One Second After [15]
Growing up in a working-class suburb of Newark in the sixties and seventies he had learned survival. He was only seven when the big riots hit Newark in '67, dividing off for a generation any thought of what some called diversity. Italians stuck to their neighborhoods, Poles and the Irish to theirs, Hispanics to theirs, blacks to theirs, and God save you if you got caught in the wrong neighborhood after dark, and usually in daylight as well.
The interstate, at this instant, had become the wrong neighborhood. The way the four construction workers stood and gazed at him and the car—the one car with a motor still running—was triggering a warning. One of them was obviously drunk, the type that struck John as a belligerent drunk.
Something was changing, had changed, in just the last few hours. If alone, John might have chanced it, and chances were nothing at all would go wrong, but he was a father; his two girls and his mother-in-law would be in that car.
"Come on, buddy," the one worker said, his voice now edged with a taunting edge. "Help the lady. We'll push her over for you; then we'll climb over and you can give us a lift as well."
She looked back at the four.
"I don't need your help," she said coldly.
The drunk laughed softly.
John felt trapped, especially as he spared a quick glance back to Jennifer. Suppose the car was taken right now; it would be a long haul back for her.
At that moment he caught a glance from the truck driver. There was a slight nod and ever so casually he let his right hand, which had been concealed behind his back, drift into view. He was holding a light-caliber pistol. There was a moment of gut tightening for John, but the exchange of glances said it all. "It's OK, buddy; I'm watching things here."
John looked back to the woman.
"Ma'am, I'm sorry, I've got to get my kids home. You just walk a little less than a mile to the west and you'll find food and shelter."
"Rotten shit," the drunk growled, and moved to start climbing the fence.
"Girls, into the car," John snapped, and there was no hesitation. The doors slammed behind them. John backed up to the car, the drunk had a hard time negotiating his footing. John slipped into the driver's seat, slammed into reverse, and floored it.
"Son of a bitch, all we want is a lift," and as the drunk half-dangled from the fence he flipped John off.
Flooring the gas, John continued to back up all the way to the turnoff to their road, threw the gear into forward, and roared up the dirt road.
"John Matherson, I can't believe you left that lady like that. Especially with those men around her."
"I have a family," John said coldly, looking into the rearview mirror to where Elizabeth and Jennifer were in the backseat, both of them silent. He could sense their accusation, that Dad had chickened out. He shook his head and said nothing.
He pulled into the driveway, the dogs started to bound around him but then, sensing his mood, shifted their attention to Jennifer and Elizabeth.
"Girls, it's getting dark. Remember the hurricane last year when we all piled into my bedroom? It'll be like that tonight. Elizabeth, get out the Coleman lantern; you know how to light it. Jennifer, you help her."
"Come on, Dad; I think you're being a little uptight."
"Just do it, Elizabeth," he said slowly and forcefully.
"All right."
The two headed to the door, Jennifer pestered Elizabeth as to what her birthday present was.
"And Elizabeth, after you get the lantern lit, help Jennifer with her injection. Don't keep the medication out of the fridge any longer than you have to."
"OK, Dad."
"Then feed the dogs."
"Sure, Dad."
The girls went in. John fished in his pocket for a cigarette, pulled it out, and lit it.
"Are you going back to help that woman?" "No."
Jen was silent for a moment. "I'm surprised at you, John."
"I know I'm right. I go down to that highway and those bastards might take