by Charlie Cole
“Yep,” Chris said.
He was staring into his coffee cup. I knew that look. He was thinking about more than ground beans and hot water. There was something skittering around in his head that he wanted to say, but couldn’t get a handle on it.
“Chris, what’s bothering you, brother?”
He looked at me with something like a mix of relief and trepidation.
“I’m not going to bite, man. You have a question, Chris, let it ride.”
I had seen the look on his face before. It was the look the bright young docs got the first time they had to tell someone in the Emergency Room that their brother wasn’t going to make it. That despite their best efforts, they were unable to revive him. Chris had that look.
“I’ve changed, Jim,” he said.
“I can see that.”
His eyes found mine, and a nervous smile flickered over his lips and then was gone.
“I saw a preacher at this Indian reservation, man,” he said. “Not treaty talk, you understand, but preaching. Hellfire. Brimstone. Deep on the rez and he’s pounding the Bible.”
“I bet that didn’t go over so well,” I said. “Spiritual people, am I right? Strong in the traditions, ancestors and such?”
Chris looked at me, his fear gone, eyes locked on.
“That’s the thing, brother,” he said. “They were listening. Listening hard. These people were fearing God and praying for forgiveness. They were fearing hell in a big way.”
“Wow, that’s something—“
“No, Jim, that’s not it,” Chris said. “I was on the road outside of Yuma, remember? And it hit me.”
“Yeah, what was it?”
“I was going to hell,” Chris said.
“Hell?”
“Hell, man, the lake of fire,” Chris said. “I was going to burn for what I’ve done. The life I’ve led. I deserve it.”
“We all deserve it,” I said without looking at him. I was scanning the bar, looking for the waitress, planning to signal her for a beer. Chris grabbed my wrist.
“I pulled over and prayed on that road. Kneeling in the gravel on the side of the highway, praying to God, man.”
“And how did that work out for you?” I asked.
“I am right with God, brother,” he said. “I got saved.”
“Well, good, I’m happy for ya,” I said. I decided to settle for coffee, rather than risk offending my newly saved friend. I took a big slug and let the brew burn its way down my throat.
“What about you, Jim?” Chris asked.
I didn’t like where the conversation was going. I missed my friend. I didn’t want to debate religion. I wanted red meat and booze, so pardon me.
“If God cared about me, why didn’t He keep my marriage together? Why didn’t He help mend things with me and my son? Why did my mom leave and my brother die in the war and my father become a chronic liar?”
“Jim…” Chris said.
“No, man,” I said. I threw my napkin down in my plate. “It was great catching up, but I don’t need this.”
I stood and headed for the door. Chris’ footsteps were at my back. The waitress appeared between me and the door, and I remembered I hadn’t paid. I whipped out my wallet and peeled off bills. I paid and then overpaid for the meal.
“Jim, stop, please,” Chris was pleading behind me. “What’s wrong?”
I turned and looked him dead in the eye. He had been a friend since we were kids, tearing around the neighborhood on bikes, then motorcycles, then cars. I owed him an honest answer.
“I thought I was having dinner with someone else,” I said and walked out the door. I fished my keys from my pocket and opened the Chevelle. I dropped into the seat, safe finally inside my car.
The tapping at the passenger window was not unexpected. I leaned over and unlocked the door without looking at Chris. He sat beside me, closing the door. We both looked out through the windshield, never at each other.
“We still good?” Chris asked.
“Yep.”
“You want to go for a ride?” he asked.
‘Yep.”
I fired the engine and dropped her into gear. I hit the gas and peeled out of the lot. Light was gone, and I had missed sunset. We cut across the countryside, avoiding intersections and traffic. I hit the gas hard on straight stretches. Steered tightly through corners.
“Can I ask you something, man?” Chris asked.
“I think you just did,” I said.
“Something else?”
“Let her ride, man,” I said.
He didn’t answer at first. I looked over at him, first time since getting in the car.
