My heart had finally settled back to its natural rhythm a short while earlier. My mind on the other hand had not. It had been about an hour since the near miss on NY Route 67 as it neared Interstate 87 north of Albany. The fright I experienced once I realized my tires were starting to be overpowered by the shoulder’s soft sand was a slap to my psyche. An oncoming van drifted into my lane forcing me to the right. Thankfully, the van’s driver snapped to in enough time to center the vehicle within its lane, but not before I found myself contending with several seconds of outright uncertainty, and to be honest fright, as to whether or not I would lurch sideways, flatten the 1960’s era guard rails, and land starboard side on a downward sloping embankment with a full load of beer, soft drinks, and bottled water.
Twenty-two year’s worth of driving know-how together with a sudden visit by Lady Luck prevented the worst from happening. Optimally calibrating a soft touch on the brake with subtle steering allowed me to securely grab enough pavement to right myself. With a jerk the truck was back on the road again heading east in the direction of New Hampshire instead of sliding downhill into a ravine.
It took a minute before I cursed aloud. I imagined having my thickset hands around the van driver’s throat and squeezing until he (or she) went limp. This image stayed with me longer than it probably should have, but such is rage. I wasn’t feeling very analytical or understanding or sympathetic. I was pissed. Eventually, as I replayed the incident in my mind I had to admit it wasn’t necessary to pull my rig so hard to the right as quickly as I had. There was clearly an element of overreaction involved. And I do recognize that sometimes my overreactions were more trouble than the initial cause. Fatigue more than likely played a role. After all, I had driven twenty-five of the previous forty hours, by far breaking trucking regulations. Truth be told, I was a wreck physically and emotionally. I just wanted to get home.
Sarah would be there. Ahh, Sarah. I knew she wanted more in life than to be settled with me in our mostly finished simple prefab house a couple of miles from the village in our desperately rural Sullivan County town. The truth was, I was the best she could do back when we met. At least that is the narrative I’ve been telling myself since she moved in six years ago. With little money, an ex-boyfriend who her threw her out, an abandoned GED program, but with a country-girl cuteness that still weakens my knees, I offered to take care of her. That’s what girls want, right? A man to take care of them.
She took two days to think about it, but eventually showed up in my driveway just as I was returning from a run to Connecticut. We had sex for hours that night. I thought I had won the lottery. But even though I could tell she didn’t share that level of excitement about me as I did her, I told myself, no worries. She’ll come around. She’ll realize I am the best she’s going to do.
And then Sarah announced a few months ago she was pregnant. She took the test to tell us the baby was to be a boy. I was both thrilled and scared. I hadn’t planned on becoming a dad and was afraid it would change my life too much. However, the more I thought about it the more pride I felt. Unexpectedly, the idea of being a father made me feel more complete, more proper, more mature. I liked that feeling. Knowing Sarah was going to have a baby boy made going home after a run like this a little better than before. I looked forward to seeing her in a way I hadn’t in the past. That was how I felt that afternoon. Ready to be home with my girlfriend who was going to have our baby. I shook off what remained of the jitters from the near-accident and continued driving east across Vermont. It would dark by the time I got home, but not too late. One more cup of coffee should do it, I thought.
It’s funny how a certain kind of outdoor space, a natural space, can shift my mood in an instant. I’ve driven this route west to east through Vermont many times and it contains several views on the roadside that catch my eye, give me slight pause, and induce calmness. Today, it was the one with a sweeping hillside that is grassy and kept clear of overgrowth due to having been hayed a couple of times per season presumably and which reaches a line of stout oaks on a hilltop forming a tight canopy. In the late afternoon on sunny days the hill and trees receive an angled light, which amplifies the colors and brightens the picture just the way I like it. Glancing this image for a mere two or three seconds as my truck rumbled by brought me a momentary feeling of peace and contentment. Things were feeling better. The near-accident was fading away from my thoughts.
My coffee was nearly done when I crossed over the river into New Hampshire and then south on route 12A. I pulled the rig to the outside edge of a parking lot near Walmart, so I could run in and get Sarah a bag of peanut butter cups. She’ll like that I did that, I thought. Twenty more minutes or so and I’ll be home. Once back on 12A I again appreciated my not having flipped the rig back in New York. Getting home in one piece felt like a reward.
Something felt off as soon as I stepped from the mudroom door into the kitchen. Sarah’s ‘hello’ to me was inauthentic, almost guarded. Her smile seemed somewhat forced. The air felt thicker than usual for some reason. I instantly sensed anxiety and apprehension seep into my consciousness. I hated times that didn’t go right. Suddenly, this felt like one of them.
She reached for can of seltzer sitting on the kitchen counter. It allowed her to take her eyes from mine, if only for a moment. I told Sarah I would be right back. I took my travel bag to my small office off of the living room where I dropped it to the floor thinking, I’ll need to ask her what’s wrong, because it sure felt as if something must be wrong.
While asking Sarah, what’s up, I opened the refrigerator door to grab a beer and noticed two six-packs of unrecognizable beer. I knew it was some sort of expensive craft beer, the kind of thing I never wasted money on and confusingly, either did Sarah. There were also two unopened bottles of pinot grigio, which is Sarah’s drink. Or at least it was before she became pregnant. But even before pregnancy, she typically kept only one opened bottle in the fridge at a time. Not two unopened ones. This didn’t look right.
