The Harlequin & the Train: A Novella by Necropolitan Press

COMPOSITION BOOK

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t h e

harlequin & train t h e

— a novella —

by Paul G. Tremblay

Presented by

Necropolitan Press Westborough, MA & New Paltz, NY • 2008

NECROPOLITAN PRESS NECROPOLITAN PRESS. P.O. Box 1217, New Paltz, NY 12561-1217. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the authorâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Copyright ÂŠ 2008 by Paul G. Tremblay. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Author or the Publisher, except where permitted by law. NECROPOLITAN PRESS name and logo design are trademarks of the publisher. For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Necropolitan Press sales: sales@necropolitan-press.com. Necropolitan Press edition April 2009. 400 copies of this edition have been printed by Fundcraft Publishing Company, Collierville, TN on 80# acid-free Matte White paper. Binding material is 12 pt. cover stock with liquid UV coating. Book design by Nick Curtis using Adobe InDesign CS3 and Adobe Photoshop CS3. Text is set in Adobe Garamond Pro, with various embellishments in American Typewriter Light, Ardenwood, Arial, Impact, and Times New Roman. Manufactured in the United States of America. First Edition, First Printing.

ISBN-10: 0-9818320-0-8. ISBN-13: 978-0-9818320-0-5.

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1234567891011121314151617181920 6:00 AM. Jenny’s bedside alarm goes off, same as it does every workday morning. Lying on her stomach, she slaps at the clock, knocking an empty Diet Coke can and The Bell Jar off her nightstand, the same book she can never get through even though she’s started reading it at least ten times. It makes her too sad to read it all the way through, but she keeps going back to the beginning, somehow hoping it’ll be better, maybe something she can handle. Her curtains are open and the morning light hurts. Jenny the morning zombie gropes for her robe, then yawns and shuffles down the hallway, which is as brightly lit as her bedroom. Jenny leaves the curtain of straight blonde hair over her freckle-face; she tries to hide from the assault of light. The hardwood floor is sticky on her bare feet. Her roommate spilled Kung Pao chicken in the hallway last night and did a shitty job cleaning it up. Jenny knows she’ll wash the floors when she comes home because her why-did-I-pick-herwant-ad roommate won’t do it. A black-haired blur bolts across the hallway and into the bathroom, then slams the door shut. Jenny says, “Dammit, Liz!” She stops her morning shuffle at the bathroom door and pounds on the wood; the morning zombie looking for a shower and coffee instead of brains. Safe behind the door, the soon-to-be-ex-roommate

says, “You snooze, you lose, Jenny.” Jenny leans her forehead against the bathroom door. The shower turns on. Morning zombie defeated and defeated so easily. She says, “I really can’t be late today.” *** Welcome to a typical scene from a suburban morning. A dowdy Mom in a yellow tracksuit, two kids, and a fat businessman scarf down breakfast while sitting at the kitchen table. The fat businessman is early middle-age with requisite male-pattern baldness. His gray suit is also requisite. The kitchen is white and bright, antiseptic. A gray mini-TV on the counter blares cartoons. All the colors and explosions are loud. The commercials for fruit rollups, morning cereals, and the sexed-up early-teen Bratz dolls with their oversized lips and hips are even louder. The businessman changes the channel to a morning news show. Then there are real explosions from car bombs and war machines on the TV. The two kids rebel. They yell and scream for Mom, who frantically runs around the kitchen gathering her things, unaware of the attempted coup. The businessman surrenders. He says, “All right, all right.” There is no need for negotiations or armistices. He changes the channel back to the cartoons. Something violent happens to a cat and the two kids cackle along with the laugh track. The businessman gets up from the table and drinks deeply from his coffee thermos. He

drinks coffee even though it gives him the runs. He’ll need a colonoscopy soon, though he’ll keep putting it off. The thermos was made in Taiwan. Mom says, “Are you bringing the kids to school today?” The businessman thinks his wife looks like a banana in her tracksuit. He feels guilty for thinking this, fully aware of his own skin. Then he remembers the last time they had sex, over two months ago. It was quick and awkward and in the dark. He’s not sure if he misses it or not. Maybe he’ll try tonight. He says, “Sorry, I can’t. I can’t be late today.” *** Rudy is twenty-nine-years old and has dark hair that’s cut very short. He likes being twenty-nine. He likes his oversized sunglasses. He likes his plain face and day old stubble. Some days, he even likes his navy blue jumpsuit uniform and his job, train engineer for the MBTA. Today is not one of those days. He’s driving to the station and talking to his sister, Karen, on his cell phone. He says, “That’s what I said. No more girlfriend.” Rudy curses himself for bringing this up. He managed not to tell Karen for a month, but it slips out now, while he’s late for work. He knows she’s not going to let it go. Karen says, “What happened?” “I don’t know. It just wasn’t working out.”

“You’re alone again?” “Yes, but...” “That makes me sad, Rudy.” “No, it’s okay. Look, I’m on my way to work.” “I feel really bad.” “Don’t. I’m fine. I didn’t want to get into this now. I was only calling to tell you that I was going to stop by tonight if that was okay.” “Tonight?” “Yeah, tonight, okay?” “Okay, Rudy.” “Good. See you tonight, then. Bye.” Rudy hangs up and tosses his phone onto the passenger seat. His car is compact and not all that clean. On the floors and seats are candy-bar wrappers and empty water bottles and random bits of stuff, everything used and forgotten and discarded. Rudy rubs his face, swears under his breath, and then checks his watch. He’s still late. *** Full green trees with branches that stretch and reach out and the very occasional house with plenty of frontage flank the roadside. Jenny’s car is a red convertible, small but not fuel-efficient. The top is down and there is only the cloudless blue sky above. She drives fast and sings loudly along at the radio, pretending not to be angry with her roommate. Morning zombie has morphed into real estate whiz.

Today she needs to show three properties and process offer sheets on two other homes. She’s wearing a yellow sundress; short sleeved, very light and airy. Jenny doesn’t slow down as she navigates a curve that crosses a section of railroad tracks. The tires make percussive popping noises but not loud enough to be heard over the music. Two more forgotten miles roll under her tires. She slows and turns onto the gravelly shoulder of the road. After killing the engine, Jenny continues singing that song under her breath, some theme song to a new TV show that premiered only a week ago but the song is somehow already number one on the charts. What makes a song number one for the week? How do they quantify a number one song? Who are they anyway? Jenny gets out of the car and walks into the woods. There’s a narrow path, but vines and brush canopy the opening. The path is only there for people who know it’s there. It’s there for people who want to follow. Jenny’s cell phone rings. *** A black BMW glides into the parking lot of the Newburyport Commuter Train Station. The black BMW has tinted windows, leather seats, and GPS, and it misses the assorted potholes and pockets of broken glass as if programmed; no such luxury vehicle would ever suffer the normal everyday mishaps of cars. But the fat businessman knows better than to believe his

daydream about the impervious BMW. In three months his car has accrued a flat tire, a broken tail light, and two angry scratches along the body from some jerk’s key. The engine runs rough before cutting out. A pickup truck and beat up Toyota are too close to his car, but he’s running late and it’s the only spot he could find. He shimmies out of his BMW, careful to not scratch his door on the Toyota. He juggles his coffee thermos, folded newspaper, and leather bag while shutting the driver’s side door and arming the BMW’s alarm. He manages to do it all without dropping anything, but he is sweating through his shirt already, the sun lighting a fire on his business-blue suit jacket. He rushes through the full lot, weaving between cars and SUVs. There’s a BMW SUV. He covets its many letters. There are trains waiting in the bays. The tracks only lead out of the station in one direction, as the Newburyport station is the beginning (and end) of the North Shore line. The businessman hurries. He always hurries, and the morning routine of fleeing his house with thermos in hand and his press-release-like goodbyes issued to his wife and kids are forgotten, if ever remembered. He’s focused on the tasks ahead, aimed at his train and elbowing past his fellow commuters who are all wearing sunglasses like his, and nobody can see each other’s eyes. ***

Employees only. Conductors’ quarters. A small room filled with cigarette smoke—despite the no smoking signs—and older men and women. Rudy is by far the youngest person here, and it tightens his chest. Maybe it’s just the smoke. In the center of the room, three older men sit at a round lunch table loaded with ashtrays and open newspapers. The others sit in easy chairs or stand and talk. There is one table by a large, tinted bay window with a coffee urn and trays of powdered donuts. Rudy looks out the window at the trains, their chrome and steel reflecting the sun. He tries to figure out which train is his as he serves himself coffee and grabs two donuts. He also eavesdrops on a conversation. It’s what he usually does in the morning. He stands off to the side and listens to the stories floating around the room, convincing himself there’s some hidden wisdom in their workday exaggerations and the old men’s these two broads go into a bar jokes when he knows there isn’t any. “Hey, pal. Did you hear this?” says Cecil; his nameplate says so in yellow cursive on his blue jumpsuit. Rudy looks around, giving the who me? routine. “What? Say that again?” Sitting at one of the newspaper and magazine cluttered tables with Cecil is Earl, his nameplate in block, print letters. Cecil and Earl are two of the oldest of the old in the room. There’s dirt under their nails older than Rudy, or so he’s been told. Earl says, “I was saying to anyone who cared

to listen, on average, there’s one person hit by the commuter trains every goddamn month.” Cecil starts speaking before Earl finishes, and he talks real fast. “That’s right. One jumper, one human roadkill a month.” His mouth keeps moving after he finishes, chewing after the words that have already escaped his mouth. Rudy laughs, acting too cool for the tall tales, but he knows he sounds nervous, even pathetic. He attempts salvation with, “You’re full of shit, Cecil.” Rudy takes a sip of coffee. It’s bitter and it burns. Cecil and Earl laugh and laugh hard, looking at each other, exchanging reams of information without saying a word. Cecil says, apropos of nothing, “Another country heard from,” and Earl says, simultaneously, “No, it’s the truth, kid.” There’s more laughter bubbling up and around the conductors’ quarters. Everyone is in on the joke now, except for Rudy. He has lost control so quickly, and he doesn’t know how it happened, how it always happens. Just like earlier when he was on the phone with his sister, Karen. “‘Rudy,’ not kid, Cecil.” Rudy feels like a kid being forced to champion his name, as if it was some prideful thing, the only thing he has. Earl, still laughing and flashing his nicotine-stained teeth, says, “Okay, fine. It’s the truth, Rudy.” *** The sun dominates the early morning. The cloudless

sky is still somewhere above her head, but Jenny can’t see it through the thick canopy of trees. She keeps to the winding path, but has to step over fallen logs and dodge the thorny limbs of stubborn shrubs, aiming to keep from snagging her dress, or skin. Still, she manages, and walks on autopilot. She has been here before. Was she the one who found this place or forged the path? Jenny doesn’t remember or care because its origin doesn’t matter, only its purpose. She walks, but also laughs and talks to a co-worker on her cell phone. Jenny says, “I can’t believe you said that to his face. I couldn’t have said that...You are my new inspiration... Right...Right...Oh, god, I should try saying that to my roommate…. Yeah, I know…. Ha! You call me right after if he dares call you back today... Okay, okay...I have to go or I’m going to be late. Call me later...You promise?” Jenny stops walking in front of a thick fallen log. She didn’t wear the right shoes for this. She leans forward, as if somehow making herself closer to the wireless conversation, and she breaks up laughing again. “You are so terrible. I have to go...Bye!” She hangs up and climbs over the log. Rotted bark disintegrates under her heels exposing the small, translucent bodies of thousands of termites. They’re blind. They can’t see Jenny and she doesn’t see them. Half their population dies under her unaware footsteps. She’s still thinking about her cell phone conversation, and laughing. ***

Rudy puffs out his chest, but it’s all for show; a peacock with an undersized and dingy plume. He believes at a time like this, a time when the spotlight has been thrust upon him against his will, that to not be heard, to have no voice or say at all wouldn’t be the worst thing in world. But he tries. He talks loud, begging to be heard over the laughter and conversation in the room. “I haven’t heard anything but Paul Bunyan stories from you guys in the six months I’ve worked here. And I’m not buying any of it.” Cecil says, “There ain’t nothing to buy.” Rudy says, “All right, then how come I never hear about these accidents on the news?” Earl chimes in. “I suppose at one time they ran the stories, but the newspapers just don’t print that stuff anymore.” Rudy laughs, but the old men don’t join in. “Come on. Now I know you guys are full of it. If it bleeds it leads, gentlemen.” He gives his watch a quick glance, then the trains. He’s due to make his morning run. Earl rubs his chin hard enough for everyone to hear his white stubble scratching against the pads of his fingers. He says, “Well, when anything happens that frequently, it stops being news. Sure, one low-life or freak a month jumps in front of a commuter train. Think about what’s in the papers and TV news shows these days. Is there room for that kind of thing? No, sir. That’s old news.” Cecil adds, “Plain old suicide ain’t exciting enough anymore.”

Everyone else in the conductors’ quarters nod and murmur their agreements. An old woman tells a joke that Rudy can’t hear and they all break up laughing again. Rudy smiles now, in spite of himself, and shakes his head. Earl leans back, almost straightening out his concave chest. “You really think we’re bullshitting, don’t you? What, you have a hard time believing that stuff doesn’t go on without you knowing about it? Well, it does. Lots of stuff happens without us knowing or hearing about it. Lots of stuff, Rudy. And the worst part is sometimes it happens because of us and we don’t even realize it.” Is he really trying to say that hitting the suicidal with a train is the engineer’s fault? Rudy shifts his weight from left foot to right, back to left. He taps his fingers on his coffee cup. He needs to go. He is officially done with this particular conversation. It’s past time to find a way to exit, even if it isn’t gracefully, so he’ll exit with one last jab, even if it’s a glancing blow. The kid crack from earlier still stings. Rudy says, “Right, right, Earl. Then tell me, does this mean that all you experienced, master engineers have hit someone then?” The remnants of conversation and laughter die. Not abruptly, but the silence grows in the room. It’s a presence, as real and as there as the boxes of mass produced donuts and paper napkins and newspapers and Styrofoam cups. ***

There’s a full house of commuters on the train. The passenger car is filled with folding and unfolding newspapers, iPods and headphones, and the tangy smell of the collected cologne and perfume of the passengers. The conductor yells, “All aboard.” The fat businessman doesn’t think about the quaint phrase, or how he used to wait for it like an expectant kid on Christmas morning when he first commuted to Boston almost twenty-five years ago. It used to mean something to him, a magic command, a manifest destiny call to railway travelers that hasn’t changed in over one hundred and fifty years. But for the businessman, such romantic notions are now as dead and forgotten as the laborers upon whose backs the railway system was built. The businessman walks sideways up the aisle, squeezing past people until he finds a seat near the very front of the car. He sits heavily and checks his watch. The train blows its whistle and eases into a slow roll. Momentum is sometimes hard to achieve. The businessman offers to no one in particular a quick but triumphant smirk as he joins his fellow commuters in the ritual opening of his newspaper. *** Jenny pushes through hanging branches and leaves and stands at the end of the path, at the edge of the woods. Out from underneath the canopy, the sunlight

is blinding. It’s like she’s waking up all over again. The tracks are only ten yards away. A small hill and gulley covered with gravel separates woods from rail and ties. Jenny crouches, absently picks up a handful of rocks while surveying the area. She drops the stones and takes a bottle of water out of her pocketbook and drinks. The water is almost as warm as the air. Jenny won’t drink anything too cold. When in restaurants Jenny always orders her drinks with no ice. If a drink arrives with ice, she has it sent back. Jenny consumes the rest of the water and because it is so warm, it doesn’t feel like she’s drinking anything. Jenny slips the empty bottle back into her pocketbook. She will recycle the plastic bottle later when she goes to the office. She shuts off her cell phone and checks her watch. *** The route is the North Shore: Newburyport, Rowley, Ipswich, Beverly, Salem, Swampscott, Lynn, Chelsea, Boston. Down the forty miles of coastline. The train rolls down a straightaway. It follows the lone set of tracks that cuts a swath through a living green corridor of trees and thick brush like a line of angry red stitches, like scars on otherwise healthy skin. Beyond the windshield is the blunt nose of the engine car. Rails and wooden slats disappear under the engine to eventually spill out behind the last passenger car. Rudy never sees the tracks reemerge, but they