“If you would die today, where would you go?” Chris asked.
I had been watching the road and couldn’t help but look at him. He was staring at me, waiting for my answer, completely oblivious to what was going on behind him as we passed through an intersection of country roads.
The semi-truck slammed into the Chevelle on Chris’ side, crushing that side of the car and snapping Chris’ head back with vicious whiplash. The Mack truck. I saw the driver for a moment. His face had character, neither old nor young, unremarkable except for his eyes. His eyes were devoid of emotion even as he was about to hit us.
The car flipped and I felt myself wrenched free, airborne, that sickening free feeling, waiting to crash, to land. Waiting for pain. I hit the pavement in a bone crunching, jarring stop, face on the centerline. Somehow I was able to see the truck skew out of control. The fuel tank that it had been hauling rolled, punctured, ignited. I prayed that it wouldn’t, but that seemed to do no good.
The tanker fire erupted, flames pressing out in a shockwave. I saw the wall coming for me and suddenly everything that Chris said made sense. I was going to die. I had no certainty of heaven and only the worst fears of being bound for hell. And then, in the flames, I saw a face. My father’s face. He was screaming, pleading, calling me by name, begging me to save him from the fire and brimstone.
I awoke from my dream, bolting upright in my hospital bed, screaming, body bandaged and damaged. Screaming again and again, my throat raw. I couldn’t stop. Wanted to but could not. Finally the psych consult came and the thorazine and a dreamless sleep fell over me.
I AWOKE TO THE SOUND OF my shades being pulled back. Light hit my eyes, and I grimaced, groaned and tried to sit up. It was easier than before. The aches were there, raw flesh and such, but I could move. I held a hand in front of my eyes to shield them from the light and saw the silhouette of a man in my room.
“Chris?” I said.
The name was on my lips before my head caught up.
“I’m afraid not,” said the man. “I’m Officer Tyrell from the State Trooper’s office. I’m here to talk to you.”
The words chilled me. I was open, exposed here. I was in a hospital room in a paper gown, with a broken arm, fractured ribs and a bed pan to defend myself against law enforcement.
“Sure,” I said.
“Chris died in the crash,” Tyrell said. “I’m assuming you knew that.”
I nodded slowly, feeling the bones shift in my neck.
“Sorry, I’m still out of it, I guess.”
“Understandable I suppose,” he said. His voice was slow, the words weighed carefully before they came out.
“Could you--?” I gestured at the shade.
He louvered the blind enough that I could see him. He was a bulldog of a man. Thick in the neck, jowly even, but muscle not fat. I imagined he would be tenacious if need be. The kind of man who was as comfortable in his squad car behind the wheel as his predecessors had been on the back of a horse. He was a law man of the old school.
“Thanks,” I said. I didn’t like what I saw, but I was glad I could see.
“You want to tell me what happened?” he asked.
“What happened?” I repeated.
“The crash,” he said patiently. “How did it occur?”
“Chris and I were talking in the car,” I said
. “We got T-boned by the semi.”
I looked up and he was writing on a pad. I never saw him pull it out. It was like a magic trick. Now I don’t have your statement… now I do. Abracadabra.
“And then?” he prompted.
“I must have been thrown from the car,” I was trying to move my shoulder, but my arm screamed in pain.
“It’s a hairline fracture,” Tyrell said, without looking up. “Tell me something… how does someone get T-boned by a semi while not wearing their seatbelt, thrown from the wreck and only come out with a hairline fracture and some bumps and bruises?”
I didn’t have an answer. Not divine intervention or conspiracy. I just didn’t know.
“Alcohol,” Tyrell said, looking at me. His eyes were fierce, contempt barely contained. “I’ve seen drunk drivers crash into families, kill them, total both vehicles and walk away without a scratch. Booze keeps you loose, I guess. No other explanation that I have for it.”
“How do you know--?” The words were out of my mouth before I could stop myself.
