Hiatus

I am quite poor at keeping a regular writing schedule, especially with all of the mathematics and teaching I’m doing in graduate school, and my other blog Math ∩ Programming. So, as much as I hate to make this official, I probably won’t be posting here for the rest of the year. Come Summer, my extra free time may likely inspire me to pick up writing again. Until then…

Two Scenes with Bruce

Both men listened as they gazed out through the windshield of the 1978 Lincoln Town Car. Both men heard the screams, but it seemed to disturb neither of them. After a minute, the night became silent. A moment passed, and the man in the driver’s seat spoke.

“I wonder who that guy was.” His voice was thick and deep. He had a heavy inner-city accent.

“Does it matter?” the other snorted. “He’s an enemy of the state.” He chuckled at his own joke, as if he didn’t know who the real enemy of the state was. The man in the driver’s seat either missed the joke or believed it literally, because he laughlessly continued to stare through the windshield. There was nothing to look at save a thick wall of fog. A dim light shone from somewhere above the Lincoln, and it managed to illuminate the patch of cement surrounding the Town Car and the wall of a large rusty shipping crate, neither end of which was visible. In fact, everything a meter beyond the car was so obscured by the fog that it was hard to believe that any of it still existed. If it weren’t for the intermittent screams of agony, the two men might have forgotten where they were.

The driver rubbed his hands for warmth, and blew hot air at his fingers. His fingers were thick and his knuckles were hairy. He rotated them like he was roasting a marshmallow, gingerly aiming for an evenly cooked golden-brown.

“I just wish we could leave the car on,” he said, pausing to blow more air, “and maybe turn the radio on, like we can when we take ‘em somewhere downtown.”

“Are you stupid, Bruce?” the man in the passenger seat said incredulously. “It’s three in the fuckin morning! There ain’t nothin on the radio.”

“Oh. I guess so,” Bruce said plainly. Another scream rang through the air, but it was more faded than the last.

“Hey, Sid,” Bruce pondered aloud to his partner, “We don’t often take them all the way out to the shipyard. You think this one’s special? Maybe he did something real bad, you know?”

“You’ve always got more questions, don’t you?” Sid mocked. Bruce blinked, as if the two hadn’t had fifty identical conversations before.

“Well I dunno. I just thought maybe he…hurt someone. You know, someone important to the boss.” Bruce was a large man, but he always seemed to pick his words with the same caution he might use to pick daises.

“You think you woulda learned by now,” Sid began impatiently. “It’s money. It’s always about the money. Someone gets to owing, and then it’s time for a visit. But we,” Sid forced contact with Bruce’s eyes and engulfed their whole existence in a gesture with his two fingers. “We just have to get them here. There’s no more thinkin than that, mister Albert Einstein.”

Despite the warning, Bruce thought about this for a minute, but his thoughts were interrupted by two men who strode quite suddenly out of the fog and into his bubble of pale yellow light. The first man, who was significantly shorter than his trailing comrade, looked at Sid through the windshield, and gave him a short not. He did not acknowledge Bruce, but instead they turned and strode away, just as calmly as if they were in a park instead of a shipyard.

“Time to go.” Sid looked at Bruce.

Bruce started the car, and promptly turned on the heater.

* * *

“Alright, open the trunk.” Sid’s raspy voice pierced through the alleyway in the late evening. Bruce blinked, leaning against the Lincoln’s side, and then fumbled for the keys in his pocket to do as his partner asked. Sid had suddenly emerged from behind a rusty metal door, and hot air creeped in his wake. He led a man before him with a burlap sack over his head, its drawstrings tight around his neck. The Sackman wore a rumpled gray suit with an unbuttoned white undershirt and no tie. As they drew closer, Bruce noticed that Sackman’s hands were bound behind his back by thin steel wire, which continuously cut into his wrists.

With the trunk open, Sid passed Sackman over to Bruce. Sackman was trembling slightly, and his body jerked when Bruce touched his arm. Sid moved toward the passenger door.

