Restitution

Karen switched off the radio, cutting short the dire forecast. A low growl filled the cabin’s pregnant quiet, echoing the distant thunder. Mark tossed the car around the twisting curves of the backwoods road, flicking the shifter up and back down as the coupe dutifully flitted through the apex of each turn. With each squealing creaking protest, she shivered, the image of the decimated Ford pickup they had passed a few hours earlier prominent in her mind. A fog crawled out of the trees and fat raindrops splatted against the windshield, first one, then two and three and a dozen, then too many for the frantically swiping wipers to beat back.

She wasn’t sure why she fell asleep. It might have been the rhythmic syncopation of the wipers, the raindrops, and the thunder, or the dim gray-green late afternoon light. Perhaps the sheer exhaustion of riding for hours had made her prone to the cool air and the car’s swaying. She imagined it was a combination, with the possibility of something more not completely ruled out. She didn’t remember drifting off, or how long she slept, but at 7:08 she jerked awake.

A fwumping was coming from ahead. Mark was slowing, and it was only as he pulled to the side of the road that she realized they were the source of the noise. He pulled the parking brake and killed the ignition, then opened the door and stepped into the rain, not quite cursing. Karen caught a glimpse of his face, which betrayed his feelings as much as a good “shit” or “fuck” would have. She stepped out after him, irritated at his lack of an explanation as to what was going on.

“Mark, what happened? I thought you said your car would be better for the trip, more reliable.” Her voice was melodious and soft, but turned scalding with irritation and tension released.

“It’s not the car proper. Car’s fine,” Mark murmured as he swung the hood forward and up, “better than yours anyways: fewer miles effectively, every system gone over, better maintenance… So what if it’s older and the paint’s faded.”

“Fewer miles,” she scoffed, “your odometer reads over three hundred thousand, but whatever. What happened then?”

“Look down.”

She did, and noticed the funny angle the car set at, and the decimated tire at her feet. “I suppose you are going to pull a new tire out of the air and mount it right here.”

“Nope, you are going to do that. Find us a place near here where we can stay for the night and get a new tire in the morning.” He didn’t wait for her reply. Between the heavy clouds and the thick foliage, twilight was settling in early, and he wanted to be out of this god-forsaken hillbilly country before night truly settle in. With the speed that comes only from an intimate familiarity with a system, he extracted the spare, the emergency jack, and the tire iron from the diminished storage compartment in the front of the car. Karen thought she heard him mutter something about golf-club bags.

She waited for him to come around the front of the car. When he stopped, waiting for her to move, she nabbed the jack out of his hands. She knelt down and slide it under the car, just aft of the tire. As she started to crank the jack up she heard Mark drop the spare, which rolled a few feet away before falling to its side in the muddy ditch.

“Stop!” He commanded, grabbing her by the shoulder.

“I can change a flat.” She kept cranking,

“Obviously not.” He pulled her back from the jack. “You haven’t loosened the lug nuts, and you can’t do that with the wheel spinning in the air. That’s not a big deal, I try that too sometimes when I forget that I’m not using an impact. But if you kept cranking, you would have really stranded us. You have to put it back where the notch is, or you crush the return coolant line. And the motor back there gets awful hot real fast. Just let me do it, OK?”

She turned to face him, a spiral lock of hair falling in front of her face. “I can help, you know.”

Mark’s face twisted against his barely controlled temper. “Oh, I’m sure you can. Of course, I would have preferred if the offer had come two hours ago. You agreed that you would drive for some of the trip since you didn’t want to stop before Florida.”

“How was I supposed to know you wanted me to take over? You didn’t say shit.”

“I shouldn’t have to. I’ve been driving since eight this morning. Eleven hours. If you paid a bit of attention and thought about it, you would have realized.”

“Well,” she said, “you could have said something.”

“I did: “I’m tired. I could really use a break. This highway driving is getting rather numbing. I’m going to have to take some back roads because I can’t take much more of this”. Sorry if I didn’t come right out and say, ‘Your turn to drive.’ Besides,” he quizzed, “it’s not like you listen to me anyways. That much hasn’t changed in five years.”

Karen’s face went blank. When she spoke, her voice trembled, but was otherwise carefully neutral. “Really Mark? You are bringing that up?”

Oblivious, Mark carried on his tirade. “You trampled me. You used me. I bared myself to you heart and soul, and you strung me along and then ran off with that idiot anyways. I’ll be damned if I make that mistake again. Hell, maybe this whole vacation was a mistake.”

“I don’t suppose it matters that you were right.” The words caught in her throat. “You were right then, dammit. You said it would end in chaos and sorrow and despair. It did. You said he would leave, and he did. You were right. Are you happy? Does it matter now?”

Mark dropped the tire iron and sunk to his knees in front of her. Her body racked with the sobs, her hands clenched at her sides, and her face twisted with anguish. Slowly, he reached up to her face with one hand, and with a finger pushed back back the escaped lock of hair. Drops of water fell from its end, landing on her shoulder and disappearing in the cotton of her hoodie. Her trembles lessened with his touch, and she stared directly at him, defying her emotion’s influence as best she could.

“No,” he said, “it doesn’t matter now, and I’m not happy. I’m sorry Karen.”

He wanted to tell her how it still hurt him, but he couldn’t. Instead, he helped her up. He began turning away, but she placed a hand on his shoulder, stopping him. She pulled herself flat against him, her head turned sideways against his chest. “You were right. I’m sorry I didn’t listen then, and I am sorry I didn’t pay attention today. Do you forgive me?”

“I wasn’t right to be cruel, and you were right, I should have made it clear that I wanted you to take over. I can’t not forgive you. Do you forgive me?”

She held him tighter and whispered, “Yes.”

They continued to stand there, holding one another, the flat tire temporarily forgotten. She felt so small in his arms, but at the same time, he found her weight against him fulfilling.

“Karen, we’re getting soaked.”

She hummed consent.

He loosened his hold on her and gently pushed her back, holding her at arm’s length.