by David Harder
Ten months ago, Samantha and her boyfriend had gone out for dinner one evening. On their way home, a drunk driver plowed into their car at eighty-miles-an-hour and headlights extinguished. The vehicle that Samantha and her boyfriend were driving was immediately reduced to an unrecognizable mass of metal, and their bodies were unrecognizable as well. It was so horrible that even hardened emergency medical rescuers had difficulty maintaining composure during the cleanup process. Despite the carnage, the drunk driver walked away unscathed.
The funeral was simple and attended by Jim and most of Samantha’s work associates. Term papers, finals, and sheer laziness prevented any of the children from attending. Staci stated, in no uncertain terms, that it was a sham anyway, that her mother was unfaithful, and that she did not deserve any recognition. Jim sat through the service in a catatonic state; and, in spite of all forced attempts, he could not make himself shed a single tear. Time had evaporated too fast, and he supposed he wouldn’t be attending any weddings for his children or meeting his grandchildren.
As he was lost in his thoughts, Jim suddenly found himself parked in the driveway of his home. After a forty-minute drive, Jim had no clue how he had arrived or the journey from the doctor’s office. Jim was instantly overwhelmed with regretful sadness. His body felt encased in sludge as he dragged himself into the house.
CHAPTER THREE
FOR OVER FOURTEEN HOURS, JIM sat in his living room easy chair staring at the blank screen of his behemoth, flat-screen television in a darkened house. Seated in the same clothes he went to work in, he sat like a statue. Unmoved, Jim could neither think nor not think. Random thoughts came and went without any processing, and he spent hours sitting in a neutral, trance-like state. Praying silently, he cried, swore at God, and exhaustively ran every possible scenario through his mind.
The telephone rang several times, and the doorbell rang twice. Just before midnight, his neighbor Joe banged with his fist on the front door, calling out Jim’s name. Unfazed, Jim never moved his eyes but focused on the blank screen of the television in his pitch-black house. The pendulum of the antique wall clock ticked off the seconds like a metronome. Around five in the morning, daylight was struggling to breach the day when Jim’s eyelids felt like lead, and he fell soundly asleep.
The transition to slumber gradually enveloped Jim. One moment, he was blankly staring at the television screen; the next moment, he was relaxed and unconscious.
A reoccurring dream appeared, and the recognizable moments played out like reality inside Jim’s brain. The geographical location was different each time he had this dream, but the theme was always the same. In his nightmare, and completely unaware of his surroundings, Jim eventually noticed something was shadowing his footsteps. He would quicken his pace, but who or what was behind him matched each step. Suddenly, Jim found himself running for fear of his life in a full sweat.
Despite efforts to identify his nemesis, Jim could not maintain his running pace and also see the unknown monster over his shoulder. He could feel its breathing just inches from behind him, and he knew it was gaining momentum. The monster produced a wheezing, raspy sound. Jim’s blood pumped wildly throughout his body, and he could hear the sound of his heart drumming inside his ears. After an eternity of running, all sounds abruptly stopped. Typically, at this point in his dream, Jim would find he was on the edge of a cliff, teetering and struggling to maintain his balance. The abyss below appeared endless, and Jim would eventually slip over the edge, falling for eternity. Then abruptly, Jim would awake from the terrible dream, drenched in sweat.
This time, though, Jim wanted the outcome to be different. He wanted to identify the monster. In slow motion, Jim lost his balance and started to fall over the cliff’s edge, as usual. However, Jim took this opportunity to twist his body and face the monster that had bedeviled him all these years. A look of shock and then amusement crossed Jim’s face as he finally saw his adversary. A pair of lungs, liver, heart, stomach, and intestines loomed above. The organs were spotty and disease-infested, making them hideous and black. Tentacles of the intestinal track reached out to grab Jim as he fell backward, but it was too late. Jim watched the scene fade away as he silently dropped into the abyss. This time, for some unexplainable reason, Jim felt relief and closure.
