Black Water by Joyce Carol Oates

was so. She'd come that way. That
was the way she had come.
    She saw that. There was no mistake. Yet
at the same time she was explaining to a gathering of people, elders, whose faces
were indistinct through the cracked windshield that it was not what they
thought he had not abandoned her, he'd
gone to get help for her, that man whose name she could not recall, nor could
she summon back his face though she was certain she would recognize it when she
saw it, he had gone to get help to call an ambulance that was where he'd gone,
he had not abandoned her to die in the black water.
    He
had not kicked her, he had not fled from her. He had
not forgotten her.
    Absurd pink-polished nails, now broken,
torn. But she would fight.
    A
blood-flecked froth in her nostrils, her eyes rolling back in her head but she would fight.
     
    ... had not abandoned her kicking free of the doomed car swimming desperate to save
his life to shore there lying exhausted vomiting the filthy water which no
power on earth could induce him to return to, rising at last (after how long,
he could not have said: a half-hour? an hour?) to flee on foot limping
ignominiously one shoe on, one shoe off a singsong curse
his enemies might one day chant if he could not prevent it, limping and
stumbling back along the marshland road in terror of being discovered by a
passing motorist back to the highway two miles away shivering convulsively his
breath in panicked gasps What can I do! What can I do! God instruct me what can I
do! the shrill mad cries of the insects and a nightmare sea of
mosquitoes whining circling his head stinging his flesh that was so tender,
swollen, his bruised forehead, his nose he believed must be broken striking
with such force against the steering wheel, and at the highway he crouched
panting like a dog crouched in hiding in the tall rushes waiting for traffic to
clear so he could run limping across the road to an outdoor telephone booth in
the parking lot of Post Beer & Wine dry-mouthed and numb in the protraction
of visceral panic, the dreamlike protraction of a horror so unspeakable and so
unacceptable it could not be contemplated but only fled, The Senator fleeing on
foot one shoe on, one shoe off disheveled as a drunk
and if anyone saw him? recognized him? photographed him? and if God Who
had so long favored him now withdrew His favor? and if
this ignominy was the end? limping gasping for breath
covered in filthy black muck the end? and if he would
not be redeemed one day exalted above his enemies and admirers alike? and if never nominated by his party after all, and if never
elected president of the United States after all? and if cast down in derision in shame and the mockery of his enemies? for politics
is in its essence as Adams had said the systematic
organization of hatreds: either you were organized or you were
not: the terror of it washing over him, sick, sick in his guts, swaying like a
drunk running across the highway though now fully sober and he would remain
sober he believed, he vowed, for the rest of his life and it would be a good
life if only God would favor him now in this hour of anguish If You would have mercy now wincing and doubled over
wracked with sudden pain in his bowels as somewhere close by in a municipal
park sparkling rockets shot into the night sky gaily explosive and lurid in
pinwheel colors RED WHITE and BLUE and there trailed in the rockets' wake ooohs ! and ahhhs !
of childlike admiration, a dog's sudden hysterical yipping and a young man's
furious yell "Shut it!" so it was not gunshot but simply noise of no
consequence and he had a coin in his stiff fingers like a magical talisman,
wallet snug in his pocket and money in wallet intact, in fact hardly dampened
it seemed, he was able to speak calmly requesting directorial assistance
calling the residence of St. John, Derry Road, gratified that he could remember
the name and there on the eighth ring a woman answered and in the background a
din of party voices so she