Night Freight

by Pronzini, Bill

  Then I turn, keeping to shadow along the side of the road, and begin the long, three-mile walk home.

  What is it that's so wrong

  And late the following morning I stand on the porch of the home that now belongs only to Judith, my Judith. I ring the bell, my chest constricted with excitement as I wait for her to answer.

  The door opens at last, and my love looks out at me.

  My ardor swells inside me until it is almost like physical pain.

  "Hello, Judith," I say gravely. "I just heard about Fred, and of course I came right over."

  Her grief-swollen mouth trembles. "Thank you, Martin. It was such a terrible accident, so . . . so sudden. I guess you know how much Fred and I cared for each other. I feel lost and alone without him."

  "You're not alone," I tell her, and silently add the words my love. "It's true we've never been any more than casual neighbors, but I want you to know that there isn't anything I wouldn't do for you. Not anything I wouldn't do . . ."

  The truck!

  I know what it is now. I know what's wrong.

  None of this happened.

  It was planned to happen just this way, a thousand times I envisioned it, it was like a Technicolor film in my mind as I rode in the taxi. But something else took place, something interfered. The truck, the taxi—

  An accident.

  I remember it now. The taxi rushing through the dark, empty streets, and the truck coming out of nowhere, barreling through the red light at the intersection, and the impact, and the spinning, and the pain. And then . . . nothing.

  Where am I?

  Utter blackness. No pain now, no feeling at all.

  Vague bodiless sensation of floating, drifting. Coma? Hospital? No, something else, somewhere else. Thoughts, the sudden remembering, the drifting

  and I am beginning to understand, to realize

  that I was killed in that accident.

  I'm dead.

  Fred McAnally is alive and it is Martin Hammond who is dead.

  . . . and the door opens at last, and my love looks out at me. My ardor swells inside me until it is almost like physical pain . . .

  No, not dead. Not as I've always understood death to be.

  Even though I was killed in that accident, part of me remains alive.

  Increasing awareness now. I think, I comprehend, therefore I am. The essence, the intellect, of Martin Hammond has somehow survived.

  Why?

  And the answer comes: My love for Judith, the depth and power of my love for her. Too strong even for death. Transcending death. My love lives, therefore I live.

  And where I am must be

  the netherworld.

  Yes. Drifting—spirit drifting. I am spirit.

  The blackness is beginning to lighten, to become a soft gray; and as it does

  my awareness increases and I realize with sudden joy that soon I will be capable of vision, corporeality, mobility through time and space. I will be able to return to the mortal world, to Judith. I will be able to

  bring my love to my love in the warm silent hours of a night when she is alone . . .

  . . . and all at once—there is no temporality where I exist—I find myself standing in her bedroom, that place where I longed so often and so desperately to be. She is there wearing a pale blue dressing gown sitting before her vanity mirror while she brushes her hair. Her face is radiant, smiling, and I know it is a Friday night and she is waiting for McAnally. I accept this, it does not disturb me. Nothing can disturb me now that I am in the presence of my love.

  Her voice whispers in the quiet, counting each brush stroke. "Eighty-nine, ninety, ninety-one . . ." But she might be counting the minutes until we are together at last, and that is how I choose to hear her words. "Ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred . . ."

  Reflected in the mirror, her beauty is so flawless that it is as if I am looking at a priceless painting that must not be seen by anyone else, must belong to no one else but me. I no longer have a heart, but if I did it would be hammering like the beat of drums. I no longer have loins, but if I did they would be aflame with the purity of my desire.

  "One hundred nineteen, one hundred twenty . . ."

  The need to go to her, touch her, is exquisite. But how will she react when she sees me? I mustn't frighten her.

  Slowly I cross the room. Yet as I draw near, the image of myself that I expect to see behind hers does not materialize. Then I am standing close to her, closer than ever before—and still she is alone in the glass.

  "One hundred forty-eight, one hundred forty—"

  Abruptly she stops counting, holding the brush against the silkiness of her hair. Her smile fades; small ridge lines appear on her forehead.

