The engine throttled. Why would he ruin my moment?
I opened my eyes and glared at the smiling peon in the khaki pants and faded red polo shirt. He waved, mistaking my stare for gratification. It was time for him to leave us alone.
"She's all set, Dr. Werth," Sam the peon said, obliging my silent request and stepping out of the car. The smile wrapped around his face like someone had bolted it in place.
Must be the nice commission he's getting off me.
"Let's check it out together. I want to make sure it's everything you wanted," Sam said.
Why did he insist on taking my moment? I wanted to leave. I'd already paid for it.
Sam led me around the ocean contained in an SUV. My SUV. My luxury SUV. He droned on about different features. My thoughts lingered on the engine's power. The peon was right. This was everything I wanted.
Four years of undergrad. Four more at an Ivy League med school. No parties, no fun. My choice of residencies as a result of graduating at the top of my class. Then my choice of hospital assignments. Every year, the pain of loss of respect because of the clothes I couldn't afford and dignity for the rust bucket I drove. Math and chemistry always came easy to me. That was balancing equations. They always came out even.
There was one equation I never balanced. My lifestyle never equaled my position. While my colleagues climbed into their Beamers and Benzes, Porsches and Lexuses, I drove a Dodge Neon through each phase of my life, parking it at the outer edges of parking lots and my reality. The salary of a student, intern, and resident was barely above that of my civil servant father and stay-at-home mother.
The sacrifice finally paid off with my new job. The dealership threw me five hundred bucks for the Neon, more out of charity than value. I'll never forget the high-pitched yelp Sam the peon uttered when he lifted the floor mat and saw the roadway through the rusted hole. It didn't matter. I would have given them five hundred bucks to leave me alone with that abominable beast for a half hour with a sledgehammer, a book of matches, and a can of gasoline.
Sam was still talking when I came back to his reality.
"And here is that wiper fluid system you were so interested in, Doctor. Do me a favor and start the wipers. I want to show you how it works."
This was finally something I wanted to see. I paid cash for the fully loaded SUV. Show me the loaded.
The wipers looked out of place in the bright sunshine.
"Now, come and watch the bumper around the headlights."
I watched the show as intently as a tourist watching the fountains in Vegas would. A trap door opened and a one-inch black tube popped up in front of each headlight. A light mist struck the headlight and the tube vanished below the door. Miniature wipers brushed the fluid from the headlights. I smiled just like the peon had before.
"This line's connected to the washer fluid. It goes on automatically every five minutes when the wipers are on." The peon walked to my open driver's door. He applied that bolted-on smile and pulled an index finger across the neck. He followed the threat by killing the engine.
"Well, that seems to be about it. Paperwork's all ready to go. Come on back for service anytime. Not that you'll ever need it," Sam said. He leaned against his palm, which was down on my hood. He smiled that smile they must have taught at sales school.
I shook my head, while I gaped at his hand. He lifted the palm from the car and considered it in his other hand.
"You got your prints all over her. I'm not leaving until it's washed and waxed."
"Where? I can't see any." Sam leaned into the hood. I had visions of slamming his face into the spot where his palm print glistened in the sunshine. Would he stop smiling then?
I just didn't want my car remembering his grimy paws all over her.
"Are you really questioning me? Just get those grease monkeys out here and wash this thing. Or should I go to your boss."
Sam the peon's lips resumed normal human position. He hopped into my car and pulled away.
Twenty minutes later I was on the road. We didn't shake hands.
At a red light, I closed my eyes. My hands morphed into the steering wheel. Gasoline coursed through my veins. I opened my eyes, one with luxury. We would travel this way for the rest of our lives. One organism sharing fluids.
We hit the expressway. She begged me to open her up. My foot and the accelerator moved in tandem. We gripped the road, ninety felt like thirty so we hit one-twenty. I hadn't turned the radio on. The wind battered my ears. No voice would invade my time.
But it was time that stopped us. As it always does. A glance at the green numbers in the onboard navigation system reminded me that I had dinner plans. The reservations were under Doctor Werth. New job, new car, new life. I had to get home and then across town to pick up my latest date by 8:00 p.m. I was sure she would be impressed. They always were.
