Bystanders

by Tara Laskowski

  “Miss, I’m sorry. I’m not interested in whatever it is you’re trying to sell.”

  “I—no! I’m not selling anything. I just wanted to tell you, your car. You left the lights on.”

  He peered out past her, bending down to see below the awning. She pointed, her finger drooping. She knew what he was going to say before he said it. “That’s not my car, ma’am. I don’t know whose car that is. Thank you.”

  He closed the door, hard. She heard him talking loudly, retreating deeper into his house. Her anger was fierce, hot and red. She got halfway down the street before letting it out in loud, gulping sobs, crying like she hadn’t in a long time, her gasps echoing in the empty street. She didn’t care if anyone saw her. She kept hearing Raymond’s laugh, loud and sudden, like a slap.

  It grew dark as she made her way back to the house. On the kitchen table, the red velvet cake had been sliced and three dirty plates were stacked in the sink. Her father and Bud were watching football in the living room while her mother fiddled with a crossword puzzle. She looked up as Marie walked in.

  “Honey? There’s cake there on the table.”

  “I know, Mom. You guys didn’t wait?” Her voice sounded on the edge of hysteria. She could see her mother examining her face, the puffiness, and knew she wouldn’t ask her what was wrong.

  “Well, your father—we didn’t think you’d mind. There’s still plenty left.”

  “It’s ok. I’m not hungry. I want to go home, Bud.”

  He looked up from the television at the sound of his name and nodded. “In a minute, Marie.”

  She waited in the car for him, and a few minutes later Bud came out, carrying a wrapped plate of leftovers to the car. He set it at her feet in the front seat, not saying a word. It had begun to snow, wet flakes that melted as they touched the windshield.

  Bud was quiet for the first half of the ride home. He kept glancing over at her. She shifted in her seat, pulling her knee to her chest.

  Bud squeezed her leg, his touch tentative. “You know, I’ve been thinking. About us.”

  She closed her eyes, rested her head. The heater blew air at her face, making her skin feel raw. She wanted a cold washcloth to press under her eyes.

  “This whole accident thing has really upset you, and well, I want you to know that, if you want, we could try.” He broke off.

  She opened her eyes. “Try?”

  He glanced over at her, scratched beneath his ear. “Yeah. I mean, I know we’d said that we didn’t really want kids, but if you changed your mind, you know, I don’t think it’s too late yet.”

  Her eyes widened. She laughed, a burst of noise—a cackle, really, echoing the old man, she realized. Bud tensed beside her. She caught her reflection in the rear view mirror, her cheeks red and shiny, puffed like some kind of animal. Bud was staring at her, his eyes searching hers for something, probably recognition. He must think she was crazy. She turned away.

  “Oh God, look out Bud!” Her breath sucked back in a gasp. The car in front of them had stopped short at the red light, and Bud was going to slam right into the back of it. Bud reacted before Marie could brace herself. She was thrown forward as he braked, his tires squealing as he tried to swerve to the right to avoid the car. Her seatbelt cut into her chest.

  They stopped inches from the car. Marie fell back against her seat. She closed her eyes. “It’s over,” she said.

  “Yes, Marie. I’m sorry. It’s ok, we’re fine,” Bud was saying, his hand heavy on her arm. She was thinking of the boy, the way he flew through the air like it was a circus act, so light, like he weighed only as much as a sheet of paper. She was thinking how quickly it had happened; how in only one second you could change someone’s life forever. And suddenly, she knew why she sympathized with Raymond Balcham so deeply. She knew why she wanted to see him, why she kept thinking of him. It was because she was going to do the same thing he’d done. She, too, was going to kill, destroy, rip someone apart, and it was nearly impossible to avoid it.

  She opened her eyes, and looked at Bud through her tears. He looked like he was ready to crumble with worry, his eyes large and focused, this man that she’d promised so much to a long time ago when they were both different people. “No, Bud. I mean it’s really over,” she said, and waited for the impact to register.