“The waitress at Callahan’s said you had a few beers, three shots of tequila and a cup of coffee,” Tyrell replied.
I nodded my head slowly.
“Do I need a lawyer?” I asked. “Are you here to arrest me?”
Tyrell just looked at me, the pen in his hand doing a quick tick-tock metronome like he was trying to figure out what to do with me.
“You were rushed to the hospital after the accident,” he said. “The truck driver ran off. We’re trying to find him now. According to the trucking company, no one from their fleet was supposed to be in that area that night. The truck was stolen.”
“What?”
“The woman that hit you was trying to avoid the semi rig,” Tyrell went on. “She’s hoping you don’t sue her for everything she’s got.”
She was the last thing on my mind. The truck driver… where had he come from? Where had he gone?
“Your blood alcohol results have been sealed,” Tyrell said. “You know and I know you were under the influence, but I can’t prove it.”
“Who sealed the record?” I asked.
“Senator Ellis Marlowe. I believe you know him.”
“Aw, shit…”
My heart dropped and I felt my face flush. I pinched the bridge of my nose and tried to keep the headache back that I felt coming and knew there was no point. A chill ran over me and gooseflesh rose on my arms.
“I know him,” I confessed. “He’s my father.”
“Ah,” said Tyrell as if that were the answer to all things.
I cursed under my breath and made to get out of the bed.
“Where are you going?” Tyrell asked.
I jerked a thumb toward the restroom.
“There’s more…”Tyrell began.
“Did I miss the funeral?” I asked. The thought occurred to me as my head was clearing. “Chris’ funeral. Did I miss it?”
Tyrell shook his head slowly like a church bell, side-to-side real slow.
“No, and I thought that was strange to be honest with you,” Tyrell said. “The Beck family wanted you to be in attendance for the funeral.”
“Why?”
“They said they knew that Chris was coming to talk to you. That they knew what it was about. Said it was God’s will that you be at that funeral.”
“God’s will?” I said.
“I didn’t understand that part either,” Tyrell said. “What did Chris come to talk to you about?”
“Salvation,” I said, my voice was a whisper. I choked back tears, wiping at my eyes with the heels of my hands.
Tyrell walked toward me and though I could tell it made him more than a little uncomfortable, he patted me on the shoulder.
“We all could use a bit of that,” he said.
I nodded.
“Here’s the deal,” Tyrell said, clearing his throat. “Senator Marlowe told my supervisor that I am to escort you to the funeral, then I will release you to the Senator. If you’re willing to comply, no criminal charges will be filed.”
“Did Chris’ family agree to this?” I asked.
Tyrell nodded.
“Why?”
“Beats me. If I had my way you would be in jail for what you did,” Tyrell said. “I don’t think you belonged on the road that night and I think Chris Beck is dead because of you. His family aside, that’s something you’re going to need to live with.”
I had no answer. No justification. I didn’t want to defend myself. In my own eyes, I deserved whatever I got.
“You’re being released today. The doc will come by, sign you out,” Tyrell said. “I’ll drive you up to the funeral. It’s tomorrow at 1pm.”
“Where?” I asked.
“Just outside of Itasca Lake in Minnesota,” Tyrell said. “Beautiful area. It’s a real shame we have to be there for this kind of business.”
Tyrell walked out of the room without looking back.
The next day, I flexed my left hand as we rolled up to the funeral home in Tyrell’s car. My arm was in a sling. The cast itched. My tie was too tight, and my suit was too loose.
“You look uncomfortable,” Tyrell said.
“You should take the detective exam,” I replied. “Very perceptive.”
He grunted at me, a slight smirk on his face. I think he liked me, but hated to admit it to himself. I was some pseudo ward of the state until he turned me over and the idea of consorting with prisoners troubled him more than a little.
We arrived at the cemetery, and Tyrell parked the car. I had expected anger from the relatives, from his father, especially from his mother. That didn’t happen. There was sadness, of course, but also a joy. I didn’t get that. Their son was dead. For all intents, he was dead because of me, at least that’s how I viewed it. Why weren’t they mad at me?
