lunch, and kielbasa—split up the center and soaked in butter while frying—for dinner. He ate like a female gymnast now and hated every minute of it. He thought about getting another doctor’s opinion, but he knew it wouldn’t be any different.

  As he sliced the apple in his particular way—into eighths and carving out the seeds, all the while leaving the skin on because he simply could not get the hang of peeling—someone hammered on the front door. It made him jump, which annoyed him. It wasn’t Nancy, as she didn’t do things like bang on doors, and the boys didn’t, either. Maybe it was the UPS guy.

  He set the knife down with a groan and went out. His knees were killing him today; two trips up and down the cellar stairs had done it. As he passed through the living room, the banging came again.

  “I’m coming!” he growled, sounding angrier than he’d intended.

  He pulled the door open and found Jerry Logan standing there, looking red-faced and sweaty. He and his wife Denise lived a few doors down. Jerry was slim and wiry, with wispy gray hair that thinned a little more each year but still managed to cover everything. At the moment it was sticking straight up on one side, like an open lid on a beer stein.

  “Jerry, what the hell—?”

  “Why are you still here?”

  He was out of breath, and Bud noticed two unusual things: first, he had a small cardboard box under his arm, and second, his car was parked and running at the end of the driveway, with Denise behind the wheel and leaning over to see what was going on.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why haven’t you left yet? Where’s Nancy?”

  “She’s out back. What do you mean, left yet?”

  Logan stopped panting, seemed to stop everything.

  “Don’t you know about the wave?”

  “What wave?”

  “The tidal wave!”

  Now Bud froze.

  “What?”

  “There’s a tidal wave coming, and you and Nancy need to get out of here, right now!” He looked down at his watch, a cheap black plastic thing wrapped around his bony, tubular arm. The extra length of band stuck out like the tail of a capital ‘Q.’ “You’ve only got about a half-hour left! Get moving—now!”

  Bud put his hands up. “Wait a minute, wait a minute. A tidal wave here?”

  “Yes!”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “It’s not impossible, Bud. Get moving!”

  Logan turned to head back to the car, and when he did Bud saw that his trunk was half-open, filled with boxes and bags, the lid tied down with an old piece of rope. It all looked hastily done, as if….

  As if he was telling the truth.

  Bud Erickson felt something like a narrow lightning bolt with many branches and forks flash through his body. It was something he hadn’t felt in a long time—genuine fear.

  “Holy God, you aren’t kiddin’, are you,” Bud called after him.

  “No, I’m not. Bud, you have to go now.”

  Bud was already turning around. “Thanks, Jerry,” he said hoarsely.


  Logan didn’t hear this. He was already climbing back into his car.

  { TWELVE }

  “That’s right, Governor, one of the biggest in recorded history,” Sarah Collins said into the phone. “That comes not only from me, but from Dr. Daniel Kennard—probably the world’s leading expert on tsunamis.”

  “What about this theory some have proposed—that the continental shelf off New Jersey is so shallow that the wave should break well offshore, rolling in as a white water bore from a long way out. Is that a possibility, in your opinion?”

  “Dr. Kennard and I have discussed this scenario, sir. While we’d like to hold out some hope, we’re convinced that, given its magnitude, not one but several destructive waves will in fact reach the coastline.”

  “Can you give me a rough assessment of the likely damage?”

  “Well, I can tell you this for sure—anything standing on the beachfront won’t be there an hour from now. I wouldn’t be surprised if most of the buildings behind it were wiped away, too.”

  “Good God.”

  “I’m not dramatizing, sir. This is an historic occurrence.”

  “All right, thank you, Dr. Collins. Your good work is greatly appreciated. Your early phone calls will no doubt save thousands of lives. If we hadn’t heard from you….”

  He trailed off. No sense finishing that line of thought.

