out of ideas, you heard them say so.”
“Susan,” Harper warned sympathetically. “Think. Letting others die won’t change Kevin’s death, it will only make it worse; it would put other families through the same thing we’re going through. Do you want that, Susan? Wouldn’t you do something about it if you could?”
“Are you trying to convince yourself?” Susan asked softly. “Or do you want to make a gesture?”
“It’s not a gesture, it’s . . . the only contribution I can think of to give.” Harper dared not take his eyes off the road to look at her, but the impulse was there in the angle of his head and the way he held the steering wheel.
“Yeah,” said Mason, leaning forward in his seat. “I’d help, if I could. I don’t know what I could do, but if there was anything . . . I owe it to Kevin, in a way:” He fingered his dark tie. “If there are more cases of this stuff . . .”
“Shut up,” Grant told him sharply. “Just shut up.”
They drove in silence, each one alone in pain.
“I told Phil we wouldn’t be there New Year’s,” Harper said to Susan as they neared the freeway entrance.
“He didn’t think we would be, did he?” she asked, sufficiently shocked to respond with less lethargy than she had shown so far that day.
“No, but I wanted him to know. He means well, and it saves making a phone call later.” He signaled to change lanes, maneuvering around a stalled van.
“All right.” She put her hand to her eyes once more.
On the freeway the traffic moved at less than twenty miles an hour, progress toward the Bellevue exit slowed by the mist and the cold. The Rosses were quiet as the Trooper III moved along; only when they had reached the Medina exit did Susan speak again, her voice still thick with tears. “If you decide to do anything, to get involved —if there’s anything to get involved with—then you do it on your own conscience. I’ve had all I can take. You do it on your own time, Harper.”
He nodded slowly as he moved into the right-hand lane. “All right. If you want it that way, I’ll do as you ask.”
“Dad’s being noble again,” Grant said. “Always looking for something to help out.”
“Stop it!” Mason yelled.
“Not another word, young man!” Susan, commanded, turning in her seat to glare at Grant. “You get that chip off your shoulder and the smirk off your face and then maybe you can question what your father does where I can hear you, but not before.” She was crying, but no longer in the helpless. depressed way she had since Kevin died. “I don’t want to hear anything more out of either of you, is that understood?”
“Yes, Morn,” said Mason, neither sullen nor chastened.
“Shit.”
“And none of that,” Harper warned as they neared the Bellevue turn-off. “It’s bad enough that we lost Kevin; I won’t stand by and watch the family self-destruct.” Since Harper was generally a soft-spoken man whose quiet, professorial manner gave away his occupation before he mentioned it, any outburst was regarded as important and significant, a thing to be respected. “Is that clear?”
“Yes, Dad,” said Mason in the same accepting tone he had used with his mother.
This time Grant remained silent, though his face was flushed and his eyes sizzled.
They had almost reached Lake Washington when traffic came to a complete stop.
“What do you suppose it is?” Susan asked.
“Probably an accident, the weather the way it is.” Harper sighed and studied the dials. “I wish I knew these methane engines better than I do. In the old Buick I would have known in a second, the way it sounded, if I ought to turn it off or not. But this thing . . .”
“You were the one who wanted to get it,” Susan reminded him.
“I’m glad we did,” he insisted, keeping his voice level and steady. “It was the only sensible thing to do; you agreed. Waiting in line for gas is—”
“Senseless,” she finished for him. “I know, and
“Susan,” Harper warned sympathetically. “Think. Letting others die won’t change Kevin’s death, it will only make it worse; it would put other families through the same thing we’re going through. Do you want that, Susan? Wouldn’t you do something about it if you could?”
“Are you trying to convince yourself?” Susan asked softly. “Or do you want to make a gesture?”
“It’s not a gesture, it’s . . . the only contribution I can think of to give.” Harper dared not take his eyes off the road to look at her, but the impulse was there in the angle of his head and the way he held the steering wheel.
“Yeah,” said Mason, leaning forward in his seat. “I’d help, if I could. I don’t know what I could do, but if there was anything . . . I owe it to Kevin, in a way:” He fingered his dark tie. “If there are more cases of this stuff . . .”
“Shut up,” Grant told him sharply. “Just shut up.”
They drove in silence, each one alone in pain.
“I told Phil we wouldn’t be there New Year’s,” Harper said to Susan as they neared the freeway entrance.
“He didn’t think we would be, did he?” she asked, sufficiently shocked to respond with less lethargy than she had shown so far that day.
“No, but I wanted him to know. He means well, and it saves making a phone call later.” He signaled to change lanes, maneuvering around a stalled van.
“All right.” She put her hand to her eyes once more.
On the freeway the traffic moved at less than twenty miles an hour, progress toward the Bellevue exit slowed by the mist and the cold. The Rosses were quiet as the Trooper III moved along; only when they had reached the Medina exit did Susan speak again, her voice still thick with tears. “If you decide to do anything, to get involved —if there’s anything to get involved with—then you do it on your own conscience. I’ve had all I can take. You do it on your own time, Harper.”
He nodded slowly as he moved into the right-hand lane. “All right. If you want it that way, I’ll do as you ask.”
“Dad’s being noble again,” Grant said. “Always looking for something to help out.”
“Stop it!” Mason yelled.
“Not another word, young man!” Susan, commanded, turning in her seat to glare at Grant. “You get that chip off your shoulder and the smirk off your face and then maybe you can question what your father does where I can hear you, but not before.” She was crying, but no longer in the helpless. depressed way she had since Kevin died. “I don’t want to hear anything more out of either of you, is that understood?”
“Yes, Morn,” said Mason, neither sullen nor chastened.
“Shit.”
“And none of that,” Harper warned as they neared the Bellevue turn-off. “It’s bad enough that we lost Kevin; I won’t stand by and watch the family self-destruct.” Since Harper was generally a soft-spoken man whose quiet, professorial manner gave away his occupation before he mentioned it, any outburst was regarded as important and significant, a thing to be respected. “Is that clear?”
“Yes, Dad,” said Mason in the same accepting tone he had used with his mother.
This time Grant remained silent, though his face was flushed and his eyes sizzled.
They had almost reached Lake Washington when traffic came to a complete stop.
“What do you suppose it is?” Susan asked.
“Probably an accident, the weather the way it is.” Harper sighed and studied the dials. “I wish I knew these methane engines better than I do. In the old Buick I would have known in a second, the way it sounded, if I ought to turn it off or not. But this thing . . .”
“You were the one who wanted to get it,” Susan reminded him.
“I’m glad we did,” he insisted, keeping his voice level and steady. “It was the only sensible thing to do; you agreed. Waiting in line for gas is—”
“Senseless,” she finished for him. “I know, and
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