Belonging by Nancy Thayer

indulged his senses, a different side of him emerged, a more gentle, tolerant man.
    The dining room was almost empty tonight, no doubt because of the difficult weather. Carter looked around: silence, space surrounded him. Leaning back against the high padded booth, he took a deep breath. “This is nice. I’m glad we came. Thanks,” he told her, reaching for her hand.
    Joanna returned his smile and with her free hand very lightly drew her fingers across his furrowed forehead and down his temple, over his cheek, to rest, light as a kiss, on his mouth. This kind of public affection was rare for them, and she savored it. He held her hand on top of the embossed white linen tablecloth and they looked into each other’s eyes, smiling at what they saw there.
    When his beeper went off, they both jumped.
    “Fuck!” Carter whispered sharply. He rose. “I don’t believe it. I’ll be right back.”
    She watched him go off in search of a phone. She was not very concerned. It could be a family emergency, but more likely it was just a network problem; people out on the West Coast had his number and didn’t hesitate to beep him whenever they felt the need. She checked her image in her compact and put on more lipstick. She looked fine, she looked just fine, she reassured herself. She would tell him when he sat down at the table again.
    But then she saw Carter crossing the room toward her. His face was grim.
    He didn’t sit down. He hardly paused at the table before turning to leave. “We have to go. It’s Chip. There’s been an accident. He’s in the hospital.”
    Joanna rose from her seat. “What—”
    “Basketball game. Another player tripped him, he slammed his head against the backboard post. That’s all I know.”
    Tossing a twenty on the table, he strode ahead of Joanna, brusquely explaining their hurry to the waiter—“My son’s been in an accident”—and headed out the door without waiting to put on his overcoat. Joanna wrapped her fur around her and pulled on her gloves before following. Her wig acted nicely as a hat, keeping her head warm. She hurried outside to find that Carter was already in the car with the engine running. She climbed in and fastened her seat belt.
    “I can’t believe this happened when I wasn’t there. Damn it!” He hit the steeringwheel with his fist. “If you hadn’t been so insistent—” He let the thought hang in the air as he steered the Saab out onto the road.
    “Come on, Carter, be logical. Chip didn’t get hurt because you didn’t go to the game.”
    Carter didn’t reply. Joanna sighed and stared ahead. The bitter cold crackled like a force field around them as they sped down the road. Snow blanketed the fields on either side of Route 22, and ice gleamed wickedly in the headlights. The world was pure: black and white. Carter’s hands, tightly clutching the steering wheel, seemed in the cold lights of the dashboard to be drained of color. His chin was pushed into a boxing glove, his whole face pulled down into an aggressive, angry glare.
    She wanted so desperately to soothe him. “Chip will be fine,” she said softly.
    In response, Carter gunned the motor, just as they approached Highway 684. The Saab hit a patch of ice, sending it into a low-bellied skid. Joanna felt the pull in her thighs and belly, like being on a carnival ride. Centrifugal force slammed her against the door. The double cone of lights from their car illuminated a red pickup truck coming toward them. Joanna watched as the driver, seeing the Saab sliding sideways across both lanes, braked. Pump your brakes, she warned him in an urgent attempt at ESP. But the driver hit his brakes hard, and the pickup skidded, too. The two vehicles drifted ponderously across the road. There was a sensation of weightlessness, then in what seemed a flash of brightness, the collision.
    The noise was agonizing as the red pickup and the driver’s side of the Saab were molded together into a modernistic sculpture and the