by Dan Hawley
The harbor was fairly quiet when Jason and Samantha arrived. A few boats swam lazily along the channel. An older couple passed by, holding hands and looking like something out of a Nicholas Sparks movie.
“So cute!” Samantha gushed and grasped Jason’s arm tighter.
The two continued their stroll along the seawall. An amazing assortment of boats and yachts were moored to the wooden piers. There were bright, brand-new white cruisers. There were beat-up old sailing boats, not pretty, but seaworthy. Mixed in, here and there, were even a few interesting-looking houseboats. One was two stories, painted red with yellow window frames. Four giant windows allowed people to see right into the small, basic rooms.
“How’d you like to live there?” Jason asked with a light elbow to Samantha’s arm.
“I don’t know,” she said, eyeing the floating house suspiciously. “I think I prefer solid ground.”
As they rounded the corner on the paved pathway, three cyclists sped past, dinging their bells in warning. Jason watched them go, lost in thought about how he ought to be getting more exercise and if maybe he should give biking a go.
“Hey, watch out!” a voice shouted.
Suddenly, Jason was ripped from his thoughts by the squeal of brakes and a flash of pain. A cyclist had been moving way too fast from behind the cedar hedge, and when he merged with the pathway, he had collided with Jason with a thud. The cyclist flew over the handlebars like some spandex-clad seagull, clipping Jason’s shoulder, and landed on the pavement in a heap. Jason spun and fell back hard against the pavement, hitting his tailbone and skinning his palms. The bike flipped a complete three-sixty, bounced once on its tires, and crashed to the ground with the mechanical sound of its chain rubbing against the sprocket.
The bike came to rest with the back tire spinning wildly, Samantha looking on in horror. By some stroke of luck, she had emerged unscathed. The cyclist groaned, and Jason remained sitting on the ground, bewildered.
“Jason!” Sam half screamed, “are you ok!?”
She moved to squat beside him where he sat, dazed; his arms stretched out behind him, propping him up.
“Yeah, shit. I think so,” Jason replied. “Jesus Christ.” He looked over at the lump of cyclist and felt anger begin to simmer in his guts.
His shoulder throbbed, and it hurt to move. Jason got up anyway—slowly. Once up, he took stock of himself, checking bones for breaks and feeling around in his shoulder for the source of its pain. Nothing broken or dislocated, he diagnosed. Jason rolled his shoulder gingerly and took a step toward the cyclist. A shooting pain suddenly poked at Jason’s brain, and he staggered. A faint, high-pitched note sounded in his ears. Jason instinctively reached up with both hands and held his head, working to hold his skull together. The ringing grew louder, and he plugged his ears with his fingers to stop the sound, but it was no use. The sound was already inside. Jason shook his head as his vision began to blur. He stopped and stared blankly down at the cyclist. The quickly oscillating waves of the ringing modulated and slowed inside Jason’s head. The sharpness became a dull throb. It became familiar as slow waves pulsed behind his eyes. The hum hammered slowly on his eardrums as he stared at the source of his physical pain.
“I said what the fuck were you thinking, dude!?” Jason’s voice erupted from pain and anger.
The cyclist was crumpled over, face down, holding his stomach. He groaned. The cyclist wore a black helmet that Jason could see was cracked and barely holding on around the man’s head. Good thing he was wearing that helmet, Jason thought, that would have cracked his skull open like an egg.
“Hey, dickhead!”
This time Jason reached out his leg to coax the cyclist to roll over and face the man he had almost killed. The cyclist did roll over onto his back, and a grating half groan, half gurgle escaped his throat. Jason bent over the man with a clenched fist ready to fly.
“You stupid son of a bi—”
Jason stopped cold.
His fist softened and slowly lowered. The noise in his mind cleared and only a headache remained. The cyclist was just lying there, half conscious, staring at the sky without seeing it. A trickle of blood was running down his forehead and began to pool in his right eye socket. His right arm looked like a question mark, broken in at least two places, Jason guessed. The cyclist’s right leg looked like it was screwed on backwards.
