Near Arnette, Texas
June 16, 1990
Tony Leominster steered his Scout to avoid a pothole on Route 93. Lila Bruett, in the passenger seat, slept on. In the back behind her, Bobby Bruett, soon to turn eight, looked around. The two Bruetts had been at the Braintree Medical Center where a cast had been removed from Bobby's left arm. He'd had an accident six weeks ago but it was common knowledge in Arnette that his daddy - Lila's husband Norm - was an accident waiting to happen.
The Scout cruised steadily, though with a rattle from below. If it turned for the worst there was always Bill Hapscomb, good friend and fair mechanic. 93 ran straight through ranchland in which the better ranges had scattered post oak and the poorer ones - which seemed to be more numerous in recent years - were overgrown with mesquite.
The sky was milky and the sun had a slight orange tint. The dawn light had been very red - red in morning, sailor take warning. There had been no storm so far, and little traffic. Right now only one car was visible, a pale blue unit far ahead.
As Tony drove closer he could see the make - a pre-'77 Chevy, slow and a bit unsteady. The big sedan was dented and scratched, with peeling paint and dirty glass. The plates, even dirtier, were California.
"Slowpoke Rodriguez, make way for Speedy Gonzales." Tony pressed the gas.
That was when it got very loud. Lila almost jumped from her seat. Bobby covered his ears.
"It's okay, just the exhaust!" Tony shouted. "We'll get you ... oh shit."
The Chevy had wandered to the oncoming lane and a big rig was coming. WHONNNNK!
The guy didn't seem to notice. "Shit, shit!" Tony slapped on the horn, which was hardly heard over the naked exhaust. Then the guy did notice. He veered right and went on the shoulder, spuming dust. The truck roared past, horn bellowing. The car wagged for a few seconds, then lurched to the lane just in front. Gravel from his tires ticked the Scout.
"Idiot!" Tony yelled but his mind's voice said There but for the grace. Tony had driven drunk a number of times.
The guy weaved about a fifth of the way into the oncoming lane. He might have been doing forty a minute ago but was no more than thirty now. Tony wanted to get to Hap quick - maybe he could fix that tailpipe today.
Tony veered left and mashed down the gas. He looked at the Chevy as it began to fall behind. The driver's window was especially dirty, speckled and splattered as if it had caught a lot of wet sneezes. The windshield was even worse. The driver was little more than a silhouette, hunched forward and bobbing. Tony thought that someone was slumped beside him.
About ten minutes later, with the Chevy long gone from sight, Tony passed Jack Rabbit Creek with its luxuriant gallery forest of big trees, many of them Midwestern hardwoods near their southern limit in this part of Texas. But the vines were so thick that the forest looked jungly. Tony used to explore these woods as a kid, and even played Tarzan on the vines, but wouldn't let his own kids there now. Poison-oak and poisonous snakes, ticks, rabies, and most recently alligators.
Arnette's water tower came in view. Tony knew that he was only a few minutes from Hap's station and another minute or so from the Bruett residence, such as it was.
"I'll take you guys right home," Tony said.
"No," Lila said, "go straight to Hap. We can walk. Noise bothers Norm sometimes."
"Yeah." Something's got to be done.