Liability Insurance
by David Larsen
Dane Nielsen never saw the deer, not until its body rumbled across the hood of his Civic. The thud of the car slamming into the animal, the blur of the creature’s gray carcass crashing into the Honda’s windshield, and the out-of-control swerve of the wheels, were all one, not in any way separate events in Dane’s retelling of the incident. And that was exactly how it had been: an outside-the-limits-of-time flash. A terrifying flicker in an otherwise satisfying film.
His fretful wife, Casandra, trembled as she listened to his recounting of his harrowing early-morning episode. She was of a nervous sort under the calmest of circumstance. Her husband’s story only brought the worrisomely precarious nature of life into her already anxious mind. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing: her husband could have been killed on I-10, between Junction and Ozona, a stretch of four-lane where cars and semis hurtled through scrub oak and brush at eighty-miles-an-hour—devil-may-care—seemingly unaware of the dangers around them.
His fretful wife, Casandra, trembled as she listened to his recounting of his harrowing early-morning episode. She was of a nervous sort under the calmest of circumstance. Her husband’s story only brought the worrisomely precarious nature of life into her already anxious mind. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing: her husband could have been killed on I-10, between Junction and Ozona, a stretch of four-lane where cars and semis hurtled through scrub oak and brush at eighty-miles-an-hour—devil-may-care—seemingly unaware of the dangers around them.
Casandra stood slowly from the kitchen table and crept into their bedroom where she would attempt to digest what she had just been told, to ponder what life would be like without Dane, should he ever die in some cataclysmic disaster. Which he almost had.
“I’m going to go over to Robert’s and tell him about this morning’s fiasco,” called Dane through the closed bedroom door. “If the body shop in Ozona calls, could you take a message? The car’s not insured for collision, so if it’s too expensive to repair we’ll just have to sell it for junk. I should be back by lunchtime.”
Casandra didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Her quavering voice would have given her away. She listened for clank of the closing of the front door, then put her face into her pillow and wept.
“I’m going to go over to Robert’s and tell him about this morning’s fiasco,” called Dane through the closed bedroom door. “If the body shop in Ozona calls, could you take a message? The car’s not insured for collision, so if it’s too expensive to repair we’ll just have to sell it for junk. I should be back by lunchtime.”
Casandra didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Her quavering voice would have given her away. She listened for clank of the closing of the front door, then put her face into her pillow and wept.
The phone call to her mother didn’t help. The sixty-eight-year-old woman was totally self- absorbed, concerned only with her own dilemma over what to prepare for Thanksgiving. “At least Dane didn’t get injured,” was all the woman had to say about the matter.
When her mother’s first husband—Casandra’s father—deserted the family to be with another woman, the prideful mother went into mourning for a year or more. Traumatized and bewildered, twelve-year-old Casandra and Joyce, her younger sister, spent that time pretty much fending for themselves, preparing meals and school lunches while their mother sat in the darkened living room and smoked Virginia Slims and drank glass after glass of Southern Comfort, Janice Joplin’s drink of choice. Now, Casandra’s husband had nearly died and all the woman could think about was turkey versus ham. Mashed potatoes or a casserole.
Twelve-forty-five and Dane hadn’t returned. Casandra sat at the table and listened for sirens, but Dos Pesos, Texas only had one patrol vehicle, Sheriff Ortega’s Ford pickup, and the sheriff had the entire county to cover, twelve-hundred square miles; there was a good chance she wouldn’t have any warning before the knock at the door—a long-faced neighbor, hands clenched into a knot at their chest, there to give her the devastating news. She sniffled and blotted her painful, reddened eyes with a tissue. Dane’s bologna sandwich and Fritos sat on the plate like an expectant father in the waiting room of the maternity ward. If only, she thought, she and Dane had had a child. It would make things easier. But, at forty-seven, she had waited too long; putting off having a family until they were financially set seemed like the wisest course at the time. The salaries of two schoolteachers should have been adequate, but it never turned out to be. And now it was too late.
