She’d considered a disguise yesterday but it seemed so ridiculous—what was she supposed to do, wear a Groucho face? A hockey mask? As it was, she wore a newsboy cap, something she rarely did, and sunglasses with wide round rims that he’d never seen before, so she’d pass the test if he looked at her from a reasonable distance but definitely not close up.
He turned left on Columbus, and another car slid into the mix, a black station wagon with New York plates. Rachel dropped in behind it and they continued in unison for a couple of miles. All three of them left Columbus for Arlington together and Arlington for Albany and headed toward I-93. When she realized they might be getting on the expressway, she feared she might projectile-vomit onto the dashboard. The surface streets were hard enough, the noise, the bumps, the jackhammers breaking open pavement at a construction site, the pedestrians who dashed across the crosswalks, the other cars pressing in, cutting in front, riding up hard on her tail. But that was at twenty-five miles an hour.
There wasn’t much time to think about it because there was Brian pulling onto 93 South. Rachel followed, feeling as if the on-ramp sucked her forward. Brian punched the gas and bolted across three lanes of traffic into the left lane, his Infiniti rocking on its wheels. She stepped on her own gas pedal and the immediate result wasn’t much different than if she’d stepped on a boulder and expected it to gallop. The small Ford inched forward and then inched forward a tiny bit faster and then a little bit faster again. By the time it reached the seventy-five miles an hour or so that Brian had reached near instantaneously, his Infiniti was a quarter mile ahead. She kept pressing on the pedal, staying one lane to his right, and soon she made up enough of the distance that by the time they’d passed through Dorchester into Milton she had a perfect bead on him from five cars back.
She’d concentrated so hard on the task at hand that she’d forgotten all her terror at being on the expressway in the first place. Now it returned, but it wasn’t quite terror, just a persistent fluttering at the base of her throat accompanied by the certainty that her skeleton might burst through her skin.
And a sense of betrayal and rage as toxic as Drano. Because what was abundantly clear, though there had never been much doubt, was that Brian was not headed to the airport. Logan was fifteen miles in their rearview.
When they left 93 for 95 South and the signs for Providence, she considered the possibility that he could have chosen to fly out of TF Green Airport, the only major airport in Rhode Island. She’d known people to prefer it to the crowds at Logan, but she also knew for certain they wouldn’t have a direct flight to Moscow.
“He’s not going to any fucking Moscow,” she said aloud.
A few miles later she was proved correct when he engaged his turn signal at least ten miles short of the airport and began to glide smoothly across the lanes. He got off in Providence, at the Brown University exit, where the neighborhoods of College Hill and Federal Hill met. Several other cars chose the same exit, including Rachel’s, three back of his. At the top of the exit ramp, Brian went right but the two cars between them took a left.
She slowed as she neared the intersection, let him get as far ahead as possible, but there wasn’t much stalling to be done. A Porsche swung wide on her left, engine revving, and shot out in front of her. She’d never been happier for a small penis driving a small penis car to act like a small penis because she again had cover between her and Brian.
It didn’t last, though. At the first light, the Porsche drifted into the left-turn-only lane, then floored it, zipping around Brian as they crossed the intersection, and roaring up the road ahead of him.
Little dicks, Rachel thought again, and their little dick cars. Shit.
Now there was no buffer between her and her husband, no way to control whether he looked into his rearview and recognized her. She passed through the intersection. She kept four car lengths between them, but the driver of the car behind her was already craning his head to see past her, as if to discern why she’d commit the unforgivable sin of not keeping pace with the car in front of her.
They drove into a neighborhood of Federalist clapboard homes, Armenian bakeries, and limestone churches. Once, Brian’s head tilted up and to the right—he was clearly checking his rearview—and she damn near stomped her brake pedal in panic. But, no, no, he looked back at the road. In two more blocks, she saw what she’d been looking for—the shoulder widened by a doughnut shop and a gas station. She put on her turn signal. She pulled over by the doughnut shop and prepared to pull right back out again as the green Chrysler pulled past her.
But behind the green Chrysler was a brown Prius and behind the Prius was a tan Jaguar and right behind the Jaguar was a Toyota 4Runner with monster wheels and, Jesus, behind the 4Runner was a minivan. By the time she pulled back out, not only was she five cars back, but the minivan was too tall to see past. And even if she could, she’d then find herself staring at the back of the 4Runner, which was even taller than the minivan.
The traffic stopped at the next signal and she had no way of knowing if Brian had actually passed through the signal before the light turned red.
The traffic moved again. She followed as they continued along in a straight line, no curves in this road. Just give me one curve, she prayed, just one fucking curve and maybe, just maybe, I’ll be able to catch a glimpse of him.
A mile up, the road forked. The Prius, the minivan, and the 4Runner all went right onto Bell Street, while the Chrysler and the Jaguar stayed the course on Broadway.
Only one problem—Brian’s Infiniti was no longer in front of the Chrysler. It was nowhere at all.
She screamed through gritted teeth and gripped the steering wheel so hard it felt like she might rip it out of the drive shaft.
She banged a U-turn. She did it without thought or warning, meriting angry beeps from both the car behind her and the oncoming one in the opposite lane that she cut off. She didn’t care. She didn’t feel fear, she felt rage and frustration. But mostly rage.
She drove back up Broadway, drove all the way to the gas station and the doughnut shop where she’d lost sight of him. She U-turned again—this time with warning and a bit more finesse—and drove back down the way she’d just come. She looked at every side street as best she could at thirty miles an hour.
She reached the fork again. Resisted the urge to indulge in another scream. Resisted the urge to cry. She took a left into a tiny lot outside a VFW Post and turned back again.