Allegiance and Betrayal: Stories

Distance

189 Distance “Politicians are not people,” I said. “You weren’t talking about politicians,” said Nicole. “You were talking about Jim.” “Jim was just an aside.” It was sunny, hot, late afternoon. We had been on the road since early morning. Even after New York City, traffic was heavy, stopand -go, far into Connecticut. I lowered my sun visor. “But he’s not what you say he is,” Nicole insisted. “What’s that?” “A complete swine.” “But he is a politician,” I said. “He schmoozed himself upstairs into administration, then forgot us. That’s what politicians do when they get to Washington. Jim could easily have made a case for our department, but now he’s top tier, got the big bucks, and a new set of pals. I have no use for somebody who puts money before friendship.” “Maybe money’s turned his head, but he’s not a complete swine. Lately you’ve been saying that about a lot of people.” “Look, I’m wiped out. I don’t want to argue.” “Because you’re wrong,” she said. “Nobody is a complete swine.” “Can I quote you for the record?” “Not even the politicians you hate.” “Well, Jim’s just begun his fourth marriage. I’ll bet those exwives would agree with me, not you.” What burned me most is that I’d misread the guy, never saw through his winsome veneer. 190 | Allegiance and Betrayal We’d just come off a high bridge doing seventy when a black BMW swerved in front of me. In the years since I’d last driven it, I-95 had become the Highway to Hell, once-courteous drivers now cutting back and forth across three or four lanes. “That idiot’s probably on a cell phone,” I said. “Relax,” said Nicole. “I wish you could hear yourself.” “Once upon a time you could bet that guy was a drunk. Now it’s just some asshole on a cell phone.” “Or a complete swine,” she said. I let the words eddy. Traffic began to slow again. All day long we had been moving in and out of areas of summer road repair: flag men, dump trucks, rollers, backhoes, barricades, swirling dust, and the smell of hot asphalt. Here was another. Creeping around a downhill curve, I could see in the distance black smoke billowing up, the flashing blue lights of police cruisers. Two lanes were merging into one. For several minutes, we inched ahead. Then a cop in a blaze-orange vest waved his arms and stepped in front of the BMW. “Shit, why couldn’t he let a few more cars get by?” “Must be a complete swine,” said Nicole. “Okaaay, okaaay!” I took deep yoga breaths. My rearview showed a line of sunglinted cars disappearing around the uphill curve. The guy who got out of the BMW wore long black pants and a lavender shirt. I watched him talk to the cops with a lot of hand gestures. Trees rose up on both sides of us, tops riddled with sun. Cars swished past in the opposite direction, southbound toward New York City, a few faces laughing at our logjam. Now at a dead stop, I was suddenly exhausted. All these cars—where in hell were they going? I shut off the motor, got out, stretched, and stood there yawning. The BMW guy walked my way. He had a friendly smile. “We have a twentyminute wait,” he said. “What’s up?” “There’s a tractor trailer with hay bales caught fire.” A siren wailed and whooped. A fire truck edged past us blaring. We held our ears. When the noise level lowered, he extended his Distance | 191 hand, “Stefan. Steve, they call me.” His eyes were bright blue. Lean and narrow shouldered, he wore a small gold earring, and his hair, touched with gray, was gelled and spiked slightly in the front. “Mark.” We shook hands. “Your accent is familiar.” “I was born in Poland,” he said. I smiled. “I thought I detected abnormally high intelligence.” His eyes got big, and he pointed at me. “Polski?” I grinned and nodded. “Tak. Jak panu idzie?” We laughed. Then he was off and running in Polish. “Whoa, whoa,” I said, and explained I knew only a few phrases from my grandparents and cousins, most not suitable for polite company. He asked where my family came from. When I said Kraków...