always do. On the console, needles twitch and lights blink in an orderly manner. Rudy is alone. He picks up his two-way radio and speaks. “You know, sometimes I imagine the train as an overstuffed suitcase.” The conductor says, “I hear ya. Standing room only this morning.” His response is full of static as it comes over the two-way. Rudy’s train, and he does think of the locomotive as his, has ten passenger cars, and half are double-deckers. Rudy says, “Did I ever tell you that I don’t like the straightaways? “Nope. What’s the matter, not exciting enough for you?” Rudy smiles, but it’s a sad smile, one the conductor never sees. He says, “It’s not that. I don’t know, I try not to stare at the tracks. I’m not worried about falling asleep at the wheel, or getting hypnotized by the monotony or anything like that. It’s just that if I stare too long, I get real down.” “Down?” “Yeah. I don’t know. I can’t help but feel like I’m leading a train full of people to nowhere.” *** The conductor walks down the aisle collecting tickets and the two-way radio is pressed up against an ancient ear. He jokes to anyone who will listen that retirement was ten years ago and now he’s working

toward earning his pension. His work clothes are pressed neat and clean and smell like powder. He looks out a milky window. The scenery blurs past him, almost as fast as time has. He says, “You think too much, buddy.” He forgets the kid’s name who’s driving this train. He wants to call him Ronnie but he knows that isn’t right. He has never been very good with names, but they’re not a necessity. After all, he doesn’t ask for the passengers’ names, only their tickets. The conductor slides the heavy car door open, then closed, and stands between cars. He likes being here and is drawn to the rush of sound and wind, everything so loud and fast and dangerous. Out here it almost feels like the train is alive, a large animal that only tolerates passengers, an animal that hasn’t been broken and could buck at any moment. He told all that to his wife once. She laughed, but not in a mean way, in her way, and said, “You’re like a slobbery, old dog sticking your head out the window.” He laughed too, took her in his arms and said, “I don’t slobber, but you’re probably about right and I’ll take it.” They exchanged a quick kiss, and then he added, “There are much worse things to be.” Neither was exactly sure what he meant or why he would say something like that now in the safety of each others arms, but they let it lie. The conductor slides open another door and steps into the first passenger car. He walks the aisle collecting tickets, including one ticket that belongs to the fat businessman who somehow manages to hide behind

his financial newspaper. *** Jenny ties her hair up. A strand from the crown of her head gets caught in her claddagh ring and she pulls it out. It’s only one strand of hair but it feels like more. “Ow!” Jenny rubs her head and creeps away from the edge of the woods, then climbs down the embankment and toward the train tracks. The full bottle of water is already weighing on her bladder but going to the bathroom will have to wait. She hopes it can wait until after and when she gets back to the office. The thought of squatting in the woods holds no appeal for her. It’s why she quit the Girl Scouts during her first camping trip. Her parents had to drive two hours plus five miles down a one-lane dirt road full of ruts and potholes to pick Jenny up at one of the State Park’s ranger stations. She just couldn’t and wouldn’t go in the middle of the woods. As a nine-year-old she was unable to vocalize this, but squatting in the woods with her panties around her ankles made her feel so vulnerable, and she simply couldn’t accept it. Jenny stops halfway down the embankment, gravel crunching and twisting under her feet. She looks right and one hundred yards away there’s a figure standing motionless on the tracks. The figure is too far away from Jenny to be recognizable, but she knows its identity. She knows what it is.

There’s a low rumble approaching and it pushes the surrounding leaves and branches around, a distant but giant storm, or a glacier bulldozing a mountain. The air grows thick with bell clangs and the gravel under her feet vibrates. She can’t see it, but the train is coming. *** Rudy sees someone on the tracks, about a quarter mile away, and that distance grows shorter. He says, under his breath as if afraid he’s going to jinx the situation, “A little early for kids to be playing chicken, isn’t it?” Kids playing on the tracks and throwing rocks at the train are a routine sight on the afternoon commute, but never during the early morning runs. Rudy blasts the train’s horn three times. He stares past the Plexiglass windshield to the tracks, and the tracks lead to the person, the somebody who is getting closer although Rudy knows that it’s not the person doing the getting-closer. Rudy blasts the horn again. The figure remains motionless. There’s a harsh blast of static on Rudy’s radio, then the conductor’s voice. “What’s going on?” Rudy says, “Someone’s on the tracks. Maybe four hundred yards away.” *** The last of the horn blasts vibrate through the lead

passenger car. The low frequency sound waves pass through the floor and even through the fat businessman’s cushioned seat. He closes his paper. None of the other passengers seem to have noticed the horn blasts. If there’s something in their newspapers more interesting, the businessman hasn’t found it in his. But that’s not exactly fair to his fellow commuters, his comrades in routine, because he knows what’s going to happen next and they don’t. The businessman remembers to shut off his cell phone. Then he slides closer to the window and looks out even though he won’t be able to see anything until after it’s over. *** Any thoughts of a full bladder or an annoying roommate are forgotten in the face of the approaching train and the sun blazing behind it. She has to squint, but Jenny finally sees the train and in front of it, standing on the tracks like a scarecrow, is the figure. For a moment she imagines the figure as a hero, someone strong enough to stop the train, someone like that college student in Tiananmen Square. Then she remembers the student didn’t really stop the tanks from rolling over everything. Across the way there are other people leaving their wooded hiding spots to get closer to the tracks. There’s a middle-aged nurse in turquoise scrubs and a young male wearing jeans and a white tee shirt among others,

ten in all. Jenny doesn’t know all of them by name and never will, but she does know them. *** Rudy eases off the accelerator and onto the brake. The train slows but nothing jarring or anything the passengers would notice. He says, “Okay, shit. Get off the tracks!” The engine car leads the train’s head-long rush toward the person. Rudy steadies his hand near the emergency hydraulic breaks. The MBTA frowns upon emergency stops unless there is indisputable evidence of a calamity about to happen, something like a school bus stalled on the track. It isn’t that the MBTA doesn’t care. Emergency stops are dangerous and depending on the speed, often end in derailment. The conductor is still on the radio, sounding much too calm. “Relax, the guy will get off.” “I don’t know. He doesn’t look like he wants to go anywhere.” “Just be steady and smart. Even if you use the emergency hydraulics, the train won’t stop in time. Don’t be a hero. It’s his coin flip.” Rudy is, for the first time, afraid of the train. He is acutely aware of the entirety of locomotive power rumbling beneath his feet, while also aware of just how powerless he is in deciding the fate of the person on the track. To live or die will not be Rudy’s choice. Trees and track whiz by on the periphery, and the

man hasn’t moved. Rudy decides the figure is a man, and he’s dressed in black and white, a frilly collar around his neck, a pointed hat on his head, and his face is white with red dots on his cheeks and one eye surrounded by black. Only seconds from impact and Rudy realizes the figure is a harlequin clown. He knows the clown isn’t going to jump and that the train will not stop. Rudy screams. Impact. Black, white, and red smear across the windshield. He presses the emergency hydraulics into action. Rudy slams into the engine’s control console with his left shoulder, his face pushes up against the windshield and its smeared make-up and blood. *** People are propelled forward as the laws of momentum dictate, along with assorted commuters’ debris. It happens too fast for screams. It happens too fast for reason. The conductor leaves his feet and lands shoulder first against the closed sliding door. He breaks a collarbone, and the two-way radio dislocates two fingers when he lands, as for some reason he never let it go. Later, when the train stops and the pain in his chest isn’t as bad as he thought it would be, the conductor knows that he will not heal fast enough and that this will be his last day on the job, it won’t matter if he’ll want to return. It’s a realization that is surprisingly heavy with misplaced regret. Then his shaky hand will try the somehow still-

working radio, and he will remember the engineer’s name is Rudy. The train does not derail, although within the tin can walls of the passenger cars there are injuries, some severe, some minor. The injury list will be a statistic some local news shows will quote, each with varying degrees of accuracy and bloodlust. However, the fat businessman will not be a part of that statistic. He shields his face from airborne thermoses and pocketbooks and iPods, managing to avoid injury while sitting with his head and back up against the front end of the train, riding out the sudden stop as if he is on nothing but a simple roller coaster. *** A stunningly beautiful, sunny day is the backdrop to geysers of blood and gore exploding from the figure, the harlequin clown, painting the engine’s grill and windshield a dark red. The clown’s arms and legs detach and flutter away into the woods like dying birds. The train’s brakes screech and the engine billows steam and smoke. Jenny lets out a cheer that no one will hear, and she sprints down the embankment, trying to stay ahead of the braking train. *** The train jerks to an unsteady stop and Rudy pushes

off the console, forcing himself upright. He holds his drooping left shoulder. Any left arm movement radiates pain from his shoulder down to his fingers. Smoke and steam from the stressed engine and brakes fill the cabin. His radio crackles to life. “Jesus Christ, I told you not to be a hero! You okay? Rudy? Rudy?” It’s the conductor. He sounds diminished, shrunken, like talking or even breathing is something that has become difficult to do. Rudy wipes sweat out of his eyes and grabs the radio. He caused this. Did the train derail? He can’t tell yet. He can’t see out his windshield. He imagines the train split in half with hundreds of passengers strewn about the derailment’s wake, and it’s all his fault. Rudy sees the gore smear on the windshield and then looks away. “We hit the guy.” He can’t bring himself to say, ‘I hit the guy.’ Rudy stumbles out of the engine car, landing on gravel. The sudden movement and slight change in altitude makes everything fuzzy. He wobbles and leans a hip on the engine car. It’s hot. He swivels his head from the front of the train and then to his left, eyeing the length of the passenger cars behind him. There are violent signs of the impact almost everywhere he looks. His radio still squawks from somewhere inside the engine car. Rudy closes his eyes and his head threatens to implode, everything crashing in, and he is going to go down and stay down if he doesn’t open his eyes, so Rudy forces them open, pressing his palms against his eyes, then pushing his lids up. His radio cuts out but

there’s still the passengers’ muffled screaming, and then sudden scrabbling sounds upon the gravel. A small group of people emerge from the brushlined embankments adjacent to the tracks, green curtains parting at their hands and feet. They crouch low, drop to all fours, and crawl like crabs along the rails and base of the train. Their hands probe and feel. They are searching for something. Jenny is among them. She is the closest to Rudy, only twenty or thirty feet away. Rudy will remember her blonde hair, face, and yellow sundress. Jenny picks a red chunk of gore off the gravel and puts it in her mouth. Her cheeks bulge out, but she holds her lips shut with her fingers, keeping it all in. She chews and chews and chews and swallows, then skitters back to the brush. The other people do the same. An emergency window falls out of the lead passenger car. The sheet of safety glass bounces once on the gravel, then slides away. The passengers’ screams are no longer muffled. The fat businessman jumps out with his leather carrying case and thermos tucked under an arm. He lands feet-first on the gravel, but slips and falls to his knees and rolls onto his side. He gets up quickly and paws the wheels of the passenger car. His left hand emerges with a strip of leaky meat and he stuffs it into his mouth, blood spilling from between his lips, then he too makes a dash for the woods. And that’s it. He is the last. They are gone. Rudy tries to scream, but the action threatens to

crack his head in half. He takes two uncertain steps toward the passenger car, then drops to his knees. The pain in his jostled shoulder is almost enough to wake him into full consciousness, but everything goes fuzzy again and his head feels like it’s gaining mass with each passing second. Before blacking out, Rudy stares at the windows of the passenger car. Distorted faces press against the tinted glass, their shadowy mouths open wide. They could be crying or screaming or laughing.

1234567891011121314151617181920 EMTs and police officers lead passengers off the train. The first of a fleet of buses arrives at the scene to transport the uninjured to the nearest functioning mass transit station. Some will still go to work, as if there is nothing else in the world they could or should possibly be doing. Rudy sits under the shade of a crooked pine tree, hiding from the unrelenting sunlight. His shoulder is in a make-shift sling and the knot on his forehead throbs in time with his heart. There are shouts, sirens, moving vehicles, and everything is too loud to be happening. Rudy rubs his head and pauses to stare at the shapes of the blood stains on his fingers. They must mean something, but it’s a Rorschach test he fails. Officer Shandley crouches in front of him. Rudy doesn’t remember when or how Shandley got here. Shandley tells Rudy that he was overseeing the mass

exodus of train passengers until another officer pointed him in Rudy’s direction. Rudy guesses Shandley is a veteran of the force and likely younger than he looks, just like a typical cop from a movie. Officer Shandley says, “Did the EMTs have a look at you yet?” Rudy is something to be inspected, investigated. The question makes Rudy angry, and he tries to hold his slung shoulder up, but the pain humbles him quickly. He says, “Yeah. Two were just here. It’s a shoulder I’ve dislocated before, and I have a mild concussion. They said they’re going to take me to the hospital as soon as they get the critical cases out first.” Officer Shandley nods, and while adjusting his crouch, his knees crack and pop. Rudy imagines this Shandley as a movie cop again, and his fatal quirk would be increasingly frequent and painful bouts of arthritis. It’s perfect for a movie cop. Pain makes even the most clichéd characters sympathetic. Shandley says, “Would you mind taking a look at something for me?” Rudy blinks and suddenly the officer is up out of his crouch and standing. Rudy is losing time to the concussion, but that’s okay, he’s sure he didn’t miss anything important. Shandley now wears rubber gloves, and holds a broken, hollowed-out face or halfskull. It’s the plastic head of a mannequin. Its facial features cracked and damaged, but clearly fake and plastic. Some of the clown makeup remains, mostly the black around the right eye socket. Inside the head, the

plastic walls are stained red and dried flecks of tissue cling like barnacles to the underside of a boat. Shandley says, “It was a mannequin dressed like a clown.” He pauses for a response that Rudy doesn’t give. “Likely somebody’s idea of a sick joke. Funny, right?” Rudy says, “Yeah, real funny. It really was a clown on the tracks.” Shandley says, “This clown was stuffed like a Thanksgiving turkey. You know, filled with meat and other tissue. I can tell you it wasn’t a person dressed in a clown suit.” Rudy can’t focus on more than a handful of words at a time. There isn’t enough room inside his pounding head. He says, “What do you mean by other tissue?” Shandley produces a large, see-through plastic evidence bag and puts the cracked head into it. Cracked head. Rudy wonders if his would fit. Shandley is wearing sunglasses now. The lenses are reflective and as big as satellite dishes. Shandley speaks, but doesn’t answer Rudy’s questions. He says, “Sick bastards, eh? Must’ve scared the hell out of you.” Rudy blinks again and loses more time. He doesn’t know where it goes but he does know he can’t ever get it back. Shandley moves and changes position like a movie missing frames. He is back in his crouch, empty handed, and not wearing the satellite sunglasses. He says, “We interviewed the passengers, but no one admitted to seeing a man leap out of the passenger car, and no one saw the other people you mentioned to the on-scene officers.” Rudy doesn’t remember talking to any police

afterward. Rudy doesn’t remember an afterward. There was the train and there is now. Rudy stands slowly, his body protesting the upward movement. He says, “What are you trying to say? That I made up your merry band of practical jokesters?” “Relax. I’m only saying that we have a lot more investigating to do, and it means you need to get fixed up in case we need to have another chat.” Shandley hands Rudy a card. It’s simple and carries only Shandley’s name and phone number. “We’ll be in touch.” Rudy blinks again. There’s more lost time, Shandley now walking away, toward the train leaving Rudy sitting, again, under his tree but with two EMTs asking him muffled and far away questions. He closes his eyes and holds onto his head. He’s afraid it might run away.

1234567891011121314151617181920 Rudy’s left arm is in a more permanent sling equipped with adjustable Velcro. There is a butterfly bandage on his forehead. Because of the concussion, Rudy wasn’t supposed to drive for at least three days, but he got himself here, and here is a brightly-lit, antiseptic hallway. He has a headache, and the bright, sterile white walls and ceiling aren’t helping. The rug is only a few months old and is blue, a deep blue that has been marketed and focus-grouped and is supposed to make the assisted living home feel warm, comfortable,

but it’s out of place. It’s the lying rug, or the rug that lies. Patients aren’t coming here for comfort. He passes nurses and other staff who escort elderly and other infirm patients. Rudy inspects everyone’s face as if he might see who he saw at the train tracks. Just because he’s paranoid, doesn’t mean they’re not there. Room 113, Karen’s room. The numbers on the door are fashioned from a collage of daisies and smiley faces. This is Rudy’s first visit in over a month. The door is ajar and Rudy enters without invite. The bedside lamp is on and sunny yellow wallpaper is peeling in spots. There are two windows with blue curtains, the same blue of the hallway rug. Her room overlooks a grasscovered enclosure in the rear of the home. Karen’s bed is small and tightly made; a model, an over-sized doll house bed; there’s no way it actually functions. There’s a red plush chair that Rudy bought for Karen last year, and against the wall and between the windows is the one piece of furniture that came from their old house; a long, dark-stained bureau. Knickknacks, curios, small stuffed animals, and framed pictures clutter Karen’s bureau top. Rudy stares at one particular picture of Karen and himself. They were just kids, Karen older by eight years and a full head and a half taller in the picture. It was fall, brown and red everywhere, and they sat on a big rock with Rudy, a skinny kid lost inside an Irish-knit sweater, engulfed in Karen’s arms. This is who Karen used to be: his second Mom, and the person who he always wanted to be.

