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"We're leaving," Garp told them.
"No!" Duncan hissed.
"Walt's sick," Garp mumbled. "He shouldn't be here."
"I'm not sick," Walt said.
"He's not that sick," Duncan said.
"Get out of those seats," Garp told them; he had to grab the front of Duncan's shirt, which made Walt get up and stumble into the aisle first. Duncan, grumbling, scuffed after him.
"What's a duel?" Walt asked Duncan.
"It's real neat," Duncan said. "Now you won't ever see it."
"Cut it out, Duncan," Garp said. "Don't be mean."
"You're the one who's mean," Duncan said.
"Yeah, Dad," said Walt.
The Volvo was shrouded in ice, the windshield solid with it; there were various scrapers and broken snow brushes and junk of that sort, somewhere in the trunk, Garp supposed. But by March the winter driving had worn out much of this equipment, or the children had played with it and lost it. Garp wasn't going to take the time to clean the windshield, anyway.
"How can you see?" Duncan asked.
"I live here," Garp said. "I don't have to see."
But, in fact, he had to roll down the driver's-side window and stick his face out into the raining sleet, as hard as hail; he drove toward home that way.
"It's cold," Walt shivered. "Shut the window!"
"I need it open to see," Garp said.
"I thought you didn't have to see," Duncan said.
"I'm too cold!" Walt cried. Dramatically, he coughed.
But all of this, as Garp saw it, was Helen's fault. She was to blame--for however Walt suffered his cold, or for its growing worse: it was her fault. And for Duncan's disappointment in his father, for that unforgivable way in the theater that Garp had grabbed the boy and stood him up out of his seat: she was to blame. The bitch with her runt lover!
But at the moment his eyes were teary in the cold wind and the sleet, and he thought to himself how he loved Helen and would never be unfaithful to her again--never hurt her like this, he would promise her that.
At the same moment Helen felt her conscience clear. Her love for Garp was very fine. And she sensed that Michael Milton was about to be released; he was exhibiting the familiar signs. The angle that he bent at the waist and the peculiar way he pointed his hips; the straining of that muscle, used for little else, on the inside of his thigh. It's almost over, Helen thought. Her nose touched the cold brass of his belt buckle and the back of her head bumped the bottom of the steering wheel, which Michael Milton gripped as if he expected the three-ton Buick to suddenly leave the ground.
Garp hit the bottom of his driveway at about forty miles per hour. He came off the downhill road in third gear and accelerated just as he exited; he glimpsed how the driveway was glazed with frozen slush, and he worried momentarily that the Volvo might slip on the short uphill curve. He held the car in gear until he felt what grip he had of the road; it was good enough, and he popped the sharp stick shift into neutral--a second before he killed the engine and flicked out the headlights.
They coasted up, into the black rain. It was like that moment when you feel an airplane lift off the runway; the children both cried out in excitement. Garp could feel the children at his elbow, crowding each other for the one favored position in the gap between the bucket seats.
"How can you see now?" Duncan asked.
"He doesn't have to see," Walt said. There was a high thrill in Walt's voice, which suggested to Garp that Walt wished to reassure himself.
"I know this by heart," Garp assured them.
"It's like being underwater!" cried Duncan; he held his breath.
"It's like a dream!" said Walt; he reached for his brother's hand.
14
