There are no street lights out here. I click on the high beams. That helps a little; at least I can anticipate when the road’s going to swoop off one way or another. Normally, I like driving at night, buzzing along in my own portable pool of light. There are fewer distractions. Unless something is lit up, it simply blends into the blackness. In the fairy tales you read as a kid, the night is always described as being "cloaked in darkness." That’s such a great description, thick and heavy and dark. It can make you feel safe and warm or shadowy and ominous. I think guys should still be able to wear cloaks, like the princes who always rescued the pretty princesses in those same books. Unfortunately, the only people I know who wear cloaks now are middle-aged women with long gray hair and fairy earrings.
The few houses along the road are set back behind protective hedges and trees. Mail and newspaper boxes mark the entrances to graveled driveways. Out here is the realm of the landed gentry, the gentleman farmer, which is one of my favorite oxymorons. You are either a farmer or you are a gentleman. If you’re a farmer, you get up at dawn to feed something, plant something or fix something. You know the working end of a two-bottom plow and what a come-a-long is for. If you’re a gentleman, you own a five, ten, fifteen acre manicured estate, drive a shiny pickup without a dent in the lift gate, and employ one or more of the aforementioned farmers to handle the dirty work. I could swing in and ask for directions. But, I’m sure I’m almost there. Wherever there is.
The green numbers on my dashboard clock say 6:46. I left Lily’s around 5:30. I’m going nowhere fast. The road crests a hill, the backside of which falls off into a long straightaway. I wonder why it is you feel less lost when a road is straight. Maybe curves make it seem like the road itself is trying to figure out which way to go. I let my foot off the accelerator and try to coast down the hill. In high school, a friend and I used to drive out into the country and find big hills like this one. We’d take the car out of gear and see how far we could coast before popping the clutch. It’s not the same thrill in an automatic.
Okay. I’m lost. The rain has let up a little bit. The wind hasn’t. The straightaway is behind me and I’m back on a serpentine course. I slow down and pull off the road. Maybe if I get out, get a little fresh air, clear my head, and start out again, I’ll have a directional epiphany and emerge onto a highway. I turn off the engine, leave the headlights burning, and get out. Outside the car, the wind slices through my coat and cuts my core temperature to zero. I walk around the car and slide down next to the rear passenger door to escape the gusts. Here’s a delightful circumstance. Lost, squatting along the side of the road, in a storm. It could be worse. I could be falling in love with a beautiful woman who thinks I’m a successful writer about to immortalize her beloved dead husband in an award-wining best seller.
Directly in front of me is a field. Actually, directly in front of me is a fence, beyond that is a field. It’s too dark to tell what’s growing in it. Grass or wheat maybe? In the morning, someone will probably drive out here and see what damage has been done by the storm. Maybe the crop will be ruined. They’ll have to plow it under and start over. How do they know when to give it up? At what point does everything become so ludicrous you throw up your hands in defeat? Now seems like an opportune time. It doesn’t get much more ridiculous than this.
But what if I could pull it off? Put aside for the moment the fact that I can’t write worth a damn. Let’s concentrate on sheer willpower. It’s an interesting study in human nature. You craft an alternate personality for yourself, one that is more interesting and successful and likable than your true personality. People believe this manufactured reality is the true you. If it’s working, why not just take on the new, improved personality and phase out the old? People change all the time in more subtle ways. You get rid of an annoying habit, you mature from a belligerent teen into a caring adult, you say nice things to the customers then spit in their soup. Why not on a grand scale? Every once in a while you’ll hear about someone who got busted for posing as a physician. That takes guts. Pretending you know how to restore health is way more complex than pretending you know how to punctuate. But it worked; people believe what you feed them. The real question is: do you believe? Should you be true to yourself or to the best self you can create? Pretty existential stuff for a lonely guy in a tan coat huddled on the side of the road.
