pulling over into Matt’s lane and didn’t see him.
Those guys drive for a living. Would they make a mistake like that? And how often have you seen one of those huge tractor-trailers in the fast lane? And even if he
did
pull into Matthew’s lane, the truck driver would have been fine. Matt would have spun and crashed, not the truck. Can’t you see it in your head?
Despite a thorough understanding of my father’s limitations, I feel impatient.
Not really, he says. What about ice?
Maybe.
Or maybe he was tired.
Tired or not, I can’t see how it was the truck driver’s fault. The picture in my head is clear now. I can see Matthew’s car brake or drift out of lane or do something that causes the guy behind him to brake so hard, he skids and flips over the central reservation, crushing the back of Matthew’s car with the fishtail. If Owen had been sitting in the front, he’d have survived.
Strictly speaking, there’s nothing so strange about sitting in the backseat of a car when it’s just you and your father. But if you were having a fight, would you sit in the back? Wouldn’t you just hunch in the corner of the front seat staring out of the window, feeling wronged? And if you were tired, wouldn’t you also just slouch down in the front? Maybe Owen liked sitting in the back, or he’d hurt his leg in practice and wanted to stretch out, or there was a big bag of shopping in the front seat.
I store the question in a file in my head marked
M
for
maybe.
fifteen
T he sign reads SCENIC DRIVE and points off to the right. Gil turns. I guess we may as well enjoy the view, he says, having come this far.
I thought we were on a mission. Life or death.
We are, Gil says. But Suzanne said it’s really beautiful.
Am I imagining things or is everyone treating this trip like some kind of halfhearted holiday thing, like a treasure hunt to keep us occupied as long as we just happen to be in America anyway?
I look at Gil. Seriously? The scenic route?
He looks back. Would you rather stick to the motorway?
OK. OK. I check the map. There appears to be a big long lake coming up on the right and lo and behold, the dense trees all at once give way to long views across a narrow bright-blue stretch of water with mountains beyond.
Look! I say, and then regret it as Gil slows even more and in the mirror I can see the driver behind us, fuming. On the next clear stretch the guy passes us with a huge roar of his engine. From the cab of his insanely large pickup, he shoots us a contemptuous look. There are guns on a rack in the back window.
Guns?
Did you see that?
Gil nods. They must be for decoration, he says. Hunting season’s October.
I stare at him. Did you memorize the guidebook or what?
You can’t shoot animals who’ve just given birth or are pregnant. Even in America. So, it’s autumn/winter for slaughter, just like at home.
Great. Now I’m scanning the edges of the woods for bears and deer with offspring. Doomed, yes. But not right away.
A couple of miles later, the view breaks off and we’re driving through a pretty little town balanced on the edge of the lake and the sun makes hard reflections on the water. We drive past a boatbuilder and a couple of big elegant old Victorian houses. Gil pulls in at an ice cream place.
Without asking, he orders tall spirals of ice creams for us both, vanilla and chocolate mixed, and a cup of coffee for himself. We sit outside at a wooden picnic table. The air is cool and the sun warm enough to induce sleep. Neither of us feels any rush to get back on the road.
Gil picks up a local paper that someone’s left behind and he’s reading it back to front, studying the classifieds. I break the bottom off my cone and feed it to Honey and then she and I head down to the water with my ice cream dripping down my hand. I sit on the grass and stare at the lake and the mountains with the sun on the back of my neck. Honey’s beside me. I give her my ice cream to finish. According to Gil,
Those guys drive for a living. Would they make a mistake like that? And how often have you seen one of those huge tractor-trailers in the fast lane? And even if he
did
pull into Matthew’s lane, the truck driver would have been fine. Matt would have spun and crashed, not the truck. Can’t you see it in your head?
Despite a thorough understanding of my father’s limitations, I feel impatient.
Not really, he says. What about ice?
Maybe.
Or maybe he was tired.
Tired or not, I can’t see how it was the truck driver’s fault. The picture in my head is clear now. I can see Matthew’s car brake or drift out of lane or do something that causes the guy behind him to brake so hard, he skids and flips over the central reservation, crushing the back of Matthew’s car with the fishtail. If Owen had been sitting in the front, he’d have survived.
Strictly speaking, there’s nothing so strange about sitting in the backseat of a car when it’s just you and your father. But if you were having a fight, would you sit in the back? Wouldn’t you just hunch in the corner of the front seat staring out of the window, feeling wronged? And if you were tired, wouldn’t you also just slouch down in the front? Maybe Owen liked sitting in the back, or he’d hurt his leg in practice and wanted to stretch out, or there was a big bag of shopping in the front seat.
I store the question in a file in my head marked
M
for
maybe.
fifteen
T he sign reads SCENIC DRIVE and points off to the right. Gil turns. I guess we may as well enjoy the view, he says, having come this far.
I thought we were on a mission. Life or death.
We are, Gil says. But Suzanne said it’s really beautiful.
Am I imagining things or is everyone treating this trip like some kind of halfhearted holiday thing, like a treasure hunt to keep us occupied as long as we just happen to be in America anyway?
I look at Gil. Seriously? The scenic route?
He looks back. Would you rather stick to the motorway?
OK. OK. I check the map. There appears to be a big long lake coming up on the right and lo and behold, the dense trees all at once give way to long views across a narrow bright-blue stretch of water with mountains beyond.
Look! I say, and then regret it as Gil slows even more and in the mirror I can see the driver behind us, fuming. On the next clear stretch the guy passes us with a huge roar of his engine. From the cab of his insanely large pickup, he shoots us a contemptuous look. There are guns on a rack in the back window.
Guns?
Did you see that?
Gil nods. They must be for decoration, he says. Hunting season’s October.
I stare at him. Did you memorize the guidebook or what?
You can’t shoot animals who’ve just given birth or are pregnant. Even in America. So, it’s autumn/winter for slaughter, just like at home.
Great. Now I’m scanning the edges of the woods for bears and deer with offspring. Doomed, yes. But not right away.
A couple of miles later, the view breaks off and we’re driving through a pretty little town balanced on the edge of the lake and the sun makes hard reflections on the water. We drive past a boatbuilder and a couple of big elegant old Victorian houses. Gil pulls in at an ice cream place.
Without asking, he orders tall spirals of ice creams for us both, vanilla and chocolate mixed, and a cup of coffee for himself. We sit outside at a wooden picnic table. The air is cool and the sun warm enough to induce sleep. Neither of us feels any rush to get back on the road.
Gil picks up a local paper that someone’s left behind and he’s reading it back to front, studying the classifieds. I break the bottom off my cone and feed it to Honey and then she and I head down to the water with my ice cream dripping down my hand. I sit on the grass and stare at the lake and the mountains with the sun on the back of my neck. Honey’s beside me. I give her my ice cream to finish. According to Gil,
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