The Dead Don't Dance

by Charles Martin

  The parking lot was empty when I started my truck. Even in this cold, the old girl cranked without a hitch. The older she gets, the more oil she burns, but Chevy made a good truck in this one. The fuel gauge was bumping on E, but I had enough to get home.

  We pulled out of the hospital, I touched the gas, and the rear end of the truck slid out from underneath me, spinning us around 180 degrees. “That’s twice,” I whispered to myself. “Better take it slow.”

  Three miles out of town, I plowed slowly west on County Road 27. Several inches of snow blanketed the blacktop, and the temperature had dropped to twenty-eight degrees. With both hands on the wheel, and keeping an eye out for hazards, I let my thoughts wander. In front of me awaited an empty and cold house on what would have been our first white Christmas. Behind me lay Maggie. And in between, there was me.

  A lonely place.

  I wasn’t in any hurry, so I dropped the stick into low gear and spun up Johnson’s snow-covered pasture. Cresting the hill, I coasted down the other side, letting the engine RPMs act as my brake. About midway down the hill, I approached the railroad crossing, where eighty years before Chinese immigrants had laid railroad track for the Union Pacific.

  The snow was spreading over the windshield like a blanket. I flipped the wipers to “high” but still couldn’t see anything. As I bumped over the tracks, a light caught the corner of my eye. I was only going about five miles an hour, so I slowed to a stop on the other side of the tracks and rolled down my window. Looking down the hill in the direction of the light, I strained my eyes against the cold sheet of white that was biting into my face. The flash looked like a taillight, but down there was no place for a taillight, much less a car. I guess that’s why it caught my attention.

  I started rolling up the window when the wind swirled, and I caught a break in the snow. This time there was no mistake. It was a taillight, at the bottom of the ditch about five feet off the ground. That meant the car, or truck, or whatever was connected to it, was upside down with its nose in the ditch. I pulled to the side and left the truck running. Blue’s eyes followed me out, but he kept his nose muzzled under his forearm and didn’t budge from the passenger’s side floorboard.

  Stepping into the snow, I pulled the collar up on my jean jacket, crossed back over the tracks, and stood in the emergency lane of the eastbound traffic. The taillights were sticking up in the air, creating a small red halo effect around the car. On the snow beneath it were the scattered remains of what looked like blue plastic police lights that were once strapped atop the car. Leaning sideways, I read the upside-down reflective letters on the back of the car: Colleton County Sheriff’s Department.

  I hit my butt and started sliding down the bank. I had intended to scoot down to the car, using my heels as a brake, but the cold and wind had turned the snow-covered bank into a sheet of ice.

  My descent was fast and painful. I couldn’t stop, slow down, or veer to the left or the right. Midway down, I hit a small embankment that tossed me head over heels and sent me tumbling like a human snowball. Gaining speed, I passed Amos’s car and shot headfirst into the ditch. The splash surprised me, but not as much as the cold water. After a millisecond, the only thing I wanted was out.

  I planted my boots in the muck below and reached for the bank. Pulling at snow and frozen grass, I kicked my toes into the bank, pushed up, and reached for the window frame of the car. The car was resting on the edge of the ditch, and every window was shattered. A few more inches, and water would have been pouring in. Dragging myself up on the bank, I didn’t have time to think about being cold because I bumped the body of what appeared to be a big, limp man lying in the snow. When I found the face, it shocked me.

  “Amos!”

  His glassy eyes were looking at me. He was wet, and his face was a blood-soaked mess. Surprisingly, he was not shivering. Without saying a word, he slowly lifted his left hand, clicked on his flashlight, and pointed it through the driver’s window. The light was swaying back and forth, and I could tell he was having a hard time staying conscious. Hanging upside down in the passenger seat was a mangled mess of long, black, wet hair. Amos’s drunk party-goer, no doubt.

  “All this for some drunk . . . ” I grabbed the flashlight and scrambled around to the other side. As I did, the car slid an inch or two further into the ditch, and water started seeping in, filling what used to be the top of the car. I shined the light into the bloody and swollen face of the passenger. Her eyes were closed, and her arms were hanging limp down below her head. Brushing away the hair, I slowly tilted myself sideways, trying to see who I was looking at.

