Page 33 of The Beachgoers
Jason straightens and takes a step toward the car. “We lookedeverywhere.” As he says it, he swings one of the crutches before him. “They’re gone, Dad.”
His father manages one last panicked look around. One desperate shot of adrenaline must pump through him before he’ll give up the search.
Jason doesn’t wait, doesn’t watch. He just keeps walking toward the parked car, and only stops once he’s at the passenger door. His father hurries to catch up, reaches over and opens that door. After Jason turns and backs himself into the front seat, his father takes the crutches from him and leans them against the car. It’s obvious how much assistance his son needs. And he gives it fully, bending low and helping Jason straighten in the front seat; comfortably setting his son’s bandaged, amputated limb on that makeshift support stool.
“Good?” he asks.
When Jason nods, his father clasps his arm and closes the door. After setting the crutches in the backseat, he walks around the rear of the car—his eyes ever scanning the pavement, the roadside. When he gets in the driver’s side and closes the door, the two men sit there for a long minute. Cars pass. Jason drops his head back on the seat. His father opens his window. And takes a deep breath before turning the ignition. After putting the car in gear, he carefully pulls into traffic and drives away—not looking back at all.
Neither of them do.
Not once.
