by Cubed, Magen
When everything caught up with Clara again, she was swept up in the clutches of gravity and forward momentum at the crosswalk on Canal Boulevard. Her stop was abrupt, like hitting an invisible barrier. It nearly knocked her from her feet. She steadied herself as her toes dangled over the edge of the sidewalk. Lunch hour traffic hurtled by in a surge of rubber and engine clatter. She gasped, brought up to speed by the hammering in her chest.
She had no way to explain how she had gotten there.
Blackout, panic attack, memory loss. Loss of time, loss of space, loss of self—by way of stroke or seizure. Nothing made sense as her mind raced for a logical frame of reference to tuck the moment into and safely file away.
None came, and so Clara simply walked home.
II.
Every morning, Adam woke before the sun came up. He brushed his teeth, shaved, and took his handful of pills: vitamins, antianxiety, and antidepressant. In the mirror, he smoothed back his hair and took a deep breath.
“You’re going to be okay,” he told himself, Dr. Bell’s words coming out of his mouth. “You’re going to be okay.” At 6:00 he made breakfast, eggs and toast for one. He packed his backpack with two changes of clothes and got into Betty, his 1972 Plymouth Barracuda, bound for the old gym on Dell Avenue. After hitting the punching bag for an hour, he rinsed off in the showers, smoothed his hair back again, and changed his clothes for work.
By 7:30 he was on his way to open Bob’s Repair and Restoration. At 9:00, Adam’s day began, Monday through Friday every week since he got home from Afghanistan. He took lunch at 1:00 and was home by 6:30 to make dinner and do the dishes. If he had spare daylight, he went outside to change Betty’s oil or wash her windows. Then, he changed his clothes, shut off the lights and went to bed alone. Most nights, he dreamt of the IED and the men in his truck cooking on the side of the road. A guy his brother’s age had his skull split open. His brains leaked into the dirt. Another’s neck was broken so severely that the top of his spine stuck out. In his dreams, he laid in the wreckage for hours, pinned in place, left for dead with a belly full of shrapnel.
It was late in the day on Thursday when Jamie arrived at the repair shop. Adam was elbow-deep in the guts of a ’65 Mustang when Darlene poked her head in. He had a visitor, she yelled across the garage floor, and the visitor was cute. She waggled her eyebrows at Adam. He shook his head dismissively, wiped his hands clean and stepped into the office. Seated in the chair across from Darlene, Jamie stood to meet his little brother.
Adam’s shoulders drooped. “Hey.”
“Hi.” Up close, Jamie was two inches taller than Adam and a full size broader. He was more like their father than Adam could ever hope to be. His features were stronger, his jaw squarer, and his eyes darker. “You look good.”
“Thanks.” Adam shrugged.
“Sorry, I hope you weren’t busy. I was just on this side of town, and I figured I’d pop my head in. Needed to see you.”
“You were not. What is it?”
“Can we step outside for a second?”
Adam’s hand came up to play with the dog tags at his neck. “Yeah. Hey, Darlene, tell Bob I’ll be right back to close up the shop, okay?”
She nodded and smiled. “Sure.”
“Don’t get too excited,” he added as he led Jamie to the door. “He’s my brother.”
“Well, is he single?”
Outside, Adam led them down the block. Licking his lips, he squinted at the sun. It was just beginning to set behind the corner store across the street. Jamie stuffed his hands into his pockets.
“You holding up okay?”
“I’m all right,” Adam said. “I’ve been worse.”
“That was bullshit at the hospital.”
“I know.”
“We were worried about you. You get that, right? We’re your family. We care about you.”
“I know. It was just too much to deal with.”
“Mom’s devastated. She’s out of her mind, Adam.”
“I know.”
“Dad, too.”
“I don’t care about Dad.”
“You don’t mean that.”
Adam shook his head. “Then you must’ve blocked out Labor Day.”
Stopping, Jamie grabbed his brother and pulled him in close. “Look, we’re all freaking out here. We thought you were dead. Then, you pulled that shit at the hospital. Mom’s a mess. The kids are always asking about you. What do you expect from us?”
