METRONOME

Thump-Thump. Thump-thump.

As they sluice away the driving rain, the wipers lull and seem to hypnotize me; I lean forward and squint. Orange barrels with their impotent caution lights do little to affect the black hole darkness on this lonely detour. Rows of red and white striped sawhorses funnel me along. Unbidden, my mind drifts and I see myself as a little girl, age ten:

Bobby Vee is singing on the radio about the night having a thousand eyes and the wipers on my mother's ugly yellow '62 Impala are keeping time with the backbeat.
" . . . I'm not going to tell you again, young lady," my mother is saying. "Get out now. Go on. Go with your father."

I fight against the tears from the sting of betrayal as I grab my little suitcase, and hurry to my father's car. And for the next few months, in his grimy apartment, my own father teaches me more than I want to know about my most secret body places. Then, tiring of me, I suppose, he farms me out to a convent boarding school where, under the tutelage of the Sisters of No Mercy, I learn even more about unspeakable indignities. In the dank basement of that convent, I'm taught not only the rudiments of classical piano, but those of pain and humiliation as well- my Renaissance and my Inquisition. And all lessons are kept to the time of a thumping metronome and administered by Sister Mary Caritas' merciless pointer.

THE FISHTAILING of my 2006 Lexus and the splintering of a sawhorse jerk me back to the present; debris flies up, hits the windshield and spiders the glass. My car caroms off a Jersey barrier, veers into the bushes, and hurtles downhill where it smashes into a rock, rolls once, and comes to a jarring stop against a large oak.

Blood trickles from my scalp, into an eye. A knot bulges on my forehead and my ears are buzzing like cicadas. Easing out of the car, I gingerly poke at my body. Nothing is broken, thank God . . .

I take a tissue from my purse, dab at the cut on my head. Not serious; the bleeding has almost stopped. Wait a minute, how come the airbag didn't deploy? That's just great: $40,000 worth of car and the airbag doesn't even work. Maybe we should've bought a damn Chevy . . .

I look up the embankment to where dim caution lights blink and there's no sound but the relentless rain and wind. I clutch my purse and start out, but immediately slip in the mud and fall. Cursing, I yank off my Jimmy Choo pumps and fling them at the wrecked car. I'm eventually able to scramble up and onto the roadway but once I'm there, I see nothing but vanishing rows of the damn caution lights. Both ways, into occluding darkness.

"Wonderful," I mutter aloud, as I examine my scraped and bloodied knees through a veil of sodden hair. There's a yawning slash in my skirt, revealing more thigh than the French designer ever intended. A paste of bloody mud streaks my partially shredded blouse; the remnants are plastered to me like a second skin. I suck in the moist air and catch my breath while the wind whips my hair about my face and howls in the treetops like untuned woodwinds. My heart, thumping like a relentless, runaway metronome, reminds me of . . .

I won't go there!

Wow, I think. Do I look like Ms. Suburban Soccer mom or what? My attempt at humor elicits only a strangled bark of a chuckle from me and fails to belay the fear that's creeping in. I check my purse but then I remember that the pepper spray my husband insisted I carry is in a different purse. This is just great. My only defense is a stupid nail file. Not much, but sturdy. And pointed.

Moments later, in the distance: vehicle lights. My pulse races; I stumble onto the blacktop and flag my arms.

"Oh, God! . . . Please," I cry out. There's a note of desperation in my voice.

The badly dented, prehistoric-looking pickup slows, stops. I muster my courage and open the passenger door; it screeches like a tortured cat and a muted interior light partially illuminates the driver. His narrow face is chiseled by acne. He could use a shave and, at minimum, a case of deodorant. I can almost feel the heat from his eyes as they fixate on my blouse.

He raises his eyebrows. "Got a problem, little lady?" His voice is like sandpaper.

The car's wipers sweep: thump-thump. Thump-thump.

My stomach contracts. Get away from here! Now! I start to back away but then reconsider. I bite my lower lip. Think, damn it! Another car may not come along for who knows how long, if at all.

"You comin' or not?"

Against my better judgment, I ease into the truck. I'm forced to slam the screechy door twice before it catches but then I cut my eyes to him and stay as far away as possible. My tremulous hand is ready on the door handle--just in case.