Their kindness bothered me. Maybe it shouldn’t have. But it did. I did not think less of them. I didn’t question their capabilities as parents or as people. I just didn’t understand the lack of fury. I kept thinking to myself: had I been in their shoes, I would have leaped across the casket and choked the life out of the person who drove the car in which my son had died.
The wake had been glorious. The funeral home was massive and almost castle-like in its size. Towers rose above the grounds. Side rooms were everywhere for mourners, but none were in use. Everyone sat in the pews of the chapel. A small symphony of a half dozen musicians were playing, violins and cellos and a piano melting together in wonderful harmony that filled the hall with melody.
I walked down the central aisle to the side of the open casket, feeling like every eye in the house was on me. Tyrell was at my back, a respectful distance behind, hands folded in front, waiting patiently.
Lying there in his casket, Christopher Beck looked to all the world as if he were sleeping. Gone were the blood and auto glass, No scrapes from the blacktop. No fractured vertebrae, crush fractures, or visible catastrophic injuries. His pillow was silk, his suit was Sunday best. I cried at his side, unrestrained, unashamed.
Tyrell stepped forward after a moment and, without saying a word, handed me a handkerchief from his inside pocket. I took it, nodding my thanks. His head dipped once. You’re welcome, it seemed to say.
I saw Chris’ mom and dad after the service. I was standing in the back, waiting, watching as people walked through, condolences being made. Finally, I could wait no longer and stepped forward.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I just wanted to say that… that I’m sorry for what happened. I have no explanation. I’m so sorry.”
Chris’ dad approached me. His name was William. Bill Beck. We stood within arm’s reach and I braced myself for him to punch me. A hard right cross to the jaw at any moment. I was ready for it. But it never came.
“It’s God’s will that you be here, James,” Bill said. He clamped his hands on my shoulders and smiled, tears in his eyes. He hugged me, and I nearly died.
“We’re so glad you could come,”
Sally Beck said from behind her husband.
Afterwards, Tyrell and I walked back to his car. The other cars were pulling out, courteously finding their way out of the lot one after another in an unseemly display of civility.
“You okay?” Tyrell asked.
“Hmm? What was that?” I said, still watching the cars.
“You don’t look so good, Marlowe,” he said.
I looked over at Tyrell and somehow the cool, night air didn’t seem quite as comforting as it had on the walk out. Three quick steps and I threw up in the bushes.
“You okay?” he asked again.
“Definitely.”
“Don’t do that in my car, okay?” Tyrell said.
“Fair enough,” I said.
We joined the procession of cars to venture out into the cemetery. I looked out the window of Tyrell’s car and stared at the headstones. Acres and acres of headstones. People that had lived, loved, died.
We got out of the car together and followed the crowd to the graveside. We stood together, listening to the preacher give the eulogy. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. We sang a hymn at Bill Beck’s request. Amazing Grace.
Amazing Grace…
How sweet the sound…
That saved a wretch, like me…
I couldn’t argue with that. It rang too true.
AFTERWARDS, THE FAMILY SLOWLY DISPERSED. The Becks shook my hand, and they hugged me. I just didn’t understand these people.
Bill Beck pulled me aside.
“James,” he said. “I understand your car was wrecked.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’ve also got quite a journey ahead of you.”
“Yes, sir,” I replied.
“Chris was working on something that he left behind before he came to visit you. I think he would like you to have it.”
Bill Beck reached in his pocket and held something out to me. I took it.
“Car keys? What--?” I said.
“It’s a 1971 Hemicuda. He rebuilt it,” Bill said. “I can’t think of anyone else who would be better served to have it.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“You’re on your way to see your father, am I right?” Bill said.
I nodded.
“I knew General Marlowe before he became Senator Marlowe,” he continued. “Things are different now. You need to reach out to him. Tell him what happened to you. How things have changed.”