Restoring Harmony (17 page)

34

GRANDPA’S FACE WAS ALREADY TURNING PURPLE IN Randall’s grasp, and his glasses had clattered onto the patio. What was I going to do? Randall could snap Grandpa’s neck in a tenth of a second and then come after me and Grandma.

“Let him go!” I screamed.

“Here’s what happens next,” Randall said stiffly. His jaw was definitely tight, but we could still understand him. “You give me my gun, and I let him go. Then we all sit here quietly until my relief arrives. After that, we’ll decide what to do next.”

When he mentioned his gun, I realized I was still holding it. I didn’t even hesitate. Instead of handing it over, I pointed it at him. “Let him go,” I said as calmly as I could.

“Molly,” Randall said, “you can’t shoot me.”

“I can, and I will.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You forget that I’m a farm girl, Randall. My dad’s had me shooting target practice since I was seven years old. And I always hit my mark.”

“Shooting targets isn’t like shooting a person,” he said.

Grandpa struggled, and Randall tightened his grip.

“I’ve shot two mad dogs,” I said. “And I put the deer they were terrorizing out of its misery.”

“It’s not the same.”

“And when my mother tells me to go out and get a chicken for supper, she isn’t sending me to any market, but to the hen-house.” I tried to sound cold and tough. “You’re nothing more than an animal to me, and if you don’t let him go, I’m going to shoot you.”

Randall stared hard at me, the firelight flickering in his eyes. I was pretty sure I
could
shoot him if I had to. I mean, I would just maim him or something, not kill him. But I felt like I could do it, and I guess he must’ve seen it in my eyes because with a jerky movement of his arm, Randall released Grandpa. He stood up, choking and spluttering, the color slowly returning to his face.

I was afraid Randall would go for the gun, but he sat there motionless.

“You cover him, Molly, while I tape him up,” Grandpa said, acting like he’d somehow gotten out of the jam all by himself. “Shoot if you have to, but warn me so I can get out of the way.”

“I will.” My voice was shaking, but my hand was surprisingly steady.

It looked like the serum was finally starting to work, because Randall’s fingers were clenched and only his eyes were moving. I stood close enough to him so I had a clear shot, but not close enough for him to wrestle the gun from me if he was still faking it. He stayed in his chair, though, not moving a muscle, while Grandpa wrapped the tape around and around his ankles.

We stood him up, and he swayed stiffly on his feet. Grandpa bound his wrists together behind his back like Spill had told us to do, and I tried not to think about why Spill knew the best way to tape someone up. I put the gun in my inside coat pocket, and we half carried, half dragged Randall into my grandparents’ bedroom, leaving him on a soft fluffy rug.

“Let’s get out of here,” Grandpa said, heading for the garage.

“Hey, Handsome Molly?” Randall called to me. His jaw was so stiff now I could barely understand him. “Nice knowing you,” he said.

“You too, Randall.”

“I’m sure we’ll meet again.” Even though he could barely talk, the amusement he obviously felt by telling me this showed in his voice.

“I hope not,” I said.

“Oh, we will,” he assured me. “And Molly?”

I was antsy to get out of there, but I stood still, wanting to hear what he had to say.

“Don’t wait too long for Robert,” he said. “He’s not going to show up to meet you.”

“How do you know?” I demanded, but worry flared up inside me.

“Because right now,” Randall said through gritted teeth, “the Boss is hosting a big party.”

“I know,” I said. “That’s why we’re leaving tonight.”

“I guess Robert didn’t tell you the party is for him. For his twenty-first birthday. It’s also his induction ceremony into the Organization.”

I stared at Randall. It couldn’t be Spill’s twenty-first birthday! He knew he had to leave before then! “I don’t believe you,” I said.

“The house always wins, Molly. You should know that.”

I ran out after Grandpa, slamming the bedroom door on Randall’s words.

35

ON THE WAY TO THE GARAGE, I LITERALLY RAN INTO Grandpa, who was stumbling through the living room. “You’re going to have to drive,” he said.