  Amanda.

  “Amos! What the . . .”

  I don’t know how long she had been hanging there, but her face looked blue and puffy in the light. The passenger’s window was also blown out, and little pieces had cut her face. Glass was everywhere.

  If she wasn’t dead already, Amanda needed to get out of that car, because in a few minutes her head would be underwater. I reached up, put my hand around her throat, and felt for a pulse. It was slow and weak.

  “Amos?” I said, scampering back around the car.

  His eyes were still closed, and he hadn’t moved. His breathing was slow, shallow, and apparently painful, ’cause he winced every time he tried to breathe too deeply. If I had to guess, I’d say he had two or three broken ribs.

  Looking inside the car, I saw that the air bag hung deflated, and the steering wheel was bent where both his hands had been. In the back, Amos’s workout bag was sitting on the ceiling- cum-floor in an inch of water. I pulled it out and looked inside, where I found a set of gray sweats. I wrapped the sweatshirt around his head and propped it up with some snow.

  Amos looked at me through two glassy eyes that kept rolling back behind his eyelids.

  “Hey, buddy,” I said, tapping his face, “stay with me.”

  Like his face, Amos’s uniform was splattered with blood, and the gray sweatshirt had begun to spot red. To make matters worse, I was starting to notice the cold, and my fingers were getting pretty numb and close to useless.

  I grabbed the radio off Amos’s shoulder and punched the talk button. “Anybody . . . HQ . . . anybody . . . this is Dylan Styles.” I closed my eyes to think. “I’m at the railroad tracks at Johnson’s Pasture. Amos had a wreck.”

  What road is this? Come on, Dylan, think.

  “County Road 27. We need an ambulance! Now.” I dropped the radio and grabbed Amos’s head with my left hand. “Come on, buddy, focus.”

  The dispatch crackled. “Come again, Dylan. This is Shireen. Come back, Dylan.”

  I grabbed the mike again and mashed the transmit button. This time I shouted, “Shireen, send an ambulance. Amos is hurt bad. So is Amanda Lovett. Railroad tracks on 27. Shireen, get an ambulance.”

  Shireen said something, but I couldn’t hear it because I was too busy pulling on the passenger door. It was jammed. I gently patted Amanda’s cheek. “Amanda.” I patted harder this time. “Amanda, help’s coming. Hang in there. Help’s coming.”

  There was no response. Reaching for her throat again, I felt for a pulse. Still there, but no improvement.

  The snow was still falling heavily. By the looks of the car, they had flipped over several times. I needed leverage to get Amanda out, so I checked the trunk, which was dangling open. I yanked out the tire tool, shoved it into the door crack, and leaned hard against it. The door still wouldn’t budge, but the car did. It slid another inch or two into the water. I leaned harder and Amanda rocked in her seat belt, waving her hands back and forth in the air below her head.

  “Come on! Open!” I leaned into it with everything I had. “Please don’t do this to me.” The door creaked and moved another inch and stopped. As I pushed, the car slid a foot farther downhill, pulling me down into the water with it, where once again the cold took my breath away. When I stood, water was covering Amanda’s hands and was mid-thigh on me. I dropped the crowbar on the bank, placed one foot on the side of the c
ar, and pulled against the door handle.

  Nothing.

  Growing frantic, I started banging on the door with Amos’s crowbar. My fingers were frozen, my footing was bad, and I was running low on options and time. I began swinging the tire tool as hard as I could. On about the sixth whack, it slipped out of my hands, ricocheted off the frame, and spun through the darkness. Splashing in the water a few feet away, it was gone. I was now almost waist-deep in water with nothing to pull on, no footing, and I was losing control over my muscles.

  Looking back inside the car, I could see Amanda’s hands covered in water that was bubbling up against the top of her head. I don’t know if it was the sight of Amos, cut and bloody; the sight of Amanda, blue, limp and unconscious; the thought of my wife, lying in that bed for four months; the thought of my son, lying in a cold, dark box; or the thought of me living in the middle of it all, but somewhere in there, I came apart.