  There’s Someone Behind You

  They park on the side of a dark road in front of an old railroad bridge overtaken by weeds. “This is your surprise?” Ruthie asks, her smile fading as William shuts off the car.

  “Come on, it’ll be fun.”

  Ruthie shakes her head. “You’re joking. I’m not getting out of the car. Where the hell are we?”

  “We’re in my old neighborhood. I know exactly where we are. Come on. It’s really cool.”

  “William, I swear to God if you’re trying to scare me…” Ruthie trails off, examining the bridge. The concrete has crumbled in places, and there are hints of faded graffiti, giving it the feel of a Roman-ruin-meets-abandoned-bus-depot.

  “Rootie, I used to hang out here all the time in high school. Nothing’s going to happen. I promise.”

  She reluctantly gets out of the car, crossing her arms in front of her chest. It is mid-October but Virginia is going through a heat wave and William is wearing cargo shorts and a t-shirt that make him look very un-dentist-like. She is worried he is going through a mid-life crisis and she’s part of the plan—the blonde mistress almost half his age. She would joke about it with him but she doesn’t really want to know. He comes to her and drapes his arm across her shoulders. They walk along the side of the road, Ruthie’s heels catching on pebbles and stones.

  “Special night, my ass,” she mutters.

  William pinches her and she squeals, smacking him on the arm.

  “I can’t help it, it’s cute.” He sighs. “Come on, cheer up.”

  “You said we were going to do something fun. I didn’t know ‘fun’ meant traipsing through the goddamn woods at night.”

  “I grew up ten minutes from here. I know this place with my eyes closed.”

  Ruthie rolls her own. They approach the bridge, a concrete arch built into a hill. The road passes through the hill under the arch, creating a narrow one-lane tunnel, and then curves sharply to the right directly after the bridge. “Jeez, that looks dangerous.”

  “It is.” He grabs her hand and starts pulling her up the incline. The brush is overgrown but a narrow gravel pathway leads up to the railroad tracks.

  “What the hell are you doing, William? Do these look like hiking shoes?”

  “It’s all right. I’ve got you. Come on. We have to get to the top.”

  She lets him help her, complaining the whole way. It is dark and she is too old for this shit. And yet these kind of stunts were, in part, why she had been attracted to him in the first place—he was much more fun than any other man his age. Sometimes he just went too far.

  At the top of the railroad bridge, Ruthie and William stand directly over the road and look down at his lonely car. From here, the street looks even narrower. The railroad tracks are rusted, the wood between them rotting. “Is this safe?” Ruthie says, looking around at the woods. They are only a few miles from Washington, D.C., but out here it feels like the middle of nowhere. She shivers.

  “I’ll tell you what this is,” he says, lowering his voice in a way that makes Ruthie feel like throwing him over the bridge. “It’s called the Bunnyman Bridge. Years ago, a bus was transporting a bunch of inmates from an insane asylum over to Lorton Prison—”

  “Fuck you, William. You said you weren’t going to scare me.” She punches him in the shoulder.

  “Just listen, will you? Jesus, like you don’t beg me to watch every scary movie ever made.”

  “Movies are different. You’re in a theater. With seats and people around you. Not in the middle of the woods on a rotting rail
road track.”

  “Shh.” He puts his finger on her lips and in spite of herself she bites it playfully. He continues. “Anyway, the bus crashed and a bunch of the patients escaped and ran into these woods. The police caught all of them except this one guy. They started finding dead bunny bodies all around here and figured he was surviving on the meat. Then one night they finally surrounded him, and you know, he’s all crazy, and just as they’re about to get him, he jumps in front of an approaching train and kills himself.”

  Ruthie kicks him in the shoe. She is not scared, really, just a little confused by his definition of entertainment. She is still waiting for the punch line. She moves closer to him and looks up, thrilled more at the nice way his eyes shine in the moonlight than by the silly story he is telling. She likes when he teases her. She also always likes to be touching him, as if to prove to herself he’s really there.

  “So this place is haunted. He supposedly comes back every year and kills someone on Halloween.”

