“Isn’t that what it’s all about?” Del asked.
“What you say?”
“Strange magician children. If there are three words that sum up what life should be all about, it’s ‘strange magician children.’ Life shouldn’t be too predictable. It should be full of chance and mystery. New people, new ways, new hopes, new dreams, always with respect for the old ways, always built on tradition, but always new. That’s what makes life interesting.”
“More you talk, less I like.”
“Yes, you said.”
“But you not listen.”
“It’s a fault of mine,” Del said.
“Not listening.”
“No, always talking. I listen but I always talk too.”
Tommy curled up in the back seat, in the corner opposite the dog, aware that he could not compete in this conversation.
His mother said to Del, “Can’t listen if talk.”
“Bullshit.”
“You bad news.”
“I’m the weather,” Del said.
“What say?”
“Neither good nor bad. Just there.”
“Tornado just there. But bad.”
“I’d rather be weather than geology,” Del said.
“What mean?”
“Better to be a tornado than a mountain of rock.”
“Tornado come and go. Mountain always there.”
“The mountain is not always there.”
“Mountain always here,” Mother Phan insisted.
Del shook her head. “Not always.”
“Where it go?”
With singular elan, Del said, “The sun explodes, goes nova, and the earth blows away.”
“You crazy woman.”
“Wait around a billion years and see.”
Tommy and Scootie locked eyes. Only minutes ago, he wouldn’t have believed that he could ever have felt such a kinship with the Labrador as he felt now.
Del said to Tommy’s mother, “And as the mountain blows away, there will be tornadoes of fire. The mountain will be gone, but the tornadoes still whirling.”
“You the same as damn magician.”
“Thank you. Mrs. Phan, it’s like the rock and scissors game writ large,” Del said. “Tornadoes beat rock because tornadoes are passion.”
“Tornadoes just hot air.”
“Cold air.”
“Anyway air.”
Glancing at the rear-view mirror, Del said, “Hey, guys, we’re being followed.”
They were on a residential street lined with ficus trees. The houses were neat but modest.
Tommy sat up and peered out the rear window of the teardrop-shaped sports car. Looming behind them was a massive Peterbilt tractor and trailer, like a juggernaut, no more than twenty feet away.
“What’s he doing in a residential neighbourhood at this hour?” Tommy wondered.
“Killing you,” Del said, tramping on the accelerator. The behemoth of a truck accelerated to match their pace, and the yellow glow of sodium-vapour streetlamps, flickering across its windshield, revealed the portly Samaritan behind the wheel, his face pale and his grin broad, although they were not close enough to see the green of his eyes.
“This can’t be happening,” Tommy said.
“Is,” Del said. “Boy, I wish Mom was here.”
“You have mother?” Tommy’s mom asked.
“Actually,” Del said, “I hatched from an insect egg. I was a mere larva, not a child. You’re right, Mrs. Phan—I had no mother.”
“You are smart-mouth girl.”
“Thank you.”
“This is smart-mouth girl,” Tommy’s mother told him.
Bracing himself for impact, he said, “Yes, I know.” Engine shrieking, the truck rocketed forward and smashed into their rear bumper.
The Jaguar shuddered and weaved along the street. Del fought the steering wheel, which wrenched left and right, but she maintained control.
“You can outrun him,” Tommy said. “He’s a Peterbilt, for God’s sake, and you’re a Jaguar.”
“He’s got the advantage of being a supernatural entity,” Del said. “The usual rules of the road don’t apply.”
The Peterbilt crashed into them again, and the rear bumper of the Jaguar tore away, clanging across the street into the front yard of a craftsman-style bungalow.
“Next block, turn right,” Tommy’s mom said.
Accelerating, briefly putting distance between them and the Peterbilt, Del waited until the last possible moment to make the turn. She slid through it, entering the new street backend first, tyres screaming and smoking, and the car went into a spin.
With a sharp little yelp better suited to a dog one-quarter his size, Scootie shot off the backseat and tumbled onto the floor.
Tommy thought they were going to roll. It felt like a roll. He was experienced in rolling now, and knew what that penultimate angle felt like, just before the roll began, and this sure felt like it.