  It began low and guttural. Pretty soon it was angry, violent, and all I had. The snow had been beating against my back, so I turned to face it.

  “Where are You?” Swinging at the snow, I fell chest-deep into the ice and water. “Huh? Where? You may be in that river watching over a baptism, and You may be hanging on the wall and watching when those numb people walk down and eat and drink You in every steeple-topped, vine-encrusted, pigeon-drop palace around here, but where are You now? For six days You left Amanda stripped and tied to a tree, You left me alone in a puddle on the delivery room floor, and You aren’t here now!”

  I kicked the water and screamed as loudly as I could. “Why won’t You answer me?”

  The wind picked up, and the snow fell harder. “Don’t You hang up on me! Nuh-huh. Not now, when I’ve got Your attention. You want my attention? You want my belief? Is that what You want? Not until You get in this ditch!”

  I stood up in the water. My clothes were stiff, wet, and covered in ice. I leaned my head against the car, breathing heavily, and closed my eyes. The snowfall had stopped and the moon appeared over my shoulder, casting my shadow on the water below me. Listening to my own wheezing, I stood weakly, close to broken, and hanging by a thread. “Lord,” I whispered, “I need You in this ditch.”

  The car gave way, slid another foot, and partially submerged Amanda’s head. I opened my eyes. “That’s not helping me.”

  I lifted her head forward and gently pulled her shoulders toward me. Her eyes flickered. I pulled on her arms, but she didn’t move, and I couldn’t reach up across her stomach to unbuckle the seat belt. I reached into my back pocket, pulled out Papa’s knife, fumbled to open the blade, and then cut the seat belt across her chest. The lap belt held, so I reached up, hooked under it, and pulled. I knew I was taking a chance, but I didn’t have many others. Amanda’s limp body fell forward, and she groaned. I pulled her arms and head out the driver’s side window, but her stomach was too big. I cradled her in my arms and rested my face against hers.

  “Amanda? Help’s coming. Help’s coming.”

  Her eyes opened and closed.

  “Amanda? Amanda?” I gently slapped her face, and her eyes opened, but her pupils were everywhere. “I can’t pull on you. You got to kick yourself out of this car. Move your legs. Come on. Help me get you out.” I cradled her tighter and tugged until she groaned. “Help me, Amanda. Please help me.”

  I slapped her face again. Harder this time. She groaned, tried to move her legs, groaned again, and then her eyes closed and she let out a deep breath.

  “Nuh-huh. Not you too! Don’t you breathe out on me like that’s your last breath.” I dug my feet into the muck below and pulled as hard as I could. I placed my mouth against her ear. “Amanda, you do not have my permission to die in this ditch. You hear me? I know you’re in there. You do not have my permission.”

  I pulled again.

  “Amanda, open your eyes. D’you hear me? Talk to me. Please don’t let this happen.”

  Amanda hung limp in my arms. Losing my grip, and slipping further in the ditch, I bear-hugged her head and shoulders and rocked her back and forth in the car. Her hips slid, and something gave way.

  “That’s right. That’s right.”

  Amanda’s petite frame slid through the window up to her stomach. She groaned, and it was then that I realized that her stomach was rock hard.

  “Amanda,” I whispered in her ear again, “I’m going to turn you and slide you out this window.”

  She groaned, but I turned her anyway. Her sweater caught on some glass, ripped, and exposed her stomach. I dipped down into the water and lifted her shoulders and head up. Her eyes flickered again. I lifted, pushed, pulled one more time, and she slipped out of the car and into the water.

  Sliding out, all of Amanda’s weight drove me down into the water. My feet lost their grip, and the water rose around my shoulders and my neck and then wrapped its cold fingers around my face and head. Pulling at me, it swallowed my head and ears. My head submerged, and I shouted under water. It was an eerie, muted explosion of anguish. I heard the swish of the water above me, felt the weight of Amanda’s limp body on my outstretched arms, but my left hand told me that Amanda’s head was out of the water. For an eternity, I fought the ice and water to hold her above my head, while struggling to get my feet under me. In fear, and involuntarily, I sucked in a lungful of water.

