by Ward Moore
“Thought everybody was figured to go east,” gibed Jir over the other side of the car.
Mr. Jimmon was not disturbed by his son’s sarcasm. How right he’d been to rule out the trailer. Of course the bulk of cars was headed eastward as he’d calculated; this sluggish mass was nothing compared with the countless ones which must now be blocking the roads to Pasadena, Alhambra, Garvey, Norwalk. Even the northbound refugees were undoubtedly taking 99 or regular 101—the highway before them was really 101 Alternate—he had picked the most feasible exit.
The Warbinns drew up alongside. “Hurry didn’t do much good,” shouted Warbinn, leaning forward to clear his wife’s face.
Mr. Jimmon reached in and turned off the ignition. Gas was going to be precious. He smiled and shook his head at Warbinn; no use pointing out that he’d got the inside lane by passing the Mercury, with a better chance to seize the opening on the highway when it came. “Get in the car, Jir, and shut the door. Have to be ready when this breaks.”
“If it ever does,” said Molly. “All that rush and bustle. We might just as well.…”
Mr. Jimmon was conscious of Warbinn’s glowering at him and resolutely refused to turn his head. He pretended not to hear him yell, “Only wanted to tell you you forgot to pick up your bumper-jack. It’s in front of our garage.”
Mr. Jimmon’s stomach felt empty. What if he had a flat now? Ruined, condemned. He knew a burning hate for Warbinn—incompetent borrower, bad neighbor, thoughtless, shiftless, criminal. He owed it to himself to leap from the station wagon and seize Warbinn by the throat.…
“What did he say, David? What is Mr. Warbinn saying?”
Then he remembered it was the jack from the Buick; the station wagon’s was safely packed where he could get at it easily. Naturally he would never have started out on a trip like this without checking so essential an item. “Nothing,” he said, “nothing at all.”
“… plane dispatches indicate target was the Signal Hill area. Minor damage was done to Long Beach, Wilmington and San Pedro. All non-military air traffic warned from Mines Field …”
The smash and crash of bumper and fender sounded familiarly on the highway. From his lookout station he couldn’t see what had happened, but it was easy enough to reconstruct the impatient jerk forward that had caused it. Mr. Jimmon didn’t exactly smile, but he allowed himself a faint quiver of internal satisfaction. A crash up ahead would make things worse, but a crash behind—and many of them were inevitable—must eventually create a gap.
Even as he thought this, the first car at the mouth of Rambla Catalina edged on to the shoulder of the highway. Mr. Jimmon slid back in and started the motor, inching ahead after the car in front, gradually leaving the still uncomfortable proximity of the Warbinns.
“Got to go to the toilet,” announced Wendell abruptly.
“Didn’t I tell you—Well hurry up! Jir, keep the door open and pull him in if the car starts to move.”
“I can’t go here.”
Mr. Jimmon restrained his impulse to snap, Hold it in then. Instead he smiled mildly, “This is a crisis, Wendell. No time for niceties. Hurry.”
“… the flash was seen as far north as Ventura and as far south as Newport. An eyewitness who has just arrived by helicopter …”
“That’s what we should have had,” remarked Jir. “You thought of everything except that.”
“That’s no way to speak to your father,” admonished Molly.
“Aw heck, Mom, this is a crisis. No time for niceties.”
“You’re awful smart, Jir,” said Erika. “Big, tough, brutal man.”
“Go drown, brat,” returned Jir, “your nose needs wiping.”
“As a matter of record,” Mr. Jimmon said calmly, “I thought of both plane and helicopter and decided against them.”
“I can’t go. Honest, I just can’t go.”
“Just relax, darling,” advised Molly. “No one is looking.”
“… fires reported in Compton, Lynwood, Southgate, Harbor City, Lomita and other spots are now under control. Residents are advised not to attempt to travel on the overcrowded highways as they are much safer in their homes or places of employment. The civilian defense …”
The two cars ahead bumped forward. “Get in,” shouted Mr. Jimmon.
He got the left front tire of the station wagon on the asphalt shoulder—the double lane of concrete was impossibly far ahead—only to be blocked by the packed procession. The clock on the dash said 11:04. Nearly five hours since It happened, and they were less than two miles from home. They could have done better walking. Or on horseback.
