18 Seconds

by George D. Shuman

  Mostly his work was kneeling and reaching under the boards, but sometimes there were places to stand and he could see up through a knothole in the wood or a crack between the boards, and flashes of color caught his eye as people went by.

  He loved the smells around the boardwalk, the roasting peanuts, the taffy and sausages and pizza. He loved watching the sunbathers as he walked along the beach.

  He stabbed a sock, a candy wrapper, and someone’s discarded brassiere that he held high to inspect before he dropped it in the sack. “Bbbbbbraaaaaaaaa.” He smiled.

  The fog was lifting and the sun was getting whiter. Soon the haze would burn away and there would be a startling blue sky to take its place.

  Jeremy’s rubber boots tread along the sand, his eyes alert for objectionable litter. An airplane growled its way up the coast, dragging an ad banner. He stabbed a prophylactic and a gutted fish, then two paper cups and a hamburger wrapper. The bag filled quickly and he climbed the steps to the boardwalk and dumped it out in a bin. Then he returned to fill it again and again until noon, when he left his sack and spear on the sand beneath Pedro’s and went up to get his Styrofoam cup full of black beans and rice. He sat under the walk and ate half of it, saving the spoon and the rest of the container in his pocket for dinner.

  It turned out to be another bright, clear day and the beaches were packed with people. He watched them playing Frisbee and badminton and football, something that always looked like so much fun to Jeremy.

  The girls were dressed scantily and he grinned at them wearing only their bbbbrrrraaaaaassss and ppppaaaantiiiiieeeesss. There were only a few out now, but in a month the beach would be covered, bodies slicked in oil as far as the eye could see.

  He rarely ran into people under the walk and when he did he made certain to walk around them. If they said anything mean to him, he was not supposed to listen. He was there to pick up the trash and they were there to leave it and that was all he needed to know or think about, his boss Ben Johnson told him.

  The late afternoon sun cast shadows on the strip of tall hotels to the south. Lifeguard candidates were doing their rescue drills with an orange boat in the surf, and a small crowd of tourists had gathered to watch.

  Just before five he came to Strayer’s Pier and then to the drainpipe, which he followed midway where it began to rise on trestles and slipped under it. He stabbed a napkin trapped under the boardwalk and saw another beneath the pipe. Jeremy was six feet tall and hitting his head was a problem under the walk, so he was careful to look up when he got too far under, which was exactly what he was doing when he noticed the shiny object stuck between the cracks of the boards.

  He used the handle of his plastic spoon to dislodge it and found a small ring caked in crusty brown gunk.

  Jeremy left his bag under the walk and stepped out into the sun, shielding his eyes from the blazing light until he could see once more. Then he made his way around an island of towels and proceeded toward the ocean. At the water’s edge he stopped and watched tiny holes appear when the tide receded, and then crouched there waiting for its return.

  Gulls sailed overhead, watching for the telltale glimmer that betrayed food, soaring north across Strayer’s Pier, turning west over the boardwalk and Ocean Avenue, looping once more toward the surf. One landed next to him as he put the ring in the water, rubbing it between his thumb and fingers, and when all the brown stuff was gone, he stood again.

  The ring was gold and it had the letters AMC on it.

  Jeremy found rings and other jewelry from time to time, most of them were just plastic, but some were metal like this one. He used to call his supervisor every time he found something, but Mr. Johnson said he was tired of driving out for every piece of junk he found, so he told him that unless it had a big sparkling white stone in it, keep it.

  He put the ring in his pocket and went back to retrieve his sack. He started south again, picking up more trash until he was at Cresse Avenue and the end of his day.

  It was after five and Jeremy was late again. Sometimes Mr. Johnson would come by in his pickup at five and let him climb into the bed under the tarp—because Jeremy wasn’t supposed to ride in the back and never in the cab because he smelled too bad—and drive him back to Mrs. Lester’s rooming house. He might have shown Mr. Johnson the new gold ring if he had come today, but he was late and Mr. Johnson had already made his rounds.

