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As
if the car didn't like it, Arnie
."
"You're upset," he said with ominous flatness.
"Yes, I
am
upset I she said, beginning to cry. "Aren't
you?
" The tears trickled
slowly down her cheeks.
I think this is the end of it for us, Arnie-I loved
you, but I think it's over. I really think it is, and that makes me feel so sad,
and so sorry
. "Your relationship with your parents has turned into a an armed
camp, you're running God knows what into New York and Vermont for that
fat pig Will Darnell, and that car… that car…"
She could not say anything more. Her voice dissolved. She dropped her
packages and bent blindly to pick them up. Exhausted and weeping, she
succeeded in doing little more than stirring them around. He bent to help her
and she pushed at him roughly. "Leave them alone! I'll get them!"
He stood up, his face pale and set. His expression was one of wooden fury,
but his eyes… oh, to Leigh his eyes seemed lost.
"All right," he said, and now his voice roughened with his own tears. "Good.
Join up with the rest of them if you want. You just saddle up and ride right
along with all those other shitters. Who gives a tin shit?" He drew in a
shivering breath, and a single hurt sob escaped him before he could clap a
gloved hand brutally over his mouth.
He began to walk backward toward the car; he reached out blindly behind
himself for the Plymouth and Christine was there. "Just as long as you know
you're crazy. Right out of your mind! So go on and play you! I don't need
any
of you!"
His voice rose to a thin scream, in devilish harmony with the wind:
"I don't need you so fuck off!"
He rushed around to the driver's side, his feet slid and he grabbed for
Christine. She was there and he didn't fall. He got in, the engine revved, the
headlights came on in a huge white glare, and the Fury pulled out, rear tires
spinning up a fog of snow.
Now the tears came fast and hard as she stood watching, the tail-lights fade
to round red periods and wink out as the car went around the corner. Her
packages lay scattered at her feet.
And then, suddenly, her mother was there, absurdly clothed in an open
raincoat, green rubber boots, and her blue flannel nightgown.
"Honey, what's wrong?"
"Nothing," Leigh sobbed.
I almost choked to death, I smelled something that might have come from a
freshly opened tomb, and I think… yes, I think that somehow that car is
alive… more alive every day. I think it's like some kind of horrible
vampire, only it's taking Arnie's mind to feed itself. His mind and his spirit.
"Nothing, nothing's wrong, I had a fight with Arnie, that's all. Help me pick
up my things, would you?"
They picked up Leigh's parcels and went in. The door shut behind them and
the night belonged to the wind and to the swiftly falling snow. By morning
there would be better than eight inches.
Arnie cruised until sometime after midnight, and later had no memory of it.
The snow had filled the streets; they were deserted and ghostly. It was not a
night for the great American motor-car. Nevertheless, Christine moved
through the deepening storm with surefooted ease, even without snow tires.
Now and then the prehistoric shape of a snowplow loomed and was gone.
The radio played. It was WDIL all the way across the dial. The news came
on. Eisenhower had predicted, at the AFL-CIO convention, a future of labor
and management marching harmoniously into the future together. Dave Beck
had denied that the Teamsters Union was a front for the rackets. Rock "n
roller Eddie Cochran had been killed in a car crash while en route to
London's Heathrow Airport: three hours of emergency surgery had failed to
save his life. The Russians were rattling their ICBMS. WDIL played the
oldies all week long, but on the weekends they really got dedicated. Fifties
newscasts, wow. That was
(never heard anything like that before)
a really neat idea. That was
(totally insane)
pretty neat.
The weather promised more snow.
Then music again: Bobby Darin singing "Splish-Splash", Ernie K-Doe
singing "Mother-in-Law", the Kalin twins singing "When". The wipers beat
time.
He looked to his right, and Roland D. LeBay was riding shotgun.
Roland D. LeBay sat there in his green pants and a faded shirt of Army twill,
looking out of dark eyesockets. A beetle sat, preening, within one.
You have to make them pay, Roland D. LeBay said. You have to make the
shitters pay, Cunningham. Every last fucking one of them.
"Yes," Arnie whispered. Christine hummed through the night, cutting the
snow with fresh, sure tracks. "Yes, that's a fact." And the wipers nodded back
and forth.
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