  Nancy was trimming the rosebushes in the backyard, and the boys were playing in a tent she’d set up for them. She was thinking about her sister, Frannie, who lived in Scottsdale, and that she would call her this weekend. The last time they’d spoken, Frannie had mentioned she’d been having mild dizzy spells and was going to see her doctor. Nancy was concerned and hoped to hear something soon.

  When she saw Bud emerge from the back porch, she smiled. In spite of his aches and pains, he was determined to stay active. She admired him for that; she’d always admired his strength of will. The fact that he seemed to be in something of a hurry, at least in context, didn’t register. When he gave her the news, she looked at him as if he was joking. When he said he just checked it out on NJN, she dropped her clippers, stripped off her gloves, and ran to the boys.

  “Come on, we have to go,” she said.

  “Why?” Patrick wanted to know.

  “I’ll tell you later,” she responded. “But we have to go now.” She hoped she didn’t seem too alarmed, as she didn’t want them to be frightened. It wasn’t easy, though, considering her heart was banging like a drum and her hands were starting to shake.

  As Bud went out to get the car ready, Nancy went to the phone and dialed Karen’s work number.

  “Tarrance-Smith Realtors. This is Scott Tarrance.”

  “I’m looking for Karen Thompson, Mr. Tarrance. It’s Nancy Erickson, her babysitter.”

  A pause, then, “Karen left for your house well over an hour ago, Mrs. Erickson. You haven’t heard from her?”

  The complications this presented to Nancy were so numerous her mind couldn’t keep up with them. “No. My God….”

  “She should have gotten there by now,” Scott Tarrance said. “Would you like me to try her cell phone?”

  “No, I’ll try it.”

  Scott paused again, then said, “Okay, Mrs. Erickson. Good luck.”

  Calling Karen’s cell phone produced a recorded message stating that service was currently unavailable and that she should try her call again later.

  “Are you going to take us where Mommy works?” Patrick asked. Nancy barely heard it.

  “What?”

  “Are you going to take us where Mommy works?” the youngster repeated.

  “Oh…yes. Maybe. Um, do you have everything? Did you get all your things?”

  “Yeah.” Patrick was looking at her strangely. He was only four, but he was old enough to know something wasn’t right.

  Sensing this, Nancy smiled. She wanted to stroke his hair, too, but he might notice that her hand wasn’t steady. “Okay, good. What about your brother? Does he have everything?”

  “Everything!” Michael said happily, holding up his blue SpongeBob Squarepants backpack. His emotional sensors weren’t as developed as his brother’s. Pure ignorance, pure bliss.

  “Good boy.”

  Bud was at the door. “Okay, everybody ready to go?”

  Nancy looked at him, her eyes wide. She walked over to put some distance between them and the boys.

  “I’ve got bad news,” she said quietly.

  “Worse than a tsunami?” he asked, keeping an eye on their young charges.

  Her lower lip trembled. “Karen’s on her way here.”

  “What?”

  “I just called Tarrance-Smith—she left there over an hour ago.”

  “Did you try her cell phone?”

  “Yes. No service.”

  Bud ran both hands through his hair. “Everyone in the county’s probably on the line.”

  A small single tear rolled down Nancy’s cheek. “What are we going to do? We can’t leave now.”

  Bud said, “Okay…okay. I think I’ve got an idea.”

  “Is it a good one?”

  “I hope so.”

  She touched his arm near the shoulder. Not a grab or even a pat—just a light brush of the fingers. “Okay,” she said feebly, more air coming out than sound.

  “I’ll be back in two seconds, no more.”

  “Make it one.”

  “Right.”

  He walked past the boys, gave them a quick everything’s-fine smile, and went out into the backyard.

  Her heart pounding inside her considerable chest, BethAnn grabbed both sets of keys that were hanging next to the cordless phone in the kitchen, then found the back door and went out. The lawn, like everything else on this property, was perfect, absolutely perfect. They probably spend more on this grass than I make in a year. She felt the urge to kick at it, create divots with every step, but didn’t bother. It’d be underwater shortly.

