by Tim McBain
I observe the motionless lump swathed in blankets next to me that is Ms. Babinaux. The only human detail I can make out from my vantage point is her dark hair draped over the pillow behind her. After a second I realize that the bulge is not quite motionless after all. The blanket rises and falls when she breathes.
I move to the nightstand, light on my feet. My hand hesitates just shy of the drawer handle, fingers flicking in anticipation. Relax, dude. I grip the handle and ease the drawer out. Wood moans against wood, but it’s not much louder than the sound my back made. The lump in the blankets doesn’t react. I pull free the little packet of fabric that looks like a folded up flag, tuck it under my arm and guide the drawer back into its home.
I tiptoe to the door, shove my feet into my shoes, sweeping a finger behind my right Achilles like a shoehorn where my heel mashed some shoe down into the hole along with the foot. I take extra time with the door, pushing down on the handle as I pull so the door doesn’t stick and grate against the frame. It barely makes a sound.
I stand in the doorway a moment, the gray light streaming in all around me, frigid air joining it. I sort of want to tell Babinaux what is happening or at least say bye, but I can’t. I know I can’t. This way is for the best.
I cross the threshold and step away from the building.
On the highway once more, the rumble of the Taurus’s engine vibrating the steering wheel against my hands. A Tim Horton’s dark roast with double milk, double sugar washes down a dark chocolate donut that I would deem quite a pedestrian pastry effort. The donut does make the coffee seem even tastier, though, which is impressive. Breakfast of champions.
The Taurus finds few auto companions out this early. We ride through a stretch where we see no one else on the road, and the world feels empty again. But it’s OK this time. It makes it seem like I’ve got the jump on everyone today, that I press forward while the rest of the world sleeps.
I feel at ease with myself and my course. Relieved. Finally. Maybe it was sleeping on the decision that helped. Maybe it was something else. I don’t know. Maybe I know that this is actually what I’m supposed to do, what I always had to do.
This is my date with destiny.
And I’m not talking about that stripper Destiny that I dated briefly like 8 years ago. Seriously, she has nothing to do with this. Just a total coincidence.
It looks so cold outside. Frost glistens in the trees and grass. The asphalt appears pale and cracked and dried out. I feel a shiver waiting to go off in my shoulders, so I take a big drink of hot coffee to keep the chill out of me. Seems to work.
It’s weird how your thoughts get clear when you have a purpose, when you drive yourself to a particular goal, even if your purpose or goal is something ugly. I guess this is bigger than just a goal or a desire, though. I believe. When you believe in your purpose, it changes you. You get this weird perspective, like you’re floating above the world, above yourself.
All of the anguish and frustration and hurt that you’ve been washes away. All of the pettiness, the shallowness, the selfishness. The mess of confusion that blocks your view of yourself, it all goes away. And in a way all of the things you used to be fade out, and you don’t have to be scared or conflicted, and you see who you really are, and what you really want.
For me, it’s pretty simple. I’ll give myself credit for that much, at least. I’ve always kept things pretty simple, in a good way, a wise way.
I drive on, a high speed burn to the next phase, the whole world in front of me, though it’s much smaller now than ever before. I press the cassette into the mouth of the tape player, and the red light blasts out its silent sound.
Chapter 37
I take a left off of the exit and gas up the Taurus at a Shell station. As I jam the nozzle into the filler tube of the gas tank, I realize that it’s even colder out than I realized. It feels important, sort of permanent or official somehow. This isn’t merely some cold day. No, winter is declaring itself here for good with this level of frigidity.
Wind whips through the open area near the gas pumps, so cold that I sort of just want to lie down and die and be done with it, let the concrete sap the heat out of me quickly, mercifully. My real fate is much worse, though: I have to go into the gas station to pay. Yeah. I hate it, but I only have cash.
The door beeps as I pass through it. The cashier’s head bobs up from a tabloid to look in my direction, an old lady with dyed blond hair and shiny lips and hands, all smiley in a dim way with drooped eyelids. It’s an unflattering expression, a little off putting, even. Like if you let a three-toed sloth drink two bottles of Boone’s Farm, this would be the look on its face.
I pay, her shiny fingertips touching my palm for too long in a way that makes me feel funny. And then I’m back in the cold, jogging to the car, and back in the Taurus where I belong. Weird how quickly these experiences come and go, like being in the gas station felt like being in another world, and it’s only 30 or 40 feet from where I sit now.
I turn left out of the gas station. There’s one more quick stop I want to make. I opt for the winding roads that curl through the hills outside of town. It’s a little out of the way, just a couple of miles, though, and I suppose I’m in no particular hurry. I’ve got a full tank of gas now after all.
Woods line the roadside here. Oaks and maples hold up leafless arms. They seem so naked in the cold. There’s still some green along the ground, but it looks tired. It waits for the blanket of snow to bury it, ready for the end. The snowstorm the other day was the shot across the bow, the last call, the final warning. The real thing will follow, the blanket of white that shrouds the landscape in death for months on end.
It won’t be much longer, I guess.
I slurp down the last drink of coffee, lukewarm now but still tasty enough. Maybe I should have grabbed something to eat or drink at the gas station. But then I picture the drunken beast at the cash register and forgive myself for my haste in there.
