"Okay," I say, and shrug, and tell him the story; the pickup truck backs out of the lumberyard in the rain, unavoidable collision.
He listens, watching various parts of my face, then says, "Sir, may I see your license and registration?"
"Sure," I say. While I'm getting them out, I say, "I sure wish I knew what was going on."
He thanks me for the documents, and goes away to his car, which is blocking mine. I take off my wind-breaker, feeling warm from the walk, and toss it on top of the resume on the passenger seat, with my cap. Then I sit behind the wheel, lower my window, and listen to the burbly rush of the water in the eddy. It's soothing, and the air is sweet and not too warm, and I'm actually about to fall asleep right here when the trooper comes back, trying to be less cold and formal, which is rather like watching an I-beam try to curtsey.
"Thank you, sir," he says, and gives me back my license and registration.
He's about to go away, without another word, but I say, "Officer, give me a break, will you? What's going on? This is twice now."
He considers me. This is a need-to-know guy if there ever lived one. But he decides to relent. "A few days ago there was a hit-and-run," he tells me, "upstate New York. This type of vehicle. We expect it's got some damage on the front left."
"Upstate," I say. "No, I was in Binghamton. But thanks for telling me."
Nodding at the front of the Voyager, he says, "You ought to get that fixed."
"I'm taking it in tomorrow," I promise. "Thank you, officer."
17
For some reason, I seem to do all these things on Thursdays. I didn't plan it this way, but with Marjorie working Mondays and Wednesdays, and only one car in the family, this is the way it's been happening. I dealt with the first three resumes on Thursdays, and now here it is Thursday again, and I'm on my way back to Dyer's Eddy.
Will I deal with KBA today? I hope so. Get it over with. Now that the car is anonymous again.
It wasn't possible before this. Monday, after I took Marjorie to Dr. Carney's office (I kept the radio on in the car, tuned to WQXR, the New York Times's classical music station, to hide the silence in there with us), I went to the dealer where I'd bought the Voyager, five years ago, back when I was replacing my cars every three years, and I talked with Jerry in the service department. I've had the car serviced there every time since I bought it, because I have to keep it going for who knows how long, so Jerry and I know one another, and he has some idea of my financial situation. He looked at the car, and he looked at me, and he said, "Your insurance covers this?" This is the first time we've dealt with damage.
I'd brought along my policy, which I handed to him, saying, "Two-hundred-fifty-dollar deductible."
He frowned over the policy. When he handed it back, he said, "Uh huh." Giving nothing away.
"Jerry," I said, "you know my situation. I can't afford two hundred and fifty dollars."
"This is a rough time, Mr. Devore," he said, and he sounded sympathetic. "They just let my wife go at the hospital."
I didn't follow. I said, "What? She was in the hospital?"
"She worked at the hospital. X-ray technician. She was there eleven years."
"Oh."
"Some big health care company from Ohio bought them up," he said, "and they're cutting back. All the problems about health costs, you know?"
Funny; I don't think of hospitals as being commercial institutions, bought and sold, belonging to corporations. But of course they are. I think of them as being like churches or firehouses, but they're just stores, after all. I said, "So they let her go? After eleven years?"
"Boom, like that," he said, and poked at his thick moustache with a knuckle. "They had nine X-ray technicians, now they'll get along with six. To do the job nine did before."
"Still," I said, "that's a skill, isn't it? X-ray technician?"
He shook his head. "They're all cutting back," he said. "She thought it'd be easy, find another job, but the placement people told her they got more people with her training than they know what to do with."
"Jesus, Jerry," I said. "I am sorry. Believe me, I know how rough it can get."
"I know you do, Mr. Devore," he said, and looked around. "For all I know," he said, "in some office somewhere, right this minute, they're deciding this place only needs two service managers, not three."
"They won't let you go, Jerry," I said, though of course they might. They might do anything.
He knew it, too. "Nobody's safe, Mr. Devore," he said. Then he lowered his voice and said, "We know each other, I can take a chance with you, help you out a little. There's likely to be two different estimates, you know? One for you, one for the insurance company."
"God, that'd be a help, Jerry," I said.
"Take a seat in the waiting room," he told me, "I'll see what I can do here."
I thanked him, and forty-five minutes later he gave me the two estimates, and grinned and said, "Make sure you send the right one."
"Oh, I will," I promised, and on the drive home I thought, I could have returned that favor by telling Jerry how to keep his job, if the crunch ever came. Just kill one of the other service managers. And if his wife had chopped three X-ray technicians before she got the chop, she'd still be working at that hospital. But that's not a thing you could say to anybody.
An hour after I got home, the mail arrived. I can't help feeling a little queasy these days, every time I go out to the mailbox. I can't help looking around for parked cars. I know it's silly.
The mail included the accident report from the state police; very good. I phoned Bill Martin, my insurance guy, and he said to bring my paperwork right over, and I did, and we met in the office that used to be part of the built-in garage in his home. I gave him the police report and the estimate, the one for the insurance company, and he whistled and said, "Boy, you really banged it up, huh?"
"It wasn't fun," I told him.
"I'm sure it wasn't." He peered at me. "How are you, Burke? You okay? You didn't get hurt?"
I laughed and said, "Should I claim whiplash, Bill?"
"No, for God's sake," he said, in mock terror. "They're cracking down on fraud these days," he told me, "and looking for it harder, too. Everybody's squeezing a dollar."
"I know it."
"Where is the car? At the shop?"
"It's the only car I've got, Bill," I said. "It's right outside."
"Let's look at it."
"Okay."
We went out, and he looked at it, and looked at the estimate again, and then he looked at me, and casually he said, "You get a new position yet?"
"Not yet," I said.
He nodded, and we went back inside, and he said, "I'll fax these things off to the company today. There shouldn't be any problem."
"Great," I said. "When will it be okay to get it fixed? It looks kind of ugly now."
"Tomorrow, I hope," he said. "I'll give you a call, when they fax the approval."
"Thanks, Bill."
We shook hands, and I left, and drove home.
It's a wide-ranging conspiracy.
Tuesday was our first meeting with the counselor. Marjorie had arranged it, not through any of the state agencies, after all, but through that church where we'd met Father Susten eleven years ago. "His name is Longus Quinlan," she told me, as we drove south toward Marshal, where the office was.
I was surprised to hear it was a man we were on our way to see, expected Marjorie to have preferred a woman, but I covered whatever surprise I might have showed by saying, "Longus. That's a weird name."
"Maybe it's a family name," she said.
Our appointment was in a newish redbrick building four stories high on the edge of Marshal, called Midway Medical Services Complex, midway between what two points I don't know. Life and death? Sanity and lunacy? Yesterday and tomorrow? Hope and despair?