By: David Bulley We all survived with barely a scratch. Vicky had this one cut above her right eye were it hit the rearview and that was it. Nate and Doug strapped in tight in the backseat were completely unharmed. The accident didn't hurt me at all. I did myself in. These little squiggly Vermont roads, all slick with wet leaves in the brisk October darkness; these hurry up drive-homes, always at night so the boys can sleep, always quiet and a little stiff because Vick knows I can't stand her brother so visits up there are always tense, and the drives even more tense as I see her brace for my outburst, "Do you know what he did this time!" Only this time I let it go. Mike was the same fuck-up he always was, stoned out his mind on stolen Percocets from his mother's secret stash, but I just let it go. Her father told the same goddamned jokes about what a city slicker I was and how I had "book smarts" but not common sense how Vermonters had, but I was feeling fine and I let it go. Vicky was ready for a barrage that never came. Instead I checked the kids were asleep and slipped over beside her and ran my hand up under her skirt. Vicky said, "Wade! This isn't the time" but opened her legs and clenched the wheel tighter and rolled her back and smiled at me. That is when the deer jumped over us. Vicky slammed both feet onto the brake pedal, trapping my hand inside her. The car skid on the wet leaves. When it turned sideways and I saw the soft shoulder coming fast, I screamed out, "I love you Vicky!" for her, so the last thing she heard on earth was that someone loved her and I meant it I meant it I meant it. Then, for me, I confessed. I don't know why. Some secrets are far worse than the crimes they protect; uglier. Maybe I didn't want that ugliness on my last breath. Even then I said it under my breath, hoping that she not hear, "I fucked your sister." But she heard. She heard and we didn't die. We rolled over three times, landing upside down against a couple small fir trees on the side of the road. Are you okay? Yes, are you? Check the kids, oh god, check the kids. They are fine, barely awake. Look, Nate is smiling. He wants a ride. And we climbed out, her first and me passing the babies. Nate, two years old and eager to please like firstborns, and Doug, four months old and already wise. She held them both while I scrambled out. When I reached over to take Nate, I knew she heard. I pretended she didn't. "Oh sweetie," I said. "We are so lucky. I love you so much." Vicky checked her watch. She looked at the sky. "Hold him" she said, handing me Doug who was cooing at the brisk, wet wind. "I'm going to get the seats and the cell." Firstborns, man. Firstborns. Vicky doesn't understand. She is a middle child, so is all |
content upon herself. But her sister Angel is like me. We need something extra. We see ourselves in the reflections of the eyes of others. So, when no one is looking, we barely even exist. From the moment I first saw her, I knew it would happen sooner or later. I knew then that I would marry Vicky and love her forever and fuck her sister whenever, if ever, we were alone for a long enough block of time; because if we were alone, we both would have to see ourselves in the eyes of the other. Who doesn't want to feel sexy? It only happened once. We were both staying in Vermont; Angel lives in New York. Vicky had taken the kids out walking with the mother. Her father was at the machine shop. He is always at the machine shop. I woke up and Angel was standing at my bedside, looking down. We never talked about it. I just opened my arms. Vicky pulled out both car seats and set them up beside the road with extra blankets. I held onto the kids and wouldn't put them down. "They will be warmer in the seats," said Vicky. "I'll just hold them for awhile," I said. "I was scared to death, you know." Trying to explain why I wanted the kids in my arms. But really I wanted the kids in my arms for a shield, and saying how scared I was, was for my wife. As if that could explain anything. Vicky set herself on one hip, a pose I always loved, because it so unselfconscious, so awkward and natural at the same time, just like her. She dialed the state police. When she finished, she flipped the phone off and slid it into her pocket. She wrapped herself up in her own arms and shivered. "You want to talk about it?" she said, relenting and wrapping blankets around our now sleeping children in my arms. "Talk about what?" "Don't play dumb. I heard you." "Help me with the kids." I gave her Nate and then put Doug in his car seat. I tucked the blankets around him and kissed him on the forehead. When I looked up, Vicky was done with Nate. I stayed on my knees. "Oh Vicky, don't you know how much I love you? Don't you know?" Vicky looked at me. I hoped for anger because when she got angry she did things she regretted later. Angry would mean we could make up at some point. The treetops swayed. The wind alongside the road howled. Vicky just looked sad. "I know you love me," she said. Later, when the tow truck driver had us all aboard pointed back toward Vicky's family, when we were all safe in his truck, he laughed affably and said, "The car is totaled. Thank god the family survived, right?" And Vicky looked out, but really at her reflected self in the window. The swaying trees reflected off her irises and she said, "Yes. Thank god." But I don't think she meant it. Not a word. |