"Dad! What's wrong?"
I pointed to the televiewer, and we watched helijet footage that showed a smoking pile-up of cars, buses, and trucks. Traffic was crawling around it; the scene was illuminated by aircraft spotlights that penetrated the dark winter night.
"...here is reporter Stephen Nimmo live from the chaos. Stephen, what's the situation?"
"Well Martin, we've been told that over thirty vehicles were involved in the actual crash, which occurred at five-forty this afternoon, and was allegedly caused when a coach lost control and careered into the barrier in the middle of the interstate. An oil tanker ploughed into the bus, and the vehicles ignited, causing a huge explosion. In the resulting pandemonium, other vehicles collided with the wrecks, causing more fires. Traffic is backed up for miles…"
I sat in shocked silence with my eyes fixed on the screen. Christ, what if Virgil had been on that bus? Thoughts whirled around my mind in a terrifying maelstrom; dread made me nauseous. Even if he hadn't been on the bus, what if he had been caught in the explosion, or the fires; what if his bus had crashed afterwards? What if he was…?
"We've got to call him." My voice sliced the silence of the room, and seemed to jolt the boys into action again. "He wasn't on that bus. Get his number." Inner turmoil, but outer calm: that was the way forward.
John reached into his pocket and took out his cell phone. He called up Virgil's number with nimble fingers and handed it to me. My face was still and calm, but my mind was aflame with panic. How could we know what had happened? All four boys clambered onto the bed as I reached for the landline phone and dialled Virgil's number. It seemed to take an age for the call to connect. When it finally did, I took it as a good sign. It meant that the phone was still intact. But it rang and rang, and no answer came. Dread twisted and churned in my stomach. Why didn't he answer?
Ring, ring. Ring, ring. Ring, ring.
That haunting melody was with us for nearly two hours as Scott, and John took turns calling Virgil's cell phone, and I used my own to call the emergency hotline flashing at us from the TV screen as we watched events unfold. The blockage was slowly being cleared, and the flashing lights of emergency services vehicles clustered on the dark screen, as more rushed to the scene of panic and injury.
I did my best to keep cool. I was rational. Maybe Virgil's bus had not been in the crash at all. Perhaps it was just caught in the massive tailbacks that had formed. But why wasn't he answering his phone? I couldn't think of an answer other than, 'He's lost it', but it wouldn't have been like Virgil to be so careless. Fear and dread formed a heavy, icy weight on my head. No. Not one of my sons, I found myself thinking. Haven't we suffered enough?
To this day, I'm proud of the way that Scott, John, and I handled things. They knew as well as I did that they had to keep as calm as possible for the younger two. At some point, John even took Gordon and Alan downstairs to make pancakes. Their Grandma made pancakes on the day they found out their mother had died. It was a troubling echo. I prayed that events would turn out differently.
Scott and I waited and waited; the phone rang and rang; we got no where on the hotline. I could see that Scott's knuckles were bone-white as he gripped the phone receiver, waiting with a blank face, hoping his brother would pick up. I scrubbed my cheek roughly with a hand and watched the televiewer through slatted fingers as the snarls of silver headlights snaked along the highway. Sirens moaned in the background.
I could never explain to you the absolute terror that I felt inside. I had to be calm for the boys, but worry and fear were overwhelming burdens, bearing down on me and pushing me to the brink. I was faced with losing my son, my artist, my Virgil, to a traffic disaster on the eve of one of the happiest days of the year. A tremendous anger rose up inside me; it was more than unfair. It was callous; it was horrendous; it was evil. I felt fury boil my blood, and my muscles swelled with rage. It wasn't right! I squeezed my eyes shut and my fingers dug into the bedspread. It was not right.
I opened my eyes as a quiet exhalation drew my attention. Scott had dropped his head to his chest, and my anger suddenly gave way. He held the receiver in a limp hand for a moment, closing his eyes, as if trying to forget for a moment, or perhaps remembering happier times. I placed a hand on his shoulder; I shared the pain he was feeling. He looked up, and for a tiny moment, I could a young boy again, wanting the reassurance that only his daddy could give. But the vision was cleared as I blinked, and Scott brought a strong hand up to rest briefly on mine. He was determined.
"He's fine dad. I know it." I didn't know whether he said that for my benefit or for his own, but I certainly took comfort from it.
Our hope and determination seemed suddenly renewed. We were refreshed and strong once more. I took up the receiver and dialled the number, and the waiting began again.
Eventually John, Alan and Gordon returned. Alan fell asleep in spite of his determination to stay awake. He was back to back with John, who was pretending to watch the televiewer. I could tell he was staring into space. When Scott took the phone again, I picked Alan up and carried him -- at great effort, because the twelve year old was not light -- to his room. I pulled off his shoes and settled him under the covers. With a gentle hand I smoothed back the hair from his forehead and stayed for a moment, before quietly heading back to my bedroom.
