Hit the Road Jack

by Diane Capri

  Darla knelt down in the mud. She inspected the car’s side from the front bumper to the back one. She ran her palm over the cool, wet steel. All the dents she felt had been inflicted a while ago, as far as she could remember. And if there had been, God forbid, blood on the car, it was long gone. No, the hateful sedan appeared just as it had yesterday. Old, worn, dented.

  She couldn’t have hit a little boy with this car and run over his body and leave no evidence of the carnage. She couldn’t have.

  Drenched by the driving rain, Darla stood and felt her way back to the house. She stopped under the small, inadequate roof barely covering the back stoop, closed the umbrella and shook off the water as best she could. She turned to stare toward the car once more.

  She would never drive it again. The thought offered little comfort.

  “Too bad you didn’t make that decision yesterday,” she scolded herself aloud, in the same tone she used to discipline her worst-behaved students before calling their parents.

  Inside, she pulled a different coffee mug out of the cabinet, filled it with strong black coffee, and returned to the television. She shivered in her cold, wet clothes as she checked all of the channels, but heard no further report on Paul’s accident.

  She clicked her accuser off, laid the remote down, and considered what to do now. Calling Willa Carson was not an option. Willa was a judge, charged with dispensing justice not avoiding it. No. Darla would have to figure something out on her own.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Two hours later, Darla willingly paid the taxi driver who dropped her off at Tampa Southern Hospital’s front entrance. She’d come to support Marie, who had no one else to console her. Darla was ashamed of herself for her cowardly delay, particularly since Marie expected her to help. Reliable Darla provided Marie’s safety net, never allowing Marie to fall too far, too fast, offering the kind of help no one had given Darla when she could have used it most.

  At the information desk, Darla asked, “Where is Intensive Care?”

  “Do you have family in the ICU?” the kindly volunteer asked.

  “Paul Webster. I’m his aunt,” Darla lied.

  Because she was the only family Marie and Paul had.

  Marie’s own parents were dead, and Paul’s father had abandoned them years ago when Paul’s mental handicap became undeniable. Paul was about sixteen months old and Marie was an eighteen-year-old college freshman when she answered Darla’s advertisement seeking quiet tenants after Darla’s own sons left for college. Darla hadn’t wanted to house a teen-aged mother with a handicapped toddler. But she simply couldn’t turn Marie away. Nor, it turned out, could she charge Marie and Paul rent.

  Marie certainly struggled, but she finished college, obtained a teaching certificate and was hired to teach in the Hillsborough County schools. Three years ago she and Paul moved into the rented house they lived in now, and Darla was alone again.

  Darla had saved Paul back then from a life of poverty and deprivation and the time she’d spent with him had taken its toll on them both. His irritability at the slightest frustration coupled with his total dependency and failure to develop normally became too much for her to handle. Now, Darla had grievously hurt him.

  How could life be so cruel?

  How could Marie ever forgive her?

  Wouldn’t it be better for Darla to rot in jail?

  The volunteer handed Darla a visitor’s pass, directing her to take the elevator to the third floor and then follow the blue line to the ICU waiting room.

  Darla turned the corner and found Marie alone in the quiet room, her head leaned back against the wall, eyes closed. She wore jeans and a t-shirt, flip flops, no makeup. Her tear-streaked face stopped Darla cold.

  Marie had been through hell already and there were more days of despair to follow.

  Darla’s own shame capsized her. Instead of concern for Marie and Paul, she’d worried only about herself. She’d run that little boy down with her car and then left him alone in the dark to suffer and die. What kind of woman had she become?

  Marie shifted in the chair and opened her eyes.

  “Oh, Darla!” she cried, rising to run toward her, holding onto Darla as a drowning woman holds onto the last life raft, unaware that the raft is leaking.

  Darla held Marie who cried until she was spent. Marie eventually stood apart, grasping her soggy tissues, and walked over to the small table for more.

  “I thought I was through with tears. How much can one woman cry over a single child?” Marie asked seconds before her sobs began again.

