21

Well, no. Not dead. Fainted.

And uninjured, too. She had not banged her head against the dash, there were no marks on her face, no blood spurting from severed vessels, no urine stains spreading across her thighs. Even before I had a chance to slap her into consciousness, she was awake, her eyes focused and steady. Her face had lost some colour but otherwise (it seemed to me) she was fine.

But of course, she wasn’t.

A man in green coveralls stopped his rusted pick-up behind the Escort and helped Inés from the car first, in case my body weight was all that prevented the car from tumbling over. I stepped onto the shoulder, slowly, one foot first, then the other, a fluttery feeling in the area of my large intestine. The car remained steady and I enjoyed the sense of relief.

Inés had jumped a trickle of sewage in the ditch and now stewed on the opposite slope, next to the fence. Her arms were folded across her chest to counter the early evening chill and contain her shakes. She stared into a field and a dirt track for training horses where a single rider, whip in hand, sat spread-legged in a sulky behind a trotting brown standardbred. The man who had stopped to help was now on his knees, body stooped and examining the car’s underbelly.

“It don’t look like the axle’s broke, but you never know,” he said. “What you’ll need is a tow anyways. I wouldn’t go trying to drive out of that ditch.”

My eyes fixed on Inés, I felt in my pockets for my phone, found it, dropped it, picked it up, ready to dial. My thumb trembled above the numbers.

“Who do I call?”

“I have a number in my vehicle.”

I passed him the phone. “Would you mind? I think I should see if my wife is okay.”

I hopped across the ditch and walked through long grass, approaching cautiously, slowly, until I was standing beside Inés. Thinking I would comfort her, I put an arm around her shoulder. But she turned away, leaving my arm momentarily extended like a scarecrow.

“You almost killed me,” she said.

“It wasn’t my fault,” I said. “The guy ahead just . . .”

“I told you to pay attention to your driving. I said it three times. I said it four times.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Instead you start talking nonsense about having a baby.”

“We don’t need to talk about that now.”

“We don’t need to talk about it ever. It’s not going to ­happen.”

Across the ditch, next to the Escort, green coveralls had taken off his ball cap and was speaking into my phone, looking around for a sign, an exit number perhaps, to help direct the tow truck.

“Inés. I know you’re upset, but maybe we could just get to the hotel in Bayfield, have a couple of drinks and calm down.”

“You don’t think I’m going to go to Bayfield now, do you? I am never getting in the same car as you again. I’ll walk back if I have to.”

“Inés.”

“I’ll get a ride with the tow truck and take a bus.”

“Inés. Please. I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

I tried once again to hold her, reached tentatively with both arms. She shook free.

“Don’t.”

“Inés . . .”

“I mean it.”

Then we were silent. I measured the setting of the sun against a line of pines on the horizon. The sky blended orange and pink. I could see why people took to painting. How many colours were contained in that colour? How many subtle ­variables? And yet, how could you ever hope to get it right? It was a strange thing to be thinking about. From behind, the man hollered: “Truck says it’ll be about 15 minutes. If you folks are okay, I’ll just leave your phone in the car here.”

I turned and waved and watched the man climb behind the wheel and accelerate, merging into traffic. “If this is about a baby, Inés, I was just throwing it out there. I haven’t even really given it that much thought.”

“It’s not about a baby,” she said.

Of course it wasn’t. “Good,” I said. “I’m glad.”

I looked at my watch, wondering about the tow truck’s arrival. I hoped it would take longer, a few extra minutes to allow Inés to change her mind and continue with me for the weekend and later tonight, after wine and a nice meal, we’d be okay again. We stood together, staring at the sun, the stunning spread. “In Toronto,” I said, “you almost never see the sun setting, do you?”

Inés turned to me, stared into my eyes, her mouth hard, readying. Then she relaxed her face and bowed her head, not yet ready to fire, tilting it to one side in the direction of the ditch. She took hold of her elbow in the cup of her hand and squeezed, as though she might be injured.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“Manolo and I are getting back together,” she said.

“Did you hurt your arm?”

“My arm is fine.”

“Are you sure? You’re holding it like you’re hurt.”

“Did you hear what I just said?”

“You’ve just been in an accident. Maybe you don’t know what you’re saying.”

“You’ve just been in an accident, too. Maybe you don’t know what you’re hearing. I’m going back with Manolo.”

“No you’re not,” I said.

She began to nod and did not stop. Dozens of affirming nods, her head finding rhythm as it verified. I dug my hands into my pant pockets. I squeezed the muscles of my thighs.

“No you’re not,” I said again.

“I should have told you, but I was waiting until Manolo gets his advance from the publisher. When that happens, Sagipa and I will move in with him.”

“You mean Cuxinimpaba.”

On the highway, cars slowed near our angled car, the drivers hoping to see something crumpled or bloody. The air smelled of diesel exhaust. I sat down and spat in the grass beside me, the dirty cold spreading across my backside. My heart seethed. What comes to a man’s mind at a time like that? What is the first thing he thinks of when his world, like freshly killed game, is being gutted? What else?

“Have the two of you already?” I said.

“Do you really want me to tell you?”

I ripped out a clump of grass, threw it into the wind.

“I guess you just did, didn’t you?”