Tales of the City 08 - Mary Ann in Autumn

proceeded, of course, to spill diet soda on her leg. “Shit,” she murmured. “Shit, shit, shit.”
    Ben sprang from the car and opened the hatchback, returning seconds later with a ragged terrycloth towel. “It’s Roman’s, but it should be clean.”
    She thanked him and dabbed at her sodden leg, infuriated by her own stupidity, her own mindless panic.
    “Do you need to change?” he asked. “I can leave for a bit.”
    His sweetness made her want to cry, but she held it back.
    “It’s okay,” she said. “No big deal.”
    Ben smiled sleepily. “It’s the one about living forever.”
    “What?”
    “The Bible verse. John something. ‘All who believe in Him shall not perish but have everlasting’ … et cetera.”
    “All that’s written on the bottom?”
    He shook his head. “Just the chapter and verse numbers.”
    “But you knew them?”
    “I Googled them.”
    She laughed. If Ben had been a closet believer, it would have been a revelation, since Michael had indicated that the two of them had given up on organized religion. She felt curiously let down. She wasn’t all that religious herself, so it might have been useful—or comforting, anyway—if someone she knew had Wi-Fi to the Almighty.
    T HE HIGHWAY WOUND INTO THE mountains so gently that she barely noticed the climb. It was not until the trees had become pointy and a boulder-strewn river was racing them through a gorge that the change was undeniable. Then, out of nowhere, filaments of snow began to lash the windshield from every direction, making even the dog take notice. Roman was sitting by the window now, enraptured by the gradual whitening of things.
    “Is this the Sierras?” she asked.
    “Sierra,” said Michael, correcting her. “Singular. Sierra Nevada means ‘snowy range.’ It’s plural already.”
    “Oh … pardon me.”
    “He does that to everyone,” Ben told her.
    She changed the subject. “We have chains, I take it?”
    “Yeah,” answered Ben, “but the snow isn’t sticking yet, and we passed the checkpoint a few miles back. We should be fine.”
    Ben was a snowboarder, of course, so his definition of “fine” could very well differ from hers. Already she’d been horriblizing about the narrow shoulder of the road, the ominous rake of the slopes leading down to the river. She had always been a confident driver and a nervous passenger, and her not-so-latent acrophobia wasn’t helping matters.
    “So Pinyon City is … up here somewhere?”
    “Well, up and then down,” said Michael.
    “What do you mean?”
    “It’s on the eastern side of the range. Almost in Nevada.”
    “So … what’s the descent like?”
    Smelling her distress, Michael gave her a cagey look over the seat, like a spiteful little brother. “A lot quicker, for one thing.”
    She would not let him torment her, however playfully he’d meant it. She distracted herself with the scrolling scenery: a neon beer sign in a tavern window, a bright yellow snowplow, an archipelago of snow from an earlier snowfall, gleaming under the dark pines. But it was no use. She couldn’t stop clocking the relentless climb or the weave of the road or the ominous blossoming of caution signs.
    “I take it we’re reaching the crest,” she said, as casually as possible.
    “Yes, ma’am,” said Michael brightly, with barely a hint of sadism this time. “You’ll be able to see the lake. Or half of it, at least.”
    She didn’t want to see half the lake. She wanted down from there as soon as possible. She hated to sound hysterical in front of Ben, but she had no choice.
    “Ben … could you slow it down a bit?” He was going forty-five around a bend where thirty-five had been suggested, and she’d just caught a glimpse of the gaping chasm beyond the road, the instant oblivion that some people liked to call a View.
    The trouble with Views was where you had to see them from.
    Ben said, “No problem,” but didn’t seem to slow down much. He was a good driver, she reminded herself, and extremely careful most of the time, but knowing that did little to relieve the abject panic that was already gripping her.
    “Thanks,” she said. “I’m sorry. It’s not you, it’s me.”
    The road leveled out, giving her a chance to breathe and loosen her viselike grip on the arm support. It didn’t last for long. Another yellow sign was screaming at her:
    EXTREME CAUTION.
DANGEROUS CLIFFS AHEAD.
    “Jesus,” she muttered. “What cliffs? Where?”
    Her answer came