At precisely seven in the morning, an internal clock inside Jim instantly jerked him awake, forcing him from his easy chair. Jim never needed an alarm and stuck to his routine with military precision. After a long, hot shower, a shave, and breakfast—consisting of black coffee and toast—Jim roared off to work.
Jim’s day proceeded as usual with business meetings and phone calls as if nothing had changed. Generally, most of the mid-level managers would gather at Charlie’s for cocktails and a bite to eat around one in the afternoon. But today, Jim declined. Staring out the glass walls of his office, which faced the interior of the department floor, Jim watched the muted employees move about. People attending to their routine activities were entirely unaware of Jim or his condition. Tired, he dropped his forehead to the desk, dangling his arms at his sides to rest, and he fell asleep in seconds flat.
CHAPTER FOUR
“MR. KREIDER? MR. KREIDER?”
Soundly asleep, Jim felt his body being shaken, and, in the distance, he heard his secretary’s voice.
“Did you check to see if he has a pulse?” asked a male voice.
“Oh dear! He’s not dead, is he?” asked a female employee.
Jim opened his eyes and slowly raised his head.
An immediate gasp emitted from the crowd crammed into Jim’s office.
“All right, people, get back to work. All of you, now! Give the man some space.”
Jim’s focus finally returned, and he saw his boss, Nathanial Martin, the vice president of sales and marketing, standing in front of Jim’s desk.
“Did you have a little too much fun last night, Jimmy-boy?”
Jim frowned, his voice groggy. “What? Huh? No. I had trouble sleeping last night. What time is it?” His last words sounded almost panicky.
Perplexed, the secretary glanced up at Mr. Martin and then back to Jim Kreider.
“A quarter past two, Mr. Kreider, and your two o’clock appointment is already waiting in the conference room.”
Jim stared at the sheer walls and could see a crowd of employees with their noses pressed against the glass, watching Jim as if he were a fish in a large aquarium. Mr. Martin followed Jim’s stare and yanked open Jim’s office door.
“Any employee still standing here in the next two seconds is immediately fired!”
Like a flock of birds resting on a high-tension wire, the employees instantly scattered in various directions, bumping into each other as they scrambled to escape Mr. Martin’s proclamation.
“Here, Mr. Kreider, I poured you a hot cup of coffee.”
The secretary set the steaming cup on the desk, and Jim could “smell” the caffeine. He looked up and gave her a faint smile.
“Thanks, Michelle. Please let my clients know I’m on a call and will join them in a minute or two.”
She smiled. “Already done, Mr. Kreider. They’re busy typing away on their laptops, and I believe they forgot the time.”
“Thank you.”
“Jim, are you okay?” asked the vice president.
Jim stood and sipped the hot coffee, which tasted fantastic. He made a face as the hot liquid scalded the insides of his mouth.
“I’m fine, Nate. Honestly, I am. It was a long night of little sleep, that’s all. I’m terribly sorry.” Jim stretched his body, which was stiff and achy.
“Well, you look like something the cat dragged in.”
“Thanks, Nate. That really helps.”
“You scared the daylights out of everyone. Michelle came running into my office, white as a ghost, and said she thought you were dead. To tell the truth, when I first laid eyes on you, I thought the same thing. You’re our number one sales executive. Don’t go checking out on us like that aga
in. Do you understand me?”
“Got it, Nate. Again, I’m terribly sorry.”
His boss headed for the door but paused. Turning, he said, “After your two o’clock appointment is finished, do me a favor and go home for the rest of the day.”
“Nate, I said I’m okay. It won’t happen again. I promise.”
“It’s not a request. That’s an order! If I come back in one hour, and you’re not gone, and the light’s out, you’re fired.” Nathanial turned and walked out.
After watching his boss disappear around the corner, Jim set the cup down and placed both hands on the side of his desk. Dropping his head, Jim shuddered and gave out a long, heavy sigh. What was he thinking? He needed to pull himself together.
Jim looked up and grabbed his jacket from the chair back. He slipped it on and adjusted his tie and shirt collar. Bending over the desk, Jim swilled the remnants of the hot coffee. Snatching a notepad and pen from his desk, Jim darted out the door, heading to the conference room.
