The Complete Collection. William WhartonЧитать онлайн книгу.

       15

      In the morning, we’re soaked. The tent’s sagged so it’s on top of us. We crawl from under like worms slithering in the grass.

      The sky is blue and warm with large drifting clouds, but the grass and trees are water heavy; drops sprinkle every time we move.

      Dad stretches and almost falls over. It’s past nine-thirty; those reds sure sent us off. There are huge water puddles on our tent where it sagged the most. We carefully pull out the tent pegs, ease down the tent poles, then try to roll the biggest puddles off without soaking the blanket more. We each take an end of the blanket, wring, then spread it on the car roof. The car’s already so hot the blanket steams.

      At the other end of the lay-by there’s a rest room we didn’t see before. We head there, wash, scrub our teeth and work on getting our eyes unglued. We’re still wobbly. Our clothes are wet and wrinkled, so we come back and pull clean clothes from the suitcase. Aunt Joan washed for us just before we left and the clothes smell clean, dry and Californian.

      When we come out of the rest room, the tent’s half dry but the blanket will take time. We roll up the tent and stash it. Dad’s carefully making a neat roll of each rope. We spread the blanket over the tent in the trunk.

      Dad takes our wet clothes and puts them on hangers from his suitcase. He slips these hangers over little hooks on the inside of the car by the back windows. We’re beginning to look as if we might be bushy reps making our yearly tour for a lingerie company.

      It’s ten-thirty before we get rolling. Dad takes the wheel. I put on the Dylan tape but keep the volume down. I’m still sleepy, so I recline the chair and close my eyes. It’s amazing how much better you hear with your eyes closed.

      We resist two Pizza Huts and eat on the other side of Vandalia, Illinois. It’s a diner in a Quonset hut. We have fried chicken and dumplings. There’s also little lumps like French-fried mothballs.

      It’s half a chicken each and I switch a leg for Dad’s breast. He’ll eat any part of a chicken, including the heart, liver, lights and the pope’s nose. I only really like white meat. In our house, the whole mob, except Dad, are white-meat eaters. The rest of us scramble for scraps while he gorges himself on thighs.

      We finish at three, then head off toward Indianapolis. I want to check out the Indy 500 track but Dad isn’t enthusiastic about getting all tied up in city traffic. I’m driving now, but he’s boss.

      We’re about ten miles past the Indiana border when we see a bunch of cars pulled over on the verge. People are jumping out of cars and some are running. The grass divider between the east and west lanes is crowded. There’s been an accident on the westbound lane. I’m so shook I pull over and stop. It’s the worst accident I’ve ever seen and it’s just happened. The front wheel of an upside-down car is still spinning. There’s only the one car and it’s slammed against an embankment where the highway cut through a small hill.

      A whole family is spread along the road. The father is farthest forward, farthest west. He’s about Dad’s age, husky with a little pot like Dad’s. He must’ve slid over forty yards on the asphalt and is half sanded away. He’s not bleeding much but you can see the bones in his shoulder and arms. His shirt’s torn off and his pants are in rags with the belt pulled down over the top of his butt; he’s bare-foot and his toes are worn off. He looks more like somebody from a motorcycle than a car accident. Two men are on their knees beside him but he’s not moving.

      There’s a woman about his age and she’s bent against the dirt embankment with one leg twisted the wrong way under her. She’s on her back and one arm is half ripped off. She’s covered with blood and still bleeding. Three people are trying to stop the blood. From the way she’s twisted, her back must be broken.

      Trailing behind, going east, are three little kids and a dog. The dog is up on two legs spinning in circles, like that dog we hit, only this one’s not barking or growling, just spinning and whining.

      One of the kids is a skinny little boy, maybe Jacky’s age. His guts are spilled over the road in circles as if he stood up and they all poured out. The guts look plastic in the sunlight. He’s wearing shorts with a striped shirt and is covered with blood. He’s spread out on his back so you can see the edges of his ribs where they’ve been cracked in. His eyes are open and somebody covers him while I’m watching.

      There’s a little girl and she doesn’t look hurt much. There’s no blood. People are standing around, but she isn’t moving. I get closer and there’s a deep dent in the side of her head just above her right eye.

      Farthest east is a tiny kid still standing up. He can’t be four years old. Just about all his skin is scraped off. He’s red, raw and bleeding. He’s crying and yelling for his mother. People are kneeling around him, trying to hold him, staunching blood in the worst places.

      I turn away and vomit up that chicken, dumplings and mothballs. Dad’s white and running around checking if anybody’s called an ambulance. On the ground, I see I’m not the only one who’s lost his cookies. Dad comes back.

      ‘Are you all right, Billy?’

      I nod my head. He’s all hyped up.

      ‘I’m not sure anybody’s called an ambulance. Let’s head down the road till we find a place with a phone. That little one might make it if they get him to a hospital fast.’

      I see somebody’s taking the kid with them in a car but I don’t say anything. I just want to get away. They’ll need an ambulance anyway, even if it’s only to settle for sure all those people really are dead. I climb in the passenger seat and stare out of the window. How can such a rotten mess be happening under such a beautiful sky?

      Dad’s driving like a crazy. Now he has a mission, there’s no stopping him. He pushes this crate to almost ninety. In about three miles, we come to a group of stores. He skids to a stop, jumps out, runs into a liquor store. I wait in the car. Three minutes later he comes out.

      ‘Somebody’s already called and they’re on the way. I told them I thought there were five people critically injured, probably fatal.’

      He climbs in the car. He sits and doesn’t start the engine. I look at him; he’s white and breathing shallowly. He looks awful, pale, face all over shining wet.