When her mother’s first husband—Casandra’s father—deserted the family to be with another woman, the prideful mother went into mourning for a year or more. Traumatized and bewildered, twelve-year-old Casandra and Joyce, her younger sister, spent that time pretty much fending for themselves, preparing meals and school lunches while their mother sat in the darkened living room and smoked Virginia Slims and drank glass after glass of Southern Comfort, Janice Joplin’s drink of choice. Now, Casandra’s husband had nearly died and all the woman could think about was turkey versus ham. Mashed potatoes or a casserole.
Twelve-forty-five and Dane hadn’t returned. Casandra sat at the table and listened for sirens, but Dos Pesos, Texas only had one patrol vehicle, Sheriff Ortega’s Ford pickup, and the sheriff had the entire county to cover, twelve-hundred square miles; there was a good chance she wouldn’t have any warning before the knock at the door—a long-faced neighbor, hands clenched into a knot at their chest, there to give her the devastating news. She sniffled and blotted her painful, reddened eyes with a tissue. Dane’s bologna sandwich and Fritos sat on the plate like an expectant father in the waiting room of the maternity ward. If only, she thought, she and Dane had had a child. It would make things easier. But, at forty-seven, she had waited too long; putting off having a family until they were financially set seemed like the wisest course at the time. The salaries of two schoolteachers should have been adequate, but it never turned out to be. And now it was too late.
It was after one o’clock when Dane returned from having coffee with his friend, Robert, the PE coach at Travis Elementary. The bachelor had been more than happy to dispense advice, most of it good. “If it’s more than six hundred dollars, get rid of the clunker. You were smart to just carry liability insurance. A twelve-year-old car’s not worth it.” The rest of the morning was taken up with a contentious discussion of the Dallas Cowboy’s upcoming game with the Packers, a game Dane would watch in Abilene with Casandra’s mother’s third husband, Joe. Along with Joyce’s husband, Rick, a likeable-enough insurance salesman from Waco. Thanksgiving—Dane’s favorite holiday.
Dane ate his sandwich and relayed to his wife everything the coach had told him about the repair of the car and about the upcoming game. Casandra appeared to be deep in thought about other matters; most likely she was concerned about the trip to Abilene later in the week, and about what to prepare for the family feast. Around the holidays she sometimes became depressed—more than likely due to unpleasant memories of the holidays after her father had abandoned his wife and children for a younger woman. When she was this way, Dane knew best to just allow it to pass; it always did.
In the bedroom he was startled to discover his charcoal-gray suit laid out perfectly on the bed. His white dress shirt and gray tie carefully tucked inside the single-breasted coat. Dark socks and his black dress shoes, perfectly polished, were on the bed (bad luck, he’d been told as a child) beside his slacks. Puzzled, he looked at the corpse-like form, almost as if he were seeing a ghost. He could think of no upcoming wedding they were to attend. Certainly, Thanksgiving was going to be casual, as it always had been. No funeral that he knew of. Casandra had her ways of doing things. Dane just went along for the ride when it came to her oddities. Either she would explain, or she wouldn’t. It didn’t matter. She always knew exactly what she was doing.
Dane ate his sandwich and relayed to his wife everything the coach had told him about the repair of the car and about the upcoming game. Casandra appeared to be deep in thought about other matters; most likely she was concerned about the trip to Abilene later in the week, and about what to prepare for the family feast. Around the holidays she sometimes became depressed—more than likely due to unpleasant memories of the holidays after her father had abandoned his wife and children for a younger woman. When she was this way, Dane knew best to just allow it to pass; it always did.
In the bedroom he was startled to discover his charcoal-gray suit laid out perfectly on the bed. His white dress shirt and gray tie carefully tucked inside the single-breasted coat. Dark socks and his black dress shoes, perfectly polished, were on the bed (bad luck, he’d been told as a child) beside his slacks. Puzzled, he looked at the corpse-like form, almost as if he were seeing a ghost. He could think of no upcoming wedding they were to attend. Certainly, Thanksgiving was going to be casual, as it always had been. No funeral that he knew of. Casandra had her ways of doing things. Dane just went along for the ride when it came to her oddities. Either she would explain, or she wouldn’t. It didn’t matter. She always knew exactly what she was doing.
David Larsen is a singer/songwriter and writer who lives in El Paso, Texas. He has recorded twelve albums for El Viejo Records and his stories have appeared in numerous literary journals and magazines.