* * *
Three weeks later, Jim tendered his resignation, claiming personal matters demanded his immediate attention. Mr. Martin was beside himself and knew the loss would impact the sales figures. He outright refused the resignation but agreed to give Jim three months leave of absence instead if Jim would be available for consultation calls. Most of the employees figured Jim was grieving the death of his wife or that the emotions had finally caught up with the man. Either way, it would be the last time any work associate would ever see Jim Kreider alive again.
Initially, Jim conducted his life at home as if nothing had changed. He shunned his neighbor Joe, and would go shopping at midnight to avoid running into anyone he knew. On Sundays, Jim took Samantha’s makeup and colored his face and hands, so no one could see his gray skin. He sat in the back row of the church, and as soon as the service was over, he’d slink out the door and rush home. It was a large congregation, and no one seemed to notice Jim anyway.
By the end of the first month, Jim woke up with pain coursing throughout his body. Fumbling to get the morphine bottle open, Jim would suck down three pills with fresh, hot coffee. His clothes were so baggy, Jim resorted to wearing sweat pants and loose-fitting shirts to hide his sagging skin. Every time he stepped on the bathroom scale, the digits displayed a precipitously lower number. Jim finally called a realtor and listed his home on the market, refusing to allow the agent permission to place any signs in the yard to indicate it was for sale.
After a few weeks, the frustrated, but surprised, agent had a solid contract with a family who had been dreaming about Jim’s house every time they drove through the neighborhood. An arrangement was agreed upon, whereby they disposed of Jim’s furnishings as they saw fit. The new homeowners were ecstatic and supplied their favorite thrift store from Jim’s bounty.
The next week—packing nothing but a toothbrush and paste—Jim drove to the BMW dealer and closed out his lease. He then shuffled two blocks south to Woody’s used car lot and cash-purchased a lime green 1967 Dodge Dart that consumed more oil than gas. Motoring to the outside edge of town, Jim arrived at an obscure hospice facility to check himself in. After tossing the keys on the floorboard of the Dodge and locking the car, it required every last drop of energy for Jim to walk from the parking lot to the front door of the facility.
Just inside the lobby were several empty wheelchairs, and Jim lowered himself into the nearest one, sitting askew. Breathing hard, Jim witnessed a sympathetic nurse rushing over to assist him into a seated, comfortable position, for which Jim was immensely appreciative. Earlier, Jim had discarded his wallet and any credit cards through his home office shredder. He had no identification whatsoever and provided the administration nurse with his name, social security number, and the name and number of his attorney.
After paying off all his debts, closing all his bank accounts, and making final arrangements upon his death, Jim had the bank write out a certified check to the hospice for what remained of his investments and savings. He handed the administration nurse the folded check.
“I believe this should cover any expenses. In addition, anything remaining should be considered a donation to your organization.”
When the nurse opened the check, she saw that it was for two hundred ninety-four thousand dollars and seventeen cents. Gasping, the nurse quickly located the hospice administrator. Jim was immediately situated into a private room in the far corner of the building with a massive window facing the green space of their grounds. It was a lovely view of a large pond, a huge oak tree, tons of flowering plants, and a meticulously manicured lawn, which would cause most golf course owners to be insanely jealous.
For the first few weeks, Jim relaxed and was starting to feel slightly better, but then the convulsions started. Food and liquids refused to remain in his stomach, so the hospice staff placed Jim on a feeding tube. His pills were replaced with saline and morphine drips that soothed Jim to sleep most of the day. At first, two male nurses were needed to lift Jim off the bed while they changed the sheets. In no time, his six-foot-one frame was so reduced in size that one female nurse could accomplish the same goal alone.
The attentive staff murmured and gossiped outside Jim’s room, trying to determine why no one ever visited or called on the man. Two days before his death, Jim had the hospice summon his attorney, who dropped everything and rushed to Jim’s side. The lawyer was unprepared for the horrifying sight he beheld when he laid eyes on Jim. He had last seen Mr. Kreider in his office a little over three months earlier, but the skeletal corpse speaking from the bed at this exact moment was entirely unrecognizable.