“Babe, call 911.”
Samantha snapped out of her daze, grabbed her phone from her back pocket, and dialed. Samantha and Jason couldn’t do much but stand there and wait with the broken cyclist. He was beaten up pretty bad, but he was conscious and not bleeding to death from what they could see. People started to gather around, curiously horrified by the scene. Jason absently switched back and forth from rubbing his shoulder and tailbone while not-so-politely reminding people to stand back.
The cyclist lay clutching his broken arm to his body, his forehead beaded with sweat and mixed with blood. Shock had fully consumed him, and he had the look of a trapped and terrified animal. Jason knew that look and pitied the man.
“You’re alright,” Jason said, half lying. “The ambulance is on the way. You’re alright.”
Samantha was sitting on a nearby bench, watching the scene intently. She was concerned for both men and thankful she had somehow been spared. It felt like life was working in slo-mo as she sat there on the bench, waiting for help. Two bike cops rolled up and took charge of the scene. They asked Jason what happened and took his statement.
He couldn’t help feeling a little déjà vu.
When the cops were satisfied, they talked to Samantha. She gave her account, and the cops moved on to other witnesses. While the cops were taking statements, the paramedics arrived on the scene. They were wearing thin white hazmat suits, respirators, and plastic face shields.
Extra precautions due to the pandemic, Jason thought.
Two sets of blue gloved hands grabbed the stretcher from the truck, and the two paramedics placed it down beside the hurt cyclist. They checked his vitals, secured his arm, and slid a flat board under his body. Then they strapped him in and lifted him onto the stretcher. From there, it was up the path, into the meat wagon, and off to the nearest hospital. It was a whirlwind of action, like something out of a cartoon. They were gone as quickly as they had come, leaving Jason with his bruises and bloody hands.
CHAPTER 12
“Let’s get you cleaned up,” Samantha said as she closed the apartment door behind them. The paramedics had asked Jason if he was ok and he had said yes, but now the adrenaline had worn off, and he felt like he’d been hit by a freight train. He kicked off his boots and headed for the bathroom. Samantha ran warm water into the sink and grabbed the rubbing alcohol from beneath it. Jason winced as water poured over his scraped palms. He winced even harder and let out a yelp when Samantha dabbed at his palms with an alcohol-soaked cotton ball.
“Son of a bitch!” he hissed.
“You’re ok.”
Sam grabbed another cotton ball for the other palm, held it to the open bottle, and inverted it, allowing the cool liquid to leak out. The other hand wasn’t as bad, and Jason was thankful for that.
Samantha grabbed the bottom of Jason’s shirt and pulled it up over his head. She spun him around to inspect his shoulder. It was red and already showing signs of bruising. Little purple lines marked his skin where the weight of the cyclist had pulled it in an unnatural way.
“It’s like I’m cursed or something,” Jason said.
“Cursed?”
“I dunno. I just feel like nothing has gone right since we got here. This place is just kicking my ass.”
Jason sat down on the toilet seat and hung his head, holding his palms up so the air could dry them.
“Speaking of which, how is your bum?” Sam asked.
Jason pressed the back of his hand against his tailbone.
“Not too bad, I guess.”
“Have a warm bath, and when you’re done, we’ll ice you down,” Sa
m said as she turned on the tub faucet. Jason nodded and removed the rest of his clothing, leaving it all in a pile on the floor. Samantha planted a small kiss on his lips and bent over to pick up the clothes.
“There’s blood on your shirt from your hands, I guess,” Samantha noted as she inspected the clothes. “I’ll see if I can get it out.”
She watched as Jason carefully entered the half-filled tub, then she headed to the laundry room.
* * *
“The guy almost killed me,” Jason said into the phone. He was lying on his back on the leather couch, propped up with some pillows. The news flashed on the silent tv screen. Samantha was turning something into deliciousness in the kitchen. A savory aroma hung in the air. Jason adjusted the icepack under his shoulder.
“Came outta nowhere and kablooey! You shoulda seen him fly, Dad.” Jason paused. “He got all fucked up; his arm was just dangling there in like three pieces.”