“… all residents of the Los Angeles area are urged to remain calm. Local radio service will be restored in a matter of minutes, along with electricity and water. Reports of fifth column activities have been largely exaggerated. The FBI has all known subversives under …”
He reached over and shut it off. Then he edged a daring two inches further on the shoulder, almost grazing an aggressive Cadillac packed solid with cardboard cartons. On his left a Model A truck shivered and trembled. He knew, distantly and disapprovingly, that it belonged to two painters who called themselves man and wife. The truckbed was loaded high with household goods; poor useless things no looter would bother to steal. In the cab the artists passed a quart beer bottle back and forth. The man waved it genially at him; Mr. Jimmon nodded discouragingly back.
The thermometer on the mirror showed 90. Hot all right. Of course if they ever got rolling. I’m thirsty, he thought; probably suggestion. If I hadn’t seen the thermometer. Anyway I’m not going to paw around in back for the canteen. Forethought. Like the arms. He cleared his throat. “Remember there’s an automatic in the glove compartment. If anyone tries to open the door on your side, use it.”
“Oh, David, I.…”
Ah, humanity. Non-resistance. Gandhi. I’ve never shot at anything but a target. At a time like this. But they don’t understand.
“I could use the rifle from back here,” suggested Jir. “Can I, Dad?”
“I can reach the shotgun,” said Wendell. “That’s better at close range.”
“Gee, you men are brave,” jeered Erika. Mr. Jimmon said nothing; both shotgun and rifle were unloaded. Foresight again.
He caught the hiccupping pause in the traffic instantly, gratified at his smooth coordination. How far he could proceed on the shoulder before running into a culvert narrowing the highway to the concrete he didn’t know. Probably not more than a mile at most, but at least he was off Rambla Catalina and on 101. He felt tremendously elated. Successful.
“Here we go!” He almost added, Hold on to your hats.
Of course the shoulder, too, was packed solid, and progress, even in low gear, was maddening. The gas consumption was something he did not want to think about; his pride in the way the needle of the gauge caressed the F shrunk. And gas would be hard to come by in spite of the pocketful of ration coupons. Black market.
“Mind if I try the radio again?” asked Erika, switching it on.
Mr. Jimmon, following the pattern of previous success, insinuated the left front tire on to the concrete, eliciting a disapproving squawk from the Pontiac alongside.
“… sector was quiet. Enemy losses are estimated …”
“Can’t we get anything else?” asked Jir. “Something less dusty?”
“Wish we had TV in the car,” observed Wendell. “Joe Tellifer’s old man put a set in the backseat of their Chrysler.”
“Dry up, squirt,” said Jir. “Let the air out of your head.”
“Jir!”
“Oh, Mom, don’t pay attention! Don’t you see that’s what he wants?”
“Listen, brat, if you weren’t a girl I’d spank you.”
“You mean if I wasn’t your sister. You’d probably enjoy such childish sex-play with any other girl.”
“Erika!”
Where do they learn it? marveled Mr. Jimmon. These progressive schools. Do you suppose.…
He edged t
he front wheel further in exultantly, taking advantage of a momentary lapse of attention on the part of the Pontiac’s driver. Unless the other went berserk with frustration and rammed into him, he practically had a cinch on a car-length of the concrete now.
“Here we go!” he gloried. “We’re on our way.”
“Aw, if I was driving we’d be halfway to Oxnard by now.”
“Jir, that’s no way to talk to your father.”
Mr. Jimmon reflected dispassionately that Molly’s ineffective admonitions only spurred Jir’s sixteen-year-old brashness, already irritating enough in its own right. Indeed, if it were not for Molly, Jir might.…
It was of course possible—here Mr. Jimmon braked just short of the convertible ahead—Jir wasn’t just going through a “difficult” period (What was particularly difficult about it? he inquired, in the face of all the books Molly suggestively left around on the psychological problems of growth. The boy had everything he could possibly want!) but was the type who, in different circumstances, drifted into, well, perhaps not exactly juvenile deliquency but.
