T.R. Healy

T.R. Healy

Slow Shivers of Light

Anxiously rapping his thumbs against the steering wheel of his car, Fallows slowly drove toward the large van parked behind the downtown branch of the public library. It was impossible to miss, checkered with small red-and-white squares that made it appear it was covered with a table cloth from an Italian restaurant. For a minute, he idled beside the passenger window and peered inside and saw two chairs on either side of a small metal table.

That must be where the recording would be conducted, he thought, continuing past the van. That was where he was scheduled to be at ten o’clock tomorrow morning, and he still didn’t know if he would keep the appointment.

For the past two and a half months, since the financial services firm he worked for moved to the opposite end of town from his apartment building, Fallows had been riding the train to the office. There was just so much traffic congestion to contend with in his car that he decided to take the train. Though considerably faster, it was quite a bit more expensive. And it was always packed with passengers so he never bothered to bring along anything to read because it was rare that he found a place to sit. Some mornings it was so crowded he wasn’t sure if he had made the right decision. And today was one of those mornings because he could hardly turn around without bumping into someone.

“Do you think it’ll ever stop?” a young woman standing next to him asked, tightly gripping the strap above her head. A soaked umbrella rested against her right knee.

“What’s that?”

She glanced at the raindrops pelting the windows. “It’s been going on like this for six days straight.”

“It’s been a wet month. That’s for sure.”

“I don’t know how many times I’ve told myself I’m going to leave this dreadful weather and go somewhere warm and dry but I never do.”

“I hear you,” he said, sharing her frustration with the constant rainfall.

“One day I’m going to do it,” she insisted. “One day I am— ”

Suddenly she was in his arms, her head pressed against his shoulders, then together they slammed into a window, causing it to crack in several places. At once, his hands felt damp, and he assumed it was rain seeping through the cracks and looked down and saw blood in his hands. Mortified, he let go of the woman and stepped back from the smashed window and nearly tumbled over another woman who was on the floor on her hands and knees. Beside her was an elderly man whose left arm was so twisted behind his back it appeared as if

he were trying to scratch himself in some obscure spot. All he heard for a moment were screams, including his own, then he heard someone say the train had gone off the tracks.

“Come on!” he urged himself, pushing other passengers out of the way. “You have to get out of here!”

Someone grabbed the sleeve of his raincoat and he swatted his hand away then someone else reached for the cuff of his trousers but adroitly he dodged around her. All he thought about was reaching the door that some passengers had managed to push open. He knew it was callous but he couldn’t be bothered with anyone between him and the door.

“You have to get out of here! You have to!”

Outside, he lifted his head back, letting the rain rinse his face, then lifted up his hands to rinse off the blood. He was so exhausted he had to take several deep breaths, as if he were a runner who had just crossed the finish line of a long, grueling race.

“Hey, fella, how about giving us a hand?” a guy with a nasty gash on his left forearm asked him.

Fallows nodded, still out of breath, and walked over to where the guy and another man knelt beside a woman with a badly lacerated knee.

“We need to get this lady on a backboard,” he said. “So if you’ll take one end we can get it done.”

“Sure thing.”

On the count of three they lifted her onto the board and carried her away from all the wreckage to an area behind the tracks where several other passengers awaited medical attention.

The next morning Fallows was stunned to see a picture of him and the other two men carrying the injured woman on the front page of the sunrise edition of the newspaper. The headline above the photograph said: “Good Samaritans To The Rescue.” He couldn’t believe it, thought for a moment he was imagining what was there and set the paper aside while he finished his breakfast. When he looked again, it was there all right, nearly as large as his hand. It was still hard to fathom. All he did was help carry a woman away from the scene of the accident then he left. He knew, if that guy hadn’t asked for his help, he would have left even sooner because he was so eager to get away from all the pain and destruction.

He was not a Good Samaritan, and he was certainly not a hero, but he was treated as one. Numerous people congratulated him over the next few days, some of whom he didn’t know, and several at the office asked to have their picture taken with him.

“You’re the man!” perfect strangers shouted at him on the street and, always, he acknowledged them with a raised thumb.

There were many passengers injured that morning whose picture didn’t appear in the newspaper but it turned out the woman he helped carry to safety was the sister of a city councilman which was why hers did appear. Still, he enjoyed the attention he received even though he knew he didn’t deserve it. But it was something that was more than due, he believed, because he seldom ever felt he was appreciated enough for the things he did.

Years ago, in high school, he ran for student body president, against a prince and a clown, even though he was sure he would lose because they were much better known. He did indeed lose but he gained some of the recognition he craved. He was tired of being ignored. He wanted others in the school to know he was there and know, too, he was as worthy of being elected as either of his opponents.

Three weeks ago, over the phone, Fallows was invited to participate in an oral history project conducted by members of the library staff about ordinary people who did extraordinary things during the past year.

“Why are you inviting me?” he asked the staffer who called.

“Because of the picture printed of you in the paper the day after that train derailment last fall.”

“Oh.”

“We’d very much like to record your memories of what transpired that day.”

“That was quite a while ago.”

“I know, sir, but whatever you can recall would be much appreciated.”

“I see.”

“So can we make an appointment for an interview?”

He didn’t know why but he agreed to participate in the project. But now, as he drove to the appointment, he wished he hadn’t because he felt he would be obliged to tell whoever was recording him that he had ignored the woman with the umbrella who bled all over his hands as well as several others who needed assistance as he pushed and clawed his way out of the rail car.

He was a fraud, he knew it, but he didn’t know why anyone else needed to know it so, abruptly, he turned around and headed back to his apartment.