Great Expectations by Vinson Cunningham

Author:Vinson Cunningham [Cunningham, Vinson]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2024-03-12T00:00:00+00:00

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That night, drunk, I drove the rental car back to Derrick’s trailer under Howland’s supervision. On our way up to New England from the city I’d told him that I’d never learned to drive. Every so often, he let me drive the Cruiser up and down empty highways at night and gave me pointers. Now I sped down the two-lane road toward Derrick’s, buzzed enough finally to feel no fear, the Cruiser’s headlights glossing with a ghostly white—like the sudden flash at a crime scene—the profligate branches of dead sumac at the sides of the road. What was hardest for me, always, was steadying my foot and finding a balance. I crawled or sped, with little between. Howland did his best to tutor me, but every time I tried to adjust, I only made the car lurch.

As we came closer to Derrick’s, a dark squad car came over the slight swell of the horizon behind us. Howland elbowed my arm so hard that the car swerved gently left. By some scared impulse I righted the car and at the same time elbowed him back. I saw, I said. He asked, “You know where we are?” I shrugged. “Close.” “Fuck,” Howland said. “Fuck. Shit, I’m sorry. You can do this.” He looked not so much scared—that I would’ve understood—as gravely serious. I’d never seen him even close to serious before then. He put his hand on my shoulder and took a deep breath.

“Listen,” he said. My hands were sweating. The police car came closer. None of its lights were on. “I know—well, no, that’s not true: I don’t know. I have heard, I have read, I’ve tried to be aware that this whole thing—a situation like this one—is scarier—not, like, personally, I don’t know, but maybe historically—scarier for you than it might be for me. I don’t—I mean—I get that. Okay?” I nodded okay, but by the end of his speech I was laughing hard; tears made the road ahead of me swim. Howland saw me laughing and he laughed too. “Okay, yeah, sorry,” he said. “Have you ever been arrested?” I’d had cuffs on once but never been “brought in.” “Pulled over?” I reminded him that I wasn’t a driver, and that I didn’t have any kind of license or permit on me now.

“Jesus,” he said. “Okay. Take a deep, cleansing breath in case you have to take a blow test. That works; I’ve had a miracle or two. But, forget that, you’re not gonna get pulled over anyway. In maybe a half mile, you’re gonna take a left. One smooth left. Hand over hand, and you can ease up on the gas. Smooth turn.” I drove more steadily than ever for the half mile, noticing nothing but the double yellow line ahead and the car behind. The left came and I took it—smooth. The squad car kept rolling. Howland howled.

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