At 6:00 p.m. I started home. I turned off the highway, heading west. The sun's burning body sunk into the earth directly in front of me.
There were no other cars on the road near my house. No one but the upper crust, the mantle of the world, lived in this exclusive subdivision. We were one, the navigator and I. I closed my eyes and let that inner navigator take over until the turn for my street and the winding turns that led to my house. Orange circles dotted the blackness of my vision.
Thump, Thump, Thump, Crash.
My eyes jumped open. There was nothing but the fading sun in front of me. In the rearview something rolled behind my car like tumbleweed in those old Westerns. It looked like it had hair as it somersaulted. I told myself it didn't have hair. But I knew. I knew.
The accelerator and my foot were united all day and I wasn't able to separate them now. My foot wouldn't tap the brake. I stared into the rearview. The tumbleweed kept rolling down the street until it vanished into the drainage ditch.
Three rights and one left led me to my garage. Normally, I would park in the driveway if I were leaving soon. But I didn't today. I pushed a button in the navigator (the dealership had tuned my garage and car together before I left, another advantage to being in the mantle) and the brown door lifted, a panel at a time disappearing into the garage ceiling. I pulled into the middle of the empty two-car space. I had planned to fill the second space someday. I depressed the same button and the panels shielded me from the daylight.
I stopped the car, but left the keys in the ignition, leaving the battery engaged. I held my hand over the red emergency button on the touch screen that would alert the authorities. The navigator asked me to touch it. Symbiotically, of course.
My thoughts flashed to the Neon, abandoned at the dealership. Hours spent poring over textbooks as coeds drag their drunken conquests to various bedrooms across campus. It was a life I'd sacrificed for; the life I deserved. I broke the connection with the Navigator and stepped out of the car without touching the button.
The damage was minimal. The front bumper was dented on the passenger side. I couldn't tell if there was any damage underneath in the darkness. I decided not to turn on the lights to inspect. The truths we don't want to know about are always better hidden. Plus, I had dinner plans to cancel.
After calls to my date and the restaurant, feigning illness with both, I hung up the phone and leaned my forehead against the cold, black, granite countertop. My breath fogged the surface and my forehead began to slip because of the sweat. I don't know how long I stayed like that before I heard the knock on my front door. I picked my head up and looked around. Darkness had filled the house while I laid on the countertop. The house was newly built and sparsely furnished. I had not lived there long. I hoped to fill it with many items some day. I looked at my watch. No numbers marred the watch face, just a diamond where the twelve should be and two arms that floated around the black clock face. It was useless for telling time, but very useful for impressing people.
The beige uniform at the door surprised me. I'm still not sure why. The police officer must have noticed my reaction.
"Can, can, can
I help you officer?" In the movies, someone always said that when they weren't expecting a cop.
"Sure can. When did you get home, Dr. Werth?" The officer said. His blue eyes sparkled. His lips twitched like they wanted to smile. He was just investigating, looking for clues. He must be canvassing the whole neighborhood. I didn't even ask how he knew my name.
I paused and considered the best way to answer the question. One who is lying always ponders before he speaks. It's called damage control. Maybe it's a survival instinct. Maybe that's why it took cavemen so long to talk. They were pondering the first of many lies. I put a respectful hand to my face, hoping to look thoughtful of my last few hours. I felt the distinguished beard I was beginning to grow. It felt ridiculous.
"Oh, let me see. I guess I've been home since twoish. It's my one day off for the week."
The officer nodded. His lack of suspicions was confirmed. I was in the clear. No need to call an expensive lawyer.
"Did you hear anything about an accident forty minutes or so ago?"
"No, officer. I didn't hear anything. Was there an accident?" A quick gulp. "Oh God, was someone hurt?"
He nodded again. I wished he would stop doing it. He looked around the neighborhood.
"Yeah, a young girl was out running on Sterling Drive and was hit by a car. Hit and run."
I shook my head. Apparently, head movements were contagious, like yawning.
"Oh no. Is she okay?"
I really meant, Am I gonna be okay?
"'Fraid not. She's dead."
No words escaped my lips. I thought I heard the revving of the engine in my garage and the beating of pistons against my body. We were truly one.
