In three weekends, that entire hundred gallons of paint is used up. And at least as much beer has been swilled. We’ve put on three coats, and it looks great. I was afraid it might be too pinkish, but when it dries, it’s just right. I choose three colors for the trim: a white where it won’t weather too badly, a burnt sienna for around the window frames, and a mix of burnt and raw sienna for the frames themselves. This takes another week.
Afterward, we all stand around congratulating ourselves and prepare a big party. Doug, Bert’s best buddy, brings out an additional keg of beer and almost everybody gets staggering drunk. Thank goodness we’ve put the paint away in the shed and locked it. They might have started painting the trees. This painting orgy is about the biggest thing to happen in Falls City for years.
Claire just can’t believe we’ve finished the whole job so quickly. She thought it would take months. I begin to understand something of what Bert was missing about Oregon. It’s a kind of camaraderie which includes women.
CHAPTER 5
OUR NEXT PROJECT is to register at the University in Eugene, check out the married student accommodation, and start looking for a house to buy. We think it might be the best investment we can make with our $40,000—my savings, Bert’s, and what we’ve put away while we’ve been together. This includes the $5,000 Mom and Dad gave us when each of the little ones were born, and, on top, $5,000 on each of their birthdays, tax free.
We’d like to buy a house near the University to fix up. We’d work on it during the two years of our stay, then either rent it to students for income, or sell it. Bert hasn’t had much experience building but thinks he can manage. It’s the kind of thing I’ve always wanted to do. Dad is the biggest fixer-upper of old houses I know. He claims to have made more money fixing up old houses and selling them than he has in twenty years’ painting.
Doug, Bert’s best friend, lends us his VW van to make the trip to Eugene. I borrow a pair of good kiddy seats and fasten them to the seat belts in back. We decide if I need to nurse Mia on the way, we’ll pull over to the side of the road and sit there till she’s satisfied. We’re in no hurry. This is the way we did it in Germany. I have the feeling Mia is about ready to stop nursing. I’ve started giving her a bottle at night and she seems to like it.
At the last minute, as we’re about to pull out of the driveway, Wills decides he’d rather stay with Claire, to play with Doug’s son and the ponies. I feel safe leaving him.
We’re going to stay with Don and Roni, good friends of Bert’s who live in Eugene. They have already been searching out a house for us. It’s wonderful being brought into this complex of interlocking friends that makes up Bert’s life. I never realized how popular he is; how much he means, in some symbolic way, to the people around Falls City. I see what Claire has lost having him so far away.
We go through the first stages of registering at Oregon State, trying to claim residence through Bert’s mother, hoping they won’t check too closely. We both want to finish our master’s degrees; it would be Bert’s second. His first was in mathematics; this one would be in computer science.
We look at about ten different houses. I can’t believe it. There are places less than ten blocks from the university that can be bought for around $40,000-$40,000 wouldn’t buy a garage in Los Angeles or Phoenix, or Germany, or France.
We find one we both like that’s listed at $48,000 but the realtor says it can be negotiated. We offer $38,000 for starters. We’re willing to go as high as $42,000 but don’t want to go into debt, and we’ll need money to pay for the renovation.
It’s a nice two-story house with four bedrooms. We feel we could easily convert it into six bedrooms without much work. The roof, electricity, beams, foundations, all seem good to us. Don, who’s built his own house, comes out to inspect, and says it looks solid to him too. We make our official bid at the realtor’s around eleven in the morning, and phone Claire to tell her we’ll be home for dinner. We pack up, say goodbye to Don and Roni, then start off. It’s about a two-hour drive along Interstate 5, I-5, straight north. It’s not too far for Bert to go see his mom whenever he wants to.
Both kids drop off to sleep in the back. I try not watching the traffic. For about fifteen or so miles, all the traffic has been redirected to our side, the northbound lane, because of work that’s being done on the southbound lanes. This jams up cars and trucks so closely together we can hardly breathe. I wonder if I’m going to make it in America. The cars are tail-gating each other, going at about seventy miles an hour. Bert tries to slow down but an eighteen-wheeler behind us keeps flashing his lights for us to hurry up. God, it’s scary.
