Philip gave a short wave before he started his car, a BMW 325 I-X the color of vanilla pudding. For at least the hundredth time, I thought I should have become a shrink instead of a caterer.
Cold spring rain pelted and washed and blew over our cars as we bumped over muddy ruts on our way out of the staff parking lot. We passed the buses and cars that had brought the students for orientation, then came up on the pool construction site. A six-foot-high chain-link fence surrounded the excavated area. The headmaster had just informed us that the plumbing was in and that the concrete would be shot in under pressure in the next few days. The school’s board of trustees was forging ahead to build the pool before they actually had the money. Not a luxury, they’d said, but a necessity. Ah, rich folks.
When we drove past the construction-site fence, I waved and flashed my lights at Philip. He did not respond, but signaled to turn onto Highway 203.
As we started down the narrow two-lane, the raindrops turned to white flakes. I sighed; I’d known it was coming. Snow in Colorado on the third of June is not the dry type that powders the ski slopes in winter. Instead, fat wet spring flakes plopped on the car like bits of mashed potatoes. The T-bird’s windshield wipers strained against the weight. At our altitude this was—my New Jersey relatives were always appalled to hear— seasonal weather. As we headed downhill I wondered if the Thunderbird had on snow tires.
The BMW belched a cloud of black smoke. I accelerated gently; the five-hundred-foot curved descent to Aspen Meadow would be much more treacherous if the snow began to stick. Behind us the school’s red tile roof was already frosted with white. The T-bird’s windshield wipers hummed as they swept off thin blankets of snow. I turned on the defroster and for a moment lost sight of Philip whizzing around a curve.
“Machismo,” I said with a groan, and pushed Adele’s car up to thirty.
Beside the road a red fox, usually a nocturnal animal, darted out from a stand of bushes. I was startled and swung wide. No need: at the sight of the car, the animal scurried back to his lair. Even wildlife knew better than to be out in this mess.
Once around the curve I caught sight of the BMW a quarter mile ahead. My right foot pushed the accelerator.
We had been driving a few minutes when Philip abruptly careened to the right. His tires spewed a wave of mud from the shoulder. The paved part of the road was beginning to ice. I wondered if he had slid or had seen an animal, too.
The snow fell steadily. I accelerated very gently. Philip slowed for a moment and then swerved over the center line to the left. Then he straightened out to straddle the dotted line.
I honked. Was something wrong with his car? Was the snow bothering him? Maybe his windshield wipers weren’t working. I honked again, but there was no answer. Surely Philip knew the hazards of this drive. If he was having a steering problem, now was the time to pull over.
Instead, he sped up. We passed a rock wall on the road’s left side, then a steep drop-off where a rollover had taken away most of the guardrail. Yellow police ribbons still marked the scene of a fatal accident. Again the BMW swerved to the left. A wave of fear left my hands damp. At the next curve I had to pay close attention. For a moment all that was visible in front of the car was air. My stomach dropped.
After negotiating the turn, I sped up the boatlike Ford to get behind the BMW’s square taillights, which shone in the enveloping grayness. My hand groped for the headlights and I flashed them.
No response.
We headed east on the roller-coaster approach to Highway 24, the north-south biway that runs between Interstate 70 and Aspen Meadow. After we rounded another bend, my eyes picked out a trickle of cars heading north out of Aspen Meadow toward 1-70.
Cottony clumps of snowflakes clung to the windshield. I strained my eyes and thought I could see Philip shaking his head. My heart beat in time with the windshield wipers. I pressed the accelerator and decided to overtake him. Force him to pull over. But when I pulled up on his left, he sped up. On the right a thin shoulder of ground and a barbed-wire fence were the only things between our lane and a forty-foot drop to whitened meadow. I pressed a button to bring my window down slightly. From Highway 24 the occasional honk and swish of hydroplaning tires punctuated the sifting sound of snow.
Twenty minutes ago Philip had been fine. Now either he was having a heart attack or he was going to give me one.
The last part of eastbound 203 went straight down. Philip again drove between the two lanes. Ahead I could see a tractor-trailer and a grocery-supply truck beginning to chug north on Highway 24, headed back to the interstate.
Near the end of 203, Philip honked wildly. His brake lights flashed as the pale yellow car skidded right. I tried to gauge whether I could pass him again, but he was going too fast.
Through the snowfall, a digital clock’s amber squares glowed twelve-oh-oh in the mist. We were only moments from Philip’s office, which was near the interstate. Soon this agony would be over. I flicked on the left turn signal as we approached the stop sign at the intersection of the two roads.
“No!” I yelled as the BMW zoomed through the stop sign and screeched to turn right on 24 instead of left toward Philip’s office.
I stopped, glanced left, floored the accelerator, and wrenched the steering wheel to the right. The snow was coming down like oatmeal. Philip barreled down the left lane straight into the path of the oncoming trucks. At the last moment he careened out of the lane when the tractor-trailer blasted him with his horn. The big trucks lumbered past. Philip put on his auxiliary lights and appeared to slow down.
I gunned the T-bird forward and pulled up on the BMW’s right, on the dirt shoulder of Highway 24. I honked. Through his tinted window glass it was impossible to make out his face. He acted as if he neither saw nor heard me. Again he sped up, as if to get away.
The Thunderbird stalled in the snowy mud.
I leaned on the horn and lowered my window all the way. Cold feathers of snow pricked my face.
“Philip!” I screamed. “Come back!”
Speeding up again, the BMW bumped and rocked southbound down 24. In the right lane I could see a black Porsche passing a silver bus. I took a deep breath and turned the key in the ignition. If I could hit Philip from behind, maybe he would stop.
A Ford is not a BMW. The Thunderbird started with a jolt. I gunned it forward and hit a utility pole with the right front headlight. With all the snow, I hadn’t even seen it. A dull pain shot up my spine. When I looked back at the road, Philip was speeding down the left lane on a collision course with the bus. Leaving bells and whistles whining, I unstrapped my seat belt and jumped from the car.
“Stop!” I yelled through the curtains of snow. “Stop!”
But he did not. The Porsche and the bus honked. The Porsche driver careened onto the shoulder. A wall of snow sprayed upward. The Porsche’s brakes screamed. Still the BMW raced forward. The bus driver leaned on the horn. Philip heard the honk and braked, then hit the gravel on the left shoulder. The BMW went into a wild skid.
The bus slammed into the BMW on the driver’s side. Glass shattered. Tires shrieked. I could hear the bus passengers screaming. The Porsche driver scrambled out. There’s no way, I thought as I ran, there’s just no way.
My feet slid through the snow. Ahead the bus and Philip’s car stood motionless, smoking. My body whacked the BMW hood. The left front of the car was irreparably smashed. I looked through the broken glass, desperately hoping to see some movement.