“For goodness’ sakes, Jim,” he exclaimed.
The dying man commanded in a raspy voice, “Shut up, Tony, and close the door and those curtains first.”
The attorney was aghast because his client was shriveled and emaciated. Despite nearly losing all his muscle mass, Jim, remarkably, was able to move his arms and hands.
How can this man even be alive?
The sight was sickening and almost caused the attorney to use Jim’s restroom and regurgitate an earlier-consumed lunch. Slightly more than one hour later, the counselor emerged from Jim’s room. Shell-shocked, ashen, and crestfallen, the lawyer walked away from the hospice without uttering a single word to anyone watching him leave.
Two days later, the morning nurse arrived for her shift at six a.m. As usual, she started her rounds near Jim’s room. Jim slept for long periods of time, so the nurse followed her regular morning routine. In a cheerful, affirming voice, she greeted her patient.
“Good morning, Mr. Kreider. How are you feeling today?”
She didn’t wait for an answer because she rarely received one. The nurse opened the drapes, letting in the early, warm rays of sunshine. She performed various small housekeeping chores, humming a soft, religious tune. When she walked over to the bed, she checked on the morphine and saline bag and noticed it was no longer dripping. A look of concern crossed the woman’s face, and she stopped humming.
“Mr. Kreider?”
She opened his left eye with her fingers and shined a small penlight into the void and saw nothing. Checking his wrist for a pulse, she found none. Reverently, the nurse then pulled the bed sheet over Jim’s body, covering his face completely.
Sometime during the night, James Kreider had slipped from this life into the next in a peaceful process that involved no other human being. Without fanfare or relatives to mourn at his bedside, Jim’s life and suffering had ended. For Jim’s book of life, there would be no more chapters or pages written.
There, in the solitude of his hospice room, Jim had taken his final breath, and his heart had given its closing, soundless beat. Like other countless souls over the millennia before him, Jim had finished his human journey. Sans any witnesses, Jim had crossed over to a place known only to those who have tasted death.
CHAPTER FIVE
“GOOD MORNING, SIR. HOW MAY I help you?”
An attractive receptionist in
her early sixties, nicely dressed with silvery-white hair, looked up and smiled.
The man standing before her redefined the term “big and tall” and was dressed extremely casual, with his bold print Hawaiian shirt hanging out to hide an expanding waist.
“The name’s Joe Langley, and someone from here called me regarding an appointment.”
The woman typed on her keyboard and scanned the screen. “Mr. Langley, yes, you have a ten o’clock appointment with Mr. Toncetti. Please follow me.”
“Can you tell me what this is all about?”
The woman ignored Joe and walked through the large, frosted glass doors, holding them open for her guest. The names Toncetti, Silva, Barnes, and Smith were etched into the glass. As the woman walked down the hall, Joe couldn’t help but watch the receptionist. Her body was toned, and she was tall and particularly attractive for her age. Joe suspected the beautiful lady had been a model in her earlier life. She displayed an air of class.
She led Joe into a large, well-appointed conference room. A long table of solid teak, with fourteen luxurious, leather chairs surrounding it, dominated most of the chamber. Two conference telephone speakers divided the center of the table. The room was walled on three sides with teak paneling, and tall, frosted glass panels completed the final enclosure. The woman held the door open, and Joe slipped past her into the room. He could smell her expensive perfume, and his head felt dizzy. Across the far wall on a long credenza was an assortment of pastries, coffee, juices, and a mixture of deli meats and cheeses on silver platters.
“Please have a seat, Mr. Langley. The others will be joining you shortly. My name is Betty Thurgood. Please help yourself to coffee and juice only.”
Joe surveyed the smorgasbord of delicious food, and his mouth started watering. “So, can you tell me what this is all about and why I’m here, Betty?” When Joe turned around, the woman was gone, and the large glass door was slowly closing.