“Watch your head now,” Bruce said as he bent the man over the open trunk. He oriented Sackman so he was lying on his side, and then lifted Sackman’s legs and bent them so his knees touched his chest. Bruce thought Sackman might have been a gymnast or a runner, because his legs seemed very flexible. Either that or Sackman was too weak to struggle. Looking around the trunk, Bruce spotted a sweatshirt. He quickly bunched it up, lifted Sackman’s head, and placed the shirt under it.

“So your head don’t bump so much.” Bruce said. He took one last look at Sackman, who was silent save for his ragged breathing, and then closed the trunk.

Once Bruce was settled in the driver’s seat, Sid passed him a brown paper bag and said, “There’s some food.” It was a cheese danish. Sid had one already in his other hand, and the pair proceeded to eat.

For a few moments, the interior of the Lincoln was quiet. The only sounds Bruce could hear were his own chewing and the occasional wiggle of the car as Sackman attempted to improve his relative level of comfort. Bruce wondered why Sackman didn’t yell or kick, and figured he was probably gagged or too tired. Whenever Sid brought them out they always seemed exhausted. A couple strode past the entrance to their alleyway. They wore trench coats, and Bruce imagined they were returning home after a Saturday night party. Neither happened to notice the Lincoln parked fifteen feet away.

When Bruce finished his danish, he spoke.

“So where are we headed?”

Sid sucked the crumbs from his fingers before replying, “You know that butcher’s shop over by Stevenson’s?”

“Mitch’s Meats?”

“Yeah, that’s the one. We got a guy waiting there for us.”

Guardian of the Bend, Part 3

Martin was up at eight the next morning. He made himself french toast, and left a plate out for Heather with a glass of milk. After calling the towing company, he went outside to inspect the wreck. Last night’s snow had settled, and the road was sheeted in white. Heather’s Toyota RAV4 lay upside down with the driver’s side door still open. The car’s roof was crumpled on the passenger side. Martin lowered himself into the ditch and knelt down to look inside. The driver’s side window was gone, the windshield had shattered, and a deflated airbag hung from the steering wheel. The keys were in the ignition and the lights had been left on, so the battery was dead. Clothes were strewn about the back seat, and a layer of frost covered the interior.

He imagined Heather’s crash. Driving a little too fast, turning a little too sharply, and the rest was fate. He pictured himself in the driver’s seat as the car flipped, the snow falling sideways for that moment before the world was turned on its head. He envisioned himself climbing out of the ditch, seeing Martin coming to help. He stood up, and ran to Martin, whose open arms and wide smile made him never want to leave. His embrace was strong, and his body was warm. Accidents brought them here, to the middle of nowhere, and Martin was their guardian.

Martin opened his eyes. For an instant he felt silly, daydreaming on his knees in an overturned SUV. But the embarrassment passed when he noticed a picture laying atop some clothes in the back. He crawled into the car a bit further so he could retrieve it. It was a picture of Heather and a blond-haired friend. It showed their faces with a city sprawling in the distant background. As Martin looked at the photograph, the similarities were undeniable. She had Joan’s brown eyes and lips. Her cheeks were round and full, and her ears were just the right size. She was Joan’s spitting image. Heather even had Martin’s nose, with a thicker bridge, and Martin’s chin. Her hair was a darker brown than Joan’s, but so was Martin’s.

Martin couldn’t deny the coincidence. The mannerisms, the look, her age, and the split-pea soup. She even had a California license plate. He crawled out from the car, taking the photograph with him. He headed back inside and into the kitchen. Heather’s plate was still there, untouched. Was she still asleep? Should he wake her? Martin’s mind raced. He put the photograph on the table, and noticed Heather’s purse was still sitting on the table from last night. Her driver’s license was probably in there. Martin could see if her last name was the same as Joan’s maiden name. He opened her purse and put his hands inside, taking a few items out while looking for her wallet.

He heard Heather’s footsteps too late. When he looked up, she was standing in the doorway to the hall with a horrified look on her face.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Her voice was trembling.

“Have you known all along?” Martin asked. “You must have. You must have known and come here.”