  Doctors long ago predicted Paul would never develop mental capacity beyond age five. He grew older and Marie watched class after class of her kindergarten students surpass Paul’s ability. While he remained behind, Marie’s heartache deepened. As he grew, becoming taller, heavier and harder to control, Marie often appeared at school with bruises where Paul had hit or kicked her.

  Darla had suggested that Marie place Paul in a group home where he could get more specialized training and give Marie a much-needed break. Initially, she’d refused, denying the situation.

  “I can handle Paul myself,” she’d said.

  Much later she’d placed Paul’s name on the waiting list, but no place had opened for him in two years. If only Marie could have seen the obvious, Paul might not have been home last night at all. He wouldn’t be lying here. Why hadn’t Marie listened to Darla then?

  Darla had consoled Marie through every crisis, offering the best guidance she could muster, sometimes hiring local lawyer Jennifer Lane to handle minor problems. But this was by far the most serious situation the three had faced. How would Marie get through this without Darla to rely upon?

  “How is he?”

  “Still unconscious. It looks like the car hit him in the side, knocked him down, and then ran over his legs and abdomen. He’s had emergency surgery to repair broken bones and a lacerated liver caused by broken ribs. But they don’t think he suffered a head injury, which may mean that he’ll eventually be okay,” Marie explained, all in one breath. Then, she grimaced, “Or at least as okay as Paul gets.”

  Darla heard Marie’s desperate tone, but had already stopped listening to the words.

  Paul would be all right; Darla hadn’t killed him.

  For the first time since the nightmares awakened her this morning, she began to think her life might not be over. They might get through this. She could, maybe, avoid jail. And if she did, she vowed she’d take care of Paul and Marie forever.

  Marie drew ragged air into her lungs. “He was outside so long! He… they… If I ever find out who did this, who left him lying there like a dog! I swear, the bastard will rot in prison forever!”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The doorbell rang just after seven o’clock. Darla looked through the peephole to see the uniformed officer waiting on the front porch. Kevin Cook. How long had he been there? Had he examined her car before coming to the door? Should she let him in?

  The bell rang again. Darla steadied her nerves. Maybe if she was quiet, he’d think she wasn’t home and go away. She placed both hands flat over her pounding heart. The bell rang insistently, followed by a sharp knock.

  “Mrs. Nixon? Mrs. Nixon, are you home? Sheriff’s office, Ma’am. Please open up.”

  She remembered his voice. She’d had confrontations with him when he was a child. Always rigid, belligerent, unwilling to compromise, he’d been a challenge then. Now, he was a threat.

  Briefly, she considered ignoring him, calling Jennifer Lane to deal with him. But Kevin had always been single-minded, too. Focused to a fault. Like a leech on a warm-blooded animal, he never let go of anything voluntarily back then. A child’s basic personality didn’t change in adulthood, Darla knew. He’d hound her until he got what he needed.

  “I’m coming!” she called, as if she’d just realized he was there.

  Darla reached down, unlocked the door, and opened it wide.

  “Why, it’s Kevin Cook. How are you?” She held
onto the door to keep her composure.

  He ducked his head, acknowledging her greeting. “I’m fine, ma’am. It’s good to see you again, after all these years. You look just the same.”

  Darla wasn’t surprised by this statement. Her former students often said that.

  “May I come in? I need to ask you a few questions about Paul Webster’s accident.”

  She stood aside. He opened the door wider; maneuvered his broad body into the small room.

  “I was back in the kitchen, making coffee. Would you like a cup?”

  Perhaps he believed that explained her breathlessness, too. He’d removed his hat.

  “No, ma’am. Thank you. I’m talking to everyone who attended the party at Ms. Webster’s house last night. I have some questions to ask you and then I’ll be on my way.”

  She smoothed the hem of her shirt over her slight hips and gestured. He sat on the davenport. She perched in the rocker opposite.

  “How can I help?”

