Middle Of Nowhere

   There were few questions that could freeze her solid, but this one managed. In all, perhaps a second or two lapsed, but to Daphne it felt like minutes. She coughed out a guttural laugh, at which point Flek joined her. A pair of nervous people chortling contagious laughter at a silver windshield. Oncoming cars and trucks passing with that familiar, if not disturbing, whoosh, that rocked the car side to side. Flek steered with one hand lightly on the wheel. Daphne kept one eye on the road, ready to grab that wheel.

   "Well, good," he said, when she didn't answer. "Pass

me the Gold. It's in the box." He pointed to the glove box.

   Cuervo Gold Tequila. Half empty. Or was it half full on this night—she couldn't be sure about that. He downed two large gulps from the bottle and offered her some. She declined as politely as possible. He wrestled with his left pocket, lifting his butt off the car seat to get a hand down deep, and came out with a plastic aspirin container, meant to carry ten for the road. It carried small capsules instead—she couldn't identify the drugs in the limited dash light.

   "I won't bother to offer," he said, dropping two down his throat and chasing them with the beer. He clicked the aspirin traveler shut with the one hand, in a move that was far too familiar to him. He slipped the container back into his pocket.

   Possession, she thought, knowing they now had charges that would support his arrest.

   He said, "Does it bother you?"

   "Only that you're driving," she answered.

   He laughed. "I think I can handle it."

   "Does it make it any better?" she asked pointedly.

   "Let's not go there, okay, Mom? Session's over, Doctor. Ten, fifteen minutes, the patient won't care." He added, "The patient won't be here."

   "Then we've got ten minutes," she suggested.

   "Five is more like it. Let's not for now." He pulled on the beer, then stuffed it between his legs. "Remember, I'm doing you a favor here, going all the way to Poulsbo. Don't push it."

"I was offering to help, is all."

   "Yeah? Well, save it." He drummed restless fingers on the top of the beer can in his crotch. "I've got all the help I need."

   "That's temporary help," she said, not giving ground.

   "Depends how regular you are in administering the dosage, Doc! Ritalin. Prozac. They've tried it all on me, Doc. Started on me when I was eleven years old. You lift a couple toasters, they give you a pill. Wasn't me who started this," he said. Looking over at her, he added, "Oh . . . gee . . . am I scaring you? It's you who wants to talk, not me."

   "It's called a glow plug, isn't it?" she asked. He looked a little surprised by her knowledge, but recovered quickly.

   He sang, badly out of tune, "You . . . light up my life . . ." and laughed hotly, before putting out the fire with more beer.

   "It won't bring him back."

   "Shut up!" he roared. The car swerved, and Daphne felt weightlessness in the center of her stomach and a flutter in her heart. He shoved on the brakes and the car skidded to a stop on the side of the road. A pickup truck zoomed past, its horn cascading down the Doppler scale. "What the fuck business is it of yours?" he hollered, his eyes wild, spittle raining across the seat. "Jesus!" He drew on the beer again, leering. "Why can't you just shut up about it!"

   She glanced down at her purse. The gun, she thought. But suddenly, all felt calm within her. This was her domain: the wild frenzy of minds losing grip. This was the moment she had hoped for: the anger breaking loose and opening up a hole through which she might travel. In a perfectly calm voice she said, "You're experiencing guilt over your brother's death. You blame yourself. You're torturing yourself." She pointed to the beer. "You're medicating yourself." She hesitated. He was actually listening to her, though through elevated respiration, dilated eyes, and an increased heart rate, judging by the pulse in his neck. "You can do damage, you know, assuming that kind of responsibility for another. Don't beat yourself up over this."

   He coughed out a sputter of disgust, turned his attention back to the road and floored the accelerator, fishtailing back out onto the pavement.

   Daphne felt a penetrating calm. She was inside him now. They both knew it.

   "What do you know about it?" he said.

   "Do you think you're the only person to experience grief and guilt? What you're going through is a process. But you're handling it wrong. Tell me about the guilt you feel."

   He waited a moment and said, "Pass the Gold."

   "No, I'm not going to. I don't feel comfortable with that." She wanted control. If he accepted her refusal then she had him right where she needed him.

   "Yeah?" he said a little tentatively, "well, this is my car. Fuck you!" He stretched for the glove box, and Daphne blocked his effort. She could sense his fencesitting; he was debating opening up to her.

   "No," she said. "It's not the answer."