“I know. It’s just...” Adam looked at his feet. “It’s been hard, you know? That’s no excuse, but I don’t know what else to do here. I feel like I can’t trust anyone.”
“You can trust me. You can trust Mom and the girls. You can trust Dad.”
“Dad hates me.”
“Dad doesn’t hate you. He’s just stubborn.”
“Yeah, that’s because you’re not a disappointment.”
“Don’t say that, Adam. Dad’s proud of you.”
“That’s not what he said.”
Jamie patted his brother’s shoulder. “C’mon,” he said, and they walked for another half of a block to the stoplight. “Shelby wants you to come over, see the kids.”
Adam licked his lips to stall for time. “I don’t know.”
“Carol and Dan are coming over this weekend with their boys. Maybe you can make it.”
“I’ll see if I can.”
“Like you have plans.”
“I’m just busy.”
“So, are you seeing anybody these days at least?”
“Did Mom send you to spy on me?”
“Don’t be a bitch.”
“What, are you wearing a wire right now? Is this being taped?”
The signal flicked from the red palm to the white man. They headed through the crosswalk, Jamie walking ahead of Adam. “I’m just asking. Somebody’s got to look out for you, you know.”
“I can take care of myself.”
Neither of them heard the squeal of rubber. They didn’t see the teenaged girl on her phone, thumbing a message to her friend. She didn’t look up to see the red light at the intersection or the pair of men in the crosswalk. Adam reacted first, jerking his head to get a glance of the green, Japanese sedan barreling toward them five miles over the speed limit. Jamie didn’t have time to move but Adam did, bringing his hands out to stop the car. Muscle stepped into action as his brain lagged. Steel crunched like aluminum foil around his wrists. The car screeched to a sudden and violent stop, rearing up on its front wheels before coming down on the pavement in a heavy thud. The girl’s face washed out with horror as she jostled inside her seatbelt. She kicked at the brake in a delayed effort to slow herself.
Jamie stumbled to the ground, his eyes wide. “A-Adam?” He was quiet at first, not trusting his senses. “Adam, what did you do?”
Looking at his hands, Adam found knuckles cut and fingers split by shards of metal and glass. The car choked and rattled all around him, sputtering steam and broken pieces. His palms left behind deep imprints in the crumpled hood. Adam pulled his hands back. Blood hammered in his ears, cutting out the sound of the girl thanking God in the front seat.
III.
There was no taking the subway to work on Tuesday—or ever again for that matter. Norah knew that. She shut off the local news and herded Hannah out the door for school. Buses were slow and crowded, and she couldn’t afford cab fare if she planned to buy groceries for the week. With few other options, she waited on the curb at 7:30 for Debbie’s red van to pull up. As Debbie unloaded her three kids at John Simmons Elementary, Norah climbed inside to hitch a ride to Camden. Debbie worked four shifts a week at the diner for extra grocery money. Her husband’s salary afforded them the luxury of a car in the city. Norah pulled five dollars out of her wallet and futilely tried to give it to Debbie.
“It’s charity, woman,” Debbie dismissed her blithely. “Accept it.”
“I’m allergic to charity,” Norah replied, stuffing the bill into her apron to make c
hange with later. “It’s bad for my complexion.”
“If it makes you feel better, you can buy me lunch.”
“It does.”
“Good.”
They made it to the diner by 8:00. The breakfast rush was in full swing. Leaving her jacket on the rack by the host stand, Norah quickly made her way to the employee washroom. She put on her apron, smoothed down her collared polo and pulled her hair up in a bun. When she emerged, Rod was hovering in the kitchen doorway. He curled a finger at her ominously. She tried her best not to roll her eyes.
“Your doctor’s note said Monday.”
“I called Margie on Sunday and told her I had a few things to settle with the doctors yesterday.” She’d had a cursory follow-up with her doctor for her lasting anxiety. She paid for it with money her mother left with a note. Just in case, it read. Just in case she needed a second opinion. Just in case she needed something for the pain, the sleeplessness, or the creeping dread she felt whenever the rickety, old tenement building creaked and groaned at night. “She covered my shift and told me not to worry about it.”
