1 RPT. CORONER
Frank Merwin refolded the letter, replaced it in its envelope, and laid it on the flange of the lamp stand, near the radio. He held his wife a little more tightly. Her sobbing had become less than hysterical, now that the terrible initial shock had somewhat worn. He managed to keep his own emotions pretty well in check, but then he had driven the Los Angeles area for some twenty years and was correspondingly toughened. When he finally spoke again there was as much bitterness in his voice as sorrow.
“Geez, Myrt, oh, geez.”
He eased her down onto the big white couch, walked to the center of the room and paused there, hands clenching and unclenching, clasped behind his back. The woven patterns in the floor absorbed his attention.
“Goddamn it, Myrtle, I told him! I told him! ‘Look, son, if you insist on driving all the way to Diego by yourself, at least take the Pontiac! Have some sense,’ I told him! I don’t know what’s with the kids these
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WITH FRIENDS LIKE THESE . ..
days, hon. You’d think he’d listen to me just this once, wouldn’t you? Me, who once drove all the way from Indianapolis to L.A. and was challenged only twice on the way—only twice, Myrt, but no, he hadda be a big shot! ‘Listen Dad. This is something I’ve got to work out for myself. With my own car,’ he tells me! I knew he’d have trouble in that VW. And I often told him so, too.
“But no, all he could think of to say was, Tops, the worst that can happen is I’ve gotta outmaneuver some other car, right? You’ve seen the way that bug corners, haven’t you, huh? And if I get into a tough scrape, any other VW on the road is bound by oath to support me —in most actions anyway.*