  "Judith," I whisper. "Judith, my love."

  She frowns at the mirror, puts down the brush.

  "I'm here, darling."

  And I reach out with trembling fingers, touch the softness of her shoulder.

  She shivers, as though it were not I but a sudden chill draft that caressed her. She turns, looks around the bedroom—and it is then I accept the truth. She can't see me, or hear me, or feel the gentle pressure of my hand. Perhaps it is because I am not strong enough yet. And perhaps

  it is McAnally.

  I know then that this is so. He is still alive, he still stands between us—now like a wall between our two worlds.

  Always, always, that bastard McAnally!

  Judith rises from her chair, crosses to the window, secures the lock. Then she sheds her dressing gown, and the silhouette of her body beneath her thin nightdress fills me with rapture. I watch her put out the lights, get into bed, and lie with the coverlet drawn up to her chin.

  After a time, the rhythm of her breathing grows regular. When I am certain she is asleep I walk to the bed and sit down beside her.

  She stirs but does not open her eyes.

  With great care I lift the coverlet. This is the moment I have ached for most of all, the moment that makes even my death inconsequential.

  I take her in my arms.

  She moans softly, shivers, tries to turn away in her sleep. I continue to hold her in a tender embrace. "Judith," I whisper in her ear, "it's all right. I'm growing stronger, and when I'm strong enough I'll find another way to kill Fred. A push down the basement steps, a falling object from the platform in the garage—I'll find a way."

  More moans come from her, but I hear them now as murmurs of love. I kiss the warm hollow of her throat, and my hand finds her breast, and in ecstasy I lie there with her, waiting.

  Waiting.

  First, for McAnally.

  But most of all for that time when my love will come awake and see and hear and feel me at last, lying beside her in the warm silent hours of the night . . .

  The simplest ideas are often the best ones, a truism I think is demonstrated by several stories in this collection. "Black Wind," like the others, therefore depends for its effects on mood and character. And thus another truism: It's all in the handling. The story, incidentally, was the basis for a pretty good short-subject film several years ago. As far as I know, my luck and the movie industry being what they are, the only people who ever saw it, besides members of the production company, were me and my immediate family.

  Black Wind

  It was one of those freezing, late-November nights, just before the winter snows, when a funny east wind comes howling down out of the mountains and across Woodbine Lake a quarter mile from the village. The sound that wind makes is something hellish, full of screams and wailings that can raise the hackles on your neck if you're not used to it. In the old days the Indians who used to live around here called it a "black wind"; they believed that it carried the voices of evil spirits, and that if you listened to it long enough, it could drive you mad.

  Well, there are a lot of superstitions in our part of upstate New York; nobody pays much mind to them in this modern age. Or if they do, they won't admit it even to themselves. The fact is, though, that when the b
lack wind blows, the local folks stay pretty close to home, and the village, like as not, is deserted after dusk.

  That was the way it was on this night. I hadn't had a customer in my diner in more than an hour, since just before seven o'clock, and I had about decided to close up early and go on home. To a glass of brandy and a good hot fire.

  I was pouring myself a last cup of coffee when the headlights swung into the diner's parking lot.

  They whipped in fast, off the county highway, and I heard the squeal of brakes on the gravel just out front. Kids, I thought, because that was the way a lot of them drove, even around here—fast and a little reckless. But it wasn't kids. It turned out instead to be a man and a woman in their late thirties, strangers, both of them bundled up in winter coats and mufflers, the woman carrying a big, fancy alligator purse.

  The wind came in with them, shrieking and swirling. I could feel the numbing chill of it even in the few seconds the door was open; it cuts through you like the blade of a knife, that wind, right straight to the bone.

  The man clumped immediately to where I was standing behind the counter, letting the woman close the door. He was handsome in a suave, barbered city way; but his face was closed up into a mask of controlled rage.

  "Coffee," he said. The word came out in a voice that matched his expression—hard and angry, like a threat.