“… in the Long Beach-Wilmington-San Pedro area. Comparison with that which occurred at Pittsburgh reveal that this morning’s was in every way less serious. All fires are under control and all the injured are now receiving medical attention …”
“I don’t think they’re telling the truth,” stated Mrs. Jimmon.
He snorted. He didn’t think so either, but by what process had she arrived at that conclusion?
“I want to hear the ball game. Turn on the ball game, Rick,” Wendell demanded.
Eleven sixteen, and rolling northward on the highway. Not bad, not bad at all. Foresight. Now if he could only edge his way leftward to the southbound strip they’d be beyond the Santa Barbara bottleneck by two o’clock.
“The lights,” exclaimed Molly, “the faucets!”
Oh no, thought, Mr. Jimmon, not that too. Out of the comic strips.
“Keep calm,” advised Jir. “Electricity and water are both off—remember?”
“I’m not quite an imbecile yet, Jir. I’m quite aware everything went off. I was thinking of the time it went back on.”
“Furcrysay, Mom, you worrying about next month’s bills now?”
Mr. Jimmon, nudging the station wagon ever leftward, formed the sentence: You’d never worry about bills, young man, because you never have to pay them. Instead of saying it aloud, he formed another sentence: Molly, your talent for irrelevance amounts to genius. Both sentences gave him satisfaction.
Miraculously the traffic gathered speed briefly, and he took advantage of the spurt to get solidly in the left hand lane, right against the long island of concrete dividing the north from the southbound strips. “That’s using the old bean, Dad,” approved Wendell.
Whatever slight pleasure he might have felt in his son’s approbation was overlaid with exasperation. Wendell, like Jir, was more Manville than Jimmon; they carried Molly’s stamp on their faces and minds. Only Erika was a true Jimmon. Made in his own image, he thought pridelessly.
“I can’t help but think it would have been at least courteous to get in touch with Pearl and Dan. At least try. And the Warbinns.…”
The gap in the concrete divider came sooner than he anticipated and he was on the comparatively unclogged southbound side. His foot went down on the accelerator and the station wagon grumbled earnestly ahead. For the first time Mr. Jimmon became aware how tightly he’d been gripping the wheel; how rigid the muscles in his arms, shoulders and neck had been. He relaxed partway as he adjusted to the speed of the cars ahead and the speedometer needle hung just below 45, but resentment against Molly (at least courteous), Jir (no time for niceties), and Wendell (got to go), rode up in the saliva under his tongue. Dependent. Helpless. Everything on him. Parasites.
At intervals Erika switched on the radio. News was always promised immediately, but little was forthcoming, only vague, nervous attempts to minimize the extent of the disaster and soothe listeners with allusions to civilian defense, military activities on the ever-advancing front, and comparison with the destruction of Pittsburgh, so vastly much worse than the comparatively harmless detonation at Los Angeles. Must be pretty bad, thought Mr. Jimmon; cripple the war effort.…
“I’m hungry,” said Wendell.
Molly began stirring around, instructing Jir where to find the sandwiches. Mr. Jimmon thought grimly of how they’d have to adjust to the absence of civilized niceties: bread and mayonnaise and lunch meat. Live on rabbit, squirrel, abalone, fish. When Wendell got hungry he’d have to get his own food. Self-sufficiently. Hard and tough.
At Oxnard, the snarled traffic slowed them to a crawl again. Beyond, the juncture with the main highway north kept them at the same infuriating pace. It was long after two when they reached Ventura and Wendell, who had been fidgeting and jumping up and down in the seat for the past hour, proclaimed, “I’m tired of riding.”
Mr. Jimmon set his lips. Molly suggested, ineffectually, “Why don’t you lie down, dear?”
“Can’t. Way this crate is packed, ain’t room for a grasshopper.”
“Verry funny. Verrrry funny,” said Jir.
“Now Jir, leave him alone! He’s just a little boy.”
At Carpinteria the sun burst out. You might have thought it the regular dissipation of the fog, only it was almost time for the fog to come down again. Should he try the San Marcos Pass after Santa Barbara, or the longer, better way? Flexible plans, but. Wait and see.
It was four when they got to Santa Barbara and Mr. Jimmon faced concerted though unorganized rebellion. Wendell was screaming with stiffness and boredom; Jir remarked casually to no one in particular that Santa Barbara was the place where they were going to beat the bottleneck oh yeh; Molly said, “Stop at the first clean-looking gas station.” Even Erika added, “Yes, Dad, you’ll really have to stop.”
