Twenty-Five Years Ago
FROM NOWHEREthe fire spluttered to life on the hood of the wrecked car—like a burning bush, like God had given a pass on this one.
Then the baby started to cry. It was shrill and hiccuping, the inconsolable wail of something that had never gone uncomforted, never known more than passing pain.
No.
One step forward, off the road and onto the wet grass. Later thelie would be that they would have tried if they had the chance. The truth they could never quite escape was that they took that one step to get a better view. That strange, sick moment.
A big silver car swerved off the road and onto the hard shoulder. Chips of gravel spat up from under the tires as the driver scrambled out, half-tangled in a seat belt.
“Jesus Christ,” the man spluttered, hisvoice almost reverent with horror. “What happened? Is there anyone in there?”
The baby screamed again, a throttled screech that cut like razors.
“Oh God.” The man pulled his jacket off and wrapped it around his hands. He yelled back to the car. “Call the police. The ambulance. Tell them there’s been an accident.”
In the vehicle the woman, tarty-looking thing with ratty hair and a muppet-skincoat that didn’t match the nice car, fumbled with her phone. Her voice was so shrill it cut through the crackle of the fire. The man wrenched at the door with coat-mittened hands. When that didn’t work, he picked up a rock and smashed the window.
God gave one last wink, and the car flared with an almost solidwhoomph. The man fell back, arm raised to shield his face. The baby cried, and the carburned.
Later the lie would be that they’d done all they could. The truth would be that it would have been easier if the man had given up then.
Some people just had to be heroes.