  A football game was under way on the beach by the Cresse Avenue ramp. He sat under the walk in the shadows, watching the men set up plays, passing tight spirals, diving to catch the ball.

  Football was one of those mysterious things to him. He couldn’t explain it, but when he saw people playing, it was like a happy and a sad feeling all rolled up in one. He had those feelings when he woke from some of his dreams as well, always imagining himself as someone else in some other room and then finding out that he was only lying in his own bed at Mrs. Lester’s. He felt that way when the leaves turned in the fall and when a school bus passed and the kids were screaming from the windows. He felt that way when he saw the black-draped picture in Mr. Coco’s shoe repair shop. He’d heard about those boys who died on that bus; he had heard about it more than a few times because people used to whisper about it every time he came near. But that was a long time ago, and no one talked about that so much anymore.

  Maybe on the way home this evening, when he was by the fields behind the high school, he would try to run a few steps himself. He smiled at the thought.

  13

  SATURDAY EVENING, MAY 14

  PHILADELPHIA, PENNSYLVANIA

  It was nine-thirty on the last night of the Paxton viewing. Payne chose the time because most visitors had come and gone and the family was weary of walking up to the casket by now. They all sat there, washed out and whispering to one another. Children were gathered on one side, adults on the other.

  Susan Paxton would have had many regular customers in her years at Carmela’s—people the family couldn’t have known—so an attractive, well-dressed blind woman visiting the casket wouldn’t be all that remarkable. And a blind woman who had taken the time and effort to come here would be expected to stand a few extra minutes with the departed before she left the room.

  Payne needed to divert the family’s attention. He didn’t want them walking up and putting an arm around Sherry when she was on the brink of connecting.

  “Detective Payne,” Mr. Paxton said, surprised.

  “Mr. Paxton,” Payne acknowledged him.

  “I—didn’t expect—”

  Payne nodded and took the man’s hand, putting his arm around his shoulders. “I didn’t want to come when you were so busy with family. Might we walk up and see Susan?”

  “Of course, of course.”

  Paxton led the detective to his wife’s casket. “They did a nice job.”

  Payne’s eyes strayed to the entry wound on her temple. Paxton was right; they had done a nice job. “I’m sorry it took so long to release the body.”

  “It’s fine,” Paxton said. “It kept the family together a little longer.”

  They stood a moment looking at her, then Payne turned and led Paxton to the back of the room. He was looking down toward his shoes, seemingly on the verge of saying something, seemingly unsure of himself at the same time.

  “Is there something new, Detective? Something you wanted to tell me?”

  Payne shook his head. “Not new exactly.” He walked toward a corner. “But I wouldn’t mind talking with you a few minutes if you don’t think it’s bad timing.”

  “Certainly,” Paxton said.

  There was a small commotion at the door and everyone turned to see a beautiful woman wearing tinted glasses and carrying a white walking stick. She was on the arm of the funeral director and heading for the casket when the director noticed William Paxton in the rear of the room and diverted her to him.

  “This is Mr. Paxton, Susan’s husband,” the director said. “Miss Moore?” The director skillfully patted her hand as he
talked.

  “Yes.” She smiled. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Paxton. I was a customer and friend.”

  The director looked questioningly at Payne.

  “John Payne,” the detective said, reaching for her hand. “Very nice to meet you, Miss Moore.”

  Paxton smiled for the thousandth time that week. “Thank you so much for coming. It is so incredible to us to discover how many lives Susan touched.”

  “She was a saint,” Sherry said, and Payne winced. “I didn’t want to interrupt you, though. Please, may I walk up and spend a moment with her?”

  “Of course, of course, let me walk with—”

  “No, no, please let me spend a few minutes alone, if that’s all right? You two go back to what you were doing.”

  “Of course,” Paxton said. “Of course, and thank you again for coming.”

  They watched the funeral director lead the blind woman away.

