Two more late night texts followed, “What’s up man?” and then, “You’re passed out aren’t you? Drunk bastard.”
Dewey, the closest thing John had to a friend, was waiting for him this morning in the parking lot of Wanna Burger—their favorite fast-food joint. John figured he ought to let him know he would be there in a few minutes. He replied as he nonchalantly maneuvered the truck through the curves of the small neighborhood street. With the phone held up in his right hand, he typed with his thumb. “Yeah man last night was a good time...”
𓂓
Still smarting from another argument with client-zilla, Clay knelt and began digging small holes for red begonias with a deference that suggested he might want to crawl down into one of them holes and curl up for a long sleep.
As he worked the trowel methodically through the sandy loam, Clay vaguely registered the little girl across the street with her soccer ball. She usually played in the front yard with her mother, but he noticed this time she was by herself. The thought of them conjured a brief smile followed by the familiar pain of an unfulfilled longing. Without the inspiration granted by the love of a woman and the promise of a family, life and work had humbled his world into a taking-shit-from-people grind.
34 years old and you hate your life. Way to go, buddy.
Another deep breath.
Come on... snap out of it, man.
Clay tried again to refocus on the begonias...
𓂓
Done in the bathroom only a moment or two after telling her daughter to wait, Jacquelyn called out, “Elena.” No answer. She checked the kitchen first. No sign of her. “Elena?” Jacquelyn said loudly as she searched. No answer.
Frantically checking her usual spots, she didn’t see Elena anywhere until she passed by the couch in front of the picture window. She slowed for a half second as she watched Elena give her soccer ball a solid kick. Jacquelyn quickened her pace to the door. “How many times have I told her to wait for me?” she grumbled.
By the time she opened the door, she saw the ball go bouncing into the street with Elena in pursuit. She immediately plunged outside but the slick sole of one shoe slipped in the door frame. Stumbling out of the front door in a panic, Jacquelyn screamed after her daughter.
𓂓
Jacquelyn’s scream pierced the thick humidity of the morning air. “Elena!”
Clay looked up from his work to see the little girl running into the street to retrieve her well-worn soccer ball. His attention shifted immediately to her left, his right. He watched as the girl stepped into the path of an oncoming truck.
Jacquelyn rushed after Elena, but she was too far away.
Clay assessed the situation in an instant—no reaction time—no thought—only instinct. His blood already pumping because of Sally’s browbeating, Clay got up and began running in a split second. The surge of adrenaline dissipated his melancholia. In its place, the second hand of a mechanical stopwatch began to tick insistently from the depths of his consciousness as he gained speed. He had just a few seconds to reach the girl.
Running all out now, he yelled, “Sean, 911!” Sean looked up from across the front yard and saw Clay sprinting. His first thought was that he didn’t know his mentor could move his lean six-foot-tall figure that fast. Then he saw the girl and the truck and Sean was up and moving right away.
Clay sprinted toward the child, the ticking in his mind growing more urgent with each stride. Approaching the driver’s side of the truck, he noticed the name ‘John’ painted in quotes on the door. Without slowing, he waved his arms while yelling at the driver. “Stop! Stop! John, stop!” His cries weren’t heard over the blaring music.
The driver didn’t notice. He just stared into a cell phone held up close to his face and kept going.
Clay knew what needed to be done without consciously comprehending the mechanism. Every adult is gifted with an inherent compulsion to protect the life of a child, regardless of the circumstances. A primal instinct resting in the depths of our mammalian souls, available to propel us when the need for action presents itself.
Crucial milliseconds passed as Clay neared the little girl, the filthy dual rear-wheel diesel chugging toward her. The relentless ticking filled his ears from within, propelling him forward. Elena remained oblivious to the pending tragedy, focused only on getting her soccer ball until Clay got within a couple of steps. His urgent yelling registered somewhere deep in her brain. Elena looked up, eyes wide, suddenly snapped out of her daydream, frozen in place as the truck drew near.
Vaguely aware of the screams coming from the woman across the street, Clay reached the child. Motion seemed to slow for him at that point. The ticking retreated to the back of his mind as if he had outrun the stopwatch. A flash of brilliant white light crossed his vision as he picked Elena up under her arms. In one fluid motion, he dove and tossed her into the spongy lawn on her side of the street as his broad shoulders were just beginning to get past the front end of the truck. At the same time, the driver finally noticed Clay moving in front of the truck and began the motion of shifting his foot from the gas to the brake. But it was too late.
Just after Clay released Elena, the truck struck him in the arc of his dive. The cruel chrome of the front bumper drove into Clay’s hip and legs, flinging him not only forward but also into a horizontal spin. His upper body came around and struck the passenger front fender. His head snapped in a whiplash motion, smacking into the gap between the curved edge of the front fender and the tire. As Clay descended into unconsciousness, the ticking in the back of his mind became a slowly fading echo as if the stopwatch behind him had been dropped down a deep well, and he was tethered to it.
Jacquelyn reached Elena an instant after the little girl landed in the soft grass. They both watched in horror as Clay bounced off the truck and landed lifeless on the curb directly in front of them.
Arms outstretched, reaching for the man, stumbling indecisively, she shouted, “Oh my God!” Jacquelyn’s throaty scream shook her body in a visceral sense like thunder would have after a nearby lightning strike.
The truck groaned to a stop, inches from Clay’s lower legs. The scuffed soccer ball came to rest just under the front of the truck. Sean reached the scene only a few steps behind.
Cringing now, a look of acute pain on her face, Jacquelyn looked to Clay for some sign of movement. “Is he okay? Please tell me he’s okay.” She reached an arm out, moving to help him.
Sean stepped between them and placed a hand protectively over him. “I don’t know. We shouldn’t move him.” He dialed 911, silently hoping that they would soon hear the wailing sirens of the EMS truck.
Jacquelyn returned to the little girl and knelt beside her, trying to comfort the shaken child. They crouched on the lawn, embracing each other, racked by uncontrollable sobs.
“I’m sorry, Momma.”
“It’s okay, baby,” Jacquelyn reassured her. “You’re alright.”
𓂓
The driver heard urgent conversation coming from the road, right in front of his truck. He sat rigid behind the wheel, staring in shock, the cell phone still clutched in his hand. The shift lever had been moved to park, but he couldn’t remember doing it. Both feet still pressed the brake. His sweaty sockless soles slid inside his untied high-top Reeboks. The loose ends of the laces dangled to the floorboard. He shifted uncomfortably in his loose-fitting jeans.
After a moment, John released the brake and shoved open the door. It hit the stops and bounced back on his left leg, banging his shin as he got out. He cursed out loud, “Son of a...” then dipped his shaved head as he rolled himself out of the cab, his bulging stomach dragging his stained white shirt across the steering wheel. He pulled up his jeans and made his way around the front, his leg throbbing, his temper rising with each step. “Now I’m gonna hafta straighten out these jerks,” he mumbled.
The twisted form he saw stopped him in his tracks.
Chapter Two
Sally stood in her kitchen with a smug grin on her face, exhilarated by the intense argument with Clay that morning. Mabsy, a wiry patchwork cat, wound her furry form through Sally’s legs.
Sally bent to stroke her back. “We haven’t had this much fun since Daddy left, have we?” Not only did she enjoy having Clay under her thumb, but some small part of her also adored the man. A man out of her reach. Although she could never admit that, not even to herself. Conflicted, the only agency she had compelled her to test him, to push him daily. Anything to get a reaction, to have his attention.