  I kicked my feet into the muck below and caught something solid. Maybe a rock or a root. My legs shot us out of the water, and we landed on the bank. I was coughing, gasping, screaming for air, and Amanda lay on the ground, limp, lifeless, and without expression.

  I tried to drag her up the ditch, but she was too heavy. I took off my coat and feebly wrapped it around her, but she wasn’t shivering.

  Resting my arm underneath her head, I leaned down and placed my face close to hers. Through the moonlight, I saw that she was open-eyed and crystal-clear focused on me. Her eyes startled me.

  “Professor?” she whispered.

  “Yeah . . . yeah. Hey, I’m here. Right here.”

  “My son.”

  “Don’t talk. We got to get you to the hospital. The ambulance is coming.” I looked back up the bank for those headlights.

  “Professor . . . my son.” Amanda gritted her teeth. “He’s coming.”

  I looked down, placed my hand on Amanda’s stomach, and felt the contraction hit. She groaned.

  “What, right here?”

  Above me, coming around the back of the car, I heard movement. Expecting Blue, I looked up, but it was Amos crawling to me with the sweatshirt still wrapped around his head. “Amos! Get to the road! Stop the ambulance!”

  “Not coming,” Amos whispered. “Road’s too iced over. Sending a four-wheel drive, but it’ll be twenty minutes ’fore he gets here.”

  “But she’s having this baby now!”

  Amos looked at me, leaning against the bank and breathing heavily, and said, “I know.” He had regained his focus. “We were sitting in church when her water broke. We were on our way to the hospital when we hit the tracks.” He tossed his head in the direction of the road. “Guess we’re delivering that boy right here.”

  Amos closed his eyes and breathed as Amanda’s stomach went soft again. She opened her eyes, they rolled back, and her head fell limp to one side. The left side of her head was cut, swelling, and bleeding a lot.

  Amos grabbed my arm with his right hand and jerked me down on top of him. His eyes were three inches from mine. Through clenched and bloody teeth he said, “Dylan, you got to deliver that boy right here.” He winced. “D.S., this is your time, your minute. You hear me? I can’t help you, but I can talk you through it.”

  He opened his arm toward Amanda and slid down next to her. “D.S., place her head on my chest.”

  I did what he said.

  “In my trunk is a wool blanket. Wrap it around her.”

  I reached into the open trunk and grabbed the blanket. Then I slid off Amanda’s underwear, the middle of which was soaked a deep red, and wrapped her, as best I could,
in the blanket.

  “Can you see the head?”

  I shined the light. “No, not yet.”

  “How far apart are the contractions?”

  “I don’t know . . . a minute. Two at the most.”

  Just then Amanda’s stomach tightened, she grunted, and her limp legs stiffened.

  Opening his eyes, Amos asked, “That one?”

  “Yes.”

  “How ’bout now? Can you see the head?”

  I looked again. “Sort of. I can see something.” I shined the light again. “Yeah, I can see the top of his head.”

  “All right.” Amos wrapped his right arm over Amanda’s chest and cradled her to him. Talking in her ear, he said, “Amanda, baby, I know you can hear me. I know it hurts. I know everything in you hurts, but you the only one can do this. Can’t Amos or Dylan do this for you. You got it?”

  Amanda made no response.

  “Good, don’t talk. But when it hurts . . . you push.”

  Amanda’s stomach tightened, she groaned louder, her legs tightened, and the baby’s head came through the canal.

  “Head’s out, Amos.” I caught Amanda’s son’s head in my fingers, and a warm, slippery, sticky liquid coated my hands.

  It was no longer cold. The moon broke through from behind a single cloud, cast a shadow on the three of us, and glistened off the snow. I didn’t need the flashlight to notice the blood.

  “Make sure the cord isn’t wrapped around his head.”

  “How? What am I looking for?”

  “Just run your finger around his neck and tell me if you feel a cord.”

  Shoving the flashlight in my mouth, I looked for a cord. I held the baby’s head with my left hand and felt for the cord with my right.

  “No cord,” I said around the flashlight.

  “Good,” Amos said. “All right, Amanda, one more. This boy’s coming right here. This is it.”