  “Great. Great story, thanks.”

  He laughs and puts his arm around her. “Rootie. Come on. Do you know what a great makeout spot this was for me as a teenager?”

  “Yeah, I always get turned on by the thought of dead bunnies.” She’s frowning. She doesn’t like to think of him making out with other women. With his wife. She wants him to herself, custom-made, one of a kind.

  He snorts. “You’re no fun.”

  She glares at him. “So, what? You were bringing me here hoping to get lucky?” She puts her arms around his neck and presses her body into his. “Don’t you know there are a lot of easier ways to do that, Billy Budd?” He smells like laundry. Under his shirt, his skin is warm and damp.

  He laughs. “I forgot you were easy.”

  Ruthie pulls away. “Whatever.” She leans over the concrete ledge and looks down at the dark road below. They haven’t seen even one car since arriving. “Did you bring your wife here to make out?”

  William grabs her at the waist. His shoes scuff on the dirt and that is the only sound besides the rustling of the trees. “Here, Ghostie, Ghostie,” he whispers into her ear. It annoys her when he chooses to ignore those kinds of questions even though she knows, they both know, she supposes, that there is no way to answer them without trouble. The black treetops bend in the wind.

  William pulls away, his eyes bright from the moon. His face changes. “I think there’s someone behind you, there in the woods. Watch out.”

  “You’re a jerk.” She begins the descent herself, eager to get back to the car. She can hear William behind her, and then he stops and she looks back, balancing herself. His behavior irritates her, especially in moments like these when she sees him for what he really is, a middle-aged man favoring his knee.

  “Did you hear that?” His face is hard to make out and Ruthie grows angry.

  “Shut up, William. Act your age for once.”

  “It sounded like whispering. It sounded like, ‘Ruthie.’”

  ***

  “You really are an asshole sometimes,” Ruthie says back in the car where, with the radio on and the headlights beaming across the road, she feels safe.

  “You loved it. You were scared.” He pinches her cheek. He’s got a station on that plays Barry Manilow, and she punches his radio, not really angry but still wanting to be. “Come on, I was just kidding.”

  “Don’t you have anything good?” She turns around, rooting through his backseat, ignoring the gray basketball sweatshirt and hand-held video game on the floor. She finds a Pink Floyd CD and puts it in, settling back in her seat.

  “That’s Michael’s music. He’s got better taste than me.”

  Ruthie keeps her eyes closed. She doesn’t like it when William brings up his son as though it is perfectly normal. But William seems to assume her silence is an invitation to talk more.

  “He’s working night shift for the first time tonight at the 7-Eleven and Jackie’s all nervous. Every Friday night for the next month, like a damn slave, they have him working. Don’t you think he’s too young for that?”

  “William, can we talk about something else?” Her tone is rude. Short and clipped. He calls it her ‘bullet talk.’

  “Sorry.” He puts his hand on her knee and squeezes. “It’s ok, you know. You’ll get to meet him one day.”

  She shifts, knocking his hand off her knee. Her mood has turned black since the bridge and she hopes he blames himself. “Don’t say stuff like that if you don’t mean it.”

  He is silent. She is afraid to look at him. It is supposed to be a nice night, just the two of them. He’s told his wife something. Ruthie has stopped asking what the story is. She doesn’t want to know how well he lies.

  “You know, I didn’t tell you the whole story about that bridge,” he says finally, turning down the radio. She recognizes what he is doing, trying to brush off the fight. It is an offering she can either ignore or accept.

  “Yeah? What else is there?”

  He grins. “Well, years later, after this Bunny Man thing had been a legend for some time, teenagers, like myself, used to go there to hang out and scare each other. In the ’60s, these kids apparently went there and two of them slipped off into the woods to get it on and they never came back. They found them the next morning, gutted and hanging from the bridge.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “I’m just telling you what I heard, baby. Aren’t you glad I kept that one until now? If I’d told you that back there, you would’ve killed me.”

  “I believe in ghosts.”