Rudy picks up the picture, careful not to smudge the frame or glass with his fingers. Behind the frame are scores of knickknacks and porcelain figurines. He turns the frame around and taped to the back are two pictures. One is a wallet-sized wedding picture of Karen and her husband Tommy. She’s young, strong, tan, her long dark hair trailing behind her. Rudy always thought her beautiful in her own mischievous way. The other picture is a wallet-sized photo of a baby with a crown of black hair and her mother’s smirky smile. Six years ago Karen had a brain aneurysm while giving birth to her daughter. No one saw it coming. The doctor described the aneurysm as catastrophic and completely random. Karen spent one year in a coma. Two years learning how to speak and walk, how to clean herself, how to wipe her ass. “Hi, Rudy! Hi, Rudy!” Karen shuffles into her room clutching a walker and with an aide at her elbow. She continues shouting her greeting but doesn’t make eye contact with anyone. Karen is obese and needs regular shots of insulin. She has short, close-cropped hair full of dandruff, eyes squinty and glazed over, her head tilts to one side, mouth crooked and drooping. This is who Karen is now. Rudy tucks the picture frame inside his shoulder sling and nods thanks to the aide. He says, “Hey, sis. Give me a hug.” Rudy hugs her awkwardly with one arm. Karen keeps her hands on the walker but leans her head against his chest. The aide leaves and Rudy helps Karen sit on the bed.

Karen says, “Your arm,” then she clenches her teeth and her breathing gets heavy, whistling out of her mouth although she isn’t trying to whistle. “What happened to your arm?” She reaches out to touch his shoulder, placing a finger on the sling but she takes it back quick, as if she touches a hot stove. He says, “I’m okay, Karen. I had a little accident the other day. Did they tell you?” “No.” Rudy knows the staff did. They told him that she spent most of the evening crying. “That’s alright. I’m okay, no big deal.” He’s not okay. Until tonight, he’s stayed locked in his own apartment. Not afraid, he would not admit to being afraid, but unwilling to go anywhere or talk to anyone. “No big deal?” “No big deal. I promise.” Karen relaxes and smiles, but the smile is twitchy, and then morphs into a strained, hard look of concentration. She says, “Did you go see Mom and Dad?” “No. I didn’t, Karen.” “Maybe you should? Maybe I could go with you?” she says, statements as questions. Rudy takes the picture out of his sling and flips it over to the side with the picture of him and Karen as kids. He says, “I was looking at this before you came in.” Karen claps her hands and giggles. “Oh, that’s my favorite picture of us.”

Rudy says, “Mine too.” There’s a silence that he doesn’t know how to fill. He knows his role isn’t much more than being a physical presence, a reminder of where she once belonged, and such awkward gaps in their conversations probably don’t make Karen uncomfortable, don’t serve as a shining spotlight on how tragic her life has become, but Rudy can’t be sure. He can’t know what she is thinking. Karen claps her hands and says, “Oooo! Tommy sent me more pictures of my baby.” She scoots toward the head of the bed and a nightstand. She roughly grabs a manila envelope and gives it to Rudy. He says, “Wow, this is great, Karen,” unable to muster any real enthusiasm. The envelope has a Florida return address. He opens it and pulls out a small piece of paper with a kid’s crayon drawing of a stick-figure girl skipping rope on a sunny day. It reads: I Luv you! Karen says, “I’m the baby’s Mommy.” Rudy flips through the pictures quickly. He watches Karen more than he looks at the photos of a six-yearold girl, hardly a baby. He says, “I know, sis.” “Are you really okay, Rudy?” He just wants to go back to his apartment and hide from everything. He gets up and sits next to Karen on the bed. He says, “Yeah, I’m fine. Just tired and a little sore. I’ll go to bed early tonight and feel better tomorrow.” He says this although he believes the concept of tomorrow is overrated, if not outright sinister. Karen says, “Will you play with your special

quarter? You used to love that. Do you still try to beat the special quarter?” Rudy issues a short and somber laugh. With all that has happened to her, how does she remember that? “No, I don’t still play with the special quarter.” “Do you still have it?” He says, “Yes, actually. I do.” “Maybe you should, then.” “You’re right, Karen. Maybe I should.” Rudy leans in and gives her a quick peck on the cheek. Karen laughs a little and shies away from the contact. She says, “Your big sister knows best, right?” She flashes a big smile aimed at nowhere in particular and digs into the envelope of new pictures, cooing and waving at the photos, at her baby, the daughter she hasn’t seen in person in over three years. Rudy walks to her bureau and puts the framed picture back, the younger versions of brother and sister again resting in front of the rows of forgotten knickknacks and porcelain figurines.

1234567891011121314151617181920 Coming to visit Karen tonight was a mistake. He wasn’t ready. His car is an island in the all but empty parking lot. Only the staff’s cars in their reserved spaces remain. It’s odd to see such a large building bursting with occupants, yet not surrounded by cars. It makes the

place seem vulnerable, like a full lot is protective buffer, a moat of vehicles. Rudy is alone again, and he chooses to believe it’s a comfort. He walks across the cracked pavement to his car. The air is unseasonably dry for a mid-July night, and a light breeze pushes candy wrappers and other detritus around the parking lot. He unlocks the car door and opens it. The interior light dutifully flashes on, and there on his front seat is a yellow cell phone with a Post-it note covering the LCD screen. On the note, and handwritten in thick capital letters is RUDY. The phone rings. Rudy looks around and he’s still alone in the parking lot, and he knows being alone has always been a false comfort. The phone continues to ring. He picks it up, then eases himself into his car, shutting the door quietly. A slamming door might wake somebody who should stay asleep. The interior light shuts off automatically, but he twists and paws at the ceiling and turns it on. The phone continues to ring patiently; it has all night to wait. He peels off the Post-it note. The LCD screen is blank. Scratches and scuffs cover the plastic body of the phone. Any trace of logo or brand name has been removed, which adds to Rudy’s skyrocketing level of unease because everything is made by someone, even little yellow sticky notes. Rudy presses a few buttons and figures out it’s one of those walkie-talkie type cell phones. “Hello?” “Hello, Rudy,” says a woman.

Rudy pulls the phone away from his ear and looks at it like it’s a grenade. His shoulder and his head hurt. “Who is this?” “Doesn’t matter yet.” Rudy is breathing heavy. He wants to sound strong and tough. “Goodbye, then.” She says, “If you hang up, you won’t like the results.” “Are you threatening me?” He turns in his seat and tries to scan the parking lot again, but it’s too dark outside of his car and too bright inside. “Yes. If you hang up, if you try to figure out this number or where the phone came from, if you throw this phone away, if you ignore calls someone you love will get hurt. Do you believe me? After what happened on your train, do you believe me?” Rudy doesn’t say anything. He’s thinking about Karen, the group home, and blue rugs. “I just want to talk. That’s all. I’ll be here for you when you want to talk. I’ll always be on. We’ll always be connected, Rudy.” Rudy stares at the phone and its empty LCD screen and the woman is done speaking.

1234567891011121314151617181920 Rudy’s bedroom is almost as Spartan as Karen’s. There’s a bed, dresser, night-stand, and the room is not very well lit. The yellow cell phone is on the nightstand,

resting on top of Officer’s Shandley’s card and next to a photo that is similar to the one that was on Karen’s dresser, only in this photo, fall became winter and the brother and sister tandem sit on a snow bank, wool hats obscuring their faces. Rudy roots around in his bedroom closet. Pushing past shoes and sweatshirts, looking for long buried treasure. On his hands and knees, he emerges with a cigar box and a black and white composition notebook. He tucks the notebook under his left arm, winces, but manages to hold onto it. The yellow cell phone rings again. Rudy stares at it, and he’s shaking and exhausted and scared, but he picks it up anyway. He says, “What do you want? I’m here.” Rudy thinks about calling Shandley with his apartment phone, but she’d hear him doing that, likely. She’d know something was up. Or worse, maybe she can still see him. Rudy crouches down next to his bed, hiding from his own shaded windows. She says, “I know you because I know how you think, Rudy.” “If you’re trying to scare me, mission accomplished. I don’t know who you are and would never be able to identify you or any of the other people I saw at the tracks.” She says, “What exactly did you see at the tracks, Rudy?” He opens his mouth to respond, but then stops. Rudy doesn’t know how to answer that.

She says, “Ever been to a Jewish wedding?” Rudy hesitates, then lies. “No.” It’s a simple, harmless lie that in the end won’t have any bearing on future events, and Rudy senses this. Then why do it? Because so far, it’s his only way to assert some control over the situation. Lying is always about control. “At the ceremony’s end, the bride and groom crush a wineglass with their feet. It’s really quite beautiful.” Rudy doesn’t say anything. He clutches the box and notebook into his chest and slouches, sitting lower against his bed. “Do you understand what that means, what it represents, Rudy?” “No, I don’t.” “You’re lying. I know. But I’ll play along for now. It means: even while happy and surrounded by loved ones, your world can and will eventually shatter. And sometimes it all shatters because of your actions, Rudy, even if you don’t realize it.” Rudy fills his chest with air, puffing up, trying to feel bigger, stronger than he is. “Why are you telling me this? Who are you?” “Good-night, Rudy.” The phone goes dead. Rudy lifts the cell phone above his head and starts its trajectory toward the hardwood floor. He sees the results; broken plastic and circuitry splintering off onto separate paths, but he stops and doesn’t throw the phone. He flips it over and removes the back panel. The battery and unit serial numbers have been removed. He gets up and walks away from his bed, but he

won’t look at his windows, again afraid of everything, as he always has been. He drops cigar box and notebook and they land hard on his oak desk, which is spotlighted by a bright desk lamp. The apartment phone rings. Rudy never uses it and can’t remember the last time he used it, but all the utilities are included with his rent. “Rudy? It’s Officer Shandley.” The cop’s voice swims in static. Rudy can’t help but think of Shandley as a movie cop again. Maybe the connection is bad because he’s at a bar pay phone, or on some dusky corner, or making a cell call from the earthen basement of a suspect. Rudy knows how pathetic he is for thinking this way, but he can’t stop it, another of his feeble attempts at control when there is none. He says, “Yes?” “How are you feeling? Better, I hope.” Is this conversation being taped? Maybe movie cop is right out front and Rudy is the suspect, but a suspect of what, a practical joke, just a little joke that injured forty people on a commuter train? “Yeah, I’ll be out of work for a bit, but I’m okay.” Does he tell him about the yellow cell phone? Does he tell him about the woman and the threats? “Taking a few days off is definitely a good idea. You should look into counseling as well. I’m just checking in. I don’t have any news or leads. We don’t know anything more yet.” At least, this is what Rudy thinks he hears from movie cop. The static on the line intensifies, eating his words.

Rudy says, “I think we have a bad connection, I can’t hear you very well.” He opens his composition notebook, his one-time childhood pacifier. There is an immense amount of writing and symbols filling the first page. Officer Shandley says something unintelligible. Rudy says, “Yes, Officer,” and hangs up before he tells the movie cop anything. The yellow cell phone is somewhere behind him, maybe on his bed, and in two pieces. He’ll have to put Humpty Dumpty together again later. Instead, Rudy sits at the desk, ready and willing to lose himself into nostalgia; where the past is made safe. The notebook is a ledger filled with capital Hs and capital Ts under multiple column headings of “Guess” and “Actual.” Dates are at the top left hand corner of the page. The headings and labels are written neatly, but the entries in the obvious script of a child. Rudy runs a finger over the initial date in the book: 2/5/88. Then he runs his finger down one of the “Guess” columns and then down an “Actual” column.

1234567891011121314151617181920 Karen’s bedroom was brightly lit, perhaps overly so, yellow wallpaper with a border of midnight purple stars and moons stenciled in strategic spots. She had started an art collection with prints of Wyeth, Monet, and Van Gogh on the wall along with a poster of Einstein

sticking out his tongue and a large periodic table of elements graffitied with notes. Snow fell outside her window. Karen was a junior in high school. Rudy was still in grammar school. They sat cross-legged, facing each other on Karen’s bed. Her comforter was large and soft and billowed above Rudy’s knees. Karen’s legs folded in gracefully and her long arms could reach both ends of the bed. Rudy twitched and his legs didn’t want to stay all folded up like a pretzel, but he stayed in that position because Karen was going to let him help her with a big project. Rudy was a small and serious looking boy, and he stared raptly at his older sister. He thought she was the smartest and most beautiful, but would never admit it. Karen said, “You sure you want to help?” Rudy nodded, shaking the whole bed. “I’m sure.” Karen spoke with as an adult and authoritative tone as possible, showing off for little brother. “You get to be part of my statistics project, big boy. An experiment to prove no one can overcome the most classic of all random events, flipping a coin.” “Will it be hard?” Rudy was nervous. Maybe this was too much for him. He didn’t want to let his sister down. “Piece of cake, kid. Think of it more as a game than a project. We’ll call it ‘Karen’s Coin Challenge.’” Karen gave Rudy the composition notebook, and placed the quarter squarely in his palm. Rudy was careful not to drop it, accepting the coin as if it were

to be revered. She said, “You take this quarter,” and she leaned in, making sure she had his full attention, “and only this quarter. This is the special experimental quarter, calibrated exactly to your flipping technique. You can’t lose it.” Karen smiled, attempting to communicate she was joking, but Rudy only stared at her, nodding, gravely serious. Rudy said, “Gotcha, won’t lose it.” “When you flip, you have to guess heads or tails out loud. It has to be out loud or it doesn’t count. You’ll be too tempted to cheat otherwise.” “I won’t cheat!” Karen held up her hands, a surrender. “I know you won’t. I’m sorry I even brought it up.” Rudy passed the coin between his spidery fingers in both hands, studying it, learning it, and above all, willing himself to do the right thing because it was for Karen. She was counting on him. She said, “When you flip it, it has to land. No catching it. This must be a completely random event. In this book…” Karen opened the notebook to the first page, the headings and columns already labeled and lined. She pointed as she spoke. “…write down your guess here, then write down the actual outcome.” Rudy scrunched his face up and talked soft, afraid to appear stupid, or worse, not worthy. “Outcome?” “Sorry, fancy-schmancy statistics term. Just write down if the coin really lands heads or really lands tails.”

“Oh, okay. I can do that, Karen.” “Flip the coin a bunch of times. At least onehundred times a day for the next two weeks. One more thing. Do you know how to calculate a batting average?” She might as well have asked him if he knew how to breathe. “Yeah. You do the number of hits divided by number of at-bats.” “That’s right! Sometimes I forget how smart you are.” She meant it as a compliment, but Rudy didn’t know how to take that. It could mean good or bad things, like most of the stuff adults told him. “Okay, so at the end of each day, I want you to compute your batting average. Count the number of times you guessed correctly and divide it by the total number of coin flips.” “Can I use a calculator?” Karen laughed. Rudy wasn’t sure if she was laughing at him and he wasn’t quite sure of her motives in sharing this project with him, but he didn’t care. He would do it anyway. She said, “Yes, please do use a calculator.” “Okay. That’s easy then.” “Great. Put your day’s total correct guesses, total flips, and coin-batting average back here.” Karen turned pages quickly, rushing to the back of the notebook and showed him more columns. Mom and Dad walked into the room. Mom wore a red dress and Dad a blue suit. They were both so tall that Rudy couldn’t look into their faces sometimes. They shared a whisper before addressing their children.