I asked if she was planning a party or something. Her face looked fake. A mixture of discomfort and unease. Bubbling from her were insincere comments like, “Party?! No, of course not. I thought you might like to try a different kind of beer. So I’ve got some booze in the fridge. It’s not that big of a deal, is it?”
As I said, “I don’t get it”, a pickup rushed past the house on our dirt road kicking up a cloud of dust. Through the living room picture window I saw what looked like the back of Frank’s F-150, a good friend of mine in town. For a split second I thought, what is Frank doing around here now and why the speeding by without a stop?
I turned back toward Sarah. She had noticed the truck as well. Fear was spread across her face. She tried to hide it, but it was unmistakable. “What’s going on, Sarah?” I was tired and now feeling stressed. Sarah was pissing me off with her evasion and now this sudden look of dread. “Tell me what the fuck is going on, Sarah!”
She couldn’t or wouldn’t speak. Sarah never was a good liar. And her silence told me she wasn’t going to even try. Her eyes began to moisten and her mouth opened slightly as if she wanted to speak, but no words came out. Sarah’s left hand then slowly moved toward her raised stomach where it rested. My eyes followed her hand as she touched our baby.
I may not be the brightest bulb in the marquee, but I eventually do figure most things out. Frank! He drinks those fancy-boy beers! Was he coming here to drink them with Sarah? My heart quickened. The silence was broken.
“I’m so sorry,” Sarah said. “I didn’t know you were coming home today. Thought you would be in Buffalo tonight. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“Are those beers Frank’s? Tell me what you’re up to! Tell me now! Don’t bullshit me, Sarah! You and Frank were going to drink? And you’re pregnant! You’re not drinking these days. That was him driving by just now, wasn’t it? And he didn’t stop.”
Sarah started to answer me. “Me and Frank…we…don’t want trouble…have to do this. She quickly turned from me, grabbed her purse from the kitchen table, and bolted from the house to her Corolla. My surprise at her unexpected flight was momentarily paralyzing. By the time I got outside she had started her car and jammed it into reverse, barely maintaining control on the road. And then she was gone.
Sarah and Frank? What the fuck?! I gasped for air. A sinking feeling in my gut took hold as I realized my whole world had just collapsed. My blood reaching the boiling temperature gave me the energy and motivation to act. On a wall of my office hung my Ruger American hunting rifle. From my desk I grabbed the box of .30 caliber rounds and loaded the gun.
My mind was racing. “He’s been screwing around with Sarah while I’m on the road? I’m gonna kill him. I’ll blow his fucking head off!”
There was no sadness. No remorse. No second guessing. Just a feeling of disbelief mashed up with rage, leading to a single goal. To kill Frank. My truck was in the barn where I kept it while I was away on the road. With the rifle resting in the gun rack behind me, I charged dangerously fast to Frank’s place. Upon arriving, my truck vaulted from the road to his front lawn, leaving deep ruts where I had slammed on the brakes.
His truck was in the driveway. Behind it was Sarah’s Corolla. “I’m gonna kill you Frank, you bastard! Get out here!” I shrieked at the house.
There was no response. I screamed some more. Still no response. I figured Frank had his gun ready to use on me if I tried getting into the house, but I didn’t care. To get their attention I started shooting out the windows of his Ford and of Sarah’s car as well.
Strangely, it never occurred to me that the scene I was making would bring out the police. Even before I started shooting, Mrs. Lambeau who lived across the street from Frank’s house must have heard me, seen me with the rifle, and called the town police station. Officer Charpentier must have been the only one on duty to take the call, because she is who showed up to confront me.
“Put the gun down on the ground and step away from it, Mr. Dean,” Officer Charpentier called out from behind the town cruiser. “Once you do that we can talk about this. Do what I ask right now, please.”
“Not until I blow Frank’s brains out!” I yelled back to the police officer.
She responded with, “I’m not going to let you do that, Mr. Dean.” I saw that her service weapon was drawn. “Now put the rifle down slowly onto the ground and back away from it in my direction.”
“C’mon, Jim. Do as she says. Put it down.” Roy from down the road was speaking from the back of an oak on the corner of Frank’s property.
“Thank you, sir, but I have this,” Officer Charpentier said to Roy.
“So, Jim,” Officer Charpentier said to me in her even voice, “follow my directions and put the gun down.”
I don’t think it was what the town police officer said, but how she said it. Officer Charpentier was composed, steady, and taking command of the situation. As I listened, I was able to regain a shred of mental acuity. Enough clarity of thought anyway to allow me to realize Sarah was gone. As pissed as I was, she wasn’t coming back to me. I was no longer wanted. My breathing dialed down from huge gasps of air. I put down the gun on the lawn and walked to the cruiser.
The pain of the entire experience lives with me today, many years later. I would put it that I’m hurt and wounded more than I am defeated. I have my son a couple of days a week and I have something of a life. Working on being grateful for what I have is something I really do try to work on. Yet, crying comes to me much more easily than it used to and I kick at the rickety old boards of my barn in frustration a lot. It’s just that the anguish of betrayal, lost trust, and rejection continues to haunt me. Why we don’t make the best of our short time on earth, I’ll never know. I’ll just never know.
