Terror Level Elevated
by Branigan Grace © 2006
Trish ran screaming toward the crowd on the beach and found herself sitting up in bed, heart hammering. That's the last time I read Stephen King at midnight, she thought. She shuffled into the bathroom, blinking her eyes to relieve their stinging dryness. Trish washed the sleep-creases from her face, still trying to resolve the dream that had settled like an unwelcome guest in the dark corners of her mind -- an apocalyptic blur of battleships headed toward happy beach-goers who played in halcyon bubbles, unaware of approaching slow-motion doom. I watch too much news, she thought.
In the kitchen she glanced out the ice-pelted kitchen window on her way to make coffee. The thermometer read five below, same as yesterday and the day before. Welcome again to life in Maine, thought Trish as she began to clear two days worth of sticky dishes. Tom had left a scattered pile of half-eaten food. Leaves his crusts just like a kid, she thought. That's my guy.
Cinching her bathrobe tighter, Trish brought her coffee to the couch, pushing aside the paper clutter on the coffee table to make room for her cup. Finally locating the remote down the crack of the couch seat, she switched on the news.
Watching it, Trish felt anxiety fill her like a thoughtless lover. No end in sight for the conflict, terror level elevated. Heightened security measures were needed, blah, blah. Trish switched on the mute button, watching the blond reporter's mouth open and close. She pushed the off-button with nerveless fingers, thinking of Tom at Bath Ironworks and their latest navy shipbuilding project. A numbing dread filled her, and she shook it off. Snap out of it, girl, she thought. Get to work.
She looked at her notebooks, her half-finished essays. Her overdue op-ed piece for Today's Times on the current state of underhanded politics lurked in her files. Trish turned on her laptop, and tried to shake life into her cob-webbed mind.
Stevie padded silently out of his room, bed-haired and sullen.
"Hey little man," Trish said, brightening.
He gave her a stormy look, his lower lip jutting out.
"No!" he shouted, hitting in her direction. He ran back to his room, slamming the door.
I know all about it, Mr. Cranky, she thought. I woke up ugly too. She waited.
In a moment, Stevie opened his door. "Hi Mommy," he said.
"Hi shiny-faced boy." She snuggled him close, burying her face in his baby-soft curls. From storm to sunshine, she thought, in the blink of an eye. "How about some Cheerios?"
#
Later Trish dressed Stevie in layers to buffet the chill weather. Zipping up his snowsuit, she quickly got herself ready, knowing that he had about a thirty-second tolerance limit for being bundled up in the house before throwing an overheated tantrum. "Let's go shopping, Honey-Bear," she said.
In the checkout line, she listened as an earnest man with a gray-streaked beard argued a case against the war to a young man in military uniform. The young soldier listened politely until the man finished. Finally he responded, "But what else could we do?" He held out both hands as though ready to grasp any reasonable idea, a solid alternative, something as substantial and real as a weapon. Again he asked, "What else could we do?"
The bearded man sighed wearily and fell silent.
The young soldier's poignant question echoed in Trish's mind as she loaded Stevie and her groceries into the car. Her Mustang groaned to life again, crunching ice as it tiredly rolled out of the parking lot.
At a traffic light, a red pickup truck pulled up close behind her, blaring his horn. Startled, Trish looked in the rear-view mirror and saw a man gesturing, shouting silently at her. A hunting rifle was proudly displayed in the rack above him. The light turned green and Trish pulled forward. The truck tailed her, revving its engine.
What's that jerk's problem? thought Trish, biting back the urge to swear. At the next wide shoulder she pulled over to let the truck go by.
The truck passed, then pulled over abruptly, parking on the shoulder in front of her. Covering the back of the truck there were a dozen or more political bumper stickers, blazing with color and shouting their triumphant truth in oversized capital letters.
He must be pissed off at the campaign stickers on my back bumper, she realized. Jesus, has it really come to this?
The door opened. A burly shape hefted itself out of the driver's seat and strode toward her.
Trish pulled out again, her hands slippery with sweat inside her gloves. In the rear view mirror, she saw the man bang a fist on his door. The next moment, the truck pulled out behind two other cars between them.
I've got to shake this guy, thought Trish. She pulled into a side street, then down two more. She waited by the Rockland Library, taking deep breaths.
"Why are we stopping, Mommy?"
"I'm just giving the car a rest, honey," Trish answered distractedly, forcing cheer into her voice.
After a few moments her breathing calmed. When no truck appeared, Trish gave a silent thanks before pulling out again.
On the way home, Stevie prattled on, telling her a story which she didn't hear.
"Mom, listen to me real!" he finally said, his voice rising to a whining treble.
"Sorry honey, tell me again. Mommy's just really tired right now."
He glowered at her in the rear-view mirror with all the strength of his childish disapproval. "But why are you being tired at me?" he asked.
#
Trish pulled into her street and let out a shaky breath. Their home, which this morning seemed like a chilly prison, now welcomed her as a bright haven. Stevie was already asleep in his car seat. She gave him a fond glance in the mirror. A flash of red caught her eye.
The truck was back.