Martin stepped toward her. She took a step back, her voice increasing in volume. “What? What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You.” Martin tried to stop himself from saying his next words. But they were true, they had to be. All he could do was hear himself as he stuttered over it, which made it come out less sturdy than he hoped. “You’re my daughter.”

Heather only screamed.

“No, you don’t understand,” Martin urged, his words trembling more now. “Look at this picture. See?” He fumbled with shaking hands for the photograph on the table and started for her.

Heather’s eyes grew wide. “You were in my fucking car?” She screamed again, this time backing away down the hallway toward the guest room.

Martin followed after her, spilling out words about Joan and brown hair and her California license plate, and pleading for her to understand. Heather only screamed, and ran down the hall. She knocked a lamp on the hallway table to the floor and it shattered. She moved into the bedroom and went for the window, but Martin kept it locked. Heather pushed against the latch and banged on the window, but she couldn’t get it open.

Martin was getting desperate. Why wouldn’t she just listen to him? Then she could see things the way he did. It was undeniable, and Martin knew it. She was the daughter he thought he could never have. She just needed to listen!

He moved across the room toward her. She was facing the window, and when she turned her head she let out another scream. Martin implored her with large, pleading eyes, “Don’t you see? Don’t you see?” and he spread his arms and embraced her from behind, trapping her arms at her sides. He closed his eyes. Martin hoped she would calm down, but she only struggled harder. She heaved her body away from him, kicking and thrashing her head. In an attempt to soothe her, Martin repeatedly said, “It’s okay.” Heather began to cry. Martin only hugged her tighter, and her resistance began to weaken. She tried to speak but managed to release only screams and sobs. “Shh,” Martin said softly. “It’ll all be okay.” Heather let out another scream.

Martin heard heavy footsteps running down the hall. He looked up, and saw an angry looking man in a gray jacket wielding a crowbar with two hands. Martin barely had time to notice the label on his shirt, which read “Bella Vista Towing,” before he could see only the crowbar, and then blackness.

He was the Guardian of the Bend, and he would never leave.

Guardian of the Bend, Part 2

This time it happened late in the evening. Martin was just about to turn in when he heard the accident. He headed for the front porch. Through the falling snow Martin could see the wheels of the large overturned car, probably an SUV, sticking out of the ditch down the road. He saw a girl climbing out of the ditch, and moved quickly to her. Snow was scattered on her North Dakota State sweatshirt, and as Martin came closer he recognized a swelling black eye. “Um,” she faltered as she tried to lift herself up. “I’m not…sure where I am right now.” Martin helped her up. He reckoned the girl could have been about twenty, or college age at least.

“Why don’t you come on inside?” Martin supported her as they walked to his door. Trembling, she passed the threshold of warm yellow light into the family room. Marin closed the door, shutting out the snow and all the reminders of Winter. Oddly, the girl clutched a large red purse. Martin supposed that in her delirium the girl extracted it from the wreckage in case her makeup should run.

“Here’s a coat. I’m Martin Haven.” he said. The girl only looked at him. Martin said, “You’re going to need some ice for that, and something warm to eat.” Heather blinked, and she gingerly touched the edge of her bruise, as if just noticing it. Martin laid the coat on the sofa’s armrest and walked into the kitchen. He heard her footsteps in the dining room and rustle of sleeves as she put on his coat.

“My name’s Heather.” she said flatly, standing in the kitchen doorway. She looked childish in such an over-sized coat, and her dark brown hair barely touched her shoulders. She had soft features and penetrating green eyes. Heather looked strikingly familiar to Martin, but he was sure he didn’t know her.

“Well, Heather,” Martin placed an ice pack on the table. “Let me know if you start feeling pain anywhere else.”

“Are you a doctor?” Heather asked.

“No, but I know who to call if it’s serious.”

Heather nodded and moved toward the kitchen table.

“So,” Martin stood in front of the stove. “We’ve got tri-tip leftover from Thursday, or fresh split-pea soup. What’ll it be?”

“Soup’s fine.”

“Comin right up.”