  And so will I if I don’t get my ass moving.

  She got to the garage door and threw it up, the rollers rattling angrily in their runners. This revealed an awe-inspiring sight—a 1964 Jaguar XKE convertible, pearl with dark blue trim, and in absolutely mint condition. It had been backed in and parked diagonally for maximum showroom effect. With the exception of a handful of basic tools, a few rags, and a couple of jars of wax, the garage was otherwise empty; the Jag had the place all to itself. It even looked as though the garage had been built exclusively for the car; the wood—just bare studs on the inside—not only looked fresh, it smelled fresh.

  BethAnn gasped. She also managed a smile for the first time all day—It’s mine, was her first thought. This car is mine.

  She ran around to the door and squeezed herself inside. It was tight, no doubt about that—this model Jag wasn’t designed for someone of her bulk. The steering wheel was just inches from her chest. This would not be a comfortable ride by any stretch of the imagination.

  She began trying the keys, which was all guesswork because neither set had any identifying marks—no little leather Jaguar key chain or Jaguar logo stamped into the metal. One set had a die-cut Yankees’ logo hanging from the ring, the other had what appeared to be a pewter bottle opener with the word “Budweiser” carved in decorative script. Big help.

  She tried all the keys in the first set, wheezing as she was forced to lean over the unforgiving steering wheel, her boobs pressed against it and barely letting her breathe. None of them fit. There were five keys on the second set, and after the third didn’t work she began to get nervous. A thousand pounds of worry slid off her shoulders when the second-to-last key slid neatly into the ignition and turned.

  The engine rumbled to life, low and guttural, like a bear waking from its winter sleep. Everything shook; she could feel the raw power. This little car was a demon, a warrior. She didn’t know squat about the internal assets of an older Jaguar, but she bet this one zipped around like a dragonfly.

  “Mine, all mine,” she s
aid, clapping and howling. Down the end of the long driveway she could see the ever-moving line of cars heading toward the bridge. It was only about a mile away—one more mile and she’d be free. As she sat there waiting for the engine to warm up, she formed a plan in her mind—get over the bridge, bypass the gathering point at Home Depot, get on the Parkway and head straight to Forked River and Sharon Leggett’s house. Leggett was a friend she’d met a few years earlier when she and her husband were still barhopping on Friday and Saturday nights. Sharon’s husband, Vince, worked as an auto mechanic in Waretown. They’ll love this, she thought. Vince could probably help her get it painted and remove the VIN numbers.

  Suddenly excited, she decided the engine was warm enough; time to get this baby—her baby—on the road. She reached down and grabbed the shifter, but it wouldn’t budge.

  “What the….”

  She tried it again. Again nothing happened.

  Just what the hell is the prob—

  When she saw that the bald head of the gear shifter had little numbers and a simple five-point diagram etched into it, her newfound excitement evaporated.

  “Oh no….”

  A manual transmission.

  “No WAY!!!”

  She slapped the dashboard hard; she had no idea how to drive a stick. Her ex had tried to show her a few times, but she never got the hang of it, mainly because she wasn’t really interested. She figured she’d always have an automatic, so there was no reason to bother.

  Her immediate urge was to scream until her voice was gone, then grab anything nearby that was heavy enough and slam it through the goddamn windshield. (If I can’t have the car, then no one else can, either.…) But then she made a fairly intelligent decision—I’ll try to drive it. I’ve got nothing to lose, and the clock is ticking away here.

  She knew that getting a stick into gear had something to do with coordination of the feet. Something about releasing one pedal while depressing another. But which pedals did you use?

  She opened the door and swung her bottom half out. Now she saw that there were three pedals. The one in the center, she was certain, was the brake—it looked like a brake pedal, and that was where all brake pedals were, right? The one on the right had to be the gas, as most people were “rightfooted.” So the only one left, which was on the left, had to be the…the….