Alma's World

Locked in a car at sixty miles per hour with no neutral corners to retreat to, they were being careful to yield minor points, using softer words and sweeter tones than necessary. In effect, they were attempting to undo what they both knew could not be undone. Still, they tried.

Soon after her marriage to Jack Moore, Molley was asked by a friend if she was happy. Her response was immediate and without thought. "Absolutely." In the ensuing years the bittersweet memory of that incident would resurface with regularity, especially when life took one of its frequent dips, as it was doing on this crisp October weekend.

It was Sunday morning and they were heading into Maryland from Virginia. Jack was driving. She was staring ahead, arms tight across her chest, struggling to make sense of last night's argument and wondering how much more of herself she could put into this marriage. Like so many of their clashes lately, this one came at her without reason or warning, with Jack carping at dinner about some imagined slight and then brooding over it until bedtime. Having long ago refused to do battle when nothing she might say would make a difference, she had given up without mustering a defense and then tossed all night.

This morning, she slipped from bed with the first rays of daylight. Tired, but determined to enjoy what was left of the weekend, she prepared breakfast and later tidied up while he scanned the paper. As usual, there was no mention of the previous night and, together, they left the house under a tacit and uneasy truce that kept their shallow conversation civil.

Now, Jack was blithely humming to an upbeat Sinatra-Nelson Riddle arrangement of I've Got The World On A String and tapping the steering wheel in an exaggerated manner, providing yet another signal to convey he bore no grudges. The song ended as they left the meandering George Washington Parkway for the wider, more heavily trafficked Beltway.

"Racked up quite a few miles," he said with a casual nod at the odometer.

Here we go, again, she thought, her jaw tightening at the oblique probe of how she'd spent her time. Rather than taking the bait though, she looked out at the bright yellow and red foliage as if seeing it for the first time while hoping he might do the same.

But the tactic was in vain. He hadn't finished with her. They were crossing the Potomac and merging into the fast lane when he asked in that casual, irritating way, "So, whatcha been up to?"

She ignored the question but not the throbbing rising behind her eyes.

"Hmmmm?" he pressed.

Now she stifled the sigh he'd surely construe as confrontational and braced for the next incoming round. It was his choice. If he wished, he could draw her into another fight or, having made his point, move on. She was hoping for the latter when, up ahead, a bright red, 4x4 Jeep Cherokee with over-sized wheels--one of those loathsome road hogs--drifted into their lane.

If she were driving, she'd have slowed and let the incident pass. There certainly was ample room. And, besides, such maneuvers were common on that stretch of interstate, where drivers typically jockeyed around in preparation for the I-270 spur that would soon veer north to Frederick. Instead, disregarding the cars behind them, Jack slammed the brake with enough force to throw her forward.

"Sonofabitch!" he shouted while pounding the wheel. "Didya see that?!"

Grateful for her seat belt, she turned and stared hard at him. Not offering a sympathetic nod or comment was the only retaliation she could think of at the moment, and she withheld both.

But he was too worked up to notice. Or, if he did, he didn't care. He was now on another mission. "Goddamned fool!" he shouted through the windshield. "Think you own the goddamned road in that goddamned truck! Just once I'd...,"

Then, seizing the moment, he stomped the accelerator and cut onto the narrow inside shoulder, the one for emergencies, and in less than a heartbeat they were speeding between the yard-high concrete Jersey divider and the Jeep with only inches to spare.

Jesus! Molley thought, as she tightened her grip and held her breath, a wrong move by either of them and they'd all be dead. Lest she distract him, she remained frozen while glancing at the speedometer. They were exceeding seventy-five. A moment later they were beside the Jeep and Jack was blasting the horn. To Molley's horror the driver, a teenager, more focused on her cell phone than the road, flinched and jerked her wheel. As she swerved into the next lane Jack swung right to reclaim his domain.

Holding a parallel course, he lowered Molley's window and, thrusting out his finger, screamed past her. "ASSHOLE!" Then, to make his point, he sped up far enough to move into the girl's lane, where he immediately began tapping his brake.

"That'll show the little bitch," he boasted while playing his dangerous game. "Maybe next time she'll get her head out of her butt."

From her side mirror, Molley watched the youth drop back several car lengths, indicating more sense than her foolhardy husband.

Now that his adrenalin was pumping, he sat stiff behind the wheel shooting glances at the mirror should the girl unwisely attempt to pass. It wasn't until they reached I-270 and exited north that he finally loosened his grip, the question of Molley's excess mileage apparently forgotten for the moment.