"Well, doctor, we're just asking everyone in the neighborhood."
I couldn't eject from the conversation. I had to know if I was a suspect. Should I have just shut the door? Could I have?
"Why this neighborhood?"
This time the officer smiled.
"Two reasons, you see. The first, if you beg my pardon, is that this is a pretty rich subdivision. The car was apparently a Metallic blue Lexus SUV, which would fit right in around here."
Not a suspect, but that was my car. The pistons roared.
"What's the second reason?"
The officer opened his mouth wider with the smile. He looked like Sam the peon.
"Well, there was a trail of fluid. After the bastard hit the girl, it must've opened up some kind of hose. Caused a leak. Trail led us right here. Three rights and a left from Sterling."
The officer asked if he could look in my garage. I must have said yes, although I don't remember. The next thing I do remember is standing in the now illuminated two-car garage, minus one car. The officer explained that the crack in my bumper and dent on the hood that I missed matched up with striking a running girl. He also explained that my model Lexus had a luxurious aspect. Apparently, he explained, there's a line for windshield washer fluid that runs into the front bumper so that the headlights even get washed. It was one of my favorite features, I told him. He showed me where mine was broken and leaking.
He brought me here and kept bothering me until I wrote this. I don't know what good it will do. Everyone knows.
I worked so hard and sacrificed so much. Turns out it didn't matter at all.
The Unfinished Task by Michelle Hauck
Head high, Claire approached the cave. Char and ash covered the ground. The area around her was reduced to cinders, not even a weed allowed to escape. A stomach churning contrast to the green spread of the forest only yards away. A stench of carrion befouled the air, and her eyes turned for one last look at her village tucked in the valley far below.
A deserted ruin, it stood burnt and devastated, like the discarded toy of an angry child. Roofs of cottages had fallen, reduced by fire or a sweep of an armored tail. Walls had toppled, flattened or consumed to fragments. Fields were upturned, their crops to hold back winter's hunger, spoiled. Even chimney stones lay ground to powder.
The dragon had taken her family. Then her dear heart and the other young men of the village had perished one by one, their spears broken against its impenetrable scales. Their bodies fed its belly. The few remaining villagers hid in the woods against its return.
Claire squared her shoulders and chewed her last handful of juicy orange frothos berries. The berries would give her an edge the other heroes lacked. Her dear heart's last task lay unfinished. The last thing she could do for him was complete it. Stomach full, she entered the cave in short steps until her eyes compensated for the darkness. The smell forced her to press a trembling hand against her nose. Sweat ran down her sides in a clammy stream.
Two steps turned to ten, and then twenty. Her white dress clung to her legs as she crept down the tunnel. Her back rounded even though the height of the cavern was more than generous.
She clutched a handful of lace. Once she'd labored and dreamed over this dress. Now never to stand before the village in it with her hands clasped in his. Never to have dinner waiting on the table for his return. Never to sit beside the fire and read with him, snug behind the door as the first snow arrived. Tears prickled behind her eyes, but she had finished with them days ago.
One use waited for this dress. She'd even bound up her hair and tucked flowers among the coils. A bride of a different sort.
The cave opened out before her, bringing the raspy breathing ever closer. She hesitated, grasping a knob of cold stone to keep her legs from folding. No time to waste. She forced out a cough.
A scratching sounded, and a head the size of a horse reared high, contemplating her presence with huge green-slotted eyes. Mud-crusted scales scraped against rock as the beast levered itself to its feet, legs accepting its own ponderous weight. Great bat wings lay tucked against a humped back.
"Do you see your doom in me?" Claire whispered. She held out her empty hands and willed the shaking to stop, then took two careful steps closer. "Go on," she cried. "Do it!"
She approached until she stood directly under the beast. It's bulk a stone's throw away. Overhead, the dragon's maw showed row upon row of razor teeth. The same teeth had feasted upon father, mother, and him, making a sport of hunting them as they ran. Turning her wedding dress into a widow's weeds. A widow who'd never gotten her day.
Why didn't revenge feel sweet? In front of the great beast, no savor of triumph bloomed in her heart.