  “It’s this business with her father that’s been bothering me,” Payne said, pivoting Paxton away to break the spell.

  “I told you she didn’t have any relationship with him. Really, Detective, none at all.”

  Payne motioned toward two folding chairs. “Yes, I know, but the mob might not care about that.”

  Paxton wheeled around. “The mob?”

  Sherry asked the funeral director to position her mid-casket and assured him she could manage from there on her own. She whispered conspiratorially that it would also give her some time to catch her breath. “I don’t get out that much and the effort tires me easily.”

  “Yes, yes, Miss Moore.” He patted her hand. “Take all the time you need. Just raise a finger when you want me to come forward. I’m only in the back of the room.”

  She waited until he was gone and reached for the rim of the casket, fingers tracing the satiny material to the woman’s arm, then down to an exposed hand. The room was warm; the hand was cold and dry.

  Someone sneezed well behind her; she could hear conversations, separately at first, then all together like the distant hiss of a waterfall. She squeezed Susan’s hand and—

  …a pair of small white patent leather shoes, toes swinging back and forth over a mound of dirt, chubby legs kicking outward to gain speed, chiffon dress filling with air, climbing to dazzling sunlight, plunging past a ring of yellow lilies.

  A woman was crying at a dining room table, a man wearing a floppy hat and raincoat with horrible scars on his neck was looking at clothes, he was in the store where Susan worked, she thought. A customer…

  Her arms reached out, pulling a heavy red fisherman’s sweater over a dark-haired child, pushing the child toward a set of glistening stairs that climbed to a snow-covered angel.

  She saw a vintage bus with a metal placard that readFLATBUSH AVE.

  Her nose wrinkled.

  Something sweet, the smell of…strawberries filled her head; a policeman smiled down at her, a man in jeans handed her a rose, a priest laughed.

  SYKO SUE. The letters were spray-painted white on a board, a bearded long-haired boy with crazed black eyes came toward her—she saw a gun, then a muzzle flash. Suddenly she was in a car looking out, could smell gasoline and dirty clothes; a woman’s face was slammed against the windshield, lip split, smearing blood around a pale flat cheek. One green eye stared in at her, the eye open wide in terror, pleading, the face suddenly ripped away as the woman was flung aside.

  Sherry felt hands on her shoulders, people whispering excitedly behind her; she was being pulled off the floor and helped to a chair. Someone made a hushed command for water. A moment later a paper cup was put to her lips, then more hands on her shoulders.

  “There, there, Miss Moore, are you okay now?”

  She could smell Payne’s fruity cologne, a Christmas gift from his wife two years ago.

  “Yes.” She held up a finger for everyone to give her a moment. She needed to catch her breath. She wanted to go back to the casket, to take the woman’s hand again; she needed to know how the nightmare ended. Her nightmare!

  “More water,” the man commanded, and small footsteps pattered across the carpet.

  She shook her head, overwhelmed by the scent of strawberries. “I just need some air,” she said. “Just some air and I’ll be fine.”

  How strange the feeling, yet what could it mean? How could Susan Paxton have known what she dreamed of? Was it even possible for two people to have the same dream?

  Or maybe, as she had long suspected, they weren’t dreams or nightmares at all. Maybe they were memories.

  “Shall I call someone? An ambulance?”

  “No,” she said firmly, a tic quivering at the corner of her mouth. “No, I’m all right now.” She trembled. She could still feel the woman’s hand in hers, still see the woman’s face against the windshield, and the sight of her was heart-wrenching.

  “Just a touch of the flu,” Sherry managed to say. “It’s been coming on for a while.” She blotted her forehead with her sleeve. “My cab is waiting outside. If you can help me to the door, the air will do me good.”

  Fingers snapped and she was helped to her feet. “Here, Miss Moore, take my arm. I’ve got you now, steady there, I’ve got your cane.”

  “What happened in there?”