Dad said, “You two have fun tonight, but be good.” He was distracted, but apparently happy to have fulfilled his fatherly advice quota for the evening. Rudy scooped up the notebook and coin, hopped off the bed, eager to get started. He gave a quick, onearmed hug to each parent. Mom held onto him a little longer and giggling, he squirmed out, through Mom’s legs and away, fleeing the room. Rudy’s bedroom was at the other end of the hallway. The hallway was dark with its wooden paneling and molding, and the ceiling light fixture had fried during a power surge a week earlier and no one had fixed it yet. Rudy didn’t mind. He wasn’t afraid of the dark. Dad’s voice echoed down the hallway. “Thank you for giving up a Friday night, Karen.” Rudy skipped into his bedroom but left the door open. He wanted to hear if his parents said anything important to Karen. He guessed that they didn’t think he could hear them from down here. Rudy knew their voices carried. Mom said, “Make sure Rudy eats a good dinner, not just chips or junk food.” Dad said, “No soda before bed, either.” He was a little embarrassed that they treated him like such a baby with Karen. Didn’t they know that Karen was letting him help her with a huge, important high school project? Rudy found a pencil on his desk under the pile of Legos and plastic dinosaurs, then he plopped himself in the middle of his hardwood floor. Mom said, “I left the hall’s phone number on the

fridge in case there’s an emergency.” Rudy thought that sounded scary, but a little silly, too. Why would there be an emergency? Everything would be fine. Karen was here. He opened his notebook and wrote down the date carefully. 2/5/88. He took the coin, positioned it on his thumb, and said, “Heads.” Rudy marked H into the guess column, then flipped the coin. Its crash onto the floor was loud and messy, the coin rolling in every direction at once, then stopping suddenly. Tails. Karen spoke and her voice didn’t carry as well as her parents’, she must still be sitting on the bed, comfortable in her cross-legged position. “No worries, Mom.” Rudy marked T in the actual column, and made another guess. “Heads.” Rudy flipped the coin, and flipped it high. Karen said, “Everything will be all right, I…” The coin crash-landed onto the floor, drowning out the rest of what Karen said. The coin bounced and gyrated seemingly forever.

1234567891011121314151617181920 Rudy’s head hurts as if he was literally in there, inside his own head digging memories out of the grey matter with his fingers. His mother used to accuse him of living inside his head all of the time. But this pain, it’s just the concussion. The doctor told him he might

get headaches for more than a week. The doctor told him that everything would be fine eventually. Rudy plucks the quarter from the cigar box and holds it in his palm, heads facing up. It’s the same quarter that Karen had originally calibrated to his flipping technique. His favorite part of the project was that he was doing it for Karen. His parents didn’t ask or make him do it. And, although the coin flipping was an experiment in randomness and unpredictability, Rudy knew what to expect. There were simple rules to follow, an algorithm, no decisions to be made. It was a comfort. The yellow cell phone still lies in two pieces and the apartment phone remains in the cradle, and will remain there. Rudy isn’t going to call anyone tonight. He will sit at his desk and read the notebook. Three-fourths of the book is full. Rudy flips past the empty pages to the back, to the pages with the coin batting averages. He reads the dates listed; almost all the batting averages are close to .500 but there’s one that is not close. The last page looks like this:

Rudy closes his fist around the quarter and says, “Heads.” He doesn’t flip the coin, but lays it down, heads up, in front of an old picture of his family. Rudy takes the cigar box pen, writes down the current July date, a 1 in the correct guesses column, a 1 in the total flips column, and 1.000 for his coin batting average. He puts everything back in the box, but leaves it on his desk, and then walks to his front window of his apartment. He tries and fails to keep thoughts of the tracks and them and everything out of his head, and just focus on the view of the downtown Rockport area and its touristy salt water taffy and gift shops and trendy restaurants, each illuminated by street lamps but empty due to the late hour.

1234567891011121314151617181920 Today is the day the Rockport Chamber of Commerce requested. They even voted on it. A perfect day for their tourist pamphlets and brochures, and photos for the website, trying to keep up with the Newburyports and Ipswhiches of the world. There are only so many sleepy seaside, old tyme towns consumers will visit. Not that Rockport truly needs to market or advertise. People come regardless, even if it’s only for their lunch hour at an outdoor café. Jenny eats lunch with her friend Dee Dee, a free-

lance photographer. Jenny wears another sundress. This one is white with small purple flowers, and it’s these dresses in the summertime that help her move cottages and houses. Slacks just don’t sell. Jenny says, “How was the morning shoot?” “Too easy. A monkey could do this. A point and click at anything kind of job. As long as it pays, though, right? I have to head to the lighthouse after lunch for those obligatory shots, then I’m done.” Dee Dee aspires to photojournalism and to art, but there have been no gallery opening and no trips to Africa and no press conferences in DC. Her only paying gigs thus far have been for commercial work and weddings. Talking about these gigs brings an edge of despair into her voice that Jenny has never heard before, and it scares her. Jenny doesn’t know how to comfort the unsuccessful, disillusioned artist, other than to change the subject. She says, “Hey, didn’t you have a date story for me?” “Yes, I did! Okay, I didn’t tell you this.” She talks very loud, and obviously doesn’t care that the café’s tables are all occupied, and that they’re practically in the lap of the older couple next to them. Although relieved that Dee Dee is back to her normal, obnoxious self, Jenny leans in close and says, “Okay, Dee Dee. You don’t have to yell.” Jenny looks around the full café and the crowded streets of downtown Rockport. Everyone wears sunglasses and khakis. Everyone carrying or sitting with something they’ve purchased in a plastic bag. “Oh, who cares, I don’t know any of these

people.” Jenny says, “You never know. Anyway, what is it? Tell me.” Dee Dee laughs. “It’s awful. It makes me feel so shallow. I’m so bad, Jenny.” Her stories always start with some small declaration of guilt, a leftover from her traditional Korean upbringing. “Oh no, here it comes.” Jenny leans in close enough to lift the back of her wrought iron chair off the sidewalk and then knocks it into their table, rattling the umbrella and spilling some iced tea. “Whoops, sorry about that, Dee.” “Easy, killer.” “I know. I’m such a klutz.” “So anyway, last night was our third date. And middate, he took off his shirt—” “Whoo-hoo!” Dee Dee slaps Jenny’s hand. “Stop it. He was just changing his shirt because he spilled wine on it.” “Sure he was.” “You’re so mean. Anyway, I noticed he was real tan.” “So?” Dee Dee is yelling again. “So? He was too tan! Jenny, he fake-bakes!” Jenny leans back in her seat and folds her arms. “Oh, well. You’re right. That is kind of icky.” “I don’t know, it’s not a big deal, but for the rest of the night, and today, since he took his shirt off, I haven’t been really attracted to him physically.”

“You’re right, that is shallow.” “Jenny!” She laughs and shrugs. “I’m joking. But I don’t know what to say to fake-baking.” “I know. Just my luck.” *** The businessman is across the street from Jenny and the café. He wears sunglasses like everyone else, and walks, carrying a large, leather attaché bag. But unlike everyone else, his bag is empty. He hasn’t purchased anything, although, almost instinctually, he has the urge. Salt water taffy or tee shirts for his kids, a goofy shell-necklace for his wife, or maybe a ship in a bottle for himself; stuff he wants but doesn’t need. Walking past the kitschy storefront window of the eponymously named Gift Shoppe, he can almost convince himself that he needs a ship in a bottle. That purchase would represent who he is. He’s an enigma, someone very complex, more than his exterior shell, and yet he’s so fragile. He’s a work of intricate, nautical art surrounded by glass. But there’s no time for shopping, and he needs the bag to carry something else. He walks slowly past the Gift Shoppe, feeling an odd mix of regret and even guilt as if he’s letting somebody down, the adult equivalent of a kid stomping his foot and then whining it’s not fair as a parent drags him out of a toy store. Safely beyond the Gift Shoppe, he picks up the pace and walks past a clam box and taffy shop, and

then to the sole abandoned storefront in the downtown area. Its bay window is large but dark, smeared with white circular soap stains, and there’s a black curtain pulled across the window’s interior. The businessman stops at its padlocked and grey metal door. He pulls out a ring of keys, opens the lock, and before entering a very dark room, he decides that afterward, he’ll reward himself and his family with a trip to the mall. They all deserve it. *** Today was the first morning since the accident that he woke without a blinding headache, and he has remained headache free throughout the morning. Rudy test-drives a thought of going back to work earlier than planned. Why not? He has nothing else to do, really. Rudy walks out of a Mom and Pop-type market carrying a small plastic bag of groceries; included in the haul is some salt water taffy for Karen. He’s sure the nurses will have a fit when they see it, but Rudy doesn’t care. A little sugar won’t kill Karen. Rudy struggles to put his sunglasses on with one hand, then makes a right, heading deeper into the downtown area. He’ll visit Karen later in the afternoon, and while he’s there, he’ll need to figure out how or if he’ll bring up the woman’s threat, or just ask if the staff or security have noticed anything odd, noticed anyone snooping or scoping out the place and Karen. The yellow cell phone is back in one piece and in Rudy’s

back pocket. He is continually aware of its presence. The sidewalk is busy but not overflowing. The lunch hour rush is almost over. There’re a lot of people saying goodbye to each other. Rudy window shops in front of a small music store. Acoustic guitars on stands and a variety of bongos fill the window display. More guitars hang on the walls. There’s no way they’ll sell all those guitars. How many go unused and silent and wasted? Are there warehouses full of unused, unwanted guitars in the Midwest somewhere? Or maybe landfills instead of warehouses? Rudy doesn’t play guitar but looking at the store full of stilled instruments, he wishes he did. He doesn’t need to be a great player. Plucking or strumming the strings along with everyone else would be fine with him. Just beyond the music store is an outdoor café. *** Inside the abandoned storefront everything is dark. This place is a necessity but the empty store is depressing. It reeks of failure. The businessman peeks through the black curtain and soap-stained window. He sees Jenny sitting at a table for two, eating with a friend. His phone rings. “Dammit,” he says, and fumbles with the phone in the dark. “Honey?” It’s his wife. He has told her the proverbial onethousand-times that she’s not supposed to call the

cell during business hours. Call his office, leave a message with the secretary, she’ll forward it to him. He’s fantasized about changing his cell number, but he knows that won’t fly. He pushes the words out through his teeth, “I really can’t talk now. I’m in a meeting and I forgot to shut my phone off.” “I know, but did you hear about the train bombings in France? I’ve been watching the news all morning, and it just got me worried about you, that’s all.” She has always identified with others through tragedy. He doesn’t know if that’s because she’s home all day by herself and her main contact with the outside world is via the TV where it’s all-tragedies-all-the-time, or if it’s some fundamental facet of her character. She’s the person who sends flowers and cards to newlydead celebrities or to the victim of a drunk driving accident who was featured on the local news. After his appointment in downtown Rockport, he’ll come home and find her on the couch, watching every report on every channel, huddled under a blanket surrounded by used white tissues that’ll look like dead mice, and he’ll wonder if he drove her to her need for voyeuristic, anonymous grief-sharing. He says, “Yes, I heard, and your concern for me is sweet, honey. It was horrible and I’ll be careful, and I’ll pick you up a late edition of the paper.” “Okay. Be good, honey.” “Yes, I will. I have to go now. Bye.” ***

The café empties. There are tearless goodbyes all around them. Dee Dee has to go to her lighthouse shoot. Dee Dee loads up her shoulders with straps; straps from her assorted bags of camera equipment and her Gucci knock-off pocketbook that was a gift from her Mom. We all make sacrifices. Jenny says, “My God. You certainly look like a tourist carrying around luggage.” Jenny remains seated and sips her iced tea that has no ice. Dee Dee sticks out her tongue. “Eat me. There’s a word for you in Korean, but I’m a lady and won’t use it in public.” “Of course!” Dee Dee adjusts her bags. She stands and doesn’t say anything, her eyes aimed away from Jenny. It’s a surprisingly sad pose. A sprinter in the blocks for a race she doesn’t want to run. “Can we do this again, Dee Dee? Soon?” “Absolutely. And thanks for the lunch.” Dee Dee shifts her weight on both feet, obviously uncomfortable. “You’ll let me pay next time, right?” “Right.” “This was exactly what I needed today. Are you sure you don’t mind me leaving? I just can’t wait for our M. I. A. waiter to come for the check.” Jenny says, “Not at all. Please, go. Don’t worry about me. I have to run to the print shop before I head to the office, so I’m in no rush.” “I know you. You’re going to hit a tanning salon with my date.”

They share a laugh. Jenny says, “My mother’s birthday is coming up, so I might shop a little too. Shhh, don’t tell anyone I’m playing hooky.” “I wish I could play hooky with you.” Dee Dee takes small steps, shuffling between the tables empty of patrons but full with their post-lunch debris. “Okay, see you soon. But I better not see you with a crispy tan!” “Right. Me and my freckles and a tan. Bye!” Dee Dee struggles down the street, walking past the music store and Rudy. Her gait lists to the right and left, swaying like a pendulum. She’s unable to walk straight because of all the weight on her shoulders. *** The man inside the music store leaves the counter and puts a Back in 30 minutes sign on the door, then disappears into the back storage room. Rudy watches the man absently, and he imagines playing guitar with his one good arm. The strings are sharp and leave deep red indentations on the tips of his fingers. The sounds that come out are atonal and repetitive. Rudy pulls himself away from the window and walks past the café. He has been there twice before, eating the fisherman’s platter both times. Rudy has always been a creature of habit. The wrought iron tables of the outdoor dining area are all but empty, the chairs strewn about, as if everyone fled in a hurry. All that twisted black metal makes Rudy think of fallen

buildings. There is a young woman sitting in the middle, alone and sipping a tall glass of iced tea. She sits facing the street, facing Rudy. She smiles. Lips parting to let the teeth out. They’re white and she has freckles and she is pretty and she is familiar. Rudy turns away, like he was caught doing something he shouldn’t be doing. His grocery bag is getting heavy. He walks across the street toward the taffy shop adjacent to the abandoned storefront. He fights the urge to turn and look at her again. He doesn’t need to look, though. She is wearing a sundress. Not the same sundress, but worn the same. Under his breath, a secret password being whispered into a keyhole, Rudy says, “Holy shit.” The businessman emerges from the abandoned storefront. The grey door opens and shuts fast. Something must be chasing him or trying to get out. He carries a bulging leather attaché case. He puts it down and fumbles with a ring of keys, and locks the padlocked door. He wears a large overcoat despite the balmy summer day. He wears sunglasses as well, but with too-small lenses. Rudy has the absurd image of raisins covering the big man’s eyes. Everything is absurd. A car horn blasts. Rudy jumps and turns. He is in the middle of the street, staring at the businessman. A gold Lexus swerves past Rudy. Silver rims shooting off sunbeams like lasers. Rudy jogs the rest of the way across the street.

The businessman checks the lock by yanking on it, then walks away, weaving through a small group of plastic white chairs in front of the clam box, and toward the hairpin turn that marks the beginning, or end depending upon your viewpoint, of the downtown area. Rudy looks everywhere at once. The streets might be empty. They certainly feel empty. There isn’t the underlying buzz of conversation that was present a few short moments ago. The sun is still there, a blinding hole in the blue sky, illuminating everything, hiding nothing. The air smells of salt. Rudy walks behind the businessman and fishes inside his pocket for his cell phone, not the yellow one, he avoids that one like it owns poison tipped spines. He also pulls out Officer Shandley’s card. Rudy presses buttons and darkened pixels instantaneously shape into numbers that fill his LCD screen. A red Passat passes Rudy and rolls toward the hairpin turn. He stops mid-dial. The businessman pulls something out of his bag. The something is child-sized and dressed in a cowboy uniform, complete with denim pants, brown chaps, cowboy boots, and a little white hat. The businessman springs off the sidewalk and into the curve, crouching low. He drops the child-sized figure in the street, ahead of the approaching Passat, and then he sprints to the sidewalk, darting between two weather-beaten historical homes. Rudy drops his phone and Shandley’s card, and runs toward the scene. He yells, “He just threw a kid

into the street!” Although even as he says it, he doesn’t believe it’s actually a child. After being dropped, it lands standing and doesn’t move. The Passat is in the right lane and is braking. The child-sized figure is in the left lane. The car won’t hit it. Jenny and some others are now running along with Rudy, but on the opposite sidewalk. That car won’t hit it, but there’s a blaring horn and roar of screeching tires, and another car, a boat of a car, an old Lincoln, plows around the hairpin corner. Its monster-sized hood and grill shifts and pitches as its back-end fishtails. It rams into the child-sized figure, which explodes with streams of blood, arms and legs going upon separate flights, flanks of mashed scalp, tissue, and clothing spraying everywhere. The white hat turns red and rolls down the street, hooked to a breeze and running away. Rudy screams, but continues running toward the accident. The Passat stops adjacent to the accident and facing in the opposite direction of the Lincoln. All four of the Passat’s doors open and out jump a waitress, policeman, mailman, and businesswoman, each dressed in their varying types of professional wares, and they run around the Passat and to the boat-car. They crouch and lick blood off the hood, their tongues lapping against the wet metal. Jenny sprints from the sidewalk to a pile of gore splattered upon the curb, her shoes clicking on the pavement. She scoops up the torn flesh and tissue, squeezing it between her fingers, the clay of life in her

hands. Then she eats, coloring her mouth and chin red, but is careful not to get anything on her sundress. Jenny chews and swallows fast, and runs away, disappearing between the same two historical houses the businessman did. More people appear from between houses and buildings and stores and restaurants. They scavenge and pick over the bloody mess. Two men sprint past Rudy. They join the hood lickers. Is he the man from the guitar shop? Or is he the grocer? Who is the policeman still licking the hood? Is his uniform real? Is it real? They fight over scraps, the tug-of-war losers quickly moving on, scavenging elsewhere. There’s plenty for everyone. Everywhere are wild eyes and smeared faces and full mouths. There’s plenty for every one. Rudy wanders; his gait is that of a punch-drunk boxer. On the sidewalk but almost parallel to the accident, he’s close enough to see the driver of the Lincoln is an old woman, slumped onto her steering wheel, likely unconscious. Something crunches under his foot. He jumps back and bends down. There’s a face on the pavement. Plastic nose punched in, one eye missing, and beads of blood covering its painted freckles. Rudy has stepped on the cracked face of a ventriloquist dummy. One big, blue right eye is still intact. Police and ambulance sirens make their appearance, but they’re distant, their wails are weak and defeated, like crying from a child hiding in a closet. Someone shouts and they scatter and flee, disappearing into the

Passat and into the homes and shops of Rockport, emptying the downtown streets. Rudy is alone. He stands above the broken plastic face. He remembers his dropped cell phone and Shandley’s card are somewhere on the street behind him, but he won’t find them. He won’t even look for them and he won’t report his cell phone missing. He has another one. Rudy isn’t going to wait for the police to arrive either. Right now, he doesn’t want to see or know what they’re going to do. They might be just like them. So Rudy will stand and stare at the ruined face on the sidewalk, pretend it’s just some kid’s lost but broken doll, a cherished toy that decayed into obsolescence, like everything will eventually. And then he will walk home to his apartment, lock the door, and shut off the lights.

