The Bazaar of Bad Dreams

On July 26, 2009, a woman named Diane Schuler left the Hunter Lake Campground in Parksville, New York, driving her 2003 Ford Windstar. She had five passengers: her five-year-old son, her two-year-old daughter, and three nieces. She seemed fine – the last person to see her at the campground swears she was alert and had no liquor on her breath – and equally fine an hour later, when she fed the kids at a Mickey D’s. Not long after that, however, she was observed vomiting beside the road. She called her husband and said she did not feel well. Then she turned onto the Taconic Parkway and drove the wrong way for nearly two miles, ignoring the horns, waves, and flashing lights of those who dodged around her. She eventually hit an SUV head-on, killing herself, all but one of her passengers (her son survived), and the three men in the SUV.

According to the toxicology reports, Schuler was processing the equivalent of ten drinks at the time of the crash, plus a large amount of marijuana. Her husband stated that his wife wasn’t a drinker, but toxicology reports don’t lie. Like Candy Rymer in the previous story, Diane Schuler was loaded to the max. Did Daniel Schuler really not know, after at least five years of marriage and a period of courtship, that his wife was a secret drinker? It’s actually possible. Abusers can be incredibly sly, and hide their addictions for a long time. They do it out of need and desperation.

What exactly happened in that car? How did she get drunk so fast, and when did she smoke the dope? What was she thinking when she refused to heed the drivers warning her that she was going the wrong way? Was it a booze and drug-fueled accident, a murder-suicide, or some weird combination of both? Only fiction can approach answers to these questions. Only through fiction can we think about the unthinkable, and perhaps obtain some sort of closure. This story is my effort to do that.

And by the way, Herman Wouk is still alive. He read a version of this story after it appeared in The Atlantic, and wrote me a nice note. Invited me to visit him, even. As a longtime fan, I was thrilled. He’s pushing a hundred now, and I’m sixty-seven. Should I live long enough, I might just take him up on the invitation.