The man lights a cigarette. It dangles from his lip and he has to squint against the smoke as he leers at my exposed thigh. He runs a lizard tongue over his fleshy lips. "Pretty damn foxy."

Ignoring that, I stare straight ahead, through the windshield.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

He reaches down under the seat, pulls out a bottle in a paper bag, and takes a generous pull. He smacks his lips, winks, and proffers the pint. "Yes, sir," he says. "Pretty goddam foxy."

The cheap bourbon reeks and my stomach somersaults while I shake my head and continue to stare out the windshield. "No thank you," I say, barely audible. Despite the repulsiveness of the situation, the wipers are lulling me and my eyelids feel heavy . . .

Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

He sneers contemptuously. "You ignoring me, bitch? Didn't I just tell you that I think you're pretty damn foxy?"

My eyes fly open and I look down to gnarled, stubby fingers moving in slow motion, fondling the inside of my thigh. The fingers are tipped with filthy nails, bitten to the quick and they feel like diseased vermin paws on my skin. Recoiling, I slap his hand away.

His eyes narrow. He pulls off the highway and cuts the ignition but leaves the key on.

The wipers continue: Thump-thump.

"Looks like I'm gonna need both hands," he says.

Outside the car, an orange, diamond-shaped sign is reflected in the headlights:
END OF CONSTRUCTION - YOUR HIGHWAY DOLLARS AT WORK. THANK YOU.

The windshield wipers seem louder: THUMP! THUMP!

My mind implodes:

To sunlight filtering through a cracked, greasy window, waking me up. I'm sleeping in Daddy's crummy apartment and hearing the all-too-familiar snoring with Daddy pressed against my backside again. Icky whiskey smell, scratchy whiskers on my neck. My bottom's all wet and sticky like before. NO! I squeeze my eyes even tighter than when I shampoo and pray like crazy. Please, God!

RAIN PELTS my face and I'm striking out at a brisk pace on the blacktop, head down in the driving rain, alone. I can smell the coppery stench of blood; some of its stickiness is washed away by the rain. Surely all this blood didn't come from the cut on my head. Did it? Nothing is ahead of me, nothing behind--nothing but the ink of night and the rain.

Time is meaningless; perhaps minutes, perhaps hours later, I hear a car in the distance. Help is coming!

I turn, see lights, and start flagging my arms. A Ford Escort slows and pulls over, a nun sitting straight-backed behind the wheel. The sister is in full habit, a rarity in these modern times. She motions me so I open the door and we look each other over while the Escort's wipers traverse the windshield.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

"Thank you for stopping," I say. "I had a wreck back up the road and I sure could use a ride."

"Certainly, my dear. Hop in."

In the harsh glare of the interior light, I look at her, gasp, and hold my breath. She looks just like Sister Caritas! But then I realize there's no way; by now, Sister Caritas would be much, much older. I let out my breath but I can still feel the adrenaline coursing through my body.

"My dear!" cries Sister. "You're hurt!"

The warmth of the car relaxes me a little. I sit back, close my eyes, and tell her I'm okay. However, I'm starting to wonder if she's a reincarnation or something. Then I remember that 'caritas' means 'charity' and think, isn't that a hoot? How does the saying go? "The mercies have no charity and the charities have no mercy." Well, they certainly got THAT right!

"You have a really nasty bump on your forehead--"

This nun seems nice, but . . .

"--and blood is . . . there's blood all over you!"

My head starts to throb. I shut my eyes even tighter, clench my teeth and feel the muscles in my jaw bunch and ripple. What's the matter, Sister? Am I too DIRTY for your precious car? You could always get your pointer and teach me a lesson . . .

I open my eyes; they lock in on the wipers.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

That sound! I feel hypnotized and lulled again; something flares in my head and I'm back at that horrid convent boarding school, at the upright Baldwin piano in the basement that smells of mold; a solitary light bulb hanging from the cracked ceiling, offering weak illumination; creepy spiders crawling the walls and my skin crawling right along with them.

SWICK: Sister Mary Caritas' pointer flashing. THWACK: striking my knuckles. "You missed a note. Try again."

