Free A Parallel Life by Robin Beeman Page B

down on him, either unable or unwilling to give way.
    Tom made an effort to avoid collision and timing seemed to favor him. He was approaching the steepdriveway up to the Polonius place and was about to turn on to it. Unfortunately, just at that moment, Joe, driving Beck’s Volkswagen, was rushing down the driveway to head off the fire department, to spare them the trip up the tortuous road, with the information that the fire, a spontaneous combustion in a compost pile, was under control.
    He had seen it from where he was working on the ridge above, driven down, and doused it with a garden hose.
    To avoid another collision, Tom swerved again and wound up with his right front tire in a ditch and a broken axle. Walt slammed on his brakes, but they failed to grip the loose gravel of the road and the right front of his pickup struck the rear of the stalled fire truck, which sent the pickup over the edge of the road and down through Murphy’s orchard and through the fence that had prevented Fiesta the Shetland pony from nibbling at the green world beyond the tired brown earth of her yard. Walt managed to hold onto both the gun and the steering wheel during this and so was able to march his captives, one of whom had a slight concussion from contact with the windshield, back up the hill.
    The blow from Walt’s pickup sent Beck, who had been riding on the rear of the fire truck, flying off to sprawl in the dirt, a vantage point from which he got to watch Joe climb out of the Volkswagen and approach him. Beck had no way of knowing that Joe had only seen a body leave the pump truck and land on the ground, and that Joe had no idea who the owner of that body was.
    â€œDon’t touch me, you son-of-a-bitch,” Beck said as Joe, concern wrinkling his young smooth brow, bent over him.
    â€œBeck?” Joe said, and then, “Beck! What are you doing here?”
    Rita, meanwhile, was growing frantic with anxiety, remorse, and misgiving. Months ago she had worn herself out with guilt over having let things with Joe get started, but at the time it had seemed the only thing to do.
    Now she loved him. But now Beck was here, and she loved him, too. After she watched Beck run down to the firehouse, she slowly began to get dressed, but that didn’t seem like the right thing to do so she took off her clothes and flung herself naked on the bed and cried. Then she got up and dressed again.
    She took the
I Ching
and the coins from the shelf by her bed. Then she put them back. She took off her clothes again and crawled into bed and pulled the sheet over her face to lie still as a corpse and wonder what life would be like if she had to give up either man. She wondered if this were some ultimate test that she might fail and, in failing, be stripped forever of her right to love.
    After an hour or so under the sheet, she got up and dressed again. She wasn’t good at passive anguish so she went down into the kitchen and began to do things.
    She took out flour and yeast and soon there was dough rising. She went to her garden and picked tomatoes and cucumbers and green and red peppers, and onions, and fresh basil, dill, tarragon, sage, and rosemary. She kneaded herbs into the dough. She took out several chickens from the refrigerator and rubbed them with herbs and garlic and poured wine and olive oil over them. She brought out a salmon and stuffed it with bread-crumbs and garlic and herbs. She pulled down bottles of wine and placed them in a wash tub and covered them with ice. And she hummed as she did this. Hums that became incantations. She cried sometimes and sometimesshe smiled. It was hot in the kitchen and she opened all the doors and windows and set up fans to keep the breezes flowing.
    â€œDon’t touch me!” Beck said again. Then he groaned as the pain reached him. His leg was twisted behind him and he straightened it very slowly. Next he moved his arms, one at a time. He felt as if he needed oil in every