It’s starting to rain again. But there’s another sound too, distant yet unmistakable. It’s the bottom octave hum of a diesel truck engine. I spring up and squint through the billowing curtains of rain. Headlights. A truck wouldn’t just be cruising around clear out here. He’s got to be on his way to a freeway, to civilization. I run around the Taurus and jump back in. The headlights in my rear view mirror are close enough now to illuminate the entire car. I start up the engine and slam it into drive as the truck flies past. Jamming my foot down on the accelerator, the wheels spin, kick up mud and rock for an instant, then catch. I fishtail back onto the road and ride the truck’s slipstream into town.
Even with the wind and rain hammering the car, I’m feeling pretty damn smug about the whole thing, cruising down the Interstate, just ten miles from Park Hills. Thank you very much, Mr. Freightliner. The radio is running down a list of closures, but none of them sound like they’re near the condo. I should be there by 10:00, just a little four-hour detour.
The door to the condo isn’t locked. On a day of non-stop stupidity, how appropriate I would have forgotten to lock the door. I step in and flip on the lights. Cabinets and drawers hang open everywhere, the sofa is turned over and the cushions are slashed, there’s a blank spot in the entertainment center where the TV used to go, and the refrigerator door is wide open. The place is trashed. I’ve been robbed. What the fuck have I done to deserve this?
My first instinct is to call Lily. After all, most of this stuff is hers not mine. But it’s late; it would only upset her. She can’t do anything about it tonight. I slowly turn around, push the front door closed, click the deadbolt into place, and bang my head against the door until the little security peephole starts to drill into my forehead. I roll back around and survey the damage. The TV is obviously gone. I wonder what else they took. I walk room to room. Other than a dinky radio from the bathroom, there doesn’t seem to be much missing. Why would you make such a mess to score a used TV and a Samsung clock radio? They must have thought the really good stuff was hidden. Joke’s on you, bud.
There’s a puddle of orange soda in the middle of the kitchen floor. Now, that’s over the top, don’t you think? Breaking in and taking my stuff isn’t enough? You have to spill sticky soda pop on the floor? Of course, the shit in the toilet was also a nice touch. I can’t clean all this up tonight. Maybe elves will come in during the wee hours of the morning and take care of it. I need some sleep.
The crash of shattering glass jolts me awake. For just an instant, before my eyes fly open, I see flames. But there’s no heat in the room, only cold and wind and rain, and glass. The picture window facing the lake is gone and there’s a tree limb the size of Indiana in the middle of the rug. Rain is blowing in. I reach for the lamp next to the bed. Nothing. It’s either broken or, judging by my luck so far, the electricity’s out. I jump out of bed. Bad idea. There’s glass everywhere. Now there’s glass in my feet. I hop the rest of the way across the room, trying to avoid glass I can’t see. Really bad idea. I hit the light switch by the door. Nothing. I think I’m bleeding. I drop to my butt in the hallway and gingerly examine the soles of my feet. Extremely bad idea. It’s too dark to try to pick out the glass and now I’m stuck down here. How are you supposed to stand up without touching the bottoms of your feet? I try to push myself up by balancing on the sides of my feet. This must be some type of advanced yoga move, because it’s not working for me. I roll over onto my knees, and holding my feet up, crawl down the hall into the dining room. Crawling hurts like hell. How do babies do it? It must be the undeveloped joints. They can’t possibly feel the same pain currently stinging across b
oth my knee caps or else they’d be up and motoring on those chubby little feet by six months.
I know there’s a decorative candle in the middle of the dining room table and matches on the fireplace hearth. If I can just bring these two things together, I can cast a romantic glow onto my bloody feet.
I’m sitting on the hearth digging out glass shards by candlelight when the electricity comes back on, signaled by a sudden whirring of the refrigerator and the reappearance of the security light over the front porch. I lean over and snap on the table lamp. One of the few things the burglars left upright in the living room. My feet look much worse in the harsh glare of an incandescent bulb. Now I know why fancy restaurants use candles. Everything looks better in low light with an elegant drop shadow. A cheap chuck steak resembles filet mignon and your date looks a lot more like Drew Barrymore. That’s good for business. Bring out the dessert tray.