  "Sure thing. Two coffees."

  "One coffee," he said. "Let her order her own."

  The woman had come up on his left, but not close to him—one stool between them. She was nice-looking in the same kind of made-up, city way. Or she would have been if her face wasn't pinched up worse than his; the skin across her cheekbones was stretched so tight it seemed ready to split. Her eyes glistened like a pair of wet stones and didn't blink at all.

  "Black coffee," she said to me.

  I looked at her, at him, and I started to feel a little uneasy. There was a kind of savage tension between them, thick and crackling; I could feel it like static electricity. I wet my lips, not saying anything, and reached behind me for the coffeepot and two mugs.

  The man said, "I'll have a ham-and-cheese sandwich on rye bread. No mustard, no mayonnaise, just butter. Make it to go."

  "Yes, sir. How about you, ma'am?"

  "Tuna fish on white," she said thinly. She had close-cropped blonde hair, wind-tangled under a loose scarf; she kept brushing at it with an agitated hand. "I'll eat it here."

  "No, she won't," the man said to me. "Make it to go, just like mine."

  She threw him an ugly look. "I want to eat here."

  "Fine," he said—to me again; it was as if she weren't there. "But I'm leaving in five minutes, as soon as I drink my coffee. I want that ham-and-cheese ready by then."

  "Yes sir."

  I finished pouring out the coffee and set the two mugs on the counter. The man took his, swung around, and stomped over to one of the tables. He sat down and stared at the door, blowing into the mug, using it to warm his hands.

  "All right," the woman said, "all right, all right. All right." Four times like that, all to herself. Her eyes had cold little lights in them now, like spots of fox fire.

  I said hesitantly, "Ma'am? You still want the tuna sandwich to eat here?"

  She blinked then, for the first time, and focused on me. "No. To hell with it. I don't want anything to eat." She caught up her mug and took it to another of the tables, two away from the one he was sitting at.

  I went down to the sandwich board and got out two pieces of rye bread and spread them with butter. The stillness in there had a strained feel, made almost eerie by the constant wailing outside. I could feel myself getting more jittery as the seconds passed.

  While I sliced ham I watched the two of them at the tables—him still staring at the door, drinking his coffee in quick angry sips; her facing the other way, her hands fisted in her lap, the steam from her cup spiraling up around her face. Well-off married couple from New York City, I thought: they were both wearing the same type of expensive wedding ring. On their way to a weekend in the mountains, maybe, or up to Canada for a few days. And they'd had a hell of a fight over something, the way married people do on long, tiring drives; that was all there was to it.

  Except that that wasn't all there was to it.

  I've owned this diner thirty years and I've seen a lot of folks come and go in that time; a lot of tourists from the city, with all sorts of marital problems. But I'd never seen any like these two. That tension between them wasn't anything fresh-born, wasn't just the brief and meaningless aftermath of a squabble. No, there was real hatred on both sides—the kind that builds and builds, seething, over long bitter weeks or months or even years. The kind that's liable to explode some day.

  Well, it wasn't really any of my business. Not unless the blowup happened in here, it wasn't, and that wasn't likely. Or so I kept telling myself. But I was a little worried just the same. On a night like this, with that damned black wind blowing and playing hell with people's nerves, anything could happen. Anything at all.

  I finished making the sandwich, cut it in half, and plastic-bagged it. Just as I slid it into a paper sack, there was a loud banging noise from across the room that made me jump half a foot; it sounded like a pistol shot. But it had only been the man slamming his empty mug down on the table.

  I took a breath, let it out silently. He scraped back his chair as I did that, stood up, and jammed his hands into his coat pockets. Without looking at her, he said to the woman, "You pay for the food," and started past her table toward the restrooms in the rear.

  She said, "Why the hell should I pay for it?"

  He paused and glared back at her. "You've got all the money."

  "I've got all the money? Oh, that's a laugh. I've got all the money!"