Ah, here we go. I pull over and park in the dirt spot along the road where tires have worn the grass away. As soon as I step out of the car, I hear the sounds of the river, the rushing water, sloshing over rocks and tree branches.
I reach under the seat and pull free the bundle of fabric, unfurling the t-shirt so the gun drops to the car seat. I toss the shirt into the back and tuck the gun in my belt, twitching when the chilly metal makes contact with my skin. I suppose this is its date with destiny, too.
A wooden bridge for pedestrians runs alongside the one for cars, closer to the water. The weather has been unkind to it, decaying it, staining the wood dark with a green tint as it rots. I trod over the planks, my feet pounding out hollow sounding percussion. As I come out from under the cover of the trees and into the open air over the water, the wind punches me in the face with icy fists, exerting a painful chill that bashes my nose and ears right away so they sting pretty good.
Tears drip out of my nose, so I dab at it with a wadded up kleenex from my hoodie pocket. I can already imagine how my nostrils will look tonight – all cracked and red with scales of dry skin flaking off.
It takes longer to get out to the middle of the bridge than it seems like it should. I guess in the car you fly right by, it’s gone in a flash. On foot, it’s a hike, especially when it’s maximum-shrinkage cold.
I look both ways. No joggers. Nobody walking dogs. This is good. Maybe it’s too cold, or maybe I’m just lucky. No cars coming either. All for the good.
I pull the gun out of my belt, look at it. In a way this seems an oddly formal parting after the time we’ve spent together. We went through a lot. We had all these hopes and dreams.
It all ends here, though, on some rotting bridge on the edge of town.
I look down at the water running by maybe 60 feet below. It’s surely starting the process toward freezing over by now. The wind blows again, and the cold shudders through me, and I get a little pang of some vertigo-like feeling, like the world giving out underneath my feet.
&
nbsp; Yikes.
I avert my gaze from the river and stare straight ahead, but I still have a task to complete.
I raise the gun to just under eye level and give it a toss, just a little fling of the wrist that sends it toppling into empty space. I watch it fall, spiraling end-over-end like a fancy high dive. It hits the water with a slap and a plunging sound.
Goodnight, sweet prince.
Chapter 38
I park the Taurus outside of the diner, in the same exact parking spot where Glenn and I sat and watched this place forever ago. I don’t dally in the car this time, however. I exit the vehicle, cross the street and walk under the Bucky’s sign through the front door.
I can’t help it. That old wave of panic comes over me, the part that hates restaurants and being around people and all of that. I try to shake it off, but it’s latched itself to me pretty good.
The dining room is just about empty. I seat myself in a booth in the corner, so I can keep an eye on the whole place, maybe stay low-key for a little while. The seat exhales beneath me, deflating or something under my weight. The vinyl cover presses its cold flesh on my hamstrings at first, but it starts heating up right away. I turn my coffee cup over.
I look around. A couple of old men sit on stools at the counter, sipping coffee, and aproned employees hustle and bustle across from them. No one so much as glances my way. I try to utilize this information to help me relax a little, but it doesn’t quite take.
A country song plays on the radio, a sad one that sounds all tinny through the little speaker fixture in the ceiling, all ugly mid-range. A waitress comes around with a menu and an ice water. She fills up my coffee cup. At first I think she’s not going to say a word to me, which strikes me odd. But she speaks over her shoulder as she walks away:
“I’ll be right back, honey.”
She has big hair, and her jeans ride up high enough that it makes me physically uncomfortable. She seems nice, though. Something about the tone of her voice puts me a little more at ease. I take a couple sips of ice water, dump a couple plastic cups of amaretto flavored creamer into my coffee, and she circles back around.
“What can I get for you?” she says, but she says “ken” more than “can.”
“I’ve been meaning to try those chocolate chip pancakes for a while now, so I’ll take those,” I say, handing her the menu.
She smiles, nods, jots this down. She kind of looks like she expects me to go on, so I do:
“That’s all,” I say.
She nods again, turns and walks off. Not sure why I bothered explaining my food option like that, filling her in on my history with this particular dish. I never do stuff like that. I’m all business.
Anyway, chocolate chip pancakes – a fitting final meal, right? They were there at the beginning of this story, taunting me for some time, and I finally get to try them right at the end. Seems right to me.
I drink some coffee. Pretty delicious, though the flavored creamer might have been a mistake. It’s almost great, but there’s this artificial hint in there that reminds me of chemicals and stuff. I don’t want to think about that this early in the day. Like this thing I saw on the news about how runoff from people’s insecticide on their lawns is turning all of the frogs in some areas into hermaphrodites with deformed legs and stuff. Nope. No thanks. Not part of my complete breakfast, thank you very much.
The waitress comes back and sets a big stack of pancakes in front of me with a little bowl of syrup on the side. I go to work straight away. I can’t remember if I thanked her or not. I probably did.
I carve through the layers of cake with my butter knife, spear a bite on my fork, dip it in the syrup and give it a taste. It’s good as hell. I’m not even a huge fan of pancakes, necessarily, but these are tasty. In fact, let me give them the highest praise of all: They’re like something Glenn would make.