Satisfied most of the glass is out, I try standing. It hurts. Oh yeah. It hurts. I roll onto the outside of my feet and hobble into the kitchen like a wounded orangutan. There’s a drawer full of kitchen towels I use as bandages to stop the bleeding and cushion my steps. However, now I look less orangutan, more Dickensian street urchin. I should see what the bedroom really holds. Grabbing a broom from the pantry closet, I make my way back down the hallway.
The lights are already on. It’s not as bad as I thought. It’s worse. The room is soaked. Glass is everywhere. It’s amazing one window could disintegrate into so many pieces. I sweep clean a small circle and step inside to get a better view. It doesn’t look any better. If I pull down the shower curtain, it might be big enough to stretch across the window. Ample duct tape and I should be able to keep out most of the rain until morning. I won’t be sleeping in here tonight, but there’s probably not much sleeping time left anyway. The bedside alarm clock is blinking the default 12:00. Beyond the hole that was once my window, the sky is lightening; it’s probably about four or five. I continue to sweep a glass-free path across the rug in order to get a closer look at the tree limb. In the proper lighting, I see it’s not really the size of Indiana, but it’s still big. It’s as thick around as my thigh and about six or seven feet long. Nature’s javelin.
Outside, the pine trees surrounding the apartment bend and buck in the storm’s leftover gusts. I look at my tree limb again. It’s not a pine tree limb. I bend down closer to be sure. No way. No needles, no pitch. The bark is mottled gray and covered with lichen. This branch is from an oak tree or something, but there’s nothing around here but pines and cedars. The closest I’ve seen any other kind of tree is at least twenty blocks away in the new Doheny subdivision.
What’s a branch from an oak tree doing in the middle of my bedroom?
NINE
I'm wearing my bedroom slippers at work. They are black corduroy with a small band of faux leopard trim across the instep. They were a gift. Since I’m at my desk most of the day, I figure no one will notice. I bandaged my feet with gauze and tape this morning instead of the kitchen towels. The towels were actually more comfortable, but they didn’t fit inside the slippers.
When I finally phoned Lily, she was horrified to hear about everything. She said she’d arrange for a property maintenance crew, but warned me there was a lot of damage from the storm, some of it actually worse than mine. Her rental managers had already called to fill her in on other problems around town, including a desperate woman who had a tree from the other side of the street fall across the road like a guillotine, taking out two cars and her entire front porch. There were branches through the ceiling of her living room. I guess I can wait.
I told Lily about my ingenious shower curtain patch job. I’d also cleaned up the basic mess and righted all the furniture. It’s amazing how much you can get done when you get up before the break of day. I didn’t tell her my suspicions about the foreign branch. I wanted to walk around first and see if I could spot a tree that looked like was missing a branch like mine.
Even with all the chaos in my life, I'm not late to work. In fact, I am early, which means I can pad through the halls to my assigned cubicle without anyone noticing my slippers or my unusual gait. But now, I really have to go to the bathroom. Truth be told, I’ve had to go for about forty-five minutes. I’m desperate now. I lean as far back in my chair as I can and peek around the corner of my dividing wall. Coast is clear. I get up and head down the hall, trying to maintain a brisk yet nonchalant pace, which is not easy when you are limping like Quasimodo.
I wave to Helen at reception. She waves back. Just a few more feet. Here’s the door, and…
"Charlie!"
It’s Dennis, coming out of the bathroom. This must be my lucky day.
"Hey, Dennis. What’s up?"
"Just what I was coming back to ask you. How’s it going with our Mr. Klein?"
"Not bad."
Dennis is looking at my slippers. He seems puzzled. Maybe he’s jealous because the black oxfords he’s wearing can’t possibly be as comfortable.
"Are you wearing slippers, Charlie?"
"Yes I am, Dennis."
"You don’t always wear slippers to work, do you?"
Now that sounds a little condescending. Give me a break. Like he’s some kind of freakin’ fashion icon? I don’t comment when he wears those stupid seersucker blazers in the summer.
"No I don’t. I had a little accident last night during the storm. Lost a window to a tree branch and I’m afraid I cut up the bottoms of my feet pretty bad on all the glass."