A burst of fear burned her chest. Trish slowed her car, acutely aware of her sleeping son in the back seat. I've got to get us away, but how? she thought, swallowing panic. Her house was at the end of a dead-end street. She pulled into a neighbor's long dirt drive, praying he would be home.
He wasn't. And his cul-de-sac was blocked with a hill of snow.
How stupid can I be, thought Trish, near tears. Everyone was at work. Of her four neighbors on Spring Lane, only Mrs. Sidney would be home, and she was as deaf as a post. By pulling into the driveway, Trish had trapped herself and Stevie.
The truck pulled in behind her, blocking any possible exit. Trish looked around wildly for something that could serve as a weapon. My keys, she thought. I can go for his face, his eyes. She gripped her keys, vise-like, the end sticking out between white knuckles. I'll kill the bastard if he even looks at Stevie, she thought, and braced for attack as she heard the deliberate crunch of footsteps in the snow approach her car.
The man was at the window now, shouting, his words forming puffs in the frigid air. My horn, thought Trish. I'll lean on my horn. Someone's got to be near enough to hear it. She felt around, making sure the doors were locked, put her hand on the horn, and hesitated. I can't wake Stevie up to this, she thought. There must be another way. Her mind felt trapped, muddy with fear...if only she could have one clear thought...
The man put a lumpish hand on the window, still mouthing unheard words, his face weighty with determination. Trish revved her engine to drown out the sound. She looked at the banks of snow surrounding them with white walls of seclusion, and gave a sob of pure terror, panting like a trapped animal.
Trish had never hurt anyone in her life. The thought of violence was abhorrent to her. She always wondered what she would do in this kind of situation, with her safety, maybe her life and that of her child, threatened. Now she knew she would do anything to keep them safe. She pictured the sharp end of the key slashing across the man's face, his eyes. If she blinded him, maybe she could get to the gun in his truck...
The man backed up, holding both hands in the air. What was he saying? The wind carried his words away. She heard, "...car problem. Please listen." Trish cracked the window a quarter of an inch, keys ready to maim.
"Ma'am, I'm sorry to scare you, but you got a leaf spring hangin' by a thread."
He bent down and pointed with his thickly gloved finger to the bowels of her old Mustang, where the cumbersome bands of metal held the undersides of her car together. "I know you thought I was harassin' you, but I had to get your attention.You wouldn't want to lose that in traffic, 'specially drivin' with this young man." He nodded at her sleeping son.
"Oh." Trish felt the hot pool of panic drain from her chest, leaving her limp with relief. She almost laughed as tears squeezed from her eyes. She sat for a moment, unable to move, her hands over her face. Then she rolled down the window. "Thanks." Her voice came out as a barely audible squeak. She cleared her throat. "Sorry. I thought..." she took a deep breath, embarrassed. "You really scared me."
"I surely didn't mean to ma'am, but I thought you was about to lose the whole underworks of your car there. You get your husband to take that in now, okay?" He turned to leave, then gave her a second look. "Hey, you're that writer, aren't you? From Today's Times? I see your picture with your column." His beefy cheeks were turning red from the cold.
"Yes."
In the back seat, Stevie stirred, whimpering.
The man shuffled his boots in the snow, studying her through clouds of breath. "I saw your last story there, the one about the blind leadin' the blind into battle..."
Trish nodded, thinking of his bumper stickers. Is he going to give me a hard time, after all?
"You got some points sometimes, but.., " he shook his head, puffing cold air, searching for words. "You're awful hard on some folks. We're not all ignorant red-necks, you know, if we don't think the same as you."
"I didn't...I don't think that," Trish said, stung.
The man shrugged, his small gray eyes searching her face."Maybe you might want to think more 'bout how you put things. Write 'em that is. We got a boy over there." He hitched his chin, as if the battlefield is in her neighbor's back yard. "We gotta believe it's for somethin'."
"I know you do." Trish's voice was shaking. She had no more words, her terror turned to unexpected defensiveness.
"Well, so long." The man touched his cap, turning to leave.
"It's not you, you know," Trish said. "I don't mean to hurt people like you. I wish..."
The man stopped, waiting.
"I wish I could too. Believe it's all for something." Trish wiped her eyes, teary from the cold.
The man nodded. "You take care now, ma'am." He walked back to his truck.
"Thanks," she called. "I hope your son stays safe." Her voice sounded weak, her words inadequate.
Trish sat, her head on the steering wheel, minutes after the truck pulled away. And I wanted to scratch his eyes out, she thought. What can I say to him? How can I compromise on something I can't abide?
She looked at Stevie again, who was fussing with half-waking fretfulness. She started her engine and backed out, the first kernels of sleet pelting her windshield.
In less than a minute she was home, tucking Stevie in to finish his nap.
Safe.
Settling on the couch, she picked up the remote, held it a moment, then put it back down. Trish opened her laptop instead, switching on the lamp beside her. She thought of the man in the truck and the other people who would read her words, some of them waking in mornings, as she did, to wrestle with nightmares, some of them waking to fight an enemy with many faces. Then, curtains closed against the coming storm, she began to write.