by Joel Arnold
The couple hovered over the safety seat.
Johanson saw images as the turn signal flashed, each flash bringing a new one. A flash of the couple as teenagers when they first bought the car. A flash of them making love in the backseat. A flash of them driving, the turn signal flashing on them like passing road lights on an interstate. A flash of them giving birth — here — in this very car. Flashes of them with a child, their son, singing, playing, as they drove from destination to destination. Then flashes of the wreck, of the looks on their faces as they saw the truck coming, each flash like a single frame advance on a DVD player. He watched them die in slow motion, watched their bodies crushed by the force of impact, impossibly squeezed until blood was forced out of them in great splashes. Yet the child in back remained unharmed.
And he watched as the couple lay dead and disfigured stuck in the front seats as emergency workers hurried to pull the child from the wreck.
Each flash. A new scene.
Each flash an unwanted revelation.
And now the couple wanted to find their son. Why? Into what realm did they wish to take him?
Johanson found his voice. “Leave him alone.”
And they were in the back once again, eyes pleading and desperate. “We have to find him. We have to see him, touch him,” the woman said.
“Please, leave him in peace.”
Their eyes registered no understanding. Instead, they kept turning to the safety seat, looking at it longingly.
No. Johanson couldn’t accept this.
He turned away, his mind made up. He felt the flashing light hot on his back, saw it illuminate the mud at his feet. He ran toward the shack. Pressed the button that opened the gate. Ran out to one of the tow trucks that sat outside. Jumped in, turned the engine over and stepped on the gas.
He drove through the gate and headed toward the percussive flash of the turn signal. Between flashes he could see the couple in the car, impossibly contorted, looking frantically for their child, now clawing through the seats, clawing through the back of the child’s safety seat.
Johanson maneuvered the tow truck until its back faced the rear of the Sunbird. As he hopped from the truck and hooked the tow chain to the car’s bumper, he couldn’t help but look as the couple pressed their pale, bloodied faces against the rear spider-webbed glass, their eyes searching, pleading. Johanson hurried back into the truck’s cab, and with a jerk, pulled forward. There were snapping sounds, cracking, squeals of chrome and metal. He pressed the gas and the tow truck moved forward.
And somewhere in the distance, there was Shatterbaugh yelling through the static of his radio. “What the fuck are you doing?”
He headed toward the railroad tracks. Once the Sunbird was situated across them, he unhooked it, trying not to look at the couple inside, trying not to listen as they insistently asked “Where’s our child? Where’s our son?”
And all the while…
Blink.
Blink.
Blink.
Until it was joined by more lights. The lights of an oncoming train. The lights of the patrol car Shatterbaugh had called in.
He heard their screams. Or was it the screech of the train’s brakes? Or the shouts of the cops surrounding the tow truck, their guns drawn?
The turn signal blinked on and off, on and off. The train whistle was a hollow cry in the night, it’s echoes like bony fingers clenching his heart.
The cops jumped on Johanson, tackled him to the ground. One of them tried to re-hook the Sunbird to the tow truck, but the train was too close. The officer jumped.
The train couldn’t stop in time.
It smashed into the Sunbird. The train’s engine and the first ten cars behind it, jumped from the tracks and plowed their way toward the impound lot, while the rear fifteen cars tumbled the opposite way into the Mississippi river.
Johanson felt his arms twisted painfully behind him as his fellow officers cuffed him. But it didn’t matter. A smile pierced his lips, pierced the blood and sweat that dripped down his face. Pierced it like the bright yellow glow of the turn signal.
“He’s safe now,” he said to the officer who restrained him, praying his own words were true. “He’s safe.”
My Fear of Escalators
I appreciate you having us write this paper, Mr. Anderson. It’s much better than some of the other assignments you’ve given us. Especially the one on that old, dead English author. That one really sucked. Don’t get me wrong. You’re still my favorite teacher. You seem to understand us for the most part. And to have us write a paper on Bobby Truant and the effect his death had on us — I think that’s really important to almost everyone here. You’re the coolest. Marsha Blick thinks I have a big crush on you. Isn’t that hilarious?
Of course the death of Bobby was crazy, but why is it so hard to believe like the newspapers make it out to be? I mean, he was kind of a weirdo. No disrespect for the dead and all, but he did have a few screws loose.
I think it’s ridiculous that Marsha told everybody that I had been dating him before he died. That’s crazy! I was not dating him, Mr. Anderson. I hope you believe me. He was just a friend. Maybe not even a friend. Just someone to pass the time with when I was bored. I mean, when the majority of my friends are in dance line practice, what can I do? They don’t even let me in the gym to watch anymore. Just because they caught me with one cigarette. One lousy cigarette! Can you believe it? By the way, I noticed you smoke, Mr. Anderson. I can tell by the way you smell when you walk into the room. I really like that smell. That cigarette smell and the cologne you wear. What kind is it? Is it Polo? It is, isn’t it?