The beast hovered over her as it swayed hypnotically. The size of its mouth guaranteed it could finish her slight body in one bite, exactly as it had finished her dreams. Her fingers curled into fists; the pain would be as nothing to saving her village—as he would wish. With a scream, she turned and ran. The white dress billowed, a tempting target. Crashing footsteps lumbered behind. The ground shook.
The frothos berries caused her stomach to cramp. Soon now. Even the smallest child knew to avoid them. Their orange color and pleasant scent attracted the hungry, but a handful could poison a full grown cow. The amount in her stomach could do much more.
At the tunnel entrance the beast struck. Claire made no attempt to evade. Her eyes drank in one last glimpse of her home.
Saved.
A Life on Fire by Morgan George
Henry Tubbs got to see his life on fire. On a hot July night the compressor for his milking machine, sitting at the far end of his cow barn, malfunctioned, sparking forty years of dust and hay chaff into a ballet of flame, leaping and dancing, waiting for an encore. An acrid wall of hot smoke choked off the main exit of the barn, the only escape for the cows, and Henry found himself at a loss as he tried to rescue his life from the burning stable. His wife, always brazen, always loud, was speechless on the front porch, motionless with the phone in her hand, waiting for someone to give her the order to call the fire department. Such chaos disorders everything in its path, even the most stolid of farm wives.
Tommy, the neighbor, called the local fire department and then came to see if he could help get the cows out; by that time the barn was nothing more
than a fireball and the farm name etched on the nearest outside wall a flaming marque in orange and blue. In the end it took three fire departments and seven hours to calm the fire to a smolder, the charred remains still popping black against the starlit night. The air hung heavy, steamed and scented with the sweet and cloying stench of overheated silage and the smell of animals cooked with their hides still on.
Forty-two black and white and brown and red cows, all stanchioned and waiting for milking time. Jo-jo and Benny, Frito and Baby, Kayla and Daisy, Apple and Doreen. Forty-two milking cows raised from birth, named and talked to every day by a man who liked his cows better than he liked most people. Sadie and Anna, Jackie D. and Lola, Tallie and Pepper, Dax and Bonny. Forty-two cows stanchioned in the barn that night and Henry only managed to get four out, two burned so badly that they had to be shot the next day. Tad and Foxy, Bailey and Ford, Mable and Maud, Red and Chloe. Forty cows dead and gone. A life on fire.
The three fire departments came and went, twenty or more neighbors and friends came and went, one wife came and went with nothing to offer but blame, brazen and angry in an unhappy combination. Henry made it through all of that night and the next day; he made phone calls, he made arrangements, he chatted with the insurance man, he shook hands and he accepted sympathy. Then he simply stopped. He dragged an old lawn chair from the basement, a leftover from the days of sitting through his son's baseball games, and he put the chair on the lawn where he could see the burned ribcage of his barn standing against the mountain that had always shadowed his home. He found an old cooler and filled it with warm air and seventy-eight cans of Genesee beer, his long-standing therapist.
Henry sat down in his chair and pried open a warm beer and looked intently on the life he had known for the past forty years. He took it all in: melted tractor tires, seven-thousand ruined hay bales, puddled black water settling in every low spot, and a haze of dirty smoke. He saw the bodies, each still stanchioned, remembered each name in turn, and imagined saying good-bye, running a hand over a nose here and scratching an ear there. Maggie and Jessie, Sky and Milky, Nancy and Pedro, Velma and Boots. Henry sat and thought about what to do next. He sat and watched as they dug a hole and buried the bodies. He sat and watched as they dug a hole and buried what was left of the barn, his lifetime nothing more than a scar on the hillside, memories put to rest. For three days filled with stagnant air and warm beer Henry sat and sunned himself and dozed and thought about what to do next. The reassuring words of the insurance man, "rebuild! rebuild!" echoed in his head. The harsh voice of his wife lashed at him, "drunk, coward, your fault, your fault." Both voices were drowned by the hum of a summer turned useless. There was no reason to cut and bale hay, no reason to look forward to chopping corn in the fall, no reason to sleep or to wake up. The neighbors worried and wondered, they talked about what they would do in Henry's place, and they came up with better plans for him, as people are apt to do.
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