Then, finally, just before Salem, the two sets of lanes, north and south, are open again. Cars and trucks zoom past us, trying to make up time. The sky is white with smoke. I concentrate on looking at what I can see of the scenery, trying not to watch the traffic, as vehicles keep cutting each other off, slipping in and out of our lane with their boat-trailers, their regular trailers, their trailers packed with furniture piled on and precariously tied down. There are huge pickups with wheels almost as high as the roof of the van. Up ahead I see what looks like a yellow stain across the road.
“What’s that, Bert?”
“That’s what I was telling you about, Kate. They’re burning the stubble from grass seed and smoke is blowing across the road. Watch out, this can be dangerous.”
We try to slow down but another big eighteen-wheeler is right behind us, practically touching our back bumper. Bert tries to move over into another lane but can’t. There’s another eighteen-wheeler beside us, and on the other side it’s soft shoulder. Bert rolls up his window to keep out the smoke. He turns on his lights.
First, it all gets yellow, then amber, then it’s almost completely dark. I look back at the kids but see only that huge truck, that eighteen-wheeler, tailgating us, still there; he’s just turned his lights on. He’s too close; he’ll never be able to stop. I turn back to the front, but can’t see a thing. It’s now total darkness. Bert’s pumping the brake, trying to signal the truck behind us to back off, when he bumps the car in front of us, ever so slightly, and then somehow manages to bring the van to a stop. Then, there’s a terrible crunch, an unbelievable noise, the incredible shock of the jolt from behind. I look back for the babies and hear them cry.
There’s nothing we can do.
PART TWO
Will
CHAPTER 6
MY SON Robert and I push our bikes along the narrow alley between the house and the fence of the house next door. We’re dripping wet from a three-mile run we’ve just made in Asbury Park. The race is every Thursday evening at seven on the boardwalk and conducted by the local YMCA. We’ve ridden the mile or so from there back home. The air is soft and soothing.
Rosemary’s already home, having driven back. We’ve invited good friends who run with us to dine at our house. She’s come home early to set the table and put things out. Albie and Linda are stopping to buy the pizza. Bobbie, another friend, is with them. Robert and I have enjoyed riding slowly through the darkening evening and look forward to showers and good pizza with family and friends.
As I push my bike past the dining-room window, I catch the movement of Rosemary coming back through the kitchen. I park my bike near the trash cans. Robert parks his along the fence leaning over the marigolds we’ve planted. He rushes in past Rosemary to get his shower started so I can have mine after him. I figure I’ll help Rosemary.
She pauses in the little covered back porch, on the platform outside the kitchen door. I’m just stepping over the small sill into the porch when she comes quickly down the steps to me. It’s enough out of the ordinary that I take notice. I see she’s crying.
She comes into my arms. I hold her tight. She’s sobbing so hard I can feel it through her whole body and mine. I think: what in heaven’s name can be wrong? My wife is not an easy crier. I’m just beginning to think about all our loved ones, the few older aunts and uncles. Then she looks up, t
akes my head in both her hands, stares into my eyes. I can scarcely make her out in the dark.
“Will, darling, a terrible thing has happened.”
She stops to take a deep, stuttering breath.
“They’re all dead. Kate, Bert, Mia, Dayiel. They’re all dead. I just finished talking to Claire Woodman. They were killed in a terrible crash and fire on the highway in Oregon. They’re dead, all of them, except Wills. He stayed at home with the Woodmans.”
She leans her head into my sweaty shoulder and cries harder. I hold onto her, as much to keep myself up as anything. I’m surprised at my reaction. I don’t believe it. Somebody’s made a mistake. I can’t accept it. All the usual reactions people have to things they don’t want to believe. But I’m not crying. I’ve just started shaking my head against Rosemary’s.
“When did it happen? How? Are you sure?”
