42

 

THE LATE FEBRUARY sun had grown a tad less stingy, sometimes teasing us with the promise of spring weather that was still months off. By mid afternoon, puddles of melted snow formed along the sides of the road and filled the potholes. By nightfall, it was frozen in icy sheets, despite the highway department’s efforts with salt and sand, but this was nothing new. Wisconsinites learned from the get-go to drive in such conditions; nobody took their snow tires off until April.

I can’t speak for all of Wisconsin, but it appeared that the Northwoods folks were as adept at driving drunk as they were at driving in bad weather. People of both genders routinely went out for an evening of spirits, then climbed behind the wheel to weave and wend their way home. Every so often someone had a wreck but that didn’t seem to make a lasting impression. By some miraculous intercession, most of the merrymakers made it home unscathed, or like my father, ran harmlessly into a ditch. But on that night, particularly treacherous roadways and alcohol lent a cruel hand to malice. For the last time, our lives spun wildly out of control and came full stop, one-hundred-eighty degrees ass-backwards. 

 

AT HALF PAST nine on a Saturday night, Parsons’ Lounge was in full swing. Upwards of fifty people were careening around the dance floor to the oomph pa-pa of the tuba and the reeling melodies of the accordion. Pale-faced Scandinavians were lit up like red traffic lights from beer and exertion. Everyone clapped and cheered when Dad came out from behind the bar and took a turn across the floor, first with Mom, then with me.

Just as I was about to leave for bedtime, Al Johnson walked in with Tildy. There were a few awkward stares, some nudging, and whispered remarks.

Dad took charge of the situation, proudly introducing his old high school pal and her friend over the mike. “Al Johnson is a modest gal, so many of you don’t know that she not only served as a medic with the Navy—she was decorated for bravery under fire and meritorious service. Because of Al, four of our boys came home from the Philippines to be reunited with their families.”

A man stood up and clapped boldly. “Yeah!”

Dad cheered. “Let’s have a round of applause for Blackstone’s only decorated woman veteran—give it up for Al.” They responded heartily with genuine admiration. Then Dad signaled the band to start up again. The room full of Wisconsinites sprang to their feet and started bouncing around. My father danced a few turns with Tildy, and when Al took over to dance with her lifelong partner, nobody batted an eye. Even my mother smiled.

The chalet was toasty warm from the roaring fire and the dancers’ bodies. When we stepped outside for the short walk to the house, the frosty air took my breath away. Dry snow fell like sugar crystals from the black sky. A gust of wind blew some light powder from the roof down the back of my neck.

“Brrr.” I flipped up the hood of my parka. “It’s okay, Mom. I can walk back to the house by myself.”

“No, it’s late, and cars are coming and going in the driveway. It’s slippery and dangerous. We’ll walk around the long way.”

“Why are so many people still coming and going?” I asked as we made our way down the footpath. It hadn’t been freshly shoveled, since we usually just walked on the plowed driveway.

“It looks like we’re emptying out the local bars,” Mom explained. “Some of our guests used the phone to call friends from their usual spots. At least two drove off and came back with a carload, already high as a kite and itching to dance.”

“They sure are having a good time in there,” I remarked as we came in the kitchen door. The music and laughter were so loud, I doubted I could sleep through it. “Goodnight, Mom.” I gave her a hug.

“Goodnight, honey,” she said, but did not release my embrace. “Cassandra, do you want me to tuck you in?”

“Aw, Mom, you don’t have to do that anymore. Besides, you’re too busy. Better get back and help Dad.”

I took my customary hot bath. Grandpa kept the thermostat low, so it was the only way I could get warm enough to climb between the chilly sheets. After I’d shut my bedroom door, I noticed that it wasn’t nearly as loud as over by the kitchen. It must’ve been because my room was on the back end of the house, closer to Highway 2 than to the chalet. I fell asleep to the distant sound of polka music drifting through the trees.

 

I THINK ANNA Schimschack was right. Sometimes the gates of hell really do open, but this time they weren’t thrown wide. Satan only loosed them enough to send forth a few dark angels, whispering wickedness into the ears of souls gone rancid with hate.

It was half past midnight when the first car went off the road opposite our driveway, crashing into the thick stand of pines alongside Highway 2, but I didn’t hear it. It was the impact of the truck that plowed into it from behind that exploded like a bomb.

I sat bolt upright, jolted from sleep as if by a cattle prod. Before I could grasp what had woken me, I was assaulted by a cacophony of screeching tires and the sickening sound of smashing glass. Another thunderous boom. I jumped out of bed and opened my little back door. Even though my room was situated downhill from the highway, I could see the flames whipping tall as the treetops. Women were screaming and men were shouting as they made their way up the long driveway toward the road. Over the commotion I heard my father holler, “Tina, stay back!”

Mom, I whispered hoarsely in the dark. For a moment, I stood frozen like an ice sculpture, then burst into disorganized action, groping in the dark for some pants to throw on over my pajamas and putting on my parka. Resisting the urge to dash barefoot into the snow, I stuffed my feet into my wool-lined Sorels. The snowfall had stopped. It was thirty below.

There was a footpath worn through the snow from my backdoor to the driveway, and I cut across quickly, falling unnoticed into the throng of drunken revelers, fresh from the dance floor. None of them were wearing boots; I dodged and even shoved a few aside as they staggered and slipped, struggling to reach the road.

“Mom!” I cried over the mayhem, glimpsing her from behind as she rounded the last bend of the driveway and disappeared from view. That’s when I heard it. Over the crazing flames and hysterical people, I heard her yelp of pain. One more sonic boom. The wail of still too distant sirens. More screaming. I poured on the speed and pushed through the crowd. “Move it. Git!” I pounded on someone’s fat backside. I crashed into a guy who was bent over puking and kneed him aside. “Get outta my way you drunken idiots!”

In the brilliant firelight, I saw my father kneeling at the roadside, holding his head with both hands, his mouth wrenched wide in silent agony. My mother lay gently in a bed of deep snow. She wasn’t crushed or bloody or twisted at all, just looked as though she’d lain down and gone to sleep. But I knew she was hurt from the impact of the car that hit her. The injuries were on the inside.

By the entrance to the long driveway, winking and blinking, the neon sign still promised an evening of drinking and dancing, fun and frivolity at Parsons’ Lounge. It was ignorant of the role it had played in the six-car pileup that took the lives of four people and wounded dozens, some burned and scarred for the rest of their days. Undaunted, the happy sign’s glowing red arrow pointed the way, leading motorists coming from either direction—straight into the dense clump of trees at the opposite side of our driveway.