“Jesus,” the voice from the speaker said. “You’re good, though? Nothing broken?”
That was how Jason’s dad measured the severity of a situation. Broken bones? No? Then you’re fine, just walk it off.
Ron Steele was a bit old school in his approach to parenting; in his approach to all things, really. He was stern but fair and made sure he did the best he could do. Ron had never coddled Jason; he had wanted his son to grow up strong and independent. Ron supposed he had succeeded; his son was so independent that he had moved two thousand miles away. Ron wondered if his son might have stayed closer to home if he had felt more love from his father. Perhaps Ron could have made more of an effort. He did tell his son that he was proud of him, and often. Ron used to think that was good enough.
Jason adjusted the icepack again; this time, he moved it under his tailbone. He was wearing loose, black track pants and an old beat-up t-shirt. He figured he looked about as good as he felt.
“Yeah, I’m alright, Dad. Just a bit beat up. Sam’s taking good care of me.”
“Thank God for her,” Ron said. “Don’t know what you did to land that one, son, but you better not screw it up.”
Ron’s voice was light and joking, but they both knew the truth of his words.
“You’re too kind,” Samantha called from the kitchen. “Ah shit, she heard me, huh? Just as well. Hey sweety, how are ya?”
“Good, Ron. A little drained from the day, but it could have been worse.”
“That’s the truth,” Jason added, remembering the cyclist on his back in the middle of the cement path, holding his smashed-up arm close to his body protectively, his hip on sideways, staring into the abyss with that freaked-out look on his face. Jason pictured the crimson pool of blood as it slowly formed in the man’s eye socket. Each blink added a touch of deep red to the white of the man’s eye until the entire sphere had finally been covered, drowned in its own ocular cavity. Jason snapped out of it and noticed Samantha plating dinner.
“Ok, Dad. Looks like it’s dinner time.”
“Alright, glad you’re ok. Take it easy,” Ron said, and Jason touched the screen to end the call.
He sat up just as Samantha lowered their plates onto the coffee table, the delightful smell of green Thai curry wafting up to Jason’s nose. He breathed in deeply.
“Mm, mm, mm! That smells good!”
Samantha and Jason sat together, hunched over their food, taking in mouthfuls of Basmati rice soaked in curry sauce. The coconut milk supplied sweetness to the fresh, savory vegetables. Jason poked at the tofu.
Samantha had unmuted the news, but there was no new information. Even the increasing case count and death tolls had become mundane. It was all just part of life now. It was a sad truth, but until the large pharmaceutical companies developed a vaccine, not much could be done other than wearing a mask and sanitizing the skin off your hands. Every night, the main argument that took center stage seemed to be: What was worse? A portion of the population contracting and dying from the virus, or the financial ruin and mental health disintegration of the population, leading to depression, anxiety, and suicide? In other words, was the cure worse than the disease?
These debates showed the news anchor in the studio, with a person framed in a picture-in-picture, broadcasting from their phone or webcam in their home office or kitchen. Jason wondered how many of them even wore pants. He wouldn’t, he thought. The debate raged on as one expert on mental health argued that more people would die from suicide and domestic abuse than from COVID-19. Another expert said if people didn’t stay in their homes, the death toll could easily double in the next three months. The news even featured guests who believed that their fundamental freedoms and rights had been stripped away by being forced to wear a mask. Samantha thought these people must live privileged lives if their biggest complaint was having to wear a mask in public. The news also reported, very infrequently, about a small fraction of people who believed the whole thing was a government plot, designed to use fear to control the population; to give up their rights for more security. Some thought the pandemic was a lie; others believed the government distorted the data to make the situation appear worse than it was. God knows why.
Samantha raised the remote in her hand, and with the push of a button, the screen went black and silent.
“That’s about as much of that I can take today.”
She put the remote down and looked at Jason. “How’s the shoulder?”
Jason’s icepack was half melted and lukewarm. “Not bad. Gonna eat some more Advil before bed. Hopefully, I’ll sleep; I feel exhausted.”