He placed the soup and a spoon in front of her. Heather ate slowly with one hand and held her ice pack with the other. Martin poured himself a cup of Earl Grey, and when he sat down at the table he said,  ”You’re lucky, you know. I’ve seen a lot worse.”

Heather nodded. “Do you get a lot of people like me?” she asked. “Accidents like that?”

“Actually, yeah, you’d be surprised.” Martin replied. “Once I got the same guy twice. Everyone’s tryin to get somewhere real fast, you know?”

A silence settled over the kitchen. Martin tried not to stare, but Heather just looked so familiar, like a younger version of someone. Nobody spoke again until Heather finished her soup.

“That was good,” she said. He thanked her. “My mom makes it sometimes. Did you make it from scratch?”

“Mmhmm,” Martin replied. “My ex-wife used to make it, a long time back. She could always cook it better, though.” He smirked.

“How long ago was that?” Heather asked.

“Jeez,” Martin said, taking a sip of his tea. “I haven’t seen her for…just shy of twenty-one years. That sounds about right. Before you were born, by the looks of it.”

“Have you always been here?” Heather asked. “I mean—lived out here?”

“Nope. I’m originally from St. Paul.”

“Oh,” she said. “So why did you choose to come here?”

“Well I didn’t really,” Martin scratched his neck. “A friend of mine couldn’t sell it, and I needed a place to go after Joan left—”

“Your wife?” Heather interrupted.

“What was that? Oh, yes. After she left I couldn’t afford the house we had, and I guess nobody wanted this place so they had to bring the price down. I guess it was kind of an accident that I ended up here,” He smirked. “It’s a nice house though. Far away from everything. And quiet.”

Martin couldn’t help but notice the way Heather tucked her hair behind her ears when she thought about what he said. It seemed reflexive, but her finger lingered on her ear for a moment longer than one would expect. Joan did the same thing. A chill ran down Martin’s spine, and he was going to remark on it, but then Heather asked, “Do you have any children?”

Instead of answering the question, Martin stood up and took Heather’s bowl and his mug to the sink. “You know, in all my years, nobody has ever asked me so many questions. Usually they are just happy talking about themselves.” Martin finished rinsing the dishes, turned to Heather, and said, “I don’t think any tow trucks will come out here this late, with the snow and all. I’ve got a guest bedroom down the hall, so you’re welcome to stay.”

“Thank you,” Heather said. “But you never answered my question.”

Martin hesitated. He looked at Heather, and saw the edges of her mouth twitch. She was going to press the issue, even if she overstepped the line of courtesy. Martin could tell because Joan did the same thing. There had never been secrets between them for long, because the edges of her mouth would just twitch and she would ask another question.

“Did something happen to one of them?” Heather asked.

“Oh, no. Nothing like that.” Martin said. Slowly he sat down again. “It just didn’t happen. We tried, and when she realized it wasn’t going to happen, well, she was set on being a mother. So she left. Went down to Southern California, I think.”

Heather looked Martin in the eyes and nodded. The room was quiet, and then she said, “I should call my parents and let them know about my car.” She went for her purse in the living room and brought it back into the kitchen. She sat down, retrieved her cell phone, and placed her purse on the edge of the table. When she saw she had no reception, Martin offered his phone. As he stood up he bumped the table, and Heather’s purse fell to the floor. Its contents spilled out, and Martin apologized.

“It’s alright. Just let me get that.” Heather bent down to sweep the things into her purse. Her small hands identically resembled Joan’s as she snatched up a tube of chap-stick and some loose change. Martin stared at her blankly until she gathered her things, unable to shake his uncanny thoughts.

Martin handed Heather the phone and she dialed her home number. She spoke with one of her parents quickly, saying she was okay, mentioning Martin’s name, and then saying she would explain later. When the conversation ended it was half past midnight, and Martin showed Heather to her room. He opened the door for her, saying, “The bathroom’s down the hall on the left, and there’s a shower in there too if you need it.” Heather thanked him, and she stepped past Martin and into the bedroom. Heather’s head came up to Martin’s chin, and in the small hallway Martin could not avoid getting a whiff of her hair. She even smelled like Joan.