“What? Why?”

He held up his mangled glasses. “Can’t see a thing at night without them.”

“But I don’t know how to drive!”

“I gave you a lesson.”

“It was a fake lesson!”

“You’ll be fine. Come on.”

“Just go easy,” Grandpa said once I’d backed out of the driveway and onto the road.

I went so easy he told me that maybe I should speed up a little if we ever planned to get out of Gresham tonight. “I’m trying,” I said. “But I can’t see anything.”

The kids were jumping up and down on the suitcase with excitement, but I was concentrating so hard on not driving into a ditch that I hardly noticed them. Most of the market was already closed, but the scary bit glowed with activity, so I kept the headlights off until we’d slid noiselessly past. Once we’d crossed the main road and were on Highway 26, I turned them on.

“Won’t she go any faster?” Grandpa asked.

“Faster! Faster! Faster!” Brandy and Michael chanted from the backseat.

I put the pedal to the floor, shooting us down the road.

“Wooohooo!” Grandpa yelled. “That’s my girl!”

But after the initial burst of power, the car slowed. “She’s straining now,” I said. “I think we’re too loaded down.”

Grandpa leaned over me and studied the dials on the dashboard. “Hmmm . . . nineteen miles per hour. Even going this slowly we should make it to Jane’s house before dawn.”

I really hoped that when Jane had given me her address and said we could stay over on our way back, she meant it. Grandpa and Spill had worked out a back-roads route for us because I-5, the most direct way to Seattle, was too dangerous. In the old days, there would’ve been so many cars that even the Studebaker might not have drawn much attention, but now the interstate was practically empty. The only people who used it were the ones we wanted to avoid the most. The police, Transporters, and the Organization.

I’d had to ask what Transporters were.

“They’re the trucks you see on the road,” Spill explained. “They’re government owned and operated, and they deliver anything that’s rationed by the Feds. Like certain kinds of food-sugar, coffee, chicken, and pork-and any kind of fuel. Shoes and clothing and stuff too.”

As far as we knew, no one had any idea we had a car, but we had to play it safe because most people would probably give us away for a price.

We’d been going for a while and the kids had fallen asleep in the back. I had just started to feel somewhat confident about driving when Grandpa said, “We’re coming up on the Ross Island Bridge.”

“A bridge?” Panic flooded through me. “I hate bridges.”

“Don’t worry. A bridge wouldn’t dare collapse with a car as cool as a Studebaker on it,” he said.

I sucked my teeth. “Go ahead and joke,” I said, “but how many bridges have come down in the last thirty years?”

I had him there, and he knew it. Why wouldn’t tonight be this bridge’s turn to crumble under us?

“There won’t be any traffic, so I’m sure our little car won’t bring it down,” Grandpa reassured me. “Besides, there is no way out of Portland without crossing at least one bridge, and as far as I know, this is a stable one.”

All I could do was keep driving. I followed the road, anticipating it, my heart thumping, my breath coming fast. We rolled on and on until I couldn’t stand it any longer. “Where is this stupid bridge?”

“Uh . . . Molly, you’re halfway across it already.”

I slammed on the brakes. “What? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You were doing fine,” he said in his bedside manner. “Now just put your foot back on the accelerator and keep going.”

“I can’t.”

“Sure you can,” he said.

Blackness was all around us, but I just knew that below me was the Willamette River, and like a monster, it was waiting for the weight of the Studebaker to crack the aging concrete and send us plunging into its swirling waters.

“Go on,” he said. “You can do it.”

I sat there frozen. And then Grandma reached over the back of the seat and stroked my hair just like my mother always did when I was scared of something. I pressed tentatively on the pedal, and the car began to roll forward again.

“See where the road curves ahead?” Grandpa asked. “When you get there, you’re over the bridge.”

I followed it to the right and let out my breath. I’d done it. We’d made it across. I wiped at silent tears, glad for the dark. Grandpa directed me through a deserted downtown Portland, and eventually we found Highway 30. The road here was five lanes wide, and we were the only people on it. I knew the river was somewhere to my right and so I drove down the middle just in case.