  “I know you do. You were scared. I could see it.”

  She wrinkles her forehead. “And you liked that I was scared? Was that your purpose?” She shakes her head before he can answer and puts her hand on top of his. She loves him and it hurts, but it is even more than that, a deep, bright pang, like an itch that’s so satisfying to scratch even as it stings and opens, raw. She can’t shake the feeling that they are never alone, that even speeding down the dark highway right now there is someone behind them, looking over their shoulders, waiting for them to fuck up.

  ***

  Ruthie often meets William at his office, which is only five minutes from the software company she works for in Reston and a good forty to fifty minutes from either of their houses and either of their other lives. She started going to him last year after waking up with an impacted molar. She likes his office with its little green awning out front, located in a brick office park between an insurance agency and an optometrist, the professionally stenciled “William Fairfield, D.D.S.” in silver letters on the front glass door.

  The receptionist in William’s office looks up at Ruthie with a tired expression, her pointy nose smudged as though she’d rubbed it all over the newspaper she is reading. “I’ll let him know you’re here,” she says, grabbing a file folder and disappearing through the door to the back offices. Ruthie wonders, as always, if the woman says the same thing to William’s wife. The thought makes her blush.

  In a few minutes, William pokes his head through the door and motions for Ruthie. She is excited, as always, by the way he looks dressed up. Today it is a beige Nautica dress shirt with a silver, beige, and navy blue-striped tie.

  In the examining room, he closes the door behind them and kisses her, his hands spreading through her hair and massaging her scalp. “You smell good,” he mumbles in her ear.

  “Dr. Fairfield, I’m not sure this is professional behavior.”

  He pulls away, all business. “I know. I’m sorry. It’s been a crazy week, and I’m leaving for that conference thing this weekend—” Ruthie pouts, her head tilted, and William grabs her bottom lip and tugs playfully, “but I wanted to see you before I left. And here you are.”

  They go to a small Italian deli a ten-minute drive from William’s office. Whenever they meet for lunch, they choose from a variety of places around their work
areas, busy restaurants where people don’t pay attention to other people. Ruthie doesn’t like the smaller, quieter places. They make William nervous, always glancing around.

  The line is long and Ruthie sits at a corner table to save them seats. William stands with his hands in his pockets, whistling. He is a good foot taller than the rest of the people waiting in line. The man behind him taps him on the shoulder. “Bill Fairfield?” William turns around and looks, his eyes dawning recognition. She knows he hates being called “Bill.”

  “Paul! Hey, buddy! What’s up?” William offers a strong handshake, his face breaking into a smile that makes him even more handsome. Ruthie crosses her legs, leaning over the table to watch him. “How’ve you been?”

  They exchange pleasantries. William glances quickly over at Ruthie. The line moves ahead and the two men shuffle forward, still talking. She can tell William wants to end the conversation but doesn’t know how. The other man is persistent, talkative, his hands flying everywhere. He has to look up at William to talk with him.

  “So, just on a lunch break? Are you here alone? Want to sit down and catch up?” Paul glances around the deli, no doubt looking for an empty seat, and his eyes rest for a moment on Ruthie. She glances away, out the window, and hears William reply, “No, actually. I’m just picking up this order to go. It’s crazy at the office today.”

  “Oh. Right. Well, someday we’ll have to play golf again.”

  “Definitely,” William answers.

  ***

  Ruthie is sitting in front of her television, drinking bourbon and eating Milky Ways wrapped in orange and black paper. On the news, the anchorman reads a story about a young girl who’s gone missing after a costume party at the local YMCA. She was last seen wearing a witch’s hat and cape.

  William is at his conference and Ruthie is waiting for him to call. She picks up the phone and tries to reach her friend Julie, who just got married, and when there is no answer, she calls two other friends. Even her mother isn’t home, her upbeat voice on the answering machine making Ruthie feel even sadder. She hangs up and wanders through her apartment. She feels like everyone else is doing something, going somewhere, and she is home missing William. It makes her angry. She is sick of her place. All these things.