There. I said it.
I get so lost in the meal, I sort of forget what will happen next. I bite, I chew, I sip my coffee. Eventually the coffee is gone, but almost right away the waitress is there to fill it, like an all-knowing beverage fairy, and I go back into my food trance. I wish it could go on and on.
I don’t think anything of the two guys in suits and sunglasses that take seats at the tables nearest my booth. I don’t even remember them arriving specifically. I sort of remember blurry shapes moving out in the dining area, but I was pretty focused on the intense comfort eating food provides.
Eventually one of them stares at me long enough that I glance over. He’s stirring Sweet n Low into his coffee, the little pink packets littering the table. As our eyes meet, he gives a little uptick of his head to say hello.
“So hey,” he says. “You’re coming with us after you finish up, right?”
He points the spoon at my food. My eyes flick to the right while my brain boots up to process this information. Ah, these are Farber’s men, of course.
“Yeah,” I say, and I get back to eating.
“He said it might happen like this,” the guy says. I see him turn back to his coffee out of the corner of my eye.
On some level I’m disappointed at the prospect of Riston Farber knowing what I would do before I did. It’s decent of them to let me finish eating, though. I will give them that.
Chapter 39
I ride in the back of a Cadillac, the two gentlemen in suits manning the front seat. We don’t speak. Instead, I watch the world outside through the tinted windows, everything slightly darkened like looking out through a gigantic lens from a pair of sunglasses. Buildings and cars and a couple of pedestrians blur by. We stop at a red light, and I observe a mailman unlocking the bottom of one of those blue postal drop boxes and scraping the huge pile of envelopes into a bin that he then dumps into a bag.
Everything seems to take on some special importance, some extra layer of fascination that usually eludes me in favor of perpetual boredom. I watch people like they’re ants in an ant farm, finding something novel in them going about their tasks, lost in these moments, mostly oblivious to any bigger-picture sense of themselves or their lives, and that’s OK. I don’t say that to judge them. I kind of like it, and I think maybe it’s even for the best that way.
Again, though, I am calm. I am at peace. And I think soon I will find a greater peace still, one that will last a while.
As the car hesitates at another stop light, I test the door handle. Locked even though the little latch is clearly in the unlocked position, so they must have those child safety locks or whatever. I figured as much, and I have no plans to go anywhere. For some reason I just wanted to know for sure.
Soon the buildings on the side of the road give way to leafless woods and fallow fields. The land looks stark and dead. Perhaps that’s fitting. I can’t quite decide.
I mean, I feel no real sense of loss. No fear. There’s anticipation of course, an energy thrumming all through me, sending cold tingles down my arms to my fingertips, making my throat feel funny when I swallow. But it’s pretty standard anxiety, I think. There’s no sense of mourning to it. No weepy feelings or anything like that. As the inevitable becomes real, it loses all of the mystique that made it scary all along, or at least that’s how I’d describe my experiences. Your mileage may vary.
As soon as we get outside of town, the car ride advances in fast motion, like someone pressed the fast forward button and we skip to the end just like that. The Cadillac slows as we pass the church and pull into the parking lot. There are only a couple of other cars, and I’m kind of relieved. I didn’t want this to go down in front of a big audience or anything.
The men exit the car, and the quiet one opens my door for me. I step out into the cold, finding it exhilarating for a few seconds before it starts to sting. We move over the sidewalk toward the front door, and I keep thinking about all of the animals that live outside in this cold all of the time. Unreal.
The more talkative of the two men holds the front door open. He smirks like he wants to say something, but he remains silent.
If I had to guess, I think he considered saying, “Dead man walking,” or some joke similar to that. If so, he should have gone for it.
I lead the way into the church, heading up the stairs into the sanctuary. Candle light flickers against the walls, shadows stretching and shrinking at the whims of the flames. The room feels cavernous when lit this way, all dim. And the hush that falls over the chamber seems deliberate. Maybe foreboding.
It takes a second for my eyes to adjust. Once they do, the dark shapes in the front of the room form into four figures in maroon robes. They mill about the front of the room, clearly not noticing me and the two guys in suits. I exchange a look with the quiet one as he removes his sunglasses, and he clears his throat. Right away the robed heads snap around to look at us. It’s then that I realize they’re wearing masks, matte finished gold masks with blank expressions like something from a masquerade.
I do a little mental math. I figure three of them are Farber, Cromwell, and Woods. Not sure about the fourth.
One of them takes a few steps forward, and I can tell by the body language that it’s Farber, the set of the shoulders and torso, the smoothness of the stride. He raises an arm, gestures at the men in the suits flanking me.
“You two can go,” he says.
They nod and turn to exit via the staircase. They don’t look back at me or anything before they go. I mean, it’s not like we were that close, but I think I would have looked back.
“You know, your escape humbled me. Somewhat, anyway,” Farber says from behind the mask. “I knew you’d be back sooner or later, of course. But I think it was a good thing for it to play out this way. This shouldn’t be about glitz or tinsel or any of that. This isn’t an illusion. It isn’t show business. It’s much, much bigger than that.”