1234567891011121314151617181920 The door is locked. Shades and curtains are drawn, darkening the room. There are sirens outside, at the corner, right below his window. He doesn’t want to look, but he will. Rudy sits on his couch, bathed in the glow of his muted TV. He gets up and walks to one of his front windows. He squints into the sun as he peels up a curtain. Two police cars and an ambulance block off the downtown curve to traffic. There’s a gathering of

spectators. Tourists and shop workers or owners returning from, where? Behind the flashing sirens and crowd of gawkers is the abandoned storefront and its opaque, soap-covered window. In Rudy’s pocket the yellow cell phone rings against his leg. He jumps like it was the buzzing of a wasp inside his pants. He answers it. “I’m here.” She says, “How’s your sister?” “Fuck you,” he says, but then panics. He has to go see her again, tonight. He has to tell the group home something, he has to do something, he has to do…. She says, “How much of what happens in our lives is choice?” He rubs his face and eyes, wiping hard enough to erase his features, to change who he is. But then who would he be? “How much of what happens in our lives is chance?” “Leave me alone!” He yells loud enough to illicit a painful twinge in his throat. He moves away from the window and stalks around the room with the phone, squeezing it tight, trying to choke it, or holding on as if it’s a lifeline. “I like the following question better. This is the question everyone is afraid to ask themselves: How much of what happens to other people is because of our choices, Rudy?” The phone goes dead. Rudy runs into his bedroom. He drops the yellow cell phone onto his desk, then grabs the apartment

telephone. Information gives him Officer Shandley’s number. It seems like that should be secret information, or at least more difficult to find, but it isn’t. He dials, and only gets Shandley’s voicemail. Rudy leaves his name and number and says nothing about the accident beneath his window. He hangs up and paces; looks out the window, then checks the refrigerator multiple times but doesn’t eat anything. There’s nothing there that appeals to him. He lies on the couch and closes his eyes, but he can’t will any sleep. He watches TV, endlessly flipping channels. He paces again. He peeks out the window. The police cars and ambulances go away. His telephone does not ring. He picks up and puts down old magazines and books he has already read. Rudy does any number of mundane things as the afternoon melts away. When the sun finally falls west, crouching behind the apartments and homes of Rockport, Rudy calls Officer Shandley, and again he only gets the voicemail. “Hi, it’s Rudy again. Not sure if you got my first message, but I saw what happened in downtown Rockport this afternoon and…I…um…and that’s it. I want to talk about it. Call me back, please.” Back to the living room. Rudy needs to forget everything. He needs to just sit and be. He un-mutes the TV. CNN is on, the news anchor jabbers about the economy but Rudy reads the news ticker, its yellow words scrolling across the bottom of the screen detailing a bombing of a restaurant in Iraq. Almost two hundred dead. Is one-hundred-fifty almost two hundred? How

about one-hundred-seventy-five? What’s another one or two or twenty-five lives in the interest of news accuracy? The words crawl across the bottom of the screen like a yellow snake. All those people dying a needless and violent death, and what and why and how are their loved ones going to go on, and how does anybody go on? Rudy doesn’t know and he’s had years of practice. Is it just that it happened somewhere else, not here, it being an atrocity almost beyond imagination yet occurs so often it is relegated to a stream of yellow words on the bottom of a TV screen, the death and suffering stats nothing more than a stock-market ticker. Iraq down almost two hundred points today and Rudy tries not to think about other its and thats and theres and not heres and scrawling yellow words happening in places far away, or far enough away. Instead, Rudy thinks about the phone woman’s questions. He thinks about chance and choice and fault. The news ticker keeps on rolling. More yellow words replace the ones chased away. The new yellow words tell a story of the three largest American chocolate corporations purchasing coca from West African farms that use child slave labor. Then those yellow words are gone and he knows they are supposed to be forgotten. That’s how it’s supposed to work. Rudy changes the channel to a wildlife show and hyenas work an all-but stripped carcass for meat. The voice-over narrator gleefully recounts the carnage and the kill. Rudy shuts off the TV and wipes his face, trying to change who he is again.

Her voice comes out of the yellow cell phone without it ringing or beeping. “Rudy, are you there?” Her voice echoes inside his bedroom, bouncing off the walls and hardwood floor. The yellow cell phone sits on his desk, next to his notebook and coin. Rudy sits at the desk and picks up the coin instead of the phone. He passes the quarter between his fingers and then to his palm, and back to the fingers. She says, “Some people believe how much of what happens in our lives is chance is the question, Rudy.” ‘The’ is stressed. It’s the most important word even if it only has three letters. Rudy flips the coin and calls, “Heads.” It lands tails. She says, “They think everything in our lives is and will be destroyed by incomprehensible or uncaring forces, by chance. Maybe they’re right.” Rudy flips the coin again. “Heads.” It lands heads. “Maybe, more times than not, more times than we care to admit, we beat chance to the punch by destroying everything ourselves.” She keeps talking and talking. She doesn’t stop. Rudy believes her words are yellow, like the cell phone, like the news ticker. And even though his day has passed and it’s night now and everything is dark outside, he knows there’s a not here or a there, a somewhere with a horribly bright sun painting everything yellow.

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Standing at the check-in desk, Rudy mentally rehearses his planned conversation with the nurse. She’ll understand him. She’ll see that he is disheveled and distraught, his face unshaven and washed of color, and she’ll believe him. She’ll innately sense he’s telling the truth and she’ll call security and he’ll retell the story to security, and Karen will be safe then. That’s all it’ll take; his simple words, his conviction that there is something terrible going on and that Karen truly is in danger. But Rudy doesn’t tell the nurse anything, and she doesn’t call security. Rudy signs in, accepts his visitor’s badge, and walks down the long, white hallway to Karen’s room. The fluorescent light in the ceiling is off. The bedside lamp is on, but its light doesn’t reach the walls. Rudy says, “Hi,” and walks in, sits in a chair across from Karen. She sits at the edge of her bed. She has a small stuffed animal in her hand and she pets it. Karen says, “This is a gift from my baby.” She holds out the stuffed animal for a moment, a mini-raccoon, then hugs it to her chest, hiding it, crushing it. “Very nice. Aren’t you…” He was about to say ‘lucky.’ “It’s very nice, sis.” Seeing Karen here, so insulated, it’s hard to imagine that she’s in danger, or even that anyone other than him cares about what happens to her, or what has ever happened to her. Karen is happy, and fidgets. Her legs bob up and down and her hands smooth out the bedspread. “This visit is a surprise.”

Would she understand him if he told her about trains and harlequin clowns and yellow cell phones and suicide bombers and slaves on coca farms and yellow words and everything being yellow? Does she see the kind of shape he’s in? Rudy knows he’s not doing well. He needs help with this, needs to talk to someone, but he has no one. For now, it’s easier to pretend everything is okay. He says, “Yeah, well, what can I say? I just had to come see my big sis tonight.” “Why?” “I had another long day.” “Is your shoulder doing better?” “It’s still cranky, but I could probably lose the sling now.” He adjusts his sling and slumps in his chair. Were Karen able to read body language, she’d know that he is defeated, and defeated so easily. Why should he be different from everyone else? There’s a pause and it is long and uncomfortable and Rudy wants to be part of it. Karen finally says, “So how come you aren’t seeing your girlfriend anymore?” “What do you mean?” This is a surprise. Rudy doesn’t know how she knows this. He didn’t tell her, did he? The breakup happened over a month ago and he didn’t tell Karen because he didn’t want to upset her. “You told me you broke up. Last week. On the phone. Before you hurt your shoulder.” “Oh, yeah. Right.” Rudy vaguely remembers the phone conversation as a disassociated set of images and words, something that he could’ve done instead

of something he knows he did, and something that happened before everything. “I really, really liked her.” She says that even though she never met the girlfriend, and never remembered her name. Her concept of girlfriend is either a hold over from before the brain injury or something she has picked up since from TV or the idle chatter between staff members. Regardless, Rudy knows girlfriend is an abstract notion Karen doesn’t really understand and never will again. He says, “I liked her too.” “I thought you were going to marry her and have lots of babies. Don’t you want to have lots of babies?” Each word gets quieter, until ‘babies’ is lost under her breath. Karen hugs the stuffed raccoon close to her chest and avoids eye contact. Rudy leans forward, his good right elbow planted on his knee. “Karen?” She breaths heavier now, breathing what she calls her sad breaths; this bit of dialogue obviously dampening her enthusiasm for his surprise visit. She rocks front to back and nervous ticks run their calisthenics on her face. The bed springs squeak and shake. She says, “Yeah.” As much as he once dreaded this girlfriend conversation, it’s welcomed now. He says, “It’s hard to explain. I really can’t explain it to myself, to be honest. Us splitting up just kind of happened.” Karen doesn’t say anything right away, and the physical symbols of her earlier happiness and enthusiasm

have disappeared. She is withdrawing. Her eyes point at her shoes, the stuffed raccoon hides inside her hands like she can protect it. She says, “That doesn’t make sense. Things don’t just happen. There are always reasons.” He adjusts his sitting position, sliding to the edge of his chair, leaning closer to her. He says, “Everything doesn’t happen for a reason, Karen.” He tries to sound reassuring, as if chaos was a teddy bear, but he sounds angry instead, and it feels right. “Yes it does.” Her voice is a mouse squeak. Rudy eases off and gives her an imitation smile. He leans back in his chair and away from the nightstand and its weak lamp. Karen is a shadow within a shadow. His left leg twitches up and down. Why is he arguing with her? He doesn’t know, but he wants to argue. He’s angry and he needs to push this conversation as far as it’ll go, as far as he wants it to go. He leans in close again. “All right, Karen. Give me the reason Mom and Dad died, then.” Karen doesn’t say anything, but hugs her knees tighter and rocks faster. The facial ticks spasm and turn her entire head. Rudy stands up and paces, and stalks. “Tell me, really. Was the reason the ice-storm? Do you blame that? It was Nature’s fault, right?” His voice grows louder by small but steadily increasing increments. “It was just dumb, shit-luck. The car hitting a patch of black ice and them crashing into the only fucking standing tree

in Harper’s field happened because of stupid fucking bullshit luck. Chance. Okay? There was no reason. No one’s fault. No one made a decision. No one chose that. It just happened. And what happened to you, Karen, and what happened to you….” A high-pitched whine escapes Karen. She covers her ears with her balled-up fists, closes her eyes tight enough to make the skin red around her nose and temples, and she breathes loud and fast through her mouth, making the whistling noise again. Rudy crumbles and folds up, and he lands sitting on the bed and next to Karen. He doesn’t know what he is doing and doesn’t know what is going on and he’s sick with self-loathing. Karen is crying now. He puts his right arm around her shoulder. Her skin is hot and sweaty under the pajama top. She turns her head and faces away. Rudy kisses the top of her head and rocks with her. He’s crying too. “Jesus, you don’t blame yourself for what happened to you, do you Karen?” Karen buries her head in Rudy’s shoulder and cries harder. Rudy talks in a near whisper. It’s a secret even the walls shouldn’t be hearing. “It’s not your fault. You didn’t do anything to…” deserve this. Rudy shakes his head and holds back more tears, tears he conserved and saved up like a squirrel hoarding nuts and seeds, preparing for the longest of winters. Rudy searches for the right words, knowing there aren’t any. He says, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to make you upset, Karen.”

She sits up and shrugs off his hug. Her tears stop suddenly, her emotional pendulum as abrupt and unpredictable as the facial ticks, and as seemingly unnatural. “Will you take me to see Mom and Dad soon? I haven’t been to see them in a long, long, long, time.” Her voice is steady. Rudy says, “Yes. I promise. This week. Maybe tomorrow. Would that be good?” “We’ll need to buy flowers.” “Yes. That would be nice. Good idea, Karen.” Karen paws around the rumpled bed sheets and finds her stuffed raccoon. “Sometimes I forget where exactly they are.” “That’s okay. I forget sometimes, too.” A lie, of course. Rudy knows exactly where his parents’ graves are. He could walk the cemetery blindfolded and find their stones. It’s just easier to lie, to pretend that he understands Karen, even if it’s only for a moment, a moment she likely won’t even remember. He says, “I still have the cemetery map.” Karen yawns, stretches her pudgy arms, and wipes her eyes. She dares to peek up at Rudy again. “I want to talk about something else, now.” “Okay. Sure. What do you want to talk about, sis?” “Why you didn’t marry your girlfriend.” Rudy laughs. Karen laughs a little too, but it’s forced. She’s only laughing because he is. Her social coping skills are taught by group home staffers and are to be followed like a checklist. He says, “I’m glad we

can talk about something different.” “I’m glad too. So why, Rudy?” She missed his attempt at playful sarcasm, not that he expected her to pick that up. Rudy rubs her shoulders again. He hates himself for thinking it, but it’s like he’s petting a dog. “She said I didn’t try hard enough to fit in with her family and friends. That I was too aloof. She said her family and friends were important to her.” “That’s not a very good reason.” “I am sorry, Karen. I think she was right, though. I didn’t give her family a chance. Her Mom was nice enough. She was young-looking, blonde, and always wore a sundress, but her Dad didn’t like me. He was too stuck-up about my job. He was a Wall Street guy, successful with stocks and bonds, and portfolios, always asking about my portfolio. He wouldn’t look me in the eye when we shook hands, you know? But maybe I was just paranoid. I don’t know.” Rudy pauses. He’s lying again, making up a story, something that fits Rudy’s own view of himself as a working-class hero, and something with enough detail that Karen might remember so that she won’t keep asking him about the long-lost girlfriend for the next year’s worth of visits. Last year her perseveration latched onto a knitted hat he wore once to a visit, and she asked him where it was into the summer months. Rudy finishes his just-vague-enough story with a big smile, and says, “You know me, sis. I’ve always had trouble fitting in.”