Around midnight, Michael woke up because he had to go to the bathroom. I was stiff from driving, so I just stopped the car in the middle of the road and we all got out. Grandpa took Michael off into the dark, and Grandma and I stretched while Brandy kept sleeping. The cold night air helped me shake the sleepies, and I had a sandwich because I hadn’t eaten much dinner.

“How’re you doing, Molly?” Grandpa asked when they came back.

“Fine.”

“If you need a longer break, we can take one. We’ve probably only got three more hours of driving.”

“I’d rather keep going,” I said.

“Okay, but don’t let yourself doze off.”

“It’s not like we’re going a hundred miles an hour,” I said, laughing. “If I did fall asleep, you’d probably have plenty of time to wake me up.”

All the way up to Scappoose and through the town of St. Helens, the road had been pretty good, but just north of there it became a mess. It was like someone had chewed up the pavement and spit it back out again. Big clumps of asphalt appeared out of nowhere, sending us bouncing in one direction and then the other.

“Lots of landslides in here over the winters,” Grandpa explained. “And no one to do repairs. We might have to wait for daylight.”

“I want to be at Jane’s house and have the car hidden before then.”

“Single-minded, just like your mother,” he mumbled.

I didn’t answer. My butt was hurting from the stiff seat, and my foot ached from trying to press the accelerator enough to keep us going but not so much that we smashed into every piece of debris in the road. It took us twice as long to get through the stretch leading up to the town of Rainier than we’d planned, and the sun was already coming up when we saw the turnoff.

“Turn right here,” Grandpa said.

I eased the car onto the exit, and suddenly, looming in front of us, was another bridge. This one arched to the sky and disappeared into the fog. I slammed on the brakes. “My God!”

In the dim light we stared at the relics of what had once been some sort of historical landmark sign.

The Lewis and Clark Bridge
Built 1930, 8,192 feet long

Across the top, someone had nailed a hand-lettered sign that said:
BRIDGE MAY BE UNSTABLE. CROSS AT OWN RISK.

36

October 2nd-Uncle Ralph says, “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.”

I LOOKED THROUGH THE FOG AND SAW A DARK SHAPE moving across the bridge towards us. “Someone’s coming.”

It took the man almost fifteen minutes to reach the car, and Grandpa and I were standing next to it, waiting to talk to him when he got to us. We’d made Grandma and the kids hide inside on the floorboards, and then we placed ourselves in front of the windows, trying to block them from view. The dark shape turned out to be a small cart being pulled by a single pony and a grizzled man hobbling along beside it.

“Morning,” Grandpa said.

The man stared at the car and didn’t say anything.

“We were wondering about the bridge,” Grandpa said. “Is it safe enough to cross in our car?”

“That’s a Studebaker!” the man said.

“Yes, sir.”

“We had one of those when I was a kid.”

“Really? Did you get it new?” Grandpa asked.

“Right off the assembly line.”

“What year was it?”

I cleared my throat.

“Let’s see . . . ,” the man said. “Musta been sixty-one or maybe sixty-two. I was only about four or five.”

“What model?”

“Lark. Just like this one. Only a two-door.”

“This color?” Grandpa asked. I nudged him in the ribs. “Uh, right. So, about the bridge. Is it safe enough to cross?”

The man rubbed his whiskers. “Well, how heavy do you think your Studie is?”

“I’m not really sure,” Grandpa said.

“It’s all steel,” the man mused. “Pretty heavy . . . Maybe unload it and take your stuff across separately. Then drive the car real slow.”

“Is it that dangerous?” I asked. “I mean, are there holes?”

“Not really. They just put that sign up there to keep the Transporters off it with their trucks.”

That was good enough for Grandpa. “Well, thanks. We’re off, then.”

The man walked up to the car and ran his hand over the hood. “Nice to see one of these again.” And then he moved away and led the pony down the road.