  Detective Cook pulled a small spiral notebook and a pencil with a well-chewed eraser out of his shirt pocket. He flipped through the first few pages and folded the notebook open to a blank, ruled sheet. He jotted the date on the top and, after glancing at his watch, the time. He printed her name. Methodical and precise, as he’d been in elementary school.

  “Ma’am, you left Ms. Webster’s party around nine o’clock last night, is that right?”

  The question was politely put, but Darla recognized the authority in his tone. She’d used the same tone herself in many a student disciplinary proceeding. Being the recipient was not pleasant.

  “Yes.”

  “Did you see Paul Webster outside as you were leaving?”

  He looked directly into her eyes as he asked the question. She wondered what he expected to see there, whether he imagined he had an innate ability to detect lies. Perhaps he did. She wouldn’t lie, then. She didn’t normally lie and she couldn’t lie successfully, anyway.

  Darla shook her head. Tears threatened. “I wish I had seen him, Kevin. I only wish I had.”

  Oh, how true that was. If she’d seen Paul, of course she wouldn’t have hit him. None of this would have happened. Why hadn’t she seen him?

  She asked, “Why was he outside, anyway? I thought he was supposed to be staying the night with a neighbor?”

  Officer Cook jerked his head back and forth, his mouth a thin line of disapproval. “The neighbor put him to bed around eight and didn’t check on him again until morning. Apparently he left the house without her knowledge. We’re guessing he wanted to go home. His mother said he didn’t like being away from her overnight.”

  Darla’s own concern about the neighborhood resurfaced. She knew the people who lived near Marie were generally unreliable. She’d asked Marie whether the woman could be trusted last night. Paul could be such a handful. Darla thought the woman might bring Paul home, unable to control him. But this level of negligence was too cruel.

  Cook glanced at another page in his notebook again. “It was pretty dark out last night. Do you have trouble seeing in the dark?”

  Surely, he knew the answer or he wouldn’t have asked. He was trying to trick her into admitting what she’d done. She was guilty of reckless driving, at least. Her night vision was not sufficient to drive a car, and she’d driven anyway. And she’d hit a child, without even realizing it. She’d be treated with fewer leniencies than a drunk driver. Her judgment wasn’t impaired. What could she say?

  “It was raining. There aren’t any streetlights on Marie’s street. Maybe the county will get some up out there after this,” Darla told him.

  This wasn’t a real answer and she was sure he realized it. A thin bead of sweat coated the area above her upper lip. She placed both hands flat on her thighs, fingers spread wide, holding steady.

  Detective Cook was watching her closely. He printed notes on the clean spaces in his notebook, but she couldn’t read his precise printing from this distance.

  “You didn’t see anyone hit Paul, then?”

  “I didn’t see Paul at all. I was concentrating on my driving.”

  Perspiration now appeared on her forehead. She wanted desperately to wipe it away. To prevent herself from doing so, she clasped her hands together and crossed her feet at the ankles.

  “On a night like that, Paul shouldn’t have been outside. Whoever hit him surely didn’t mean to do it. But they should have stopped. Should have helped him right away,” Detective Cook said, as if he was talking to himself. He tapped the pencil led against the page. “Did you notice any other cars on the road as you left Ms. Webster’s house?”

  “No. I didn’t. I think I was the first guest to leave, so the other cars were still in the driveway and parked along the street.” Darla glanced at the coffee cup, but if she picked it up she’d spill coffee all over herself.

  “Mrs. Nixon, the doctor says the biggest problem Paul has right now is how long he was left outside in the cold rain after he was hit. We’re not sure exactly when that was, but it might have been about the time you were leaving.” Kevin stopped a minute and flipped through the pages in his notebook, looking for something. “Are you sure you didn’t see him?”

  Darla couldn’t answer again. She shook her head.

  “Are you making any progress at all, Kevin? Finding whoever hit Paul?”

  She’d tried not to ask, but the pressure to find out had overwhelmed her terror of his power to ruin her life.

  Detective Cook watched her a bit longer before he said, “Hit and runs are hard to solve. If we don’t get a break in the case in the next few days we may never solve it. That happens too often, I’m afraid.”

