Riding the Thunder - Deborah MacGillivray [2]
“But he gave you this new car for your birthday, Tommy.”
She referred to his fire-engine red Ford Mustang. One of the first made, Ford was so high on the car that they jumped the gun and released it weeks ago instead of waiting for the mid-September rollout of new ’65 year cars, calling it the ’64½ model.
“My Chevy was falling apart. He was ticked he had to cancel appointments three times to come pick me up because of it breaking down.” Tommy pleaded quietly, “Please, be reasonable. You know we’ll marry this time next year. You can be a June bride. A beautiful June bride.” He squeezed her hand and glanced over at her, love filling his heart.
“Oh, Tommy, my dad is being transferred out of state. They’re moving next month. Mom broke the news to me last night,” she choked out.
“What?” Tommy took his eyes off the road, unable to believe she was serious. He had to swerve the steering wheel back when the car accidentally crossed the centerline. Traffic on Leesburg Pike was dangerous. They promised the newly opened I-64 would someday help the situation; however, since construction remained mostly in unconnected pieces, heavy trucking traffic still came flying down the pike at a breakneck speed. An oncoming trucker gave Tommy a blast of his horn and then held up his middle finger.
“They said if we don’t get married . . . I have to go with them.” Laura sat stiff and pale in her seat. “To Texas.”
Rattled, Tommy failed to notice the black pickup bearing down on them—until it banged the rear bumper. Damn! His Mustang was only weeks old and already a dent in the rear end. Tommy could see his insurance rates going sky-high. What he didn’t need—another expense. He was saving for an engagement ring—Laura’s Christmas present.
“What the hell?” Tommy looked in the rearview mirror, trying to see who was driving. The harsh glare from the evening sun bounced off the windshield, nearly rendering it a mirror. Another slam to the rear said the first hadn’t been an accident. Someone was clearly ramming the heavy truck into them.
“Tommy, are they nuts?” Her head whipped around trying to see.
The DJ on the car radio announced, “This is Coyote Calhoun on WAKY dedicating this Golden Oldie to all the Lauras out there, Ray Peterson’s mournful ballad about star-crossed lovers, ‘Tell Laura I Love Her’.”
Ordinarily, Laura would turn the song up. Their song. Four years ago, the tune had made it to number one on the Hit Parade and it was still in the jukebox at The Windmill Restaurant where everyone hung out. Slot H-13. Since the lovers in the song were named Laura and Tommy, the song had become theirs.
The truck sped up and slammed against the rear of the Mustang again. Both Laura and he jerked from the impact, which nearly pushed the car into the back of the cement truck ahead of them.
“Tommy, I’m scared. What are they doing? That driver is stark-raving mad!”
Tommy glanced in the rearview mirror again. In slow motion, Tommy saw it all happen, too damn fast to prevent it. The driver revved the truck’s engine and smashed into the car once more. Hard. The cement truck started to slow to make a left turn onto Richmond Pike.
The cliffs were coming up. Tommy dared not let this madness drag on as there was a likelihood they could be forced off one of the sharp S-turns. He hit the gas, hoping to swing around the truck before it halted to turn. As he did, the Ford truck slammed into the car, jarring them forward. Too late, Tommy saw the Peterbilt, which had been blocked from view by the cement truck, barreling down on them from the other direction. The driver never had a chance to hit the brakes.
Tommy swerved back into the right lane, but the truck crashed into the Mustang