Martin’s thoughts were racing much too fast for him to keep pace. She couldn’t be who Martin thought she was. By the time he went upstairs, brushed his teeth, and got in bed, he had almost convinced himself that this was all just an extraordinary coincidence.

* * *

Martin was up at eight the next morning.

Guardian of the Bend, Part 1

Mirror Lake Highway

Martin Haven lived alone in a cabin on Mirror Lake Highway, Utah. Secluded as it was, Martin welcomed many people into his home over the years, though it was easy to see the circumstances were not in their favor. He met brave cyclists, musicians touring the country; runaways; and teenagers on a pilgrimage to Evanston, Wyoming for “real beer” or fireworks. Most were looking for the fastest way out of the state, but instead they found Martin’s front door, their car in a ditch, and a new sense of mortality.

Martin supposed some of them might have been too injured to call for help, had he not lived so close. The car accidents were not usually life-threatening, but about once every other year Martin found reason to call an ambulance. Martin was a tall man, and he had the shoulders of someone who splits wood by necessity. He could manage to lift a person from the ditch if the situation called for it. However, that was the exception; most were just bruised and shaken. As an extra precaution, he had taken first-aid lessons and he was CPR certified. Martin took pride in his role, and he thought of himself as a sort of guardian. In time he would never imagine leaving his post.

Because the accidents usually occurred at a late hour, Martin offered his guests a room free of charge. They didn’t often stay past breakfast the next morning, but once an older woman who had sprained her wrist stuck around for three nights. Her name was Margaret, but she insisted he call her Peggy. Every time Martin offered to drive her to town or call a tow truck, she suggested they have a bite to eat instead. Over the course of her stay, Peggy told Martin her life story with impressive detail. Peggy was an actuary for the state of Utah Securities Agency. She and her tabby cat Tangy had outlived her two husbands, both of whom died in car accidents. If Peggy noticed the irony, she didn’t say. Martin usually worked around the house in silence, so he didn’t mind Peggy chatting by his side as he bevelled, painted, and carved his leathers.

Martin didn’t ask these people many questions, but he received plenty of answers. They say people like to talk about themselves, but Martin was continually surprised by how open they were about their lives. One man even revealed that he was a fugitive, quite calmly in fact, and that he had been on the lam for upwards of three years. He supposedly robbed two banks and a jeweller in the same day with nothing but a convincing BB-gun. Martin was astonished by how brightly the man spoke as he described holding a teller at BB-gunpoint. With pride, he claimed to be the most successful robber ever to hit San Luis Obispo, California. Thankfully, the man didn’t threaten Martin, and Martin refrained from asking his name.

Being retired and divorced, Martin didn’t have other company, so he had every reason to be hospitable. The only reason he left his home was to replenish his groceries and craft supplies, which required a lengthy drive into Salt Lake City. Other than that he enjoyed walks around his home and the serenity of the forest: the evergreen pines and broad-leaved scrub oaks, the smell of wild sage, the purple columbines, and the aspen trees. Most of all, Martin appreciated the aspen. In a place where everything was green or dead, flushed with life or drowned in white, the aspen had personality. In the month before the first snow, its leaves flushed an infinitude of shades between deep red and vibrant yellow. A single tree rarely stuck to one color for its leaves, instead mixing them all like a child with finger-paint. Martin believed that the aspen truly lived only when on the verge of losing its leaves.

Similarly, Martin wondered if his guests’ talkative nature had something to do with the shock of the accident. Maybe being close to death brought out the true chatterbox in them. Or maybe they were just lonely, and that’s why they took a drive on Mirror Lake Highway in the first place. Or maybe they were bored, and their only pleasures in life were frivolous conversation and hitting icy curves at high speeds. In any case, Martin’s house stood within a hundred feet of the most dangerous bend on Mirror Lake. Anyone driving too fast or in bad weather was bound to end up in the ditch with the nose of their car nuzzled in fresh snow. In their jarred, injured, and garrulous state, they would find their way to Martin’s front door, where Martin kept a dry coat and his first-aid kit ready.

* * *

This time it happened late in the evening.