Her husband broke eye contact with his son and turned his gaze back upon her disbelieving face. “I know shortcuts, darling, and I know you. Now turn around.”
Without another word, he stood and walked back to his truck while Molly rolled up her window. Lance looked at his mother as she grasped the shifter and put the car into reverse. There was no emotion on her face; it was as if it had been wiped clean with some sort of solvent.
As Molly turned the car around back the way they had fled, Lance remembered something he had once read in a book about death and dying that he had picked up on one of the few occasions he had been allowed to accompany his mother to the local bookstore. It had said something about the steps that a person took when dealing with death. First, there was denial, then anger, bargaining, depression, and finally acceptance. It seemed his mother had gone through all of these steps in the last several minutes since the Chevy had loomed into view before them. The acceptance he now saw on her face—because it wasn’t just blankness there—was the worst. She had given up, and even though he had made his own peace with death not five minutes before, he still felt the urge to remain alive deep within his chest.
As the miles passed, neither of them spoke. Lance looked out of his window at the moonlight-dappled fields of cut crops. He tried to pretend that they were just out for a normal drive and that he didn’t see the one headlight that rode close behind them. He tried, and failed miserably. His imagination, which worked overtime in the best of situations, rocketed along at breakneck speed. It was like he was trapped in a locomotive running on jet fuel as it screamed down the tracks of his mind. Through every window he looked out he saw a landscape of suffering where he and his mother were being maimed and cut to pieces by his grinning father.
The Caravelle’s decrease in speed and turn to the left brought him out of his morbid reverie, and his heart began pounding out of control once again. They were home. In a few seconds they would pull to a stop in front of the house, and then it would be time to finally pay for their little excursion. All Lance could hope was that his father would not release all his anger at once; he doubted he or his mother would survive if that happened.
Molly pulled into the Caravelle’s regular parking spot near the garage and shut the car off. She sat in the seat for a moment before looking over at Lance. Her face remained impassive, but the words she spoke to him were urgent and clear.
“When I tell you to, you run. Do you understand?” Her eyes stared into his, and he felt the weight of what she had asked settle over him like a lead shroud, but nonetheless he felt his head nod. The Chevrolet then pulled up even with them on Lance’s side, and his father stared down at them. “You run until you hit the river, and then go south; you’ll find a neighbor’s house along the way. Don’t stop for anything.”
Without another glance or word, Molly pulled the handle on the driver’s-side door and stepped out into the cold darkness of the night. Lance pulled his notebook close to his chest, and then did the same. When he had shut his door, he felt the eyes of his father upon the back of his neck like two blunt fingers, pushing into the soft flesh and the bones below. When Lance turned, Anthony stood just a few steps behind him; he still cradled the shotgun in the crook of his arm, and his eyes seemed to shine in the light of the moon. Lance walked between the car and truck and turned toward the house some fifteen steps away, his mother falling in behind him and his father bringing up the rear.