Chapter 15

“And I’m saying that it’s the same Winnebago,” Sam said.

As the arid atmosphere swirled past the speeding Bentley, Max raised his hands from the steering wheel one at a time and attempted to shake the Carpo Tunnel numbness away.  “Sam, there are hundreds of Winnebagos just like that going back and forth on this highway all year long… damn hands… and why would the sinister Winnebago be in front of us if it were following us, huh?  Sam?”

Sam leaned on the window frame and continued studying the motor home traveling some half-mile in front of them.  Suddenly, she reached behind the seat and felt around in the back-of-the-seat pocket.  “Where are the glasses?”

“What?” said Max.

“The binoculars.  Where are they?”

Max glanced over his shoulder at her struggle to feel around in the pocket.  “They should be…”

“Got’em,” exclaimed Sam as she pulled the compact binoculars from the pocket and lifted them to her eyes.  “A heavier foot would make these useful, Max.”

Max glanced over, acknowledged the determination he knew was uncontainable and pressed his foot to the accelerator.

The larger accelerator associated with traveling homes was also urged to the floor.  The outside mirror reflected the approaching Bentley.

The binoculars’ circular prisms framed the motor home’s outside mirror.

“You going to tell me you remember the license plate and that’s him?” joked Max.

“No.  I was too upset to think of it.  You get a little closer, though, and I’ll do a make on those eyes.  I wasn’t too upset to forget that moment.”

Max looked over once more at her concentration through the glasses.  “OKAY.  Just to satisfy you, I’m going to capitulate, but then we’re going to relax and enjoy the rest of the drive.  Deal?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe? Max repeated.

“Maybe he wants to play.  Why else would he pass us and then hang back?”

“Sam,” Max answered with a tone of impatience. “Assuming you’re right and that’s your ‘man in the mirror’, why would you want to push this any further. You going to have me run him off the road?“

“No.”

“Good.  You going to press charges?”

“No.”

“What then?”

“You’re gaining.  Shit.”

“What?”

“His dark glasses.  The guy is wearing dark glasses.”

“Not uncommon for a driver,” Max said as he adjusted his own.

Suddenly, the brake lights lit up on the Winnebago. 

“He’s stopping, Max.  We’ve got him.”

“Got him?” Max quipped and sped up.

Sam lowered her binoculars. “What are you doing?”

Before Max could give her an answer, the motor home was steered off the road into a rest area. 
As Max passed the exit, Sam challenged him again.  “You’re just letting him get away with it?”

Max glanced at the driver and shook his head.  “Sam,” he said, “The Winnebago that followed us out of the café had a driver and a passenger.  There’s only one there.”

Sam, not giving up said, “Riding in the back.  It’s a motor home, Max.  The other pervert is obviously riding in the back.”

Max, exasperated, slammed on the brakes.  The car came to a rest just beyond the rest area re-entry roadway.  Max got out of the car, walked around and opened Sam’s door.  “Sam, I know you must be having fun relieving the boredom and all, but…”

Sam jumped out of the car and started walking back toward the rest area.  “Having fun!  Wanting to tell a pervert where to get off isn’t on my experience list.  You think about somebody eyeing you from a lady’s room and tell me how you’d feel, huh?”

Max closed the door and followed her, smiling to himself.  “Could be somewhat flattering, actually.”

“Oh, you are a sick one,” grunted Sam as she picked up the pace, walking straight for the motor home.

“Sam, for God sake.  You’re acting like… and you’ve got me acting like a Goddamn child.  Let it go, for Christ sake.  Sam?”

But Sam was determined.  Maybe it was the actress in her; maybe the no-nonsense nature of her personality; or maybe it was the memories, memories so painful that only a portion had been shared with her psychiatrist and husband. 

As she advanced upon the idle Winnebago, flashes of her eleventh birthday memory stalked and prodded her sense of right and wrong.  Her thoughts became confused; should I pull the bastard out of the motor home… or do him in his own home, like I got… like… Gerard… did me?  He didn’t think about right or wrong, the son-of-a-bitch, so why should I?  Suddenly, she was raging inside.  Remembrances of violation.  Remembrances of innocence lost.

She started to run.  Max called out, “Sam!  Sam, take it easy.  What’s wrong?”

She reached into her handbag and pulled out her small mace can, whipped the door of the Winnebago open and raised her arm to fire.  “You keep your perverted eyes off me, you hear?”

“What the hell?” the driver cowered into the corner of the seat.

Max lunged at Sam and ripped the can from her hand.  “Jesus, Sam.”  He looked up into the cab of the motor home.  The driver was a man in his 70’s about to have a cardiac arrest, thought Max.  “Please… it’s OKAY.  My wife just thought…”

“Get out of my home, you crazy…”

Wrestling with her oversized Mickey Mouse nightshirt, the gentleman’s sleepy eyed wife rushed to his side from the rear bedroom.  “Alex…Alex?  What’s the matter?”

Max raised his arms to calm them both as he chastised Sam. “Sam, get back to the car.  Sam!”

She turned slowly to Max muttering, “His eyes were younger… much younger.”  She stepped back and shuffled toward the car, letting the mace can fall to the ground.