“Margie didn’t say anything to me about it yesterday.”
“Lay off, Rod,” Debbie called from the cash register. “I was there. I can vouch, all right?”
Rod wrinkled his flat nose. “Just call me next time you do that on my shift.”
Norah didn’t say anything. He walked off without further comment, likely to cram himself into the closet of his office and fill out the write-up he was always threatening to give her. She didn’t say anything about that either as she clocked in at the server station, walked to the host stand and waited to seat her first table. By the time 1:00 rolled around, the rush had tapered off. The customers all cashed out their tabs and shuffled to the door.
Norah’s section had been full all morning. Her two- and four-seat tables turned and burned, all slurping down waters and iced teas and running to her for the condiments they forgot to ask for the last three times she checked on them. They acted like she was stupid. She smiled and tried to be as nice as her blood pressure would allow. At home, a bachelor’s degree and teaching credentials sat in her drawer, but they didn’t know anything about that as they snapped their fingers for more tea.
After the rush, she swept between tables. A young couple watched as their two-year-old dumped a side of gravy all over the floor and threw his Cheerios into the mess. It took ten minutes to wipe the floor clean, another five to mop up the residue from the grout. When Rod appeared over her shoulder, Norah sighed.
“Yes?”
“I’m doing next week’s schedule,” he said, tapping a pencil on a preliminary draft. “We need to talk.”
She stood and set the broom aside. “Why?”
“Chelsea’s been complaining about hours. She says you and Carol always get the most shifts.”
“Yeah, because me and Carol have kids. Chelsea lives with her parents. That and she always dumps her weekend shifts anyway.”
“Look, maybe Margie plays favorites, but I’m trying to run a fair operation here.”
“It’s not favorites, Rod. Chelsea’s been here, what, five minutes? I’ve been here for six months.”
“I got to spread the hours around, Norah. You’re just breakfast Monday through Wednesday now.”
“What? No. No, that’s crap. I need to work. How am I supposed to feed my kid on the Early Bird Special crowd?”
Rod shrugged. “You’ll just have to make it up somewhere else.”
“How? I can’t work overnight or weekends because of Hannah. Margie knows that.”
“That’s not my problem. Sorry.”
When he retreated to the counter to scribble on the schedule draft, Norah’s face was already hot. Blind rage propelled her to the kitchen. She passed Debbie at the kitchen doorway and ignored her concern. She stormed into the dish pit, fuming under her breath. The dishwasher was on a smoke break outside, and she was grateful for that small measure of privacy.
This couldn’t happen—not right now. She couldn’t ask anyone else for money. She couldn’t call Chris and beg for help, or move back in with her parents in Somerset. Her blood churned as though boiling as her heart ticked faster. And the medical bills... She hadn’t even seen the statement from the hospital yet. They might as well just take a kidney for all their trouble. There was no way she could get the money together on three shifts a week and old misers rubbing their pennies over discounted breakfast plates.
As her mind raced, Norah didn’t notice the peculiar hum that filled the noisy dish pit. The air surged, charged electric and sweeping around her. Slowly, the objects in the room began to react: pots and pans moved first, rattling on the drying racks. Then, the cups and plates floated up and away. Silverware circled overhead in a lazy orbit, caught between the oscillations of gravy boats and coffee pots. The swell of energy travelled down her spine in a current. It began as a tingle in her brain and spread to every digit in warming waves. It filled her in an embrace that leapt from her fingertips into the air in a crackle. Every breath was infinite. Every atom inside her was buzzing.
Norah exhaled and the dish pit fell back to Earth like a failed rocket. The crash made Norah’s teeth hurt in the sudden chaos. Before she could regain herself, the entire kitchen staff was at the doorway—hats plucked off, mouths agape, hands wringing rags. Rod appeared behind them, but by the time he opened his mouth to yell at her, Norah had already elbowed her way past the crowd. She pulled off her apron to leave at the host stand and left the cash in her book behind as she stormed out. Rod followed her into the street screaming. Norah never looked back.
IV.
