Fingertips brush something metal. It moves.
Finally, I find the keys under the seat.
I fish them out slowly, fearing that if I ease my grip they’ll disappear again.
They jingle together and I hear something tap on the door right next to my head.
Whatever is out there, it’s only inches away from me now. Only metal and glass keep it at bay.
My eyes are still shut tight as I push up and squeeze between the steering wheel and the seat. I don’t know how many of them are out there. I don’t know if they’re smart enough to find a rock and smash through one of the side windows.
When I’m sitting in the middle of the seat, face still scrunched up to keep my eyes shut, I pull on the steering wheel to slide into the driver’s seat.
Even through my eyelids, it’s like I can still see a pair of glowing eyes. Maybe the hypnosis isn’t just visual.
My trembling hand guides the key into the side of the steering column. I pull back and try three more times until the key finds its slot.
The key turns and clicks.
The sound is echoed by a tap on the window.
What is that thing? It’s shaped like a person, but it has to be some kind of cunning animal, right? It’s a blind, glowing-eyed, hypnotizing predator that Mr. Engel described as a vampire.
I turn the key almost all the way to ignition when I remember the transmission. Uncle Walt taught me to always leave the truck in first gear when I park it. I stand on the clutch and pull the shifter out of gear before my hand finds its way back to the key.
The starter grinds and whines. It seems like an eternity before the thing catches. I punch the accelerator and the engine roars under the hood, sending a throbbing vibration up through my feet.
Now what?
The dooryard is pretty big. I would normally back around to the left and then crank the wheel back to the right in order to turn out to the road. The tapping on my window is increasing in speed. It’s getting ready to do something. How far can I drive using muscle memory before I have to open my eyes? There’s a ditch that runs along the length of the field and passes under the driveway. Uncle Walt used to have sections of fence on either side, acting like a guard rail between the driveway and the ditch. It rotted away years ago and we never replaced it. The fence just made it difficult to mow the grass that would grow up around the ends of the culvert.
Now, I can only pray that I don’t need it.
I spin the steering wheel and push the shifter into reverse. It clunks home.
The speed of the tapping increases even more.
How many of them are there? Is there still one in front of the truck? Is it scurrying after me as the tires throw gravel and I back away?
I brought Kimberly up to Maine once. It was right after she found out that she was pregnant. We went to the fair out in Windsor, and I bought tickets and rode the twisting and spinning rides alone. Kimberly made fun of me every time I staggered down the metal stairs, trying to get my balance.
“Why are you torturing yourself like this?” she asked every time.
My answer never changed. “One day, maybe eight years from now, our child is going to drum up the courage to ride these and they’re going to want me to ride with them. I’m just practicing for that day so I don’t throw up.”
The truth was that I liked the feeling. The rides made me nauseous, but I still liked the feeling of being thrown left, right, up, and down with zero control. The queasy stomach was a small price to pay. It’s almost the same way now. Driving in a tight, fast arc with my eyes closed, my stomach flops and my head spins. I desperately want to open my eyes so I can lock onto some distant point and make sense of the way that I’m accelerating.
Tonight, the feeling of being out of control isn’t welcome at all.
Ditch
(Time is relative.)
Time is relative.
I know that this isn’t an original thought. It’s not even particularly creative. I remember when it first occurred to me. I was standing in the kitchen, eating a piece of buttered bread. My mother was racing around, trying to make sure she had everything she needed before we left on our trip. Mom was a blur, racing from the hall, through the kitchen, and then disappearing into the living room while she stuffed a folder of papers into her bag.
Passing by me, she said something like, “I certainly hope you packed your toothbrush. There’s not going to be a single store open when we get there.”
I did have my toothbrush. Everything I needed for the week was stuffed into my backpack and that was planted firmly on the floor between my feet.
The next time I saw mom, she was headed the opposite direction with an armload of folded clothes.
“And who knows if the washing machine will be in working order. Last time I spent a fortune in quarters at the laundromat. I’m not doing that again.”
I had enough underwear to last. I wasn’t worried. Besides, I didn’t plan on wearing anything besides a bathing suit. We were headed to the beach. For a few years, before she started shipping me off to Uncle Walt’s for the summer, we stayed at the beach. Her “friend” had a place that he let us borrow. The first thing Mom would do when we arrived would be to gather up all the pictures of her “friend” and his wife and stuff them deep in a drawer in the dining room. At the end of the trip, Mom would return the pictures to where they belonged.
When she finally finished her preparations and stood by
