Another You

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THERE SHE WAS, swaddled like an oversized infant in her white parka with its pointed hood pulled tight by a drawstring, turning at intervals to face oncoming traffic, extending her hand and pointing her thumb. Marshall went by so fast, and was so preoccupied — how many times do they play Marianne Faithfull singing “As Tears Go By” on the radio these days? — that he flinched as he sprayed her with dirty snow and kept going, hardly registering her presence. As the receding baby’s bunting blip came into focus in his rearview mirror, Cheryl Lanier transformed into a real person. Marshall moved his foot slowly onto the brake, his eyes flicking up to the rearview at the same instant to make sure the car behind him wasn’t going to ram his car. He touched the pedal, eased up, tapped again until the flashing lights caught the other driver’s attention. The driver of the other car, frustrated that he could no longer tailgate, swerved to pass on the right, racing the motor and sending a heavy spray of slush onto the windshield as Marshall squinted to see, pulling off onto the shoulder.

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