At 8:45 on Monday morning, something in Bridger Levi changed. Up until that point, he had lived a model existence. His life in Camden with his wife of twenty-five years had been a relatively quiet one as he climbed his way up the ladder at Baxter & Sans. Bridger had used his discernible intuition for statistics and probability to sail the high seas of financial piracy as a well-compensated senior accounts manager. His roots in East Essex no longer showed even in unflattering light. People had long since forgotten his upbringing as the poor son of a Jewish boarding house owner. Things were simple and ruled by reason. That was the way they were supposed to stay.
At the age of forty-five, sitting at his desk in his lovely corner office on the thirty-second floor, everything changed. He looked down at a copy of his resignation letter, immaculately typed on company stationery with a rubber stamp across it in bold, red ink. Request denied.
Bridger stood to grab his desk chair. He hauled it above his head and heaved it through the decorative, plate glass window. It opened his office to the department floor and burst across the carpet. By 8:56, company security arrived to escort him to Mr. Baxter’s office atop the high-rise. They ushered him inside like he was a pickpocket or common criminal. Beyond the towering black door sat Mr. Baxter at his endless oak desk. A particularly unenthused guard invited Bridger to sit with a meaty paw before forcing him into the chair across from Mr. Baxter’s sweeping throne. After the guards dispersed, Mr. Baxter folded his hands and let out a beleaguered sigh.
“Request denied,” Bridger said quietly. “You couldn’t even tell me to my face. You just had a flunky stamp it and scan a copy for your records.”
“It’s not what it looks like, Bridger. I wanted to talk to you about it personally before you did anything rash.”
“Well, I think we’re pretty much past that point, aren’t we, Bob?”
Twenty-two years ago, they were seated across the same desk. Bridger had been twenty-three. He’d been working at Baxter & Sans for six months. Caitlin had graduated with her MBA a semester ahead of him and put her various internships to good use by securing a department director position in a small retail marketing firm. A year later she put that firm out of business as she led a mass exodus to her own start-up. Bridger started off as a low-level accounts and holdings agent, and that morning he had walked into Mr. Baxter’s office with a proposal that wo
uld net them over three million dollars in profit by the next quarter. When Mr. Baxter saw Bridger’s math, he promoted him to accounts supervisor on the spot. But that was a lifetime ago.
“I know you’re going through a lot right now. With the cancer, and now this accident, you need to step away for a while. And that’s fine. You can take all the time you need. You know that. But you’re not done yet, Bridger. I need you here.”
“I’ve spent the last twenty years keeping this company insulated from bad accounts and legal prosecution, and you tell me I haven’t done my fucking job yet?”
“It’s nothing like that. You’re an invaluable asset, not just to the company but to me. Hell, I’ve known Caitlin since she was in braces. We just need to have a conversation first. Be reasonable.”
“No, Bob. Reason is how I sleep at night while knowing we’ve fleeced people and tanked small businesses. It’s survival of the fittest, kill or be killed, blah blah blah. Now, I’m beyond reason. I’m just pissed.”
“Don’t be angry, Bridger. I know this is hard, but you can’t just leave, either.”
“Why not?”
“We have to vet a suitable replacement, begin the transition process—”
“I’m dying, Bob. There’s not going to be a transition.”
“You’re not dying.”
Bridger’s jaw clenched.
Mr. Baxter sighed. “I spoke to Caitlin the other night. She warned me about your little farewell tour. The doctors say it can be treated.”
“Well, I don’t. I’m not going on chemo so you’ll feel better about who’s sitting in my office in six months.”
“Think about what you’re doing here. Think about how this affects the company, your wife, everything.”
“Don’t fucking talk to me about my wife.”
“Fuck you, Bridger. What exactly do you think you’re going to accomplish with this pity party of yours?”
Bridger leaned forward to stare his former employer down. “Look, here’s what’s going to happen next. I’m going to go back to my office to pack up my things. I’m going to leave. I’m never coming back. If you send anyone after me or try to stop me in any way, I’m going to tell every journalist, blogger, and news writer I can find about every dirty account Baxter & Sans ever held.”