She talks into my shoulder. “It happened yesterday at about four o’clock, Oregon time. There was a fire that blew across the road. Seven people were killed. Thirty cars piled up. Claire was crying so hard it was hard to understand her. I still don’t understand.”
“It happened yesterday? What took so long? What kind of people won’t even tell you right away when something like this happens? Are you sure?”
“I wish I weren’t. They’re dead. They’re gone forever. We’ll never see them again. I don’t know how I can live.”
I hold her tighter. I’m beginning to shiver. I feel cold all the way inside myself. How could this happen? These are the kinds of things that happen to other people. We’ve always been so lucky. Bert’s such a careful driver, and Kate even more so. She won’t go around the block in a car with the babies unless they’re strapped into baby seats, like astronauts with wide straps crossed over and around them.
I turn Rosemary and lead her back up the steps into the kitchen. She’s slumped against me. I’m still not crying. It hasn’t registered yet. I hear the Jeep pulling in, parking out front.
Our friends are standing on our front porch. I open the door. They’re wearing jackets against the chill after the run. Albie’s holding the grease-stained, cardboard pizza box. He’s smiling; the women are behind him. They know right away something has happened; something is wrong.
“I’m sorry, we’ve just had some terrible news.”
For the first time, I feel I might break down crying. Somehow, telling it to someone else will make it more real, irrevocable.
“Kate, Bert, Mia, and Dayiel have been killed in a multiple automobile accident in Oregon. Rosemary just phoned and talked to Bert’s mom. It happened yesterday afternoon.”
Albie puts the pizza down on the table by the window.
“And they’re only telling you now?”
It’s the same reaction I had. Rosemary begins talking behind me. I know her. She doesn’t want anyone thinking badly of somebody else when they aren’t guilty of anything wrong.
“They didn’t know themselves until just about an hour ago. It’s only afternoon there. The accident was so horrible they couldn’t identify the bodies for a long time. The Woodmans were expecting them home for dinner last night.”
She stops to get her breath, to hold back her sobs. She goes on through her tears.
“They didn’t come. The family thought the car had broken down or that maybe they’d decided to stay over with friends. They’re the same as we are, thinking this kind of thing doesn’t happen to family. The accident is in all the Oregon news, television, everything, all over the country, but they didn’t think this kind of thing could happen to their family.”
She stops, leans forward with her face in her hands. Linda goes over, gets down on her knees, holds onto Rosemary. I realize I’d better get off my feet or I’m going to fall down. I slump onto the floor with my head against the side of the couch, the way I watch baseball on television. Bobbie pulls some pillows off the couch and tucks them under my head. Both Linda and Bobbie are crying now. Both have children of their own.
Albie pulls my legs out straight, goes into the dining-room, and brings out a chair. He lifts my legs up onto the chair; Bobbie puts another pillow under my legs. I realize from their reactions that I must be going into shock. I know I feel terrible. I can’t stop shaking my head. It’s totally involuntary.
Linda takes the pizza into the kitchen. She comes back with wet towels for both Rosemary and me. I’m beginning to feel as if things are passing me by. I want to go over, comfort Rosemary, but I’m numb. Albie’s on his knees beside me now.
“Do you want me to get the first-aid people? I can call and they’ll be here in five minutes.”
I shake my head no. It interrupts my regular rhythm of head shaking.
“No. I think we should just be alone for a while. I still have to tell Robert. He doesn’t know yet. We’ll be all right. You people go home to your families and enjoy them.”
Rosemary sits up in her chair, ready to play hostess.
“Yes, please go home. We’ll have too many things to do. Nobody can do anything for us right now. If we need any help, we’ll call. Honest.”
Bobbie leans toward Rosemary.
“I know I won’t sleep tonight, so any time, just call and I’ll be right over. Dave can help, too. You know lifeguards are trained in first aid. You don’t need to take this all alone.”
Linda and Albie are standing. It’s uncomfortable knowing they want to help, but all of us knowing there’s nothing they can do. Rosemary’s right: we need to work it out ourselves.