But so Bobby and I were just friends. I’d go over to his house — his parents were always working late — and we’d sit around and watch TV. We wouldn’t talk a whole lot — he wasn’t much of a talker. But I’d tease him sometimes. Flirt with him. It was fun to get him to blush. Sometimes he’d turn so red, I swear, Mr. Anderson, I thought he was going to explode.
I guess the real reason I went over to his house, though, was because of his paintings. Not a lot of people knew he painted. And he was really good.
No. I mean he was really, really good. His paintings were incredible. They were the kind of paintings that made you wish you could look at them all day long. It was like they’d hypnotize you. Like you just wanted to step inside and get lost in the paint.
I told him he should show them to people. I told him he could probably sell them if he wanted to. Why he didn’t take any art classes is beyond me. And each one of his paintings was different.
I thought of asking his parents if I could have some of them. After all the crap dies down, of course. There are still reporters at their house all day long. Why can’t they leave it alone? They seem to get off on the fact that he died in such a public place and in such a gross way.
I’ve gone back to the mall about a million times since he died. At first, just to see where it happened. Then to try getting over my fear.
I almost always take the stairs right next to the escalators. Sometimes, I can’t even stand the stairs, because it’s like my eyes are always pulled to the escalator, to the steps being pulled along until they disappear under those sharp metal teeth. Where do the steps go after that? I wonder if they got all the pieces of Bobby out of there.
I never told anyone this next part, Mr. Anderson, not even the police, and I hope you don’t read this aloud in class. I’d get pretty embarrassed, I think.
The last time I was at his house, he asked if I wanted to see something different, and I said, sure. So he disappears into his bedroom for a minute, and comes out with his hand behind his back.
“What do you got for me, Bobby?” I asked, all flirtatious. I reached out and brushed his bangs out of his eyes. “What do you got behind that back of yours?”
I thought it would be a new painting, so I was kind of excited, but then he smiles, and pulls out a jar from behind his back.
“What is it?” I asked him.
&nb
sp; His voice got real low. “What do you think it is?”
“I don’t know, let me see.”
So he opened it — it was an old peanut butter jar, not even cleaned out very well, because there were spots of dried peanut butter stuck to the sides — and he holds the thing under my nose.
“What is that?” I asked. There were all these little dirty white-yellow things in there, like pieces of shredded Barbie doll. He didn’t say anything, just smiled and held them closer. The smell that wafted up from them was kind of familiar. Like b.o. or something.
And then I realized what it was. It was a jar full of clippings. Fingernail and toenail clippings. The jar was full, Mr. Anderson. Right to the top.
“Eeeew,” I said. “Where’d you get all those?”
And he said, “I save them.”
“For what?”
He looked at me like I was a total idiot, and said, “They inspire me.”
“Are you crazy?” I asked.
Instead of answering, he pinched a few between his fingers, opened his mouth, and shoved them between his cheek and gum, like it was chewing tobacco.
You can bet, I was pretty grossed out. I mean, I can see maybe an eight year old doing something like that to impress a friend, but a sixteen year old boy doing it in front of a sixteen year old girl? Was I supposed to be impressed? I mean, I’m almost seventeen, which is very close to being an adult, Mr. Anderson. So I just kind of gagged, and told him it was time for me to leave. Then he got all sorry-like, and closed the jar back up and hid them behind his back again and asked me if I wanted to see a new painting. I didn’t know what to do, because I really did want to see a new painting, but on the other hand, I wanted to get out of there, since I was getting a little creeped out.
But so I said, “Sure, if you get it fast.”
He disappeared into his bedroom and came out a few minutes later looking a little sick. I think it was probably from the nail clippings and all.
And then I saw his new painting.
Mr. Anderson, I cannot begin to tell you how cool it was. It was so full of amazing colors. And the oil was still wet and shiny. There were coffee pots and roses and books all swirling around in this cool wild room, as if a tornado was tearing through it.
“Wow,” I said.
“You like it?”
I just nodded. I was numb.
“What do you like about it?” he asked.
I had trouble thinking of ways to describe my feelings. The words got jumbled around in my head. “Everything,” I finally said. “Just everything.”
Then he leaned over and kissed me. Right on the mouth. I was so stunned, I just let him. I let him keep on kissing me until I felt his hand on my chest and his tongue darting between my teeth. I pulled away, because I remembered what had just been in his mouth, and I thought I could kind of taste them on his tongue.
“Please don’t go away,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m not ready for this,” I told him.
I was just so taken off guard and everything. I felt kind of nauseous, and I thought I better get out of there before I threw up on everything. But then Bobby started crying. Can you believe it, Mr. Anderson? He started crying, and part of me wanted to stay and tell him to stop crying, but the other part of me was still feeling like throwing up all over the place, and the crying just made me want to throw up more. So I let myself out the door.
Then the next thing I hear, he’s dead.
That very next night at the mall.
Well, everyone knows what happened there. How could anyone not know? It’s still being talked about in the papers. It’s already been three days. Can’t they get on to something new?