Karen gets real quiet. Then, sounding like she’s embarrassed for him, she says, “You’re a nice person Rudy. People should be nice to you.” “Thank you. And I agree. People should be nice to me.” Karen mimic-pats Rudy on his shoulder, then says, “Will you put the present from my baby on the bureau?” She doesn’t look at Rudy, though, even while relinquishing her stuffed raccoon. “Yeah, sure, sis.” “Put it where I can see it.” He pushes off the bed. The springs complain. He walks to the bureau, its top cluttered with a mini-army of assorted knickknacks. Some of this stuff came from their old house, but there’s more here now, as if the cheap totems multiply on their own. He moves some other stuffed animals and porcelain figures around, one at a time, like pieces on a chessboard, searching for the perfect spot. Then he sees it. A small ventriloquist dummy figurine resting not exactly front and center on the bureau, but eye-catching and visible, and just plain there. The figurine’s face is porcelain but the body is plush, stuffed. It has blue eyes and freckles, dressed like cowboy, its legs bent at weird angles. Then Rudy finds a miniature leg wearing black clown pants sticking out from behind the picture of him and Karen. He moves the picture and there’s a harlequin clown figurine. Rudy slides the stuffed raccoon inside his sling and picks up the clown and dummy, their porcelain faces clinking into each other, their slack bodies crushed in

Rudy’s palm. Both figurines are not exact replicas of the accident dummies, but are very close. Rudy would have a hard time explaining how they were different. Rudy turns and faces Karen, holding out the figurines. “Where did you get these?” Karen says, “Sometimes I buy things. Sometimes someone sends them to me. I don’t remember for all of them.” “You don’t remember?” Rudy’s voice gets loud again. He shakes the figurines; the clink of porcelain sounds like a flipped coin landing, or a distant long ago car crash he never heard but has spent most of a lifetime imagining, or the blood vessel bursting in Karen’s head. He closes his eyes but still sees, and he’s scared and tired and angry and everything at once, and he’s back to wanting and needing to lose control. Karen scoots backwards on the bed, pressing herself against the headboard. “Please don’t get loud again.” He runs back to the chair adjacent to the bed and Karen. He stares at the figurines, looking into their eyes, looking for an answer. He sticks the figurines in front of Karen’s face, keeps them there until she picks her head up and looks at them, and looks at him. Red flushes her cheeks and tears fill her eyes. “Did you buy these? You have to remember for me, okay?” Rudy is crying too, though he doesn’t feel like he is. Tears fall out but that’s not what he’s feeling. Karen says, “I don’t remember.” “Where did you buy them?” “Rudy!”

“Okay, who sends you these things?” “My baby. Family. Friends. I have friends. I don’t remember exactly who. Exactly who. I already told you that. People send me so much stuff it’s hard to keep track of everything.” “Did someone give you a cell phone?” “What? No. I don’t have a cell phone. They’re not allowed here. No cell phones. Don’t you know that, Rudy? Don’t you know that?” “Okay, but why these? Why would they send you these?” “I don’t know. I like toys and cute little things. I just like them. Isn’t that right, Rudy? I like cute little things? I like…” Rudy isn’t listening to her responses. He speaks over her. He’s a runaway train. “Why do you like them?” “Because. Because I like them. I like them because…” “Why do you like these?” “You’re not being nice, Rudy.” “Answer me! Why do you like these?” “Maybe. Maybe. Maybe because they are silly looking? I don’t know. I just do, Rudy. I just do. Like them. I just do like them. Like them…” Karen rocks faster than before and she pulls her hair and scratches her neck and pinches her own arms drawing up little red welts. “Karen, why?” “I don’t know. I don’t remember. I don’t. I. Don’t.” “How can you not remember? Try, Karen. Think.

Just try. Think, for Chrissakes, think!” “Rudy, stop. Stop. Stop, please. Please.” “Just try, goddamn it. Try. Remember!” “I only remember when my baby sends me things!” Karen falls forward into the bed, burying her face in the rumpled blankets and sheets, and she punches the mattress repeatedly. An attendant runs into the room, entering without knocking. His long, straight hair bounces in time with his step. He says, “Is everything all right in here? Karen?” He steps toward the bed and looks at Rudy like he is the worst person in the world. Rudy doesn’t blame him. Rudy is breathing hard and sweating. He puts down the figurines on the nightstand. He says, “Yes. I’m sorry. Everything is okay. We were talking about something that got her upset, and… Please, Karen and I can handle this.” The attendant stands there, darting his eyes between Karen and Rudy. Karen has stopped crying but remains face down on the bed. He says, finally, “I’ll be right outside if anyone needs me. Okay, Karen?” Karen says nothing and the attendant backs out of the room. Rudy goes to the bed and tries to console her, rubbing her back again. “I’m sorry, Karen. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. For these past few days I haven’t been, well, right. Weird things have been happening, you know? Have there been any strange people visiting you, or calling you, leaving you messages?”

Karen doesn’t seem to be listening. She still lies face down in the bed. There’s black stubble growing in on the back of her head and neck where they shaved. They cut her hair so short. Couldn’t they let her hair grow long? She could take care of that, at least, right? He says, “I…I don’t know what to do, Karen. I’m scared. So scared of everything, and I took it out on you. You didn’t do anything wrong and nothing is your fault, I’m just a jerk and I’m all messed up right now. Okay? I’m sorry and I love you, sis. Okay? I’m so sorry, Karen.”

1234567891011121314151617181920 It was late and Rudy was in the hospital. The waiting room was too bright and almost empty. There was an older woman sitting in one of the black, padded chairs, pretending to read her glossy magazine. She was well dressed, though more appropriate for a night out at an expensive restaurant than a night in the hospital waiting room. She wore faux-pearl necklace and earrings, her graying hair heavily coiffed. She drank coffee from a Styrofoam cup and stained the rim with her pink lipstick. She talked to herself, or to the pictures of beautiful people in the magazine; either way, it wasn’t a happy conversation. Rudy caught snippets of phrases like what am I going to do and how is he going to and I can’t and he can’t. She was resigned that something terrible had or was about to happen somewhere in a

room beyond the swinging doors. Rudy didn’t talk to her and felt far too awkward to offer any support, whatever the support of a total stranger was worth, and he tried not to stare at her. He sat with his elbows planted on his knees and head in his hands. Rudy was clean-shaven and young, but not too young to know that everything could and would eventually go wrong in a place like this. Karen’s husband Tommy parted those swinging doors and slowly walked into the room. He wore surgical scrubs, though the booties over his feet were too small and parts of his dingy sneakers poked through tears. A used mask hung limply around his neck and the surgical hat was crooked, shocks of his thick black, curly hair uncovered. Tommy said, “Rudy?” Rudy bolted upright, then stood. He was confused, worried, thinking maybe he should’ve been the one speaking dire thoughts to beautiful people in a magazine. He didn’t say anything. He grabbed Tommy’s arm and led him to a chair. Tommy was looking somewhere else. Somewhere not in the room, maybe even not in the hospital. They both sat. Tommy spoke first; quiet, but in control of every syllable. “Emergency C-section, but the baby is fine.” Rudy felt the room sink, like it did in his bedroom the night he found out about his parents. “Emergency?” Tommy said, “A baby girl. My daughter. She’s beautiful. Looks just like her mother. We haven’t even picked out a name yet. We were so sure it was going to

be a boy.” Rudy brightened, or tried to, but there was obviously something hideously wrong. “Well, that’s fantastic, Tommy. Congratulations.” He didn’t know what to do with his hands. They fluttered. They fell back into his lap. They landed on Tommy’s shoulder and gave a squeeze. They got in the way of their words. Tommy said, “Yeah, that is great, isn’t it?” They sat in silence. Rudy planned on waiting until Tommy was ready to say something else, but the woman in the waiting room still muttered, releasing painful shards of sentences, the words like shrapnel, not ready and alone and can’t do this and won’t do this and can’t make me and all I have, and Rudy had to say something. “What’s wrong with Karen?” “She had an aneurysm during labor. She’s in a coma. She….she’s not doing very well. It doesn’t look good.” Rudy stood and walked to the edge of the waiting room, next to the swinging doors. He put his hands behind his head, trying to hold everything back. At least his hands knew what to do. He said, “What do you mean it doesn’t look good?” “They’re not sure if she’ll make it through the night. They’re not sure if she’ll ever wake up, and even if she does wake up, a big chunk of her brain is dead because of the bleeding. Rudy, they’re telling me that no matter what happens from here on out, our Karen is gone.” Tommy’s eyes were an old man’s eyes, having already

seen too much. The woman in the waiting room talked louder and pushed her words into the hallway now that she was alone. Rudy did not know if it was purposeful, if she was forcing him and Tommy to share. She said Not right and not fair and can’t be happening and I hate and there’s nothing left for and need help and pay for this and how and why and did we get here. Rudy said, “When can I see her?” *** Rudy and Tommy stood outside the ICU, behind the viewing glass. Karen’s face was buried under wraps and tape and tubes. The left side of her head was shaved; a thick red scar peeked out from under the tape and gauze. Ventilators ventilated and machines beeped and showed off their green zigzag waves, marking the faulty and failing data of her life. Tommy was not looking at Rudy, but through the glass. “The doctors have asked me if I want to give them a no heroics order.” Tommy was Karen’s age, more than old enough to be his older brother. Rudy said, “What, pull the plug? Already? Is she that far gone already?” “No. A no heroics order, Rudy. If her heart fails tonight or tomorrow or the next day…should I tell the doctors to not try and resuscitate her?” When Tommy was first dating Karen, he’d play basketball, watch ESPN, even wrestle on the couch

and living room floor with Rudy. Rudy had let the wrestling matches end with Tommy on top or pseudotrapped in Tommy’s headlock. He’d thrown all those play-wrestling matches for Karen. Rudy could’ve beat Tommy if he had to. Rudy put his hands on the glass and stared at his sister. The tube down her throat was the worst. It was too big and it filled her, there wasn’t any possible room left inside for Karen. Even if she could somehow get better, she couldn’t stay in her body because it was too crowded. Tommy said, “I need your help. I don’t know what to do here.” So, here was Tommy, big-brother to be, asking little Rudy what to do. “All right. She wouldn’t have wanted to live like this. If it comes to that, let her go. No heroics.” Rudy had never been so sure of anything in his life. “Are you sure?” “I’m sure. I know Karen wouldn’t want this.” Rudy gently grabbed Tommy’s arm and made him look at him. “If she starts to go, tell them to let her. Really, Tommy. Please promise me, promise Karen you’ll do that.” “I want her to make it. Even if she only wakes up to hold her baby.” Rudy didn’t say anything. He knew he wasn’t supposed to. “Okay. You’re right. We’ll give the no heroics order.” Rudy let go of Tommy’s arm. “I’m going to see your

baby, now. You should come with me.” “Not right now.” Tommy shook his head, too, his body giving its own answer. He leaned forward and pressed his forehead against the glass. Rudy said, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry…” He walked out of the ICU, and in the long and straight and white and empty hallway, his walk became a run. His arms and legs flailed out of control, an empty, meaningless physical action propelling him without direction.

1234567891011121314151617181920 His car’s headlights trace the double-yellow lines of a road that barely qualifies as having two lanes. If a hulking SUV were to pass in the opposite lane, Rudy would have to suck in his breath like Dad used to whenever a huge truck passed them. Rudy sat in the back seat and sucked in too, believing they were making their car skinnier, safer, and it was just that easy to protect yourself. He is driving back from Karen’s group home, following the dark, winding, and rural route 97. The pavement is cracked, worn, and crumbling under the stress of use and weather. There are no cars in front of him or behind. The car windows are rolled down. NPR news radio blasts through the car speakers, the day’s top stories being reviewed, and none of them are good. Rudy imagines the words coming out the speakers are yellow; an audio version of the TVs news ticker.

The yellow words tell of earthquake relief struggles in Pakistan and India; two young brothers, once missing, now found dead inside their grandparents’ old freezer where they were playing hide and seek. The yellow cell phone beeps. She says, “Is it that chance makes victims of us all, eventually? Or is it something else?” More words spill out of the radio. Terrorist bombings, prisoner torture and abuse, damage dollartotal from a soccer riot in Italy. The porcelain figurines Rudy took from Karen’s room are on his passenger seat. They shake and clink as the car traverses the worn down road. Rudy knows everything is worn down. “You stay away from my sister or I’ll kill you.” “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Rudy. May I ask you something?” “Fuck you.” “It’s an important question. You need to hear it.” Rudy mocks slamming the phone against his dashboard. His car hits a large pothole and the figurines crash into each other but stay on his passenger seat. The clown and dummy faces covered in shadow. Maybe their porcelain faces have chipped already. He wants to stop the car and smash them on the pavement, grind their forms under his heels. But what would he find inside? He says, “Ask.” “Do you ever think about rebelling against what you perceive to be chance?”

Rudy drives faster. “No. Yes. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” More radio words. A post-partum depressed mother cut off the arms of her infant son. Missile tests. Homeless dying in record numbers during the Los Angeles heat wave. Permafrost melting in Russia. “Aren’t you sick of being alone? Sick of being the victim? Don’t you want to become action, to become the uncaring force, to become the earthquake, the tsunami, the war, the bomb, the bullet, to become the mega corporation, the sweat-shop factory, the slave farms, the economy, the government, to become religion? The truth is, Rudy, you already are. You just need to embrace it.” “Who are you?” More radio words. The search for a lost woman in Yellowstone Park comes up empty for the fifth straight day. Oil prices reach record highs. Global warming blamed for the disappearance of African flamingos. Jewish gravestones desecrated with Nazi graffiti in a small Illinois town. “I’m just a small part of a simple collective desire, part of the suppressed zeitgeist, a hunger to be more than just a victim, to be an active, willing participant, even if it’s only on the smallest of scales, even if it’s only symbolic.” Her words mingle with words from the radio. Sentences mixing and matching, creating new sentences with new meanings, and nothing makes sense, the real becoming unreal and the unreal becoming something

else, but Rudy wants to hear more. There’s something there, some hidden kernel of truth about chance and choice, but it’s being twisted and perverted and bastardized. Rudy looks up and there’s movement ahead. A shape caught in the headlights, low to the ground, its eyes shining but surrounded by a black mask. This shape moves. He is driving the relentless train again and he wants to scream until his own porcelain head explodes to be never put back together again. He can’t do this anymore. He can’t do any of this. As the car continues on its clearly delineated path, Rudy recognizes the moving creature in the road is a raccoon. She says, “I know you understand because you have the same hunger.” More radio words. Wildfires in Florida. Poverty rates skyrocketing in third world nations. The Dow is down. The raccoon straddles the yellow centerlines, sitting on its hind paws. Rudy drives the train. He knows this is the kernel, the truth: that he can’t stop it and he won’t ever stop it and that he’s part of it. The raccoon takes two small steps to the right but continues to stare into the headlights, caught in the glow. It’s a weak, flawed creature, un-evolved, and ill-prepared for the danger being presented to it. Rudy presses on the gas pedal instead of the brake. The engine revs and drowns out the radio. The car lurches forward. He drops the phone. The raccoon snaps out of its trance and dashes to the right side of the road, but it is too slow. Rudy turns

the wheel and the car veers into the raccoon. The right front-tire chews it up and spits it out. He jams on the brake and the car skids to a halt. He pulls over on a completely woody stretch of route 97. No homes are visible. Rudy gets out of the car. He scrambles down the road, remaining balanced on the thin white line of the shoulder, and he crouches low, making sure not to miss anything. It’s dark, but not pitch as the interior light of his car and a streetlight across the road provide failing and impermanent light. He finds the raccoon. Its carcass is a torn heap. Everything is happening too fast. Its splayed black form flattened in the middle, looking cartoonish, as if the raccoon could defeat mortality by simply sticking its thumb in its mouth and inflating itself. There are dark, wet streaks on the road around the creature. Rudy drops to his knees and picks up the raccoon with his good hand. It’s too dark to see any color other than black. Blood and stilled meat spill out of the raccoon and onto Rudy’s shoulder sling and onto his arms and legs. Crushed organ and bone have burst through multiple rips in the raccoon’s fur. Pink meat has ballooned out of its mouth. Its eyes are bulging and wild, but still contained within its natural black mask. He holds the raccoon close to his face. The tip of Rudy’s tongue makes a slow and tentative appearance out of the side of his mouth. He knows what to do. He knows what he is doing. He brings the broken beast closer to his face, to his open mouth, and then there’s a roar and a blinding, baptizing light and he thinks just maybe,

hopefully, it’s the end of everything, but it’s not. Rudy is trapped in an oncoming car’s high-beam headlights. The car swerves and beeps as it passes, narrowly missing Rudy’s car, which is parked crookedly on the shoulder. The car passes, taking its velocity and barely contained potential for violence with it down the road to somewhere else, to somewhere not here, and Rudy is again returned to near darkness. The raccoon’s blood on his hands and arms is cold. Its body is heavy. He heaves the raccoon into the brush and stumbles, falling awkwardly onto his butt. He removes his shoulder sling and wipes the blood on his good arm. There’s too much to absorb, too much to simply wipe away, and he’s just smearing it around. A sudden wave of nausea rolls in and Rudy throws up all over his legs. His vomit is warmer than the blood. He walks back to the car, finds an old tee shirt in the trunk and cleans himself up as best as he can, and he cries, huge racking sobs that make the world jump around. He finishes cleaning and tosses the tee-shirt into the woods with the raccoon. He uses the car to hold himself up before slumping into the driver’s seat. Rudy presses his head against the steering wheel. He whispers, “What’s wrong with me?” repeatedly; quick and like a prayer, the words drone and melt together. Speaking feels like an admission to something and he wants to stop but he can’t. It’s something his body is doing on its own. With his head on the steering wheel and still whispering his powerless mantra, Rudy starts the car

and the radio explodes into another resurrected life, the volume piercing and perplexing as he doesn’t remember it ever being so loud. He shuts it off. The car pulls out onto the road slowly, unsure of itself or its path, but the headlights find and then trace the double-yellow lines again. He picks up the yellow cell phone and presses a button. “What are you doing to me?” “When you look in the mirror, what do you see?” He watches the road and waits for a streetlamp. As his car passes into the light, he stares at his tired, dirt and tear-streaked face in the rearview mirror. She says, “Do you see eyes that are hungry? Or do you see eyes that are already dead? Do you see harlequin’s eyes? Do you see a victim’s eyes? What do you see, Rudy? What do you see?” She keeps asking questions that Rudy won’t answer. He doesn’t know how. Rudy drives and drives, and he follows the yellow-lined road.