"Uh huh," says Dennis, half listening.
I can tell when Dennis is only paying attention to every third word I’m saying. His watery brown eyes flick from me to a vanishing point beyond my left ear. As if he’s looking for something, anything more interesting than me. I don’t think he does it on purpose. He has a short attention span for anything that doesn’t directly concern him. Some might call it self-centered, but I think he’s just dull-witted.
"I’ll bet it’s a bitch trying to get anyone out to fix it today. Problems all over town. The guys down in homeowner’s are goin’ nuts trying to keep up with the phones this morning. Luckily, Brenda and I didn’t have any trouble. Knock on wood."
He leans over and raps on the faux wood grain laminate of the bathroom door.
"Actually, Dennis, I will probably have to take off a little early this afternoon to meet the window guys at my apartment."
"So, maybe we could talk about the Klein case now."
"No problema," I say, smiling and giving him a thumbs-up. "If I could just run into the bathroom first? I’ll meet you back at my desk."
"Oh right. You were just coming in weren’t you? Meet ya back there."
Dennis returns my thumbs-up signal, but as with anything "hip" that Dennis tries to do, he comes off looking awkward. He thrusts his whole arm out and cocks his thumb too far to the right, like he’s hitchhiking.
I have a mental picture of Dennis after hours in his suit and tie, thinning hair combed forward, stomach sucked in, trying to pick up girls at a dance club. He’s married, but that only reinforces my fantasy. His wife, Brenda has come by for lunch a few times. She’s a big, blond ex-cheerleader packing about seventy extra pounds, a spray-on tan and upper arms like a pair of pork roasts. I think she’d come after Dennis with a hammer if he even looked at another woman. My imaginary filmstrip usually ticks out before I see his brains splatter.
I pull open the door to the men’s room and escape inside. I have maybe ten minutes before Dennis gets suspicious and sends someone in to find me. That’s not nearly enough time to concoct a believable story about the non-existent research I’ve done on Hugh Klein. Relieving myself into the urinal, I ponder a few clumsy excuses. I’m waiting for details from past cases to be shipped from other insurance companies. I’m having trouble getting depositions from the witnesses at the doughnut shop. The dog ate my research. I watch the flush swirl my pee down and out into the sewer.
Dennis is playing with a Chicago Cubs' commemorative pape
rweight when I come back into the cubicle. In my slippers, I’m quite stealthy and he flinches a little when I suddenly appear around the corner.
"I’m back," I say, trying to sound like Arnold Schwarzenegger. Dennis doesn’t get the joke. He sets down the paperweight.
"Charlie, I’m a little worried about you. I haven’t seen any reports on the Klein case for a couple of weeks now. Is he giving you some trouble? Because if he is, we need to figure out what to do. I know you understand how important it is that we kill this claim. It’s huge. Corporate’s making noises about jobs riding on the outcome. I love ya like a brother, Tiger, but if my job’s on the line, your job’s on the line."
"Not to worry, Dennis. I’m not really having trouble, it’s more like choreography."
"I’m not following you."
"Or wrestling. Maybe it’s more like wrestling."
Dennis perks up when we change from dance to sports, but he still looks confused.
"You know how wrestlers circle in the ring? They’re checking each other out, getting a read, trying to psych out the other guy. That’s kind of how it is with me and the illustrious Mr. Klein. We’re circling."
"Circling?"
I trace an imaginary orbit in the air with my index finger. Dennis sways back and forth on his feet, following my finger’s path with his whole body. I’m tempted to suddenly switch to vertical undulations, but I think he’d tip over.
"He knows we don’t buy his story, but he’s a professional. He’s moving very carefully, trying to figure out exactly how we’re going to go after him. So, I’m keeping a real low profile. Watching his every move. Pretty soon, I know he’s going to screw up. One wrong move, and I’ll get him in a headlock."
I pantomime a strangle hold and pull my face into a grimace. Dennis stops swaying, picks up my paperweight again and tosses it from hand to hand.
The Eulogist Page 10