You know, Bob, I used to love driving at night. Wheel in my hand, alone and the car eating the curves, all mouth like those fish at the bottom of the ocean.
You weren’t always alone. That night you weren’t.
No one’s always alone. And everyone is. It’s a fish with two heads, isn’t it, Bob. But you’re right, of course. I wasn’t alone.
It was late. It was raining.
It was almost two. But the rain had stopped and the smallest noise at almost two sounds like a thousand firecrackers.
You were wearing a cast?
That night I had crutches. And books in my arm. I let one fall and I’ll never forget when she bent to pick it up, how her sweater rode up her back.
You had something heavy. Tire iron. Crow bar.
A crow bar. It was heavy. It was tucked in the back of my pants.
Then you—
Then I put her in the car and I drove, Bob.
To the mountains.
Yes. To the mountains. There were rough spots in the road. She was slight and she bumped in the seat like a basket of laundry.
Something happened, though, on the way.
She came to. All at once, like a switch was thrown. I pulled off the road, and she swayed in her seat and began speaking Spanish.
Spanish.
Yes, Bob. Spanish. She had an exam coming up, and thought I was a tutor. That I was taking her to the mountains to tutor her in Spanish.
You weren’t, of course.
No. I wasn't. But it is fascinating, isn’t it, what the mind can make out of milkweed. How it struggles with some limp and flaccid notion, breathes into it, twists and knots until what it holds can be reasonably called a giraffe.
Yes. It is fascinating. So what did you do.
What could I do. I beat her head in with the crow bar.