1234567891011121314151617181920 Rudy showers and changes clothes, but he still smells like puke. He sits at his desk, then logs onto his computer and surveys his own set of trinkets; baseball hats hang on the wall next to a Homer Simpson poster, on his desk beer mugs, pens, novelty key chains, his iPod, on the floor a purposefully crooked and twisted CD tower. His stuff surrounds him, and he’s warm in

a familiar cocoon of his possessions. Everything feels safer here. His windows are open and an ocean breeze passes through his drawn curtains. He types with both hands although his separated shoulder doesn’t like it. The muscles and tendons are tight and cranky despite the hot shower. The yellow cell phone is with him, adjacent to the mouse. She has been chatting away, flooding the airwaves with slogans and words, some seemingly contradictory, but it doesn’t matter. Rudy understands she isn’t threatening him anymore. She’s trying to talk him into drinking the Kool Aid. She’s recruiting. She says, “Even though we know better, we still search for the answers that we’ll never find. Or worse, we find answers we don’t want to find.” Rudy pours out four aspirins and washes them down with a swig of beer. He is not much of a drinker and he hasn’t eaten anything since breakfast. He’ll get buzzed quick, which is what he wants. “We pretend we aren’t victims, but we are. We pretend we don’t make victims, but we do.” Rudy starts up an Internet search engine. He types: “harlequin clown meaning.” The phone woman talks softly now and Rudy doesn’t listen. Here in his apartment, he can convince himself that her words are part of the background, part of what’s happening around him, not what is happening to him or to others. He drinks more beer and scans the search results. He finds pictures of harlequin clowns from various stages of history, going all the way back to

the Middle Ages. From The Columbia Electronic Encyclopedia, Sixth Edition Copyright © 2003, Columbia University Press: Probably the most famous clown, the arlecchino or harlequin, grew out of the Italian commedia dell’arte in the late Middle Ages. The acrobatic harlequin wore a mask and carried a slapstick, which he repeatedly employed on other characters.

Rudy follows a link to commedia dell’arte. The Harlequin was an acrobat and a wit, childlike and amorous. His cronies in the comedy were more roguish and sophisticated, at times cowardly villains who would do anything for money.

While the villains-who-would-do-anything bit seems apt and ominous, there’s nothing here that leads to insight, or an answer. He scans more webpages, finding pictures and reading scrolling text, but nothing in the folklore or mythology that hints at a secret history or past involving trains or the likes of them. Rudy types, “ventriloquist dummy history” into the search engine. He finds a similar range of pictures, some creepy, some inane, including a hokey yet somehow disturbing site dedicated to Christian Ventriloquists. The phone woman has stopped her barrage, but

they are connected, as the low hiss of a live phone line is audible. Rudy closes out of the search engine window then rolls in his chair away from the computer and to the other end of his desk. He plucks the spare shoulder sling the hospital gave him out of a drawer. He’s not ready to go without the support yet. It hurts too much. Rudy picks up the apartment phone. His coin box and notebook are still here on his desk, where he left them. His voicemail box reports there are no messages. Rudy plucks a piece of scrap paper with Officer Shandley’s number from the upper corner of his computer monitor. He dials then stops. Instead he calls Karen’s room but gets the group home’s front desk given the late hour. He leaves a message. “Tell Karen I called and that I love her and that I’ll take her out to lunch tomorrow.” There’s more to say but it’s too much and if he tried to say it all now it’d come out too fast and the person at the desk wouldn’t understand him, the words mixing and fighting and breaking and losing their ability to communicate their intended message of warning, fear, regret, and love. It’s a complex lie he spins for himself, the kind that’s always easiest to believe. Rudy hangs up. There’s pain so he adjusts his sling. He walks out of the bedroom, through the living room and to one of his front windows. Outside, there isn’t anyone on the streets. The accident scene is clear; no one watching or waiting. A streetlamp glows just above the abandoned storefront with its padlocked door and soap-stained window. Behind him, the phone

woman is talking again. She says something about chance and patterns and answers and victims, but it’s incomprehensible. She is an echo from the other room. She’s too far away. Rudy goes back to his desk. He sits and opens the coin notebook to the last page with its flipped-coin batting averages. He puts a finger on the one batting average that jumps out compared to all the close-to.500s; the .678. Then he runs his finger over the date: 2/18/88, as if he could physically put a finger on that day and feel it like he can feel the desk, the paper, or someone’s skin, feeling lost time, feeling something that has been distorted by memory and emotion and experience, distorted by everything.

1234567891011121314151617181920 Rudy’s childhood bedroom. The late afternoon sun died quickly and turned the room blue and murky. There were toys and books with bent covers and torn pages and clean and dirty clothes all over the floor. Rudy sat criss-cross-applesauce on his bed, and he wore his sneakers, the dirty ones with rips at each big toe, exposing his dingy off-white socks. These sneakers drove Karen crazy. She seemingly only ever got mad and yelled at Rudy if she found him sitting on top of a bed, especially her bed, or the living room couch while wearing those sneakers. He’d do it on purpose some nights, just because he was the little brother and he was

supposed to tease her. Karen appeared in the doorway. Rudy pretended not to see her and he flipped his coin, the special one. He said, “Heads,” but only loud enough for him to hear it. The coin landed without bouncing, tails up on the lumpy bedspread. This probably wasn’t what Karen had envisioned when she’d originally assigned him the experiment. Rudy scribbled down the tally, scooped up the quarter, and repeated the process. Karen slowly walked into the bedroom and to Rudy’s bed. She walked like the floor was made of thin glass. Maybe everything was made of glass and maybe everything would shatter. She wore jeans and a big grey hooded sweatshirt. She did not wear any make up. Her eyes were puffy and red. She knelt opposite to Rudy to be at his level, her elbows resting on the mattress, hands clasped as if in prayer. “How are you doing, bud?” Her voice weighed less than a thread. “Okay, I guess.” He didn’t look up, and he continued to flip his coin and make his tally marks. She said, “We’re going to have to clean this room at some point.” “I know.” He was grateful that she didn’t ask what happened. His room was usually tidy; stuff where it was supposed to be and easily retrievable. “Auntie Joanie and Uncle David are coming over tonight. They’re going to stay here with you and me for a while.” Rudy kept flipping his coin, whispering heads or

tails, then focusing on the tally marks. Karen reached out and put her hand over Rudy’s, trapping the coin inside his palm, keeping it from flying through the air and crashing again. “You don’t need to do that anymore. I don’t have to do that statistics project. It was canceled. My teacher said so.” Rudy didn’t take his hand away. He stared at his sister. She was on the verge of tears, giant golf-ball sized tears that might never stop. He shrugged, and said, “That’s okay. I want to finish. I like doing it. I pretend I’m trying to beat the special quarter, you know? It’s fun. It’s your game, right? It doesn’t belong to your teacher. You made it up. ‘Karen’s Coin Challenge.’” Karen lifted her hand. His scurried out like a freed mouse and got right back to its quarter-flipping job. Karen watched for a few flips and tallies. She said, “How do you beat the special quarter, Rudy?” “You know, by guessing right more times than wrong.” “Can I see the batting averages? Can I see what you’ve done so far?” Rudy turned the notebook around and gave it to Karen. She flipped through the pages and stopped at the last one. She said, “This last number has to be a mistake,” and she sounded more in control and almost happy to have found an error in the data or computations, something to focus on, something that could be fixed or at the very least, explained away. “I didn’t make any mistakes. I was careful. Let me

see.” Karen still held the book but turned it around, displaying the coin batting-average page to Rudy. She pointed at the .678 result. He gripped the notebook with his small hands. The numbers made sense to him. He said, “No. That really happened.” “It says here that you called 82 tosses correctly out of 121.” “Yeah. I did. No big deal.” “Calling heads/tails correctly 68% of the time, with that many tosses, that’s almost impossible, Rudy.” “No it isn’t.” “What do you mean? Statistically speaking—” “I don’t care. It happened.” His high-pitched voice stretched higher. “So does this mean I beat the special coin?” He didn’t make up the rules of the game. He just followed them, and he won fair and square. “I had a streak of 17 correct guesses in a row that day. My best streak by far.” Rudy was proud and wanted her to be proud as well, and was confused as to why she wasn’t. “Rudy,” Karen said. She said his name in such a way that it meant she wanted him to stop telling her this, and it meant she didn’t think he understood what was going on, and it meant that this was sad and he was to be pitied, and it meant everything. Karen grabbed the calculator from the coin box and punched in the numbers. “The odds of calling 17 coin flips in a row correctly are 1 in 262,144. Do you have any idea what that is as a percentile?”

Rudy shrugged and got quiet. The word percentile and those abstract numbers were meaningless to him. He knew what reality was. “I got lucky, I guess.” “That’s more than getting lucky.” Rudy hung his head like he’d done something wrong, but he didn’t know what that was. He was too young to know how to defend himself. “It really happened, Karen. I’m telling the truth.” “When did this happen?” She pointed at the .678 batting average again. She could read, though. She was asking the question even though she knew the answer. She was going to make him say it, and this was the only time in his life that he hated his sister. “The other night.” Rudy looked up and aimed the rest of the statement at her face. Maybe it would have enough force to knock her over. “When Mom and Dad had their accident.” The words hurt to say. Rudy tried not to cry, but he did, and everything in his blue room got blurry. Karen hugged him, kissed the top of his head, rubbed his back. Although the hug was off, maybe patronizing or just wounded, Rudy wanted to stay there forever. He closed his eyes. “I understand, Rudy. I know why you wanted to beat the special coin. It’s okay.” Karen wasn’t crying. She was clinical, adult. Why didn’t she believe him? He wasn’t lying about all those correct guesses. He didn’t make up the numbers because Mom and Dad had died. It had nothing to do with them. He couldn’t explain why or how. Everything just happened.

Rudy broke out of the hug and screamed, “It really happened, okay? It happened! I’m not a cheater! I didn’t cheat!” He twisted away from her and threw himself face down into his pillows. “I’m sorry, Rudy. That’s just impossible. But it’s okay. I’m your big sister and you can tell me anything. Especially now. I understand why you would do this…” Rudy didn’t know why she was harping on his coin flip streak. It was as if she was threatened somehow. It made Rudy scared too. It made him feel like he’d done something terribly wrong even though he didn’t do it on purpose. He was only doing what he was told to do. How could he have done something wrong if he was following the rules? Rudy cried and the tears and saliva falling out of his open mouth dampened his pillow. Karen didn’t leave. She stayed in his room, next to his bed. He eventually said, “I’m sorry,” and he said it into his pillow, but he didn’t know why he said it. She said, “Thank you,” and shut his notebook, then gathered the coin and the cigar box, and left it all next to Rudy.

1234567891011121314151617181920 Rudy knows memory is a faulty device. His twentynine-year-old brain is not the same brain that originally stored and catalogued that day in his bedroom. His

new brain can only interpret or update that memory for it to make sense. Rudy is not asleep at his desk, although he wants to be. He has assumed the position, head resting on his arms, his arms on top of his notebook, but it’s not working. The digital clock just above his desk reads: 2AM. He knows memories change. New experiences and emotions constantly tweak our memories, and the memory of that morning with Karen refusing to believe him about the coin streak is troublesome. He picks up the yellow cell phone, presses a button, and talks. “The police aren’t returning my calls.” The memory is troublesome because he doesn’t remember the streak, the 17 in a row called correctly or the day’s tally of 81 out of 121. He only remembers being adamant that it had occurred. She answers, but not right away. She makes him wait. “Why do you think that is?” Rudy decides he has no choice but to believe the ten-year-old he no longer knows, and apparently, no longer remembers very well. Someone has to believe the little boy who was only following the rules. Rudy says, “Because of you, right?” The effects of beer, fatigue, stress, and doubt pollute and busy his head with questions like why can’t I make everything like it was before? There’s no answer. Rudy stands up and walks into the kitchen. His back and legs are sore from all the hours at his desk. His shoulder is an unpredictable

mixture of sharp pain and icy numbness. He says, “My turn to ask a questions that you have to answer. Who is that businessman I’ve seen twice now?” “He’s nobody. He’s everybody.” The tealeaf type of response makes Rudy want to explode and spread himself like confetti over everything; a one-man ticker-tape parade celebrating frustration and futility. “He’s your boss, isn’t he? The leader.” “No. We have no bosses or leaders. We’re just us. We’re everyone. Which is something I hope to make you understand.” “I don’t want to understand.” “Then why did you call me?” Rudy thinks about hanging up and destroying the phone, smashing it to pieces instead of himself. “I saw him walk out of that abandoned storefront in downtown Rockport.” “Yes, you did.” Upon receiving the simple confirmation of what he saw, of what he remembers to be true, Rudy washes in a brief tide of relief and affirmation, the opposite of what he has been feeling ever since the train accident. Is it enough to believe that maybe he’s not lost? Because to be lost is to be alone, to be inconsequential, to be nothing. He shouldn’t be feeling comforted by her. She is the one who is lost, and they have nothing to offer. Rudy puts the phone down on the kitchen table, goes to the sink, and splashes cold water on his face. He doesn’t dry himself before going back to the phone.

He says, “What’s in there? What’s in that place?” “Why don’t you go and see for yourself? There’s no one there now. Nothing will happen to you. It’s a safe place.” “There’s no such thing.” He walks into the living room and goes to a front window. The curtain is drawn. The downtown area is still there, right outside his window, and so is the abandoned storefront. “What are you thinking about now, Rudy?” He talks fast and he lies to himself again. The lies: he’s talking only to himself, he doesn’t care if she understands, he’s not answering the question for her. “I was thinking about my parents and coins and chance and choice and you and my sister and the harlequin and the dummy and everything and this phone and the figurines and the raccoon and how none of it fits together, none of it makes sense.” Rudy pauses. He has said too much. He hasn’t said enough. He adds, “But right now, I’m thinking about what I almost did.” “What did you almost do?” Rudy goes to a closet adjacent to the front door. He rummages through it with both hands, ignoring the shoulder pain, knocking coats off their hangers and throwing out the guts of the closet onto the living room floor. Out fly shoes and sneakers and a vacuum cleaner and ties and golf clubs and stowed winter gear and old magazines and textbooks and more accrued, meaningless stuff, most of it rarely used or needed. “You are starting to think like us, Rudy.” He finds what he wanted; a toolbox. He opens it.