“Same,” Samantha responded.
She grabbed the pack from Jason, got up, and headed to the freezer to throw it in.
The couple had been in Seattle for over three months but were still adjusting to the time change. They spent their whole lives existing in the eastern time zone before moving, and jetlag was still very much a factor in their lives. Three hours makes a huge difference. In their new home, if they went to bed at 10:00 p.m. (an unheard-of thing for Jason), their bodies thought it was 1:00 a.m. When they woke at 7:00 a.m., their bodies thought it was 10:00 a.m. This discrepancy made Jason feel like he was always running late—an extremely stressful thing for a man who hated to be late. Samantha enjoyed the change, however. She liked going to bed early and waking up in the same fashion, and the move had forced Jason to follow suit. Although, she thought, she wished he slept better.
* * *
“Want a fresh icepack?” Samantha asked as she entered the bedroom. Jason was lying on top of the covers, one leg crossed over the other, wearing only his grey boxers. His right shoulder looked swollen and angry in the lamplight. At the other end of his arm, his hand rested on his abdomen. His left hand cradled the back of his head on the white pillowcase as he stared at the ceiling thoughtfully. “Hm? Oh, um, no, that’s ok. It’ll just get the bed all wet and nasty. I took some painkillers and muscle relaxers, so that should do the trick.”
Samantha nodded and crawled into bed beside Jason. She rolled to her left, plugged in her phone, and set it on the nightstand. Then she rolled to her right and kissed Jason on the cheek.
“Minty fresh,” he said.
Samantha clasped her hands together under her cheek, nestled into the pillow, and closed her eyes.
Jason wondered how anyone could sleep like that. She looked like a peaceful cherub, angelic and serene. He fought back the jealousy.
“Love you,” they said, almost in unison.
Jason squinted, and a quiet grunt escaped his lips as he adjusted himself to get under the comforter. Samantha didn’t like to sleep with a sheet; she said it always ended up crumpled and in a ball at the foot of the bed, so why bother? Just the comforter was fine with Jason unless it was really hot; then he wanted nothing but a thin sheet covering his nakedness. But it didn’t get that hot in Seattle anyway, so the point was moot.
Jason looked over at his nightstand as he reached for the lamp switch. He paused with his hand holding the long, dangling chain that controlled the lig
ht, staring at the items on the tabletop. With a sigh, Jason let the chain go and opened the drawer. As quietly as possible, to not disturb Samantha, he stored everything in the drawer and slid it shut. Might as well, he thought and turned out the light.
The dull ache in his tailbone and throbbing pain in his shoulder kept Jason awake until the painkillers and muscle relaxers found their way into his bloodstream. He relaxed into the mattress as the pain reduced to mild discomfort. His eyelids were heavy, and his eyes burned behind them, dry and tired. In the background, the bedroom walls vibrated their constant note. Jason focused on the hum until he could hear nothing else.
His earphones were in the office, and he was too tired and sore to retrieve them, so he just lay there, half asleep and listening.
“Hummmm… Hummmm…”
Jason hummed along with the noise, matching its pitch. A D-minor, he mused, or maybe a G. Jason chuckled softly to himself.
“If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em,” he whispered and chuckled some more.
Samantha stirred and rolled onto her other side, facing away from Jason. His eyes opened wide, and he held his breath as he watched her reposition herself, praying he didn’t wake her.
All clear, he thought and closed his eyes again. The hum carried on, unwaveringly relentless in the dark room. It mingled with Jason’s thoughts. Thoughts of the crumpled cyclist, broken and bleeding from his eye. The crimson pool filled the eye socket and then overtook his face and began to swirl. Around and around, the thick, red blood turned in his face like some fucked up toilet bowl until Jason fell in.
* * *
“Jay?” A melodic voice said. “Jason.”
He stirred to the sound of Samantha’s voice. His eyes opened, and the room was bright and fresh: a new day. Something was off, though, his fuzzy thoughts determined. Confused and groggy, Jason cocked his head to see Sam standing over him, fully dressed. “What the…” he began.
