The Highway Kind(4)

“Now, the problem was, Angie did not want to come to that tournament. All of seven years old, and with a mind of her own. Lord, did Angie put up a stink about that one. Said she could stay at her friend Kristi’s house for the weekend. It was Kristi’s birthday, and Angie was gonna miss the whole party, but I said we all had to be there. We all had to support Sean. Even Katie said, ‘You know, maybe if she’d rather stay,’ but I said no. Absolutely not. I said she had to come. I said that. I made her.”

“Well, you know,” I said quietly. “Kids.”

“And then, of course, the twins,” he said. “Gracie and Lisa. Lisa and Grace.”

Steve had to stop talking for a second. A hitch in his voice. A spasm in the tense line of his throat.

What if I punched him? was my next thought. Just smash a hard right into his jaw, bounce his crazy head against the driver’s-side window? I formed one hand into a fist. But then what? What? Grab the wheel? Get my feet on the brakes? I had literally never hit a person in my life, and what did I think, I was going to knock this man unconscious? Was that even possible?

I let my fist relax. I focused on not vomiting. The car hurtled along the HOV lane, passing Lexuses and Beemers, passing Expeditions and Hummers, roaring past Santa Monica and Culver City, past all of twilight Los Angeles.

“Sean was the star of the tournament, he really was,” said Steve when he was able to speak again. “I mean, you know, they don’t give an MVP or anything like that, but that boy was the star. Always the star. And then on the way home...on the way home to Indiana...”

Tears were wet in Steve’s eyes. I knew what was coming, right? It had to be a wreck. They’re driving home, it’s late, Steve’s eyes drift shut...or there’s a sudden storm, Midwestern floodwaters. I was waiting for Steve to tell me about it, about the sudden squall, about the slick of rain on the road, waiting to hear how he lost control...

This was going somewhere bad, I knew that it was, I felt that it was, but there was no escape. There was just the road ahead of us, just us and the empty backseats: two captain’s chairs in the middle row, and then the third row behind that. For one crazy second I saw them back there, Sean in his headband and cleats, petulant Angie playing with a plastic pony, the twins strapped into their infant seats...

The Getty Museum glowed white, a castle on the hill above us. We were coming up fast on the Skirball exit.

“Anyway, so, so, Mr. Roegenberger, so we walk back to the car after a quick stop for dinner. A Subway attached to a gas station, just across the state line. It’s twilight. It’s not even dark. And here we find two men in the process of stealing the minivan. One of them was crouched, you know, crouched under the steering wheel with his wrench and his pliers, working on the wires. And the other one—he’s got the gun. He’s got it, it’s pointing at us. And I said, It’s okay. I said, You just go right ahead and take the vehicle. Because I’m no dummy, Mr. Roegenberger. I’m no fool.”

He glanced at me then, and I nodded. “You’re no fool,” I said. “You’re no dummy.”

“It’s just a car. But see—see—this man was on drugs, you see. You understand? Later on we would find out that he was under the influence of various substances. Bath salts. Have you heard of bath salts, Mr. Roegenberger? Apparently they can make a person behave in unpredictable ways. The other man, he was a professional car thief. But this guy...this man...his name was Vance. Later on we found out his name was Vance.”

“Oh,” I said. “Vance.”

“And he just—well—I don’t know. We’ll never know,” Steve whispered. “But he just started shooting and he shot and shot and shot.” Steve put his blinker on. He lurched out of the HOV lane, moving rightward. “And everybody died, you see? Just my luck, see? Everybody died. Everybody but me.”

He was waiting for me to say something, but what was I supposed to say?

“Well, that’s terrible, Steve,” I said lamely. “That’s just terrible.”

“Yes,” he said. “Terrible.” We took the exit. We flew down the off-ramp, took a hard left up onto Laurel Canyon Drive. “And it’s all your fault.”

And then we were going up.


Poor Steve slowed the Odyssey just enough to allow for the tight turns and dead-man’s curves of Laurel Canyon Drive as it climbs up into the Hollywood Hills. My stomach bobbled and quivered inside me, a ball of liquid, as he whipped the two tons of minivan upward.

“So, hey,” I said, keeping my voice as calm and casual as I could. “Steve? There is some kind of misunderstanding here or something. I did not steal your vehicle. That was not my fault, okay? I’m just a guy. I’m just some guy. What happened to you, that’s—well, like you said, Steve. It’s terrible. But this is not your vehicle.”

“Well, of course it’s not my vehicle,” said Steve. “That Odyssey was impounded by the police. After the crime scene was processed. After all of it. I know this isn’t the same car. I’m not an idiot.”

A long pause. Just driving, fast up the hill, too fast. Higher and higher. Up and up.

He picked a turn to take off Laurel Canyon, one of the tight little one-lane side roads that wind up yet higher then narrow until they turn into the private driveways of millionaires. Halfway up that small road, he jerked the wheel hard so the car turned all the way to the right, and then he slammed on the brakes.