To read from the beginning, click the photos on the right.
Chapter XXXIX pgs. 257-258
He drove slowly until he came to the end of the road. Then he swung the car around. Damn! He must have passed her on the road. But why hadn’t she yelled? Maybe she didn’t recognize him in the dark. Or, maybe she was playing games too. So he u-turned the car and backtracked one more time looking for Vivian. This time he called to her in the darkness. “Game’s over. Where the hell are you?” Then “Damn it, Vivian, tell me where you are so we can go home and get this friggin’ evening over with.” He honked the horn. “Fine, if that’s what you want, I can just leave you here. Go ahead and spend the night in this muck. See if I care. Someone’s sure to find you tomorrow and you can get a ride home in a tuna truck or something.” And, finally, “Hey, Vivian… okay, I’m sorry…Where are you?”
She had to hear him. The small stretch of road just wasn’t that long. Why didn’t she answer? It wasn’t like Vivian to hold a grudge – to play games, to make Alex stew. No, that was his style, not hers. Besides, he held all the cards. He had the car, with its warmth, a stereo, and transportation home, while she was crouching somewhere in the bushes. So why didn’t she answer?
It took a while for Alex to admit the possibility that Vivian couldn’t answer him. That she had hit her head or had fallen into water. But it seemed so unlikely. No one ever passed out from a bump on the head, except in the movies. He dug through the car’s glove compartment, and then through the trunk looking for a flashlight, but there wasn’t one. So he set the headlights on high beam and pointed them at the stretch of bushes ahead. Then he climbed out of the car and began examining the road bit by bit. There had to be a simple explanation. Surely Vivian was okay. She hadn’t fallen that hard.
But this was Chappaquiddick. And the bridge was already home to one ghost. And Alex sensed evil in the air around him. He was cold and scared, as scared as when he’d been an eleven-year-old boy running away from home, and realizing that he didn’t have the resources he needed to run away.
Disheartened, Alex sat down on a rock. Puddin’ Creek all over again, he thought. Back then he had run away from a whipping. How simple that would have been compared to this! His wife was missing; he was responsible, and he was very drunk, and he had very unforgiving partners. They would forgive him for driving drunk, or for losing or hurting or even killing his wife. But they would never forgive him for getting caught. Suddenly he shivered violently, chilled by the misty air and the thought of his partners.
And just as on that night long ago, he was sitting by swampy water with darkness, caused more by evil than by the night. He could see himself holding that book of spells. “Remordia,” he said aloud.
The solution was obvious. He’d go home. Tomorrow he’d call the sheriff. The alcohol would be out of his body by then. If she were alive, no harm no foul. If she were dead, he’d be distraught. “It’s all my fault. We had a fight, and she jumped out of the car.” Alex began practicing his story. “I started to follow her but it was dark, and she was running. She’d had a lot to drink, and she was stumbling about something terrible. ‘Keep away from me,’ she said. And she was taking awful chances running full tilt through the brush. I was afraid that if I kept chasing her she’d fall and hurt herself.” No−better yet – “she told me ‘if you don’t leave right now I’ll drown myself.’ She kept screaming ‘I’ll drown myself. I’ll do it. Don’t think I won’t!’ She kept shouting it over and over. So I told her ‘Okay, have it your way. I’m leaving. You don’t have to run anymore.’ I said to her, ‘Call me tomorrow, and I’ll pick you up.’ I thought she’d be okay. There was a house just a few hundred feet down the road from where I left her. She was acting so weird and it scared me and I just wasn’t thinking very clearly.”
He saw it all. It was simple, really. He’d never be blamed. Maybe he’d answer a few difficult questions, but there’d be nothing more than that.
Chapter XXXIX pgs. 257-258
He drove slowly until he came to the end of the road. Then he swung the car around. Damn! He must have passed her on the road. But why hadn’t she yelled? Maybe she didn’t recognize him in the dark. Or, maybe she was playing games too. So he u-turned the car and backtracked one more time looking for Vivian. This time he called to her in the darkness. “Game’s over. Where the hell are you?” Then “Damn it, Vivian, tell me where you are so we can go home and get this friggin’ evening over with.” He honked the horn. “Fine, if that’s what you want, I can just leave you here. Go ahead and spend the night in this muck. See if I care. Someone’s sure to find you tomorrow and you can get a ride home in a tuna truck or something.” And, finally, “Hey, Vivian… okay, I’m sorry…Where are you?”
She had to hear him. The small stretch of road just wasn’t that long. Why didn’t she answer? It wasn’t like Vivian to hold a grudge – to play games, to make Alex stew. No, that was his style, not hers. Besides, he held all the cards. He had the car, with its warmth, a stereo, and transportation home, while she was crouching somewhere in the bushes. So why didn’t she answer?
It took a while for Alex to admit the possibility that Vivian couldn’t answer him. That she had hit her head or had fallen into water. But it seemed so unlikely. No one ever passed out from a bump on the head, except in the movies. He dug through the car’s glove compartment, and then through the trunk looking for a flashlight, but there wasn’t one. So he set the headlights on high beam and pointed them at the stretch of bushes ahead. Then he climbed out of the car and began examining the road bit by bit. There had to be a simple explanation. Surely Vivian was okay. She hadn’t fallen that hard.
But this was Chappaquiddick. And the bridge was already home to one ghost. And Alex sensed evil in the air around him. He was cold and scared, as scared as when he’d been an eleven-year-old boy running away from home, and realizing that he didn’t have the resources he needed to run away.
Disheartened, Alex sat down on a rock. Puddin’ Creek all over again, he thought. Back then he had run away from a whipping. How simple that would have been compared to this! His wife was missing; he was responsible, and he was very drunk, and he had very unforgiving partners. They would forgive him for driving drunk, or for losing or hurting or even killing his wife. But they would never forgive him for getting caught. Suddenly he shivered violently, chilled by the misty air and the thought of his partners.
And just as on that night long ago, he was sitting by swampy water with darkness, caused more by evil than by the night. He could see himself holding that book of spells. “Remordia,” he said aloud.
The solution was obvious. He’d go home. Tomorrow he’d call the sheriff. The alcohol would be out of his body by then. If she were alive, no harm no foul. If she were dead, he’d be distraught. “It’s all my fault. We had a fight, and she jumped out of the car.” Alex began practicing his story. “I started to follow her but it was dark, and she was running. She’d had a lot to drink, and she was stumbling about something terrible. ‘Keep away from me,’ she said. And she was taking awful chances running full tilt through the brush. I was afraid that if I kept chasing her she’d fall and hurt herself.” No−better yet – “she told me ‘if you don’t leave right now I’ll drown myself.’ She kept screaming ‘I’ll drown myself. I’ll do it. Don’t think I won’t!’ She kept shouting it over and over. So I told her ‘Okay, have it your way. I’m leaving. You don’t have to run anymore.’ I said to her, ‘Call me tomorrow, and I’ll pick you up.’ I thought she’d be okay. There was a house just a few hundred feet down the road from where I left her. She was acting so weird and it scared me and I just wasn’t thinking very clearly.”
He saw it all. It was simple, really. He’d never be blamed. Maybe he’d answer a few difficult questions, but there’d be nothing more than that.
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