A story told to me by my mother.

1946

On a two lane blacktop road in the middle of Texas, a new blue Ford convertible wound through low hills. Murl Dean Murrell was driving, her light brown hair was held down under a carefully selected blue scarf. Errant ends tickled her cheek.  A perfect day.  She was twenty years old and two months pregnant with her first child.

The music faded in and out between two radio stations. Bob Wills could be heard on one side of the hill, then disappear into nothing, then reappear as classical violin on the other side. One hand on the wheel, one hand on her baby bump, her mind was running through possible names.

Everything happened so fast it was over before she could even react.  The black Mercury raced past her with a rush of air that swirled the scarf into her eyes, bits of dirt hit her skin and by the time she could blink it was over. The Mercury vanished over the hill. She hadn’t even heard the noise of its coming until it passed by her roaring like a beast. 

She pulled to the side of the road shaking, trying to catch her breath.  She turned off the engine and radio and was just starting to relax when she saw the other car coming up behind in the mirror.

 The grey Ford was running flat out and getting louder every second and she slid down into the seat out of sight and the car rushed by in a blast of air and noise. She sat up just in time to see the car vanish over the hill after the Mercury. 

She adjusted her scarf and brushed bits of grit from her cheek with a shaky hand. She gradually became aware of the buzzing of bugs and the chirp of crickets and birds.

Home was in Ranger, the same direction the cars were going, ten miles further and no other way to get there but on this road. She started the motor and slowly pulled onto the blacktop and followed after the cars,  keeping close watch on the road behind her in case anyone else was in the chase.

She came to the top of the next hill, and the road stretched out across the valley and rose to the top of a ridge on the other side two miles away. Empty. She went on, keeping the radio off, senses alert, keeping an eye on the mirror.

When she was half way across the valley she spotted them. Up at the top of the next hill, in the  notch where the road had been cut down through the rocks and dirt. She slowed and then slowed down more and more and stopped. She saw the black Mercury parked off the narrow two lane blacktop on the right side, and the grey Ford parked opposite on the left, right across from each other. She scouted about for the best spot to turn around if she needed to run for it. Then she just sat and waited.  

Murl Dean was patient for sure. One thing she had was self control.  She had been taught to exercise control all her life. Her mother Helen had decided she would be a violinist, and Helen would stand for no whiney backtalk about it. Murl Dean was going to be somebody and that’s all there was to it, a concert violinist, but now she was pregnant. She held both hands to her stomach, protective of the tiny treasure inside.   

Murl Dean sat there and practiced her controlled breathing, deep and slow, that helped get oxygen into her brain, or so her violin teacher said, keeping on top of her ‘fraidy cat’ emotions. She sat there and paid attention to everything that was before her.

And there was nothing. Only the cars. No people, no movement, no traffic, no nothing. She finally decided that whoever was in those cars had probably walked off into the brush, probably drunk, going to go pee or make love or something. Drinking for sure. 

She put her car in gear and started forward slowly, creeping up the hill.  No one appeared. As much as she wanted to hit the gas and dash through, she was afraid some drunk might stumble into the road and she didn’t want to run anyone over, even though she thought it would serve them right. 

As she was passing right between the two cars, barely moving, a tall man jumped out from behind the grey Ford and threw himself onto the hood of Murl Dean’s car holding a big pistol. He sprawled across her windshield right in front of her face and she screamed and hit the brakes, causing the man to slide partway down the hood. She watched as he fired the gun, round after round into the Mercury, flashes of light and thunder, shattering the glass and punching holes through the steel door. The Mercury roared to life and spun its tires onto the road, filling the air with dirt and the smell of burnt rubber, and raced off down the hill.

The shooter slid off the hood of the car and looked into Murl Dean’s eyes and raised his pistol. She was sure she would be shot, but he broke open the cylinder and ejected the spent shells, her head was ringing and he was saying something to her, but she could not hear a word. The tall man ran back to his car, loading his pistol as he went and took off after the Mercury. He wore what appeared to be a uniform, grey green gaberdine, but with no insignia showing to indicate anything about who he was.

Murl Dean put her car into reverse and hit the gas. She quickly started to lose control and slammed on the brakes and slid to a stop just before going off the road. She started to cry and curse, and put the car back in gear and quickly drove to the top of the hill where she could see. Despite her fears and tears she needed to see what was happening on the other side of the hill. She drove past the ambush point then stopped when she could see the valley spread out below.

She watched as the cars chased each other across the valley and up and over the next ridge and then vanish. She sat there for an hour till the sun was starting to set and there was no traffic either way and it was getting chilly. She put the top up on the convertible, and started her car.

She drove across the little valley and to the top of the next rise and came to a stop, scanning the valley ahead. Nothing, the road was empty, no other traffic but an old farm truck loaded with hay, moving slowly through a field. Then she saw the black Mercury, off the road and across a ditch, with its nose up against a tree, crumpled hood, steam coming out.

She waited. There was no other traffic except the farm truck. She watched as the driver dumped some bundles of hay for waiting hungry cows. He turned the truck around and got back on the road and started Murl Dean’s way. The truck was going to drive right past the Mercury. It was getting dark, and if there was ever a time to go, this was it. Murl Dean started up and turned on her lights and spun up a dust cloud and got back on the road and raced down the hill. If she had to drive past the Mercury she damn well wanted that farm truck to be there too. She blew on by the startled farmer and kept on at speed until she was at the top of the next rise. There she stopped and looked back. The truck had driven right on by the Mercury without stopping. The farmer hadn’t even noticed the car. It was dark now, and the black car was easy to miss and the farmer was probably startled by her racing by. 

Murl Dean drove home and put the car into the garage and and locked herself in the house. She kept the blinds drawn and the lights off for two days. She kept the radio on low, listening for any news. Nothing. Not a word.

She finally ventured out, looking for clues, rumors, newspapers, whispers, anything.  She asked questions, but no one had an answer. A week later she drove back to the site of the wrecked Mercury. Nothing was there. Not even tracks in the dirt. She never heard a word spoken of the incident.

She took to staying in and leaving her new car in the garage. She would sit on the porch and watch birds and squirrels and the scant traffic through the neighborhood. She would sit for hours, hands on her tummy, feeling me growing inside.

There was nothing to give evidence to her experience. Nothing but the scratch across the hood made by the shooter’s belt buckle.