  “What kind of break are you hoping for?” Her voice sounded unnaturally high to her.

  “Most often, the person driving the car just can’t live with the guilt and turns himself in.” Kevin’s gaze was steady, pointed. He knew. Of course, he knew. Why would he be here otherwise? Why had she let him in? She should have called Jennifer Lane right away.

  He added, “Or the boy could wake up and tell us who hit him.”

  A beat passed. Two. Darla began to tremble.

  She’d been so happy that Paul was alive and would recover. She hadn’t realized that if he woke up he might be able to identify her car as the one that hit him and fled the scene. He would send her to jail.

  Her fist pounded absently on her thigh. Why did she drive that damn car after the doctor told her not to? Why?

  Detective Cook closed the notebook. He returned it and the gnawed pencil to his pocket. When he stood, Darla rose with him. For just a moment, he seemed indecisive. Then his gaze fell on a picture frame on the table. She couldn’t see the picture, but she knew it was there. She waited.

  “Is that your younger son?” he asked, nodding in the direction of the picture.

  “Yes. He graduated from Florida State last June,” Darla said. “He’s working in South America now.”

  “Those are amazing flowers in the background. What kind are they?”

  Flowers? Were there flowers in the picture? She couldn’t remember. She turned her upper body and her head far to the right to look. Too far. A person with normal peripheral vision would have been able to see the picture long before Darla could. Detective Cook observed her closely, his eyes narrowing just a bit.

  “Oh, those are white birds of paradise. Lovely, aren’t they?”

  She turned back to face him, her nervousness apparent even to her. He should have known those blooms; they were common enough in Tampa. He was testing her.

  Detective Cook remained quiet a bit too long.

  “Yes,” he said, nodding once for punctuation. “They are.”

  Then, he seemed to reach a decision, turned and walked to the door. Darla followed a few feet behind. He opened the screen and stepped outside, placed his hat on his head, and turned to face her through the mesh.

  “I hope you don’t mind, but I examined your car before I came up to the door. It’s got quite a
few dents in it.”

  Darla nodded. “It’s embarrassing, really.”

  “Have you reported all those incidents to your insurance company, Ma’am?”

  The insurance company kept all reports. He’d be able to subpoena them if he hadn’t already. Jennifer Lane couldn’t prevent the disclosure, even if Darla called her now and confessed everything.

  Darla’s mouth was dry. She wet her lips with her tongue.

  “I can’t afford to pay any more insurance than I’m already paying.”

  “I see,” he said. “Well, thank you for your help, Mrs. Nixon. You sure scared the heck out of me when I was a boy,” he said with a grin before he turned to leave. “But you’re just a regular person, aren’t you? Not scary at all. You take care, now.”

  She watched him walk down the sidewalk, enter his patrol car, back completely out of the driveway, and head toward town. Only then did she close the door. Only then did she sob.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Marie hadn’t left the hospital since she’d found Paul lying broken, near death on the side of the road a week earlier. She slept no more than fifty-five minutes of any hour in the waiting room’s plastic seats each night. She approached Paul’s bedside to hold his hand and whisper to him for the five minutes of every hour she was allowed around the clock. The hospital staff had surrendered their efforts to persuade her to go home and rest. Guilt attached her to her child’s bedside, Darla knew.

  Guilt also appended Darla to Marie’s suffering every evening after work. Darla arranged a paid leave of absence for Marie. A substitute teacher handled Marie’s classes. Under the circumstances, this was the least Darla could do. Marie had no savings and wouldn’t be able to pay her bills or for Paul’s medical care if she lost her job.

  Each evening a taxi brought Darla to share Marie’s vigil. She bore Marie’s clean clothes and food for dinner. Marie prayed for Paul constantly. Darla prayed for him, too, knowing full well that when he awakened she would then be asked to exchange her life for his. It was a sacrifice she would willingly make, but she was reminded of the admonition to be wary of answered prayers. When Paul woke up, then Darla would call Jennifer Lane; she’d need a good lawyer.