“I guess we’d better hit the road while the road’s still visible,” Max said, waving to the waitress. Tom took Elena’s hand and kissed her knuckles. She had left almost all of her sandwich.
Outside, they all stopped. They stood staring at a van, with a deer strapped to the top. Elena looked down and fingered the buttons on her coat. When she looked up, the deer was still there, on its side on the rack on top of a blue van. Tom went over to the van. He took a piece of paper out of his pocket and wrote “Murdering Motherfucker” and swung open the door and dropped the paper on the driver’s seat.
“Let’s get out of here before he comes out and starts a fight,” Max said.
Tom took a turn at the wheel. Max stretched out in the back seat. The driving was getting more difficult, so Tom let go of Elena’s hand to drive with both hands on the wheel. She turned off the radio, and nobody said anything. “That bastard was the one who should have been shot,” Max said. She turned around and saw him: eyes closed, knees raised so his feet would fit on the seat. She no longer hated him. She hoped that Margaret had taken in wood before the snow started. The place where it was stacked was hardly sheltered at all.
When the car started to swerve, she grabbed Tom’s arm — the worst thing she could have done — and sucked in her breath. Max sat up and started cursing. She watched as the car drifted farther and farther to the right, onto the shoulder of the road. It bumped to a stop. “Goddamn tire,” Max said, and opened the back door and got out. Tom got out on his side, leaving the door open. Snow blew into the car. No cars had been behind them when it happened. They had been lucky. Elena heard Tom complaining that there was a jack, but no spare tire. “I’ll walk back,” Max said and kicked his foot in the gravel. “There’s got to be somebody who’ll come out, snow or not. I’ll call somebody.” He did not sound as if he believed what he was saying.
Tom got back in the car and slammed the door. “How stupid can we be, to take this trip without a spare?” he said. “Now we sit here and freeze, like a couple of idiots.” He looked up into the rear-view mirror, at Max walking back to where they had come from. No cars came along the road. Elena took his hand, but he withdrew it.
“We’ll get going again,” she said.
“But I can’t believe how stupid we were.”
“It’s Max’s car,” she said. “He should have had the spare with him.”
“It’s Max’s car, but we’re all in the same boat. You took that I-am-not-my-brother’s-keeper lecture too much to heart.”
“You believed what you told me, didn’t you?”
“Oh, leave me alone. I’ve had to argue and discuss all weekend.”
She turned the rear-view mirror toward her to see what progress Max was making, but the back window was entirely covered with snow. The light was dimming. She took Tom’s hand again and this time he let her, but didn’t look at her.
“You’ll hate me again,” he said, “because I never change.”
“I won’t,” she said.
“What about what Max said in the restaurant? You don’t want to hear about all that crap, do you?”
“I guess not.”
“If I bullied you into leaving Margaret, you can go back. I wouldn’t hate you for it. Maybe I said too much. It just struck me that I’m not the best one to be giving advice.”
“What are you trying to do?” Elena said. “Are you trying to get me to back out?”
Tom sighed. Elena moved over next to him for warmth. As they sat huddled together, a car pulled up behind them. Tom opened the door to get out. Elena looked around him, hoping to see a policeman. She saw a short man with a camouflage hat that buckled under the chin. Tom pushed the door shut behind him, but it didn’t click and slowly swung open as the man talked. Elena reached across the seat to close the door, and as she did that she looked farther than she had the first time and saw that it was the blue van with the deer on top. She was terrified. Certainly the man had seen, from the restaurant, who put the note in the van. She took her hand off the handle and leaned across the seat to watch the conversation. In a while the man in the camouflage hat laughed. Tom laughed too. Then he walked to the man’s van with him. Elena moved into the driver’s seat and stuck her head out the door. She felt the snow soaking her hair. Max was nowhere to be seen. Tom and the man were nodding at the deer. Then Tom turned and came back to the car, and Elena moved into her seat again.
“Did he know it was us?” she said.
“How would he know?” Tom said.
“He could have looked out the restaurant window.”
“No,” Tom said. “He didn’t know it was us.”
“I thought something awful was going to happen.”
“Don’t be silly,” Tom said, but she could tell from his voice that he had been frightened too.
“Did he make you look at it?”
“No. He was nice about stopping. I thought I’d take a look at his deer and say something about it.”
“What did you say?”
“Nothing,” Tom said.
Elena stared ahead, into the falling snow.
• • •
When they were on the road again, Max made small talk about how smart it had been to stop to eat, because otherwise they would have starved as well as frozen. On the highway, guide lights had been turned on. Elena rubbed her window clear of fog so that she could see a little, and made a game of silently counting the lights. She got no farther than the third one before the one-two-three she had counted reminded her of her father throwing her in the air, hollering “onetwothree, onetwothree.” She could remember how light, how buoyant, she had felt being tossed high in the air, and thought that perhaps being powerless was nice, in a way. She stared at the guide lights without counting, as the car moved slowly along the highway.
The Lawn Party
I said to Lorna last night, “Do you want me to tell you a story?” “No,” she said. Lorna is my daughter. She is ten and a great disbeliever. But she was willing to hang around my room and talk. “Regular dry cleaning won’t take that out,” Lorna said when she saw the smudges on my suede jacket. “Really,” she said. “You have to take it somewhere special.” In her skepticism, Lorna assumes that everyone else is also skeptical.
According to the Currier & Ives calendar hanging on the back of the bedroom door, and according to my watch, and according to my memory, which would be keen without either of them, Lorna and I have been at my parents’ house for three days. Today is the annual croquet game that all our relatives here in Connecticut gather for (even some from my wife’s side). It’s the Fourth of July, and damn hot. I have the fan going. I’m sitting in a comfortable chair (moved upstairs, on my demand, by my father and the maid), next to the window in my old bedroom. There is already a cluster of my relatives on the lawn. Most of them are wearing little American flags pinned somewhere on their shirts or blouses or hanging from their ears. A patriotic group. Beer (forgive them: Heineken’s) and wine (Almadén Chablis) drinkers. My father loves this day better than his own birthday. He leans on his mallet and gives instructions to my sister Eva on the placement of the posts. Down there, he can see the American flags clearly. But if he is already too loaded to stick the posts in the ground, he probably isn’t noticing the jewelry.
Lorna has come into my room twice in the last hour — once to ask me when I am coming down to join what she calls “the party,” another time to say that I am making everybody feel rotten by not joining them. A statement to be dismissed with a wave of the hand, but I have none. No right arm, either. I have a left hand and a left arm, but I have stopped valuing them. It’s the right one I want. In the hospital, I rejected suggestions of a plastic arm or a claw. “Well, then, what do you envision?” the doctor said. “Air,” I told him. This needed amplification. “Air where my arm used to be,” I said. He gave a little “Ah, so” bow of the head and left the room.