Max was embarrassed, not only for Sam, but for himself as well.  He knew he should have stopped her impulse to confront the driver before it started, but… no buts, he told himself.  The fault was apparent.  “I’m terribly sorry, folks.  Terribly sorry.  This was all a mistake.  My wife hasn’t been herself lately and…

The elderly wife fired a stern, “Fuck You and your crazy son of a bitch wife!” then pushed him out the door and slammed it in his face.

Max was so surprised by the sudden event that he sat for a moment before picking himself up. 

The Mrs. wasn’t through yet.  She rolled down a window and assaulted him with her own brand of aggression… a fire extinguisher.  “Git the hell out of here, mister.  Git!”  Suddenly, Max was wiping foam from his head and arms and scurrying back down the road toward Sam who had reached the car and was sitting rigidly, staring out the windshield.  One glance told him conversation should probably wait.  He slid in behind the wheel, started the engine and pulled onto the highway, coming up behind yet another tourist… in a yet another Winnebago.

***

“And how will they come, Mr. Pasolini?” asked Harwood Crane.  The two sat on the deck of the San Miguel surrounded by a crew of twenty with multiple cameras, reflectors, lights and boom arms. “Oh…” thought Umberto, “I suppose the majority will arrive by some exotic means.  Mostly yachts, some helicopters.  Of course, many of our friends are of ‘no’ means... the students, scholars and such.  For them, we’ve arranged some charters. Then, there will be those who prefer the traditional car, even motor homes.  “So…”

Crane jumped in, “So you will have quite a mixed turnout.”

“Yes, providing, of course, the weather doesn’t become a problem and discourage the less hearty.  Outdoor parties can be a problem to plan, you know.  Shauna, my social secretary, has been working months to provide for any contingency.”  He gestured up to the castle.  “We will, of course, have the castle to retreat to in any event.”

Crane looked about the deck.  “Well, we’ve been talking only a few minutes, but I feel like a seasoned mariner.  Your story of the San Miguel is truly remarkable.”

Umberto smiled graciously.  “I hope your viewers and listeners are pleased as well.”

“I’m sure they are.  Before we close, Mr. Pasolini, I wanted you and our audience to hear the dedication Senator William Thorne made on the floor of congress a few days ago in gratitude and respect for your forty years of work in making sunken history accessible not only to the American people, but peoples of the world.  Senator, William Thorne.”

“Cut,” the Director called out, as the assistant director stepped forward to congratulate Umberto and remove his lapel microphone.  “That was just fine, Mr. Pasolini.”

As Harwood removed his own microphone, he said “We’ll feed in the Senator’s speech in post and…”

“But, Mr. Crane, I wasn’t informed of such an inclusion.”

“Could you stand up, sir, so I can get the transmitter?’ said the assistant director.’

“Of course, young man.”  Umberto stood up, “You know I am not a fan of Senator Thorne or his tax reform position, Mr. Crane.”

“Beg your pardon, sir,” said Crane.

The Field Producer, Henry Turrell, turned with concern to his assistant and whispered, “Trouble.”

“Some of my supporters,” continued Umberto, “the financial supporters, have withdrawn their assistance because of tax law change that Senator Thorne engineered last year.”  He flashed one of his diplomatic smiles at Harwood, “Doesn’t make for a friendly feeling, don’t you agree?  It’s not in either of our best interests or our worldwide audience to lose any more supporters.”

Harwood squirmed, “Oh… I can understand your feeling, Mr. Pasolini.”

The Producer stepped in.  “Mr. Pasolini, such a good interview.  Such an excellent lesson in…”

“Excuse me, Mr. Crane… Mr. Turrell.   But, I have some rather pressing business I must take care of.  As always, it’s been a pleasure.” He extended his hand to both and briskly walked off the deck and down the gangplank.

“Trouble,” mumbled Turrell to Crane.

“Trouble,” mumbled Crane back to him.  “Shit!”

***

Max maintained a steady speed of sixty for most of the afternoon.  It was sundown before Sam broke the silence.   She hadn’t moved for hours.  As the sun slipped behind the cloud filled horizon, she reached for a cigarette.  Max pushed in the lighter, waited until it popped out and gave her a light.  She moved across the seat and laid her head on his shoulder.  “What’s it all about, Max?  What a hellish start for a life together, huh?”

“I guess it could be better,” Max volunteered cautiously.  “But it sure as hell isn’t boring.  You’ll have to admit that.”  He pressed his cheek to the top of her head and tucked his hand under her knee, pulling her closer to him.   

Sam took a long and thoughtful drag.  “I’m serious, Max.  There are a few things I’ve never told you.  So much of how I think and feel that seems to be raising hell with me all of a sudden in these few days.  My behavior has been abominable.  Did I somehow plan it that way?  Is this how an insecure person defends herself, Max?  Is this how you start a ruinous marriage? “

“Maybe… perhaps… and probably not.  In that order,” said Max.

“In other words, no pat answers for me today.”

“Maybe you need to unload some of that stuff you haven’t told me about,” Max said.

Sam reached over and put her cigarette out in the ashtray.  She nestled her head on his lap and wrapped her arm around his waist.  “Maybe later… when we get there.”  Her eyed shut.  She lay there quietly as the sun continued to slide behind the clouds, leaving behind another day of unexpected events.  “I don’t even know why I love you, Max.  But I do.  Very much.”

Max stroked her hair and gazed out on the road ahead.  In the distance he could see the road sign coming up fast. MAGDALENA BAY – 48 MILES.