They leave. I try to have them take the pizza but none of us feels much like eating. I see them off the porch and into the Jeep. I look around at the quiet street in the night. Ocean Grove is famous for its peace. I wonder if it will ever be the same for me, for us. I turn back into the house. I go over and kneel before Rosemary, take her hands in mine. Her crying has subsided some. She looks me in the eyes.
“During the twenty minutes or so when I knew and before you came back, oh, how I envied you those twenty minutes of not knowing. I have the strange feeling that if we don’t know, it won’t be. I staggered over from the phone and sat at the foot of the steps. I was wishing with everything I am that I could scream or pray.”
I hear Robert coming down the stairs. I stop him at the bottom of the stairs.
“Robert, I have something to tell you.”
Robert is usually quite diffident. But he catches something in my voice, my face. Still, he’s carrying through what is for him the normal sequence.
“I left enough water for you to shower and there’s still a dry towel.”
“Robert, I have some bad news, something terrible has happened.”
He stands there, hanging his hands loosely at his sides. I wish I didn’t have to say it, ruin his calm. We could allow him one more night’s peaceful sleep. But it has to be done.
“Robert, I know this is hard to believe, but Kate, Bert, Mia, and Dayiel were killed in a massive automobile crash in Oregon. Mom just talked to Mrs. Woodman. That’s how we found out.”
His face blanches. He stands there, blank, for a few seconds. He peers into the living-room.
“How’s Mom taking it?”
“It’s hard but she’s OK.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“Not now. Do you want some of the pizza? It’s right there on the table.”
“No, I couldn’t eat. Is it all right if I take a walk down by the ocean? I don’t think I can handle this. I’m even afraid to go in and talk with Mom.”
“Sure, I understand, and so will she. Be back before ten o’clock because I don’t know when we’ll be leaving for Oregon and the funeral. In fact, I don’t know when the funeral will be, but we’ll probably be leaving tomorrow.”
“OK. I’ll be right back.”
I can tell he’s on the edge of breaking down. I don’t think I’ve heard him cry since he was under ten. Walking along the beach or boardwalk in the dark, crying, is more his style. He goes out the back door. I go into the living-
room again. The running costume I’m wearing is looking more and more ridiculous.
It’s just then I remember that Sunday we’re supposed to be part of a big family reunion outside Philadelphia at my Aunt Alice’s. I’ll need to call them right away. I also want to call my sister in California.
I slip off my Bill Roger’s warm-up jacket. It’s beginning to dry on me. I also slip off my soaking wet running shirt. I’m doing these things automatically. I keep looking up at Rosemary. She’s staring out the window, tears running down her face. I need to shower and put on some dry clothes but I don’t want to leave her alone. I don’t want to be alone myself.
“Will, you go on up and take a shower. I’m fine. When you come down, we can make arrangements for a flight and a limousine to pick us up for Newark. But, first, I want to sit here a few minutes to pull myself together, pull our lives together if that’s possible. You go up and shower.”
She smiles. I smile. We’re being silly. We should hold onto each other and cry our hearts out. Neither one of us expresses emotions easily. We’ve been lucky enough that it hasn’t been necessary very often.
I let the shower run over me for ten minutes. Here I can cry. I wonder if Rosemary can cry downstairs. I dress in a pair of light slacks and a T-shirt, not exactly a mourning costume, but mourning costumes aren’t our thing either. I go down the steps slowly, preparing myself. Rosemary has moved from the chair by the window to the chair at her desk. She has the Yellow Pages in her lap and is talking on the phone. She hangs up.
“Well, we have a flight out of Newark for Portland, leaving at ten-oh-five tomorrow morning. There was nothing this evening. We stop over in Chicago, arrive in Portland at about noon. I’ll call Claire Woodman now and tell her what time we come in. I think she told me the funeral is supposed to be Tuesday, but I’m not sure. I wasn’t paying much atten—” This is where she breaks down. I go over and hold her head against my chest. She puts her arms around my waist.