“So what do you think?” I asked Grandpa. “Unload it or not?”

“Well, I’m sure he thought it still had its motor. That would make it a lot heavier, so we’re probably okay to drive it loaded.”

The fog had begun to lift, but I couldn’t really see very far across the bridge because of its slope. Two lanes ran in a straight line and just sort of disappeared into the distance. A low railing ran along either side, and you could see right through the gaps to the water below. Overhead, an intricate pattern of steel beams crisscrossed one another, reaching high into the sky.

“It’s not that far,” Grandpa said. “Here’s what we’ll do. I’ll walk across with your grandma and the kids. And I’ll take your bicycle with me. If I see anything that looks too dangerous for the car, I’ll ride back and we’ll figure out what to do then.”

“Okay.”

“And if I don’t ride back in, say”-he thought about it-“an hour, then you can just assume it’s safe and come across in the Studie.”

“And hopefully, the reason you didn’t come back isn’t because you all fell into the river,” I said.

Grandpa laughed. “Well, at least we’d all die together.”

I really didn’t see how he could joke at a time like this.

After the four of them headed off across the bridge, Grandma holding the kids’ hands and Grandpa pushing the bike, I took an apple out of our food box and made myself eat it, even though my stomach was churning.

There still wasn’t any sign of Grandpa after what I was sure had been an hour, so I decided it was okay to go. Grandpa moved slowly, but even he could’ve walked over and ridden back by then. I slid into my seat and turned the key. It hummed reassuringly, and I gripped the green plastic and chrome steering wheel. Slowly I began to ease the car up onto the bridge.

Look straight ahead. Stay away from the edge. Focus on going forward. Follow the road. You can do it.

I stared at the pavement, not daring to look around me. Grandpa had told me the bridge was just over a mile long. That would take me about ten or fifteen minutes to get across. I was probably halfway there, still creeping slowly, when a red-tailed hawk swooped across in front of me. I took my eye off the road to watch it, and that’s when I saw the wide expanse of blue water below me, framed by mist-covered hills in the distance.

I slammed on the brakes, too stunned by the sheer beauty of it all to keep driving. Bands of green ran along the water’s edges like shining ribbons. I’d never been this high up before, or seen anything from such a distance, and I couldn’t take my eyes off the water, the fields, the mountains, the sky.

I put the car in park, turned off the engine to be extra safe, and climbed out. As soon as I was standing on the bridge, the wind whipped at my hair. My heart sped up. What was I doing? This was crazy. All I had to do was get back inside and drive. Instead, I gripped the car, edging my way around it to the passenger side. Against all reason, I took tiny, daring steps all the way over to the railing. Well, maybe not all the way, but I got pretty close.

When a crow drifted by on a current of air, I snapped out of my daze. Remarkably, my stomach had settled. I took deep, gulping breaths of the fresh air, and it invigorated me. I floated back to the car filled with a new sense of energy. And urgency. We were on our way back to the island, and once I conquered this bridge, I knew I could get us there no matter what!

I turned the key, imagining the engine roaring to life. And then I stepped on the accelerator so hard the tires squealed. I hardly had to steer at all because the bridge was so straight. I kept glancing at the speedometer.
Ten . . . fifteen . . . twenty. . . .
Without the other people in the car weighing it down, it flew along just like the bird it was named for.
Twenty-five . . . thirty . . . thirty-five!

As I reached the end of the bridge, Washington lay spread out before me. I was still flying, almost up to forty-five miles per hour, and as the exit road from the bridge widened, I hurtled past my family. I heard them screaming, and I imagined they were cheering for me! I slammed on the brakes, and that’s when it occurred to me that they might have been yelling because they were frightened.

One second I was speeding happily along and the next, the car was careening to the right and all time seemed to slow down. My vision narrowed and I tugged on the steering wheel, but when I did, the car slid out from under my control and spun around in a circle. My hands were jerked off the wheel. And then, in what still seemed like slow motion, the car plowed forward about fifty meters and banged head-on into something solid.

Everything went black.