  "Go on, keep it up." Then in a louder voice, as if he wanted to make sure I heard, he said, "Bitch." And stalked away from her.

  She watched him until he was gone inside the corridor leading to the restrooms; she was as rigid as a chunk of wood. She sat that way for another five or six seconds, until the wind gusted outside, thudded against the door and the window like something trying to break in. Jerkily she got to her feet and came over to where I was at the sandwich board. Those cold lights still glowed in her eyes.

  "Is his sandwich ready?"

  I nodded and made myself smile. "Will that be all, ma'am?"

  "No. I've changed my mind. I want something to eat too." She leaned forward and stared at the glass pastry container on the back counter. "What kind of pie is that?"

  "Cinnamon apple."

  "I'll have a piece of it."

  "Okay—sure. Just one?"

  "Yes. Just one."

  I turned back there, got the pie out, cut a slice, and wrapped it in waxed paper. When I came around with it she was rummaging in her purse, getting her wallet out. Back in the restroom area, I heard the man's hard, heavy steps; in the next second he appeared and headed straight for the door.

  The woman said, "How much do I owe you?"

  I put the pie into the paper sack with the sandwich, and the sack on the counter. "That'll be three-eighty."

  The man opened the door; the wind came shrieking in, eddying drafts of icy air. He went right on out, not even glancing at the woman or me, and slammed the door shut behind him.

  She laid a five-dollar bill on the counter. Caught up the sack, pivoted, and started for the door.

  "Ma'am?" I said. "You've got change coming."

  She must have heard me, but she didn't look back and she didn't slow up. The pair of headlights came on out front, slicing pale wedges from the darkness; through the front window I could see the evergreens at the far edge of the lot, thick swaying shadows bent almost double by the wind. The shrieking rose again for two or three seconds, then fell back to a muted whine; she was gone.

  I had never been more glad or relieved to see customers go. I let out another breath, picked up the flyer, and moved over to the cash register. Outside, above the thrumming an
d wailing, the car engine revved up to a roar and there was the ratcheting noise of tires spinning on gravel. The headlights shot around and probed out toward the county highway.

  Time now to close up and go home, all right; I wanted a glass of brandy and a good hot fire more than ever. I went around to the tables they'd used, to gather up the coffee cups. But as much as I wanted to forget the two of them, I couldn't seem to get them out of my mind. Especially the woman.

  I kept seeing those eyes of hers, cold and hateful like the wind, as if there was a black wind blowing inside her, too, and she'd been listening to it too long. I kept seeing her lean forward across the counter and stare at the pastry container. And I kept seeing her rummage in that big alligator purse when I turned around with the slice of pie. Something funny about the way she'd been doing that. As if she hadn't just been getting her wallet out to pay me. As if she'd been—

  Oh my God, I thought.

  I ran back behind the counter. Then I ran out again to the door, threw it open, and stumbled onto the gravel lot. But they were long gone; the night was a solid ebony wall.

  I didn't know what to do. What could I do? Maybe she'd done what I suspicioned, and maybe she hadn't; I couldn't be sure because I don't keep an inventory on the slots of utensils behind the sandwich board. And I didn't know who they were or where they were going. I didn't even know what kind of car they were riding in.

  I kept on standing there, chills racing up and down my back, listening to that black wind scream and scream around me. Feeling the cold sharp edge of it cut into my bare flesh, cut straight to the bone.

  Just like the blade of a knife . . .

  The editor who commissioned this story, Peter Crowther, specifically requested a horror tale set in the Old West which deals with a little-known superstition. I had a devil of a time (no pun intended) coming up with a suitable idea until I happened to be paging through a book on nineteenth-century village life, hunting inspiration. One of the chapters was entitled "The Coffin Trimmer "—a pleasant piece of nostalgia about a gentle, benign spinster who worked for a mortician in the author's hometown. My coffin trimmer, naturally, is anything but gentle, the superstition she represents is anything but benign, and what happens after her arrival in the village of Little River is anything but pleasant. . . .