The four of us sat on the bed together, mostly in silence, for what seemed like an age. I knew it was heading towards midnight, and I was still getting nowhere with the hotline -- just angry. Scott replaced the receiver again and sat still for a moment. The dull warble of the MWAN broadcast was the only noise. We were still, and I hoped for a miracle. Please let my son be all right. Scott glanced at me, his determination wearing thin again. I saw John and Gordon share a worried look. My heart began to sink once more. What hope was there?
A bolt of electric surprise shot through us all, and we jumped as the shrill sound of the phone ringing filled the stillness. I stared at it for a moment, stupefied. Suddenly I leapt across the bed, seized the receiver and pulled it to my ear.
"Hello? Hello? Who is this?" My voice was urgent, with an edge of hysteria. Please God let it be Virgil!
My heart was thumping so strongly I could feel it pulsing though my whole body, in my fingers and toes, up my spine and throughout my head. I held the phone in a death grip as I hoped, prayed, pleaded that I would be granted just one miracle. The atmosphere of the room was tense. Three sets of pleading eyes were on me, and the crushing burden of worry and helplessness threatened to collapse all hope in my mind.
The phone went dead. I sat still for a few moments, not quite knowing what to do, before slamming the handset back down and sitting up again. The boys sat with expressions of confusion and despair, and they did not know how to react to me.
"What was that all about?" Scott asked.
"It was a prank call." I ground the words out.
How dare someone do this to us! It was an abomination before all mankind. Of course, a tiny, rational voice in my mind told me that the caller could never have known what we were going through, but I did not want to listen.
"I can't believe it." John said, his hands pressed over his eyes. "I thought... I thought maybe..."
The shrill ringing of the phone, once again assaulting our minds, cut off my reply. This time all four of us dove for the phone, but I got there first. I wrenched it to my ear and demanded the name of the caller. I swore that if it were another prank call, I would hunt whomever it was down and cut out their heart.
An elated laugh came from the other end of the line, followed by a yell of something I didn't quite catch. I could hear other voices, and a sudden outburst of cheers went up. But the sounds were muffled, as if they were behind glass. The voice was excited and thankful as it greeted me.
"What a way to greet you own son! Dad, it's me, it's Virgil!"
The relief I felt almost made me weep. I closed my eyes and whispered, Thank God, as my son's voice rang loud and clear down the line. He was all right! He was alive! Joy and elation threw off the heavy burden of worry and doubt, and I laughed out loud, sounding manic, but I didn't care. Virgil was alive!
"Virgil! Son, are you all right? Tell me, son, where the hell are you?"
I saw Scott, John, and Gordon stare at each other, and then at me, before the room exploded with cheering and whoops of relief and delight. The commotion brought Alan running back to the room, with mussed hair and wide eyes, not quite awake yet, and he was immediately engulfed in a brotherly football tackle of joy.
"I'm fine, Dad," Virgil said. "Don't worry. I'm so sorry I didn't get back to you before now. That was me trying to get though before, but the phone went crazy. I'm in a phone booth at a truck stop. Our bus was caught in the huge snarl just after the actual crash. We were evacuated in case there was another explosion. I've spent most of the last few hours in one of the holding tents. None of us were able to get help to get word out to our families. We're on our way back to campus now on another bus; it's easier than trying to get to Topeka."
"Thank God you're all right," I said. "We've been trying to get through to you."
"My phone was in my bag, and I had to leave it on the bus. I didn't have any credit, anyway. Jeez, I'm so sorry Dad."
"None of that, Virgil," I said. "We're just glad you're safe." Something occurred to me. "Son, why was your bus at the Kansas-Colorado border at five-forty? You should have been well into Kansas by then."
"We didn't leave until really late; something about the bus's fuel, we were told. I was running late, but I couldn't call because I had no call time. I was waiting until we stopped after the border to phone you." There was a pause, and I heard someone else's' voice for a second. "I'm going to have to go, Dad. There's a huge queue behind me. I'll hopefully be home tomorrow. I'll let you know the plans."
"Okay, Virgil." I didn't know what to say. "I'm so glad you're safe. Take care, son. Call us later."
"Sure thing."
"Alright, son."
"And Dad?"
"Yes?"
"Next time, I'm taking a plane!"
I barked out a laugh, and we bid each other farewell. The phone line went dead, and I stopped for a moment, soaking the events in as the flat dial tone replaced Virgil's voice. After so many hours of agonizing wait, it was over. Virgil was safe. I realized that I was sprawled across the bed, spread-eagled, due to my leap for the phone, and I couldn't help but chuckle. I replaced the receiver and sat up. My sons watched.
"He's fine." I said calmly.
I let out a violent whoop of joy, and my sons, all four boys, attacked me with another football tackle. We were a tangled mess of limbs and ecstatic faces, and I let out another boisterous cheer. I was so happy, so thankful, so relieved, that all my boys were, once again, just fine.
