Although it is far from chilly, Betty turns on her heated seat, as usual. She encourages me to do the same. When I resist, she reaches over and flicks mine on. My ass soon feels like the site of a barbecue. “If you don’t turn off my seat,” I tell her, “I am going to burst into flame.” She stares at me, but does not make a move to ease my pain. “These seats are the best thing about the car.
And then it happens: Whenever we go out at night, my mother, with her uncanny sense of speed and, despite her failing eyesight, sonarlike skills of detection, is always on the lookout for deer, the curse of drivers in these parts. She is always petrified we will hit one of the apparently suicidal animals and can repeat a list of people she knows who have had this experience over the last few years. We use Route T when we go back and forth to Columbia because a friend of ours, a judge, whom she respects as an authority on every topic, says he has never seen a deer on Route T.
But tonight, there is a deer on T. I barely see it as it leaps across the road, into my path. I am driving too fast, with my mind on other things. Its eyes glare at me as it stands, immobilized, just before the point of collision. Then I hear a huge thump and see the deer, at least part of it, flying through the air. I envision my lonely-dog-related karma hissing out of those antlers.
I get out. A large part of the deer, most of it in fact, including the head and antlers, is still in the highway. What is the proper etiquette in such a situation? Is one expected to move the deer off the road? Is there some authority to be called? A game warden? A wildlife emergency team? I don’t want to move the deer. If I had a gun, I supposed I would have to shoot it to put it out of its misery. But I don’t. Maybe I should choke it?
“I have to go to the bathroom,” Betty shouts from the car as I eye the deer, oozing dark blood, feeling horrible. Its head seems larger than is fitting for display in a studio apartment.
I consider trying to move it, but I tell myself that I could easily contract some sort of germ or infection that could kill me, and Betty, before basically destroying the universe. The thing will have to stay in the road. I am sorry, oh creature of the forest. I meant no harm and have no gun to send you heavenward. I hope you don’t have children. I just wanted the Arts and Leisure section and a taco. I am a peaceful man.
No way I can move this thing. It will have to stay. Maybe a highway patrolman will come along. Or perhaps someone burly and hairy will arrive, someone adept at the removal of large carcasses on the way to an NRA confab. “I have to go to the bathroom,” Betty yells again.
I check out the car. There is the smell of burning antifreeze. The front is somewhat mangled, with the grille badly dented in. This, I realize, will not go over well with my passenger.
“I knew that was going to happen,” my mother says. “It was just a matter of time.”
Screw the deer; I wave good-bye as I peel out. “You never should have dragged me to that movie,” Betty says. “But the deer was not your fault. I was watching out and didn’t notice it. I didn’t notice it. It just came out of nowhere.”
“It was deranged. It hated its life,” I say. I am collateral damage.
Betty is animated but calm, ready to take on at least part of the responsibility. It was her watch. This is a woman who can treat the transmission of a common cold as a tragic twist of fate, but crash into a creature whom you fear is Bambi’s papa and you will encounter a soldier prepared to storm the beaches of Normandy.
“How’s the car?” she asks.
“Kinda banged up.” I imagine an estimate from our mechanic that will send her into cardiac arrest as he jabbers on about tanks or belts or vaporizers. Or whatever. My mother loves this car because, I suspect, she knows it will be the final automobile she will ever purchase, her last ride. It gets us back home, though something loose on the front scrapes the road all the way and the smell of smoke does not fade. I fear I may have snagged a smoldering piece of deer flesh. Maybe I should throw it in the Crock-Pot.
Inside, I fall into a state of near breakdown. I have spilled innocent blood and am contemplating the arrival of vengeful animal spirits.
The next morning, I find Betty staring out the garage door at the car. I call the insurance agent, deal with the paperwork. I do the kind of thing that I normally put off until crisis threatens. Miraculously, I pull it off. The insurance man is nice and helpful. The check will arrive without delay and the Infiniti is destined to fly once more, in search of other prey. My mother seems rather astonished by my crisp, businesslike efficiency, and I am too.
“I thought we were going to have to get a new car,” she says. I feel, suddenly, competent. I have braved antlers, paperwork, possible renal failure, and emerged triumphant. Maybe, if I can keep it together, I can save the ranch. Betty says, “The next time you see a movie, go by yourself. I have better things to do with my money.”
17