Thump-thump: the metronome on the Baldwin top, marking beats.

I'm enduring the pain but willing myself to not cry out and biting my lower lip until it bleeds, but not crying out.

Sister Mary Caritas' mean, piggy eyes flash. "One and two, and three and four and . . ."

THE RAIN is but mist now; the wind has let up; the ozone smells pure and invigorating but I take no pleasure in it as I once again make my way down the highway. My headache is much worse. I seem to recall the thumping windshield wipers on a sensible Ford Escort but the memory is vague. I'm hobbling on bare feet that are cut, bruised and thankfully, numb. Behind me, car lights leap over a hill and shine down the road. I turn, cross my arms over my head and start waving. The driver is Sue Dobson, my next-door neighbor!

"Nicole? What in the world are you doing out here?"

"Hi, Sue. I . . . I had a wreck. My car went off the road and--"

"Get in. Hurry up, before you catch your death. Just look at you, hon, you're sopping wet."

Gratefully, I scramble into the warm, dry car.

"My God!" she cries. "Is that blood? Are you okay?"

I pull the door shut. "I'm alright, just some small cuts and a bump on the forehead. I'll be okay."

"You sure? You want me to take you to the hospital?"

"No, that's okay. Please, just take me home."

I LET MYSELF into the front door. My husband and young daughter rush up, faces etched with concern.

"Honey?"

"Mom? What . . . what happened to you?"

I wave dismissively. "Oh, it looks worse than it is. I had an accident on the old highway 30-A detour. Sue Dobson happened along and gave me a ride home."

My husband embraces me. "You sure you're okay?"

I ease out of his arms and head down the hall. "I'm fine, just cut and bruised, that's all. The car ran off the road, down a hill, and wrecked into a tree. I'm going to take a nice, hot shower. When I get out, I'll call the police. In the morning, we can have a wrecker pick up the car, okay?"

After an steamy and purging shower, I tend to the cuts on my head and feet, take a couple of aspirin and then cocoon myself in a thick, fluffy robe and fuzzy slippers. I retrieve the nail file from my purse, drop in into my pocket; for some reason, it comforts me. Scuffing into the family room, I shoo the golden retriever off the couch and take my place with my family.

"Everyone Loves Raymond" is on the big screen TV, when a news break interrupts:
" . . . Good evening. This is Beverly Aruda, live, reporting from a detoured stretch of old highway 30-A where a possible serial killer could have struck tonight. There are two and possibly three victims: one, a man in his thirties, is a fugitive from Arizona wanted on drug-related charges. He was found in his truck with a fatal puncture wound to the carotid artery. In a heinous act, the killer also stabbed out both of the man's eyes. The second victim, a Catholic nun, was found in her car, only five miles from the first murder. She, too, had her carotid artery pierced."

My husband mutes the set, raises his eyebrows. "30-A? 30-A? Wasn't that where you said you wrecked? My God, you could've been killed by that fiend!"

I avert my eyes, chew at a cuticle. "Yes. I--"

"Wait a minute," he interrupts, pointing to the TV. "There's more."

" . . . and we're not certain if there's a third victim or not. Right now, police are checking out a wrecked 2004 Lexus. The owner's identity is being withheld for now but apparently, the driver lost control and the car went off the road and down this embankment. Police found bloodstains in the car and aren't ruling out the possibility that the driver might just be a third victim of what they are already dubbing 'The 30-A Killer'."

We all look at each other, then back at the TV.

The newscaster continues: "We'll have more at 11:00 but for right now, this is Beverly Aruda, live, reporting from old highway 30-A."

Before returning to regular programming, the news camera performs a quick, dramatic pan of the scene where it is no longer black-hole dark on the lonely detour. Once more, the rain deluges the area and among the endless orange barrels and red and white striped sawhorses, a multitude of police and ambulance lights flash. The news camera zooms in on the windshield of one of the police cruisers, where the wipers sweep, sluicing away the driving rain.

The sound, oh-so-familiar, is not unlike a metronome.

It lulls, hypnotizes me.

I finger the nail file in my pocket, close my eyes . . .

Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

* * *