Mr. Jimmon was appalled. With every second priceless and hordes of panic-stricken refugees pressing behind, they would rob him of all the precious gains he’d made by skill, daring, judgment. Stupidity and shortsightedness. Unbelievable. For their own silly comfort—good lord, did they think they had a monopoly on bodily weaknesses? He was cramped as they and wanted to go as badly. Time and space which could never be made up. Let them lose this half hour and it was quite likely they’d never get out of Santa Barbara.
“If we lose a half hour now we’ll never get out of here.”
“Well now, David, that wouldn’t be utterly disastrous, would it? There are awfully nice hotels here and I’m sure it would be more comfortable for everyone than your idea of camping in the woods, hunting and fishing.…”
He turned off State; couldn’t remember the name of the parallel street, but surely less traffic. He controlled his temper, not heroically, but desperately. “May I ask how long you would propose to stay in one of these awfully nice hotels?”
“Why, until we could go home.”
“My dear Molly.…” What could he say? My dear Molly, we are never going home, if you mean Malibu? Or, My dear Molly, you just don’t understand what is happening?
The futility of trying to convey the clear picture in his mind. Or any picture. If she could not of herself see the endless mob pouring, pouring out of Los Angeles, searching frenziedly for escape and refuge, eating up the substance of the surrounding country in ever-widening circles, crowding, jam-packing, overflowing every hotel, boardinghouse, lodging or private home into which they could edge, agonizedly bidding up the price of everything until the chaos they brought with them was indistinguishable from the chaos they were fleeing—if she could not see all this instantly and automatically, she could not be brought to see it at all. Any more than the other aimless, planless, improvident fugitives could see it.
So my dear Molly: nothing.
Silence gave consent only continued expostulation. “David, do you really mean you don’t intend to stop at all?”
Was there any point in saying, Yes I do? He set his lips more tigh
tly and once more weighed San Marcos Pass against the coast route. Have to decide now.
“Why, the time we’re waiting here, just waiting for the cars up ahead to move would be enough.”
Could you call her stupid? He weighed the question slowly and justly, alert for the first jerk of the massed cars all around. Her reasoning was valid and logical if the laws of physics and geometry were suspended. (Was that right—physics and geometry? Body occupying two different positions at the same time?) It was the facts which were illogical—not Molly. She was just exasperating.
By the time they were halfway to Gaviota or Goleta—Mr. Jimmon could never tell them apart—foresight and relentless sternness began to pay off. Those who had left Los Angeles without preparation and in panic were dropping out or slowing down, to get gas or oil, repair tires, buy food, seek rest rooms. The station wagon was steadily forging ahead.
He gambled on the old highway out of Santa Barbara. Any kind of obstruction would block its two lanes; if it didn’t he would be beating the legions on the wider, straighter road. There were stretches now where he could hit 50; once he sped a happy half-mile at 65.
Now the insubordination crackling all around him gave indications of simultaneous explosion. “I really,” began Molly, and then discarded this for a fresher, firmer start. “David, I don’t understand how you can be so utterly selfish and inconsiderate.”
Mr. Jimmon could feel the veins in his forehead begin to swell, but this was one of those rages that didn’t show.
“But, Dad, would ten minutes ruin everything?” asked Erika.
“Monomania,” muttered Jir. “Single track, like Hitler.”
“I want my dog,” yelped Wendell. “Dirty old dog killer.”
“Did you ever hear of cumulative—” Erika had addressed him reasonably; surely he could make her understand? “Did you ever hear of cumulative.…” What was the word. Snowball rolling downhill was the image in his mind. “Oh, what’s the use?”
The old road rejoined the new; again the station wagon was fitted into the traffic like parquetry. Mr. Jimmon, from an exultant, unfettered!—almost—65 was imprisoned in a treadmill set at 38. Keep calm; you can do nothing about it, he admonished himself. Need all your nervous energy. Must be wrecks up ahead. And then, with a return of satisfaction: If I hadn’t used strategy back there we’d have been with those making 25. A starting-stopping 25.