But there is one thing the papers haven’t mentioned, and I don’t even know if this is true or not, and maybe I shouldn’t even be mentioning this, but Marsha told me Deanna Fredericks was there at the mall when he killed himself on the escalator, and she saw the whole thing.
She was going down on the escalator at the same time he was going up. What she told Marsha was that when he pulled out the knife, all of these little things fell out of his pocket, little pieces of plastic, she said, and when he stuck the knife into his chest, he leaned over the railing and all the blood began to spill onto the white tiles below. She said he was swaying back and forth, leaning this way and that, almost like he was trying to get the blood to spill in a certain way. And when she passed him, he was saying my name. Over and over. Just whispering my name.
I think she’s making that part up. She’s probably just jealous because I’m your favorite student, not her.
At least I hope I’m still your favorite.
You said we should tell you how we feel about Bobby’s death, and I’m not sure if I really have said it very clearly, but whenever I go to the mall, and I’m on the balcony overlooking the escalators, I look at the spot where his guts spilled on the floor, and I know they washed the floors and all, but I think I can see something, Mr. Anderson.
I think I know what he was trying to paint.
Maybe I’m going crazy, but I think it was me he was trying to paint on the floor. And I can see it, I really can, and it’s really the most amazing painting I’ve ever seen.
I’m still afraid to use the escalator, though. I’ve tried a few times, but each time I start looking over the railing at the floor below, at the painting Bobby left for me, and it’s hard to look away. Each time I forget where I am and get closer to the sharp metal teeth waiting for me at the top. I think it’s Bobby waiting for me. I think he liked that kiss a little too much. I think he wants more.
He wants me to forget where I am and be pulled into the same place he was pulled into.
And the thing is — I think I want more. I think I am almost ready for it.
You really are my favorite teacher, Mr. Anderson, and I hope you’ll remember me. Maybe you can have everyone write a paper about me, too.
Reminders
She chews on glass
Spits it on my white satin pillow
Shows me her tongue like a child with a missing tooth.
Why do you do this? I ask.
She answers, her mouth thick with blood -
It reminds me I’m alive.
She places needles through her skin
Twists them until they rip through flesh
Presses the wounds to my lips.
Why do you do this? I ask.
She answers, her eyes thick with tears—
It reminds me of my humanity.
She swallows bleach
Coughs up pieces of her throat
Which spatter across my chest.
Why do you do this? I ask.
She answers, her voice a ravaged groan—
It reminds me of why I scream.
She carves my name
Across her breasts
The knife rusty and dull and old.
Why do you do this? I ask.
She answers as blood sluices over her belly—
It reminds me that I once loved you.
She plunges a wooden stake
Through her stomach
The courage not there to hit her heart.
Why do you do this? I ask.
She answers, shutting the lid of my coffin—
It reminds me that we’re not immortal after all.
Translations
August 20th, 2004
To William Krenshaw, Director of the Olmsted County Historical Society:
I have in my possession some letters that I believe may interest you. They were found in one of the caves located in what is now Quarry Hill Park on the outskirts of Rochester. As you can see by the photocopies, the letters have weathered the elements quite well.
I had them translated from the original German by Professor Gustav of the University of Minnesota. He was quite amused. I’ve enclosed his translations here as well.
Sincerely,
Jim Stuvey, Minneapolis, MN
The letters:
Janu
ary 12, 1898
My Dearest Christoph:
How many years have passed since Gerta and I laid you to rest? Time goes so quickly and so slowly all at once!
I write this on a train crossing the Mississippi River in the United States of America. It’s beautiful, flowing through heavily wooded valleys much like those of the Rhine. I can only imagine it in the summer, when all is green, or in the autumn, when colors dazzle the eye. But now is the heart of winter, and the hills roll with thick white snow, and the bare trees sleep, stark and gray. Yet all is still so beautiful!
Only moments ago, I witnessed a pack of wolves race across the river and pull down a male deer. It happened so quickly, and before the train passed out of view, the deer’s blood began to spread in a slow red dance across the ice. Horrible, yes, but quite amazing.
Ah, Christoph. You say, “Get to the point.” You know I am Master of Procrastination when it comes to matters concerning your mother.
Two months ago, I received a telegram from Superintendent Hastings of the Rochester Asylum for the Insane. The message contained three words:
Come at once.
What trouble has your mother gotten into this time? I will not allow myself to waste energy on premature worry. If she is dead or dying, I shall find out soon enough. Am I callous? It is only because I learn from the past.
Let me say this; here, complete honesty is in order. You know how I skip timidly around the subject of Gerta, but to do so would be a disservice to you. So let’s cast all molly-coddling aside, and I shall treat you like the man you’d be if you were still with us.
And of course you are still with me here, Christoph, in my heart.
January 13, 1898
My Dearest Christoph:
To travel so far, only to find I’ve been the subject of a hoax. I should’ve known from the beginning. I should’ve confirmed the telegram with Superintendent Hastings, but what does your father do when it comes to matters of family? He does not question. He drops everything, his appointments, his classes, his studies, and tramples like a blind rhinoceros into the glass factory.
