It was a beautiful crisp fall day. Lunch was over and Katharine was driving ahead, doing 30, in her little red Mazda. The car went up the hill in front of the church… the hill that is curved and blind… right at its top. The car in front of her suddenly and inexplicably swerved to the right. She instantly knew why. Her entire view was occupied by the gray Dodge 4X4 barreling awkwardly toward her! She was now more than two feet off the side of the road from her…and closing!
That was the last Katharine saw.
In the next millisecond, his little car was hit head-on by this runaway tank.
I must have been only a car or two behind that truck. As I neared the top of the same hill, less than two seconds later, a woman (the same one who had swerved to avoid the truck that nearly hit her) was jumping out of her car, screaming frantically; waving her arms. I slammed on the brakes with all my might, slid into the curve, narrowly missing a piece of the Mazda’s front end that was still spinning.
When you’re right there on the spot, it’s not like the eleven o’clock news. There are no arm’s length statistics. There is no protection or detachment from tragedy.
The big truck was tilted, fuming, almost on its nose. ‘Crashed into a tree. Ten feet away, the Mazda was down the side of the ravine, about fifteen feet from the road surface, having landed on its tires.
The Mazda looked horrible. Me, and the woman who had flagged me down, ran towards both cars, she yelling, “he was on the wrong side of the road…he was on the other side of the center line!” We both called the little car, no response. I yelled at some neighbors who had come out of their houses and were standing by the side of the road, “Call 911!” I walked over to the truck, where I could hear sounds. Steam, smoke, and maybe fire was coming out of the truck’s engine compartment, so I quickly stumbled through the bramble-covered brush to get to the passenger side.
I first helped the passenger and then the driver out of the broken side window. They appeared unharmed, crawling up the road surface when police, paramedics and firefighters arrived. Bursting with anger, I approached two police officers, privately caught their attention and told them, “I smelled alcohol on both guys; you need to check for alcohol right away.” I saw the hello-friend-we-know-how-to-do-our-job look. I didn’t much care what they thought.
They took the driver. (He secretly hoped to go to the nearby hospital to get an immediate blood sample from him). The youngest passenger stood next to me on the road, as if he were in a fog. But when the reality of what had just happened hit him, his face pale, he turned to me and asked, “do you think she’ll be okay?” I turned to him with tears in my eyes and told him I hope so. I turned around; My tears were for her… and for him.
They were using the ‘Jaws of Life’ to separate her from what was left of her little red car. She knew her chances were slim. This young passenger would have to live with this for the rest of his life. He was too angry to feel much for the driver. Later, I realized that he too would cry for Katherine… being haunted forever.
In my mind, I kept hearing Don Henley’s 1989 song New York Minute when he refers to the sound of sirens: “some people go to the ER, someone goes to jail.”
This is my obvious message: if you are going to drink or take drugs, do yourself and those around you a huge favor. Do not drive. Take a taxi. If you serve people who are drinking, whether in a bar/restaurant or in your own home, take their keys away from them.
The driver, who took innocent Katherine’s life, should spend a few years behind bars to contemplate his very stupid decision. He and the unobservant or indifferent female passenger got into that truck after an alcoholic lunch. They will have the rest of their lives to think about it.
But Katherine won’t.
©Copyright Roy MacNaughton, 2007