  Payne thought she looked worse than she had at the funeral home. He walked into the kitchen and put a kettle on the stove for tea. A few minutes later he put a cup in her hands and she wrapped her fingers tightly around it.

  Sherry sat silently, a shawl around her shoulders, holding, not drinking, the tea.

  There was a rap at the door.

  “Mr. Brigham,” she said softly. Her neighbor had come by to read her the mail. “Please tell him I’m not feeling well. Tell him I’ll call him tomorrow.”

  The experience with Susan Paxton was more than personal. The face on the windshield had never been so clear, so vivid. How could she explain to anyone else what it was like to look inside your own head?

  Payne and Brigham spoke at the door for several minutes. Sherry was sipping her tea when he returned. Her amber-shaded eyeglasses were on the table; her face was ashen. She was frightened, he thought. Frightened of the shooter or something else?

  “Did you see a man, Sherry?”

  She shrugged and nodded. “Several.”

  “The man who shot her?”

  She shrugged again. “I don’t know, John. I think so, I guess so, I don’t know for sure.”

  “Somebody stood out?”

  She nodded. “There was a man, a young man. I think he was there just before the gun went off.”

  “Can you describe him?”

  She nodded. “Long dark hair, bearded…”

  “To an artist, I mean? A police artist.”

  She nodded again.

  “You’re frightened of something, Sherry?”

  She hesitated. She didn’t want to go into it right now. She wouldn’t even know where to start.

  “John, I don’t know for sure if he was the killer. You know what it’s like. What I see is not always in the right order.”

  “If there was something else, Sherry, tell me. Anything could be important.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know; there was a woman and her face was pushed against the windshield of a car.”

  “Susan?”

  “No, not Susan. I don’t know who she was.”

  “Okay, then where? Can you tell where this was?”

  “No!” she said too loudly. “She saw it from inside the car.” Sherry was both tired and exasperated. “She, Susan, was looking out of a car and this woman’s face was being pushed down on the other side of the windshield. That’s all I saw, that’s how it ended, John.”

  “Okay, okay, back to the guy. The younger one, he was the closest person in time to when you saw the gun?”

  “That’s what I remember,” she said shakily. “I saw his face, then I saw the muzzle flash. John, I’m all right. Maybe I really do have a touch of the flu. I’ll be fine, I promise.”


  “Can I bring you more tea?”

  She shook her head. “John, go home to your wife. She’s probably frantic by now.”

  He looked up at her; it was a tone she had never used with him before.

  She wasn’t wrong, of course. He had a wife and a home of his own. He did have to go.

  “We’ll talk tomorrow then, okay?”

  She nodded without answering and turned away from him.

  “Sleep well.”

  “Yes,” she said. “I’ll sleep fine, John.”

  She waited until she heard his car start, then ran to the closet where she kept her medicines and rummaged through her containers until she came to a box filled with suntan lotions and tubes of lip balms. She pulled off caps and smelled them, tossing them aside until at last she found what she was looking for. Then she returned to the couch and sat, tears streaking down her face as she began to apply it to her lips. Then she covered her chin and cheeks with the strawberry-scented balm.

  14

  SUNDAY, MAY 15

  GLASSBORO, NEW JERSEY

  Marcia spat into the cracked porcelain sink and rinsed flecks of clotted blood down the drain. She pushed her loose tooth to the left with her tongue; a green lump swelled above her breast.

  It had been one round after another since Nicky took the week off from work, culminating in last night’s knockout punch that seemed to satisfy even the generally importunate Nicky Schmidt. At least he must have been satisfied. He hadn’t raped her while she was unconscious this time.

  Today would be better. Sundays were quiet days. The Schmidts spared their women on weekends in favor of NASCAR on the patriarch’s big-screen TV.

  Marcia didn’t know which she hated more—weekday beatings or Nicky’s sister climbing the walls for a fix of crack cocaine while his mother, who hid her own bruises under makeup, made sandwiches and carried beers to and from the living room.