A crowbar. *** Wind stirs the tree branches and tickles wind chimes and hanging wooden signs. Waves echo off the wooden docks and piers. Everyone is asleep. Rudy is alone. He believes this to be true as he enters downtown Rockport. A crowbar and flashlight are tucked into his sling, and he holds the yellow cell phone with his good hand. He says, “So where are you now, huh? Hiding behind one of the buildings? Maybe in a parked car with the headlights off? Can you see me?” There’s no response. The accident scene has been cleared. No yellow police tape. No chalk outline. No signs of what transpired earlier, the event relegated to memory. Rudy stops walking in the middle of the hairpin turn and stands where the dummy stood. He imagines a car suddenly and without warning appearing from around the corner and smashing into him. He visualizes the impact, his trajectory and path, his injuries. Would there be consciousness and pain? Would he see them after and their open mouths? He walks down the middle of the street, following the yellow lines, past the music store, grocery, café, Gift Shoppe, clam box, and taffy stores, and then past the empty storefront. He’s afraid of what he’ll see in the darkened window. He’s afraid he’ll see nothing. Rudy turns back, tries to look everywhere at once, and

approaches the window, and presses his face against it. It’s cold. He can’t see anything. There’s a gust of wind. Signs creak and wind chimes chime louder. He walks to the grey metal and padlocked front door. He is doing all of this in as rational a manner as possible, trying to give everything an order that it doesn’t have. He exchanges the cell phone for the crowbar in his sling. He hits the rusty padlock with three quick and furious one-handed swings of the crowbar, and the padlock disintegrates. Rudy stares at the spot where the padlock used to be. A smirk and raised eyebrows happen despite himself, and he’s surprised how easy it was to break the lock. The damage we’re capable of always surprises. He takes the phone and stuffs it into his pocket, tucks the crowbar under his right arm and eases his left arm out of the sling, trying to be more careful with his damaged wing. He turns on the flashlight and jams it into his left hand, then reloads his right with the crowbar. It’s a weapon now, not a key. He leans his right shoulder against the door, applying gentle, apprehensive pressure, and it opens. Rudy is sweating and shaking, and he creeps inside. He expects to be knocked over by the smell of dust, mold, mildew, mouse droppings, but the place smells clean. It smells occupied. There’s a sudden explosion of light and soft music. Rudy jumps backward, slamming his back and head into the closed door. He drops the flashlight and grips the crowbar with both hands. He is inside a typical retail showroom. Motion-detecting fluorescent lights hang from the ceiling and sanitized

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Muzak spills lightly from the speakers. Rudy recognizes the song as the Beatles’s “A Day in the Life.” There are no lyrics. There is no falling into a dream. There are neutral tan carpets, white clapboard on the walls, glass display cases with register mounts and there are registers and credit card swipe machines and there are clothes racks on the floor and shelves on the walls, and stacked in those racks are harlequin clowns and filling those shelves are ventriloquist dummies with their demented red-freckled sneers. Each harlequin clown wears the same face paint and blank expression. Dummies hang from the ceiling as well, their limbs and stubby fingers stretch toward Rudy. He moves away from the door and walks into the showroom, careful not to touch or jostle the racks. By the large and curtained bay window, there’s a gaggle of dummies and harlequins set up on a small stage, each ensconced in various poses. Stage left, a group of dummies hold large, disembodied hands and feet and other plastic parts, and they surround a table. On the table is a partially assembled harlequin. Stage right, two harlequins are bent over a strewn dummy dressed in rags. One harlequin has a foot buried in the dummy’s ribs, the other in mid-stomp, the foot hovering only inches above the dummy’s head. Both harlequins wear top hats, ties, and have victory cigars hanging from their mouths. Center stage is a mix of harlequins and dummies participating in a crowded orgy; the sexual positions and maneuvers are varied and complex. Rudy’s feet jab step in every direction. Sprinting

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out of the room is the most reasonable course of action. He shouldn’t be here. This was a mistake. He doesn’t understand them and he doesn’t want to, but he stays and walks to the stage. He bends, slowly placing the crowbar on the staging as if any sudden movement might awaken and animate the inanimate. He picks up a dummy off the stage. It’s the victim dummy, the one being beaten by the two cigar-chomping harlequins. The victim dummy is light and he shakes it. The dummy’s face is two bright blue eyes and a dusting of red freckles. Rudy tucks the dummy under his bad arm and wraps his right hand around the dummy’s head and pulls. His shoulder is on fire, and Rudy groans. The head comes off. He peers inside the dummy’s head, then the body, spelunking in plastic. Both head and body are empty. Rudy jostles and shakes the assembly dummies, and they’re empty as well. He edges off the staging, retrieves his flashlight near the front door, and walks deeper into the showroom. He taps and shakes the harlequins in the racks. Empty. A low hum of an air conditioner comes from the back of the showroom. Rudy heads toward the noise. He finds an AC unit, and a blue curtain covering a doorway. There’s a sign above that reads: Changing Area: Two items at a time maximum. Rudy tightens his grip on the crowbar and parts the curtain, exposing a hallway. The floor is hardwood. The wall to his right is the same white clapboard from the showroom, but lined with a row of full-length mirrors. His flashlight reflects off the mirrors and onto the swinging doors of the

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changing booths. He opens one. The hinges creak. There are hooks on the white walls and an empty bench seat. He leaves the booth and follows the hallway, doing his best to ignore the other Rudys in the mirrors. Halfway down the hallway, the changing booths end, giving way to more clapboard and a large, recessed window. The flashlight reflects off the glass like a sunbeam off a windshield. He taps it with the crowbar. Plexiglass. Rudy tries to peer inside but the light doesn’t pierce the window. The end of the hallway is only a few paces away. He inches slowly forward and finds a thick metal door; a door to a walk-in freezer or refrigerator, and it’s locked. On the wall next to the door is a switch. The switch is a dare, an undeniable invitation. Rudy has to flick it. He has been conditioned to do it. He wouldn’t be following the rules otherwise. He flicks the switch. Yellow light explodes out of the Plexiglass window behind him, filling the mirrors and hallway as well. He shuffles back toward the window, but slowly, and he squints and blinks, trying to adjust to the onslaught of light. He knows what is in that room beyond the window is what he came to see. He already knows what’s there. It has always been there. It’s not a secret. But knowing and seeing and believing are very different things. Rudy stops walking in front of the window, closes his eyes, and feels the light on his face. It’s heavy and presses against his skin. It feels wrong. It’s too bright. Why would there ever be a need for this much light? It’s too much. It’s not safe. It exposes all the lies. Rudy

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opens his eyes. The window. There’s the light. He can’t see. He adjusts. And inside, it’s a converted changing area. There are more swinging doors and they are open and more changing stalls and they are occupied and brightly colored wallpaper and bench seats and clothes racks and hooks and hooks and hooks and inside, he sees he sees he sees he sees he sees Rudy turns away and runs down the hallway, into the showroom, into more horrible light. He runs and falls onto the racks of harlequins. Their fake plastic bodies embrace him and break his fall. Rudy contemplates lying there and hiding under the harlequins and dummies, protecting himself in their numbers, but he struggles and manages to get upright. Rudy stomps on the harlequins, crushing their heads and torsos, shattering elbows and pelvises. His violence is sudden and absolute. Then he runs through the store, knocking over all the racks and ripping the shelves off the walls. He sprints to the staging in front of the bay window and he tackles the two attacking harlequins, the ones posed in mid-beating of the ventriloquist dummy, and he stomps on their hats and cigars. He can’t stop. He grips his crowbar and assaults the other dummies and harlequins. Each blow rents holes into the plastic and clothing and they are empty, but he saw he saw he saw he saw the blood and the bodies, and the metal grate floor, and it was so bright he saw everything, arms and legs and heads and scalps, they were on the changing room benches and the benches were metal and they were bleeding always

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bleeding, and organs and

they’re not supposed to be empty. Rudy yells and screams and spit flies out of his mouth and snot runs out of his nose and tears squeeze out of his eyes, but he keeps swinging the crowbar. He attacks the victim dummy as well. No one is safe. He jams the tip of the crowbar into the dummy’s eye and he stomps on genitalia and open mouths without lips or teeth and there were teeth but not in the mouths, and this was what he saw, and Rudy attempted to catalogue the parts, the bits and pieces, like it all would’ve been somehow more palatable if he had known which parts belonged to what body, like he could’ve put everything back its chest. It cracks and it is loud. Rudy uses his crowbar on the other dummies and on the other harlequins and he doesn’t stop hitting them. His assault upon the stage dummies is brutal and complete and final. No one is safe. No one is safe. No one is safe. together, but it was too much and it was somehow worse because they were taking more than they needed, waste not want not, and there was one headless and empty harlequin in a changing stall or hanging on the wall or on the metal grate floor, the head rested in its own lap and there was too much in there, that harlequin would not be able to hold everything. Then Rudy stops. He stumbles off the stage, gropes his way to the front door, and falls out and onto the

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sidewalk. He is on his stomach, face pressed against the sandy pavement. The beaches are only blocks away. Sand bites into his cheek. Rudy left his crowbar and flashlight inside. He won’t go back to get them. He stands, and the yellow cell phone beeps in his pocket. Her voice is muffled, but he hears her, he understands her. She says, “What did you see, Rudy? What did you see? Talk to me, Rudy.” He runs down the middle of the street, away from the storefront and toward his apartment. He avoids running directly under the streetlights, preferring to remain in the dark. “Was it what you expected? I think it was. Was it what you wanted?” He doesn’t want that. No one does. Something like that just happens. Circumstances conspire against victims and victim-makers alike, with victims making victim-makers making victims and it never ends. We’re all victims. No one chooses that. No one chooses. Do they? Do they? Rudy won’t believe it. He just won’t, but he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to believe. “You can run past the shops and mansions and the beach and just run and run and run and run.” Rudy kicks his stumbling jogging pace into a frenzied sprint. His breaths are explosions and tears mix with sweat. “But you won’t ever run past your desire, your hunger. It’s stubborn and undeniable.” ***

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Rudy sits on his front stoop, rocking back and forth like Karen does when she feels threatened. His head is in his hands. It’s heavy. He has been sitting there for over an hour. He has tried wiping his face with his hands, tried erasing his features again, but it doesn’t work. He’s still him, and he’ll still have to make decisions and choices and everything will have consequences. “Do you understand? Do you understand now, Rudy?” He shakes his head, pulls the phone out of his pocket. He notices the plastic is warm. “I am lost.” “No. We found you.” He gets up slowly and unlocks the door. “I have been lost for as long as I can remember.” He walks up the stairs and enters his apartment, then walks into the living room. The contents of his closet are still on the floor. He steps over the trinkets of his past life, literal and physical obstacles to be overcome, and goes into his bedroom. There is a yellow manila envelope stacked on top of his notebook and coin box. His name is typed on the front. He stares at the envelope like it might be alive, like it might attack. “Are you going to open it? Or will you continue to be alone, to be a victim?” It is she who doesn’t understand that they’re all alone and all victims, no matter what they do. He picks up the envelope and tears it open. He pulls out a single sheet of paper; a typed list of locations, dates, and times. There are school bus stops, mail truck delivery routes, construction sites, factory parking lots, street corners,

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highway stretches marked by the mile, subways, and even a zoo. And at the top of the list, with the date closest to the current one: Rowley, MA Track 2A, mile 13: 7/10, 6:13pm

“What does understanding the relationship between chance and choice mean? I want an answer, Rudy.” There is one sentence at the bottom of the page: All donations are encouraged and accepted.

Rudy knows donations means a few different things. That makes sense. “Rudy, are you there? Do you understand?” “I know insanity is when everything makes sense.” He turns on his desk lamp then hides the phone inside a desk drawer. She continues to talk but her voice is muffled. He folds up the sheet of paper, the list, and stuffs it into his back pocket. His dark computer screen offers a shadowy reflection of his image. His gaunt, unshaven, sleep-and-food-deprived face gives him a wild, feral appearance. Rudy pushes the envelope to the floor, uncovering his notebook and coin box. Rudy sits down roughly at his desk, picks up his coin, and tosses it. He says, “Tails.” He snatches it out of the air quick, his hand a striking snake, and slams the coin down on the table. It’s tails. He tosses it again. He says, “Heads.” He catches the coin and presses it into the table wishing he were strong enough to indent the coin’s outline into the wood. He takes his hand away. The coin is outlined in his palm, outlined in his flesh at least. It’s heads. Rudy laughs and yells and cries and it’s all the same. He

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keeps flipping the coin, faster and faster. He changes his call from heads to tails and tails to heads, mixing it up, calling multiple heads in a row and multiple tails in a row, becoming more manic and desperate, and he correctly calls each toss of the coin.

1234567891011121314151617181920 He stood alone in the tin can, and it lifted him. The yellow numbers increased until four, and stopped. The elevator doors slid open, the starter firing a pistol, and Rudy sprinted down the hospital hallway. He dodged gurneys and attendants and nurses and doctors, some of who told him to slow down. He didn’t. He was the only one running, which meant he would win and lose the race. The finish line was the waiting room. Most of the chairs were occupied. Rudy’s heavy breathing was louder than the low buzz of semi-private conversation. Tommy sat alone, no longer wearing his surgical scrubs, just a tee shirt and jeans. He pretended to read a magazine, pretended to care what those words actually had to say. “What’s going on, Tommy?” Rudy said it too loud. All weary eyes in the waiting room found him. Rudy figured they thought he was angry with Tommy. Maybe he was, maybe he blamed Tommy for the unblamable; Karen wouldn’t be here if she had never met him, never married, never got pregnant, which was

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something Rudy had always thought was an idea that was more Tommy’s than Karen’s. She had never talked about having kids as a life long ambition, not once. Of course, this wasn’t fair of Rudy, and he knew that, but there was a lot of not fair going around. Tommy said, “Everything’s okay,” looking and sounding sheepish, certainly playing the part of the chastised wrongdoer. Tommy put down the magazine and held his hands up, surrendering, begging Rudy to slow down, ease off. Rudy said, “Well, what happened?” He said it under his breath, but it wasn’t a whisper. A whisper is vulnerable, a plea to be heard. Rudy’s words had an edge, and they would be heard. Tommy tiptoed across the waiting room, trying to be invisible to the people who weren’t really watching him, although the conversational buzz was dead. Tommy stood next to Rudy and grabbed his arm. Tommy was smaller, both in height and girth, and the arm grabbing initially struck Rudy as weak and pathetic, but Rudy wanted to soften, knowing his anger was misplaced, but he couldn’t. He was ready for a fight, ready to unleash himself upon the world, a Kraken, an avenger, to be something, anything, as long as it didn’t entail sitting around and waiting for Karen to die. Tommy said, “Come on. Out here.” He pulled Rudy a few steps down the hallway, away from the waiting room. He stopped walking, looked at Rudy, almost about to say something, but didn’t. Instead he paced in mini-circles, moving but going nowhere.

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Rudy wasn’t interested in protecting their misery from the eyes and ears of the waiting room occupants. It was a futile gesture. It saved no one. He said, “Speak to me. What happened?” “Karen went into full cardiac arrest this morning.” Rudy’s hard facial expression and stiff posture melted. He deflated, leaving only the guilt. All defenses gone, he said, “She did? Jesus, I’m sorry.” He gave Tommy a long hug that was awkward, a purely social gesture that might’ve been appropriate in front of the waiting room crowd, but not when they were alone. When they released, he said, “So she’s really gone? Why didn’t you call me earlier?” Tommy said, “No.” This answer made no sense. “No? No what?” “No, she’s not gone, Rudy. I never gave them the no heroics order. The doctors were able to revive her. They saved Karen.” Rudy stepped away and went into pacing his own mini-circles, his own trip to nowhere and back again. “Jesus Christ, Tommy! Look, I know she’s your wife and this is difficult, impossible, but goddamn it, we agreed the no-heroics was what she would’ve wanted. And they didn’t save her, Tommy. She can’t be saved. You said so. Karen is already gone.” “It was my decision to make, Rudy. As you said, Karen is my wife.” Tommy’s voice increased in volume and reached for anger, but it was rote, an automated response to Rudy, and kitten-weak in comparison. “Oh really? Don’t you think it was Karen’s decision

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to make?” “She’s not around to make that decision, is she?” Rudy couldn’t believe this had happened. How had so much changed in the handful of hours since he last left the hospital? “Bullshit. I told you what she would’ve wanted, and you fucking know that it’s what she would’ve wanted. Now this whole thing is about you, Tommy. Not her. No fucking doubt about it.” Rudy was yelling, his voice bouncing off the scrubbed white walls, the words aiming to smash everything. “I’m going to take care of her.” “So you’ll stay married to a vegetable for the rest of your life? You’re willing to be that faithful martyr and servant? Feed her, clothe her, bathe her, wipe her ass?” Tommy stuck his face into Rudy’s. “Look, I know you’re upset, and this isn’t really you talking, but now it’s time for you to shut up. I said I’ll take care of her.” Rudy didn’t flinch. He hoped Tommy would hit him. At least then he’d be feeling something different, but Tommy backed off and closed his eyes. “We both know you can’t promise anything.” “I’ll take care of her and when she wakes up someday, I’m going to introduce her to her baby girl, and then you can tell me what Karen would’ve wanted with no fucking doubt about it.” Rudy seethed. His skin and bones hummed. He went into the mini-circles again, tightening each circumference, focusing in on a random point. “Where is she? Still in the ICU?” “Yes. Listen, this is a good thing. Really it is.” Tommy

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tried on the voice-of-reason tone. It was maddening. There was nothing reasonable about this. “The doctors tell me she has really bounced back since they revived her. They’ve actually upgraded her condition in the last hour and might even take her out of ICU and give her her own room. They don’t know when she’ll wake up and how different she’ll be, but…” Rudy bared his teeth, grimaced and grunted and glared, his face folding in on itself, like he was preparing to unleash the heaviest word in the world, but he said nothing, and he walked past Tommy and down the hall, toward the elevator, looking forward to being alone in his tin box. Tommy didn’t stop talking. He called down the hallway after Rudy, chasing him with words. “…but they’re more confident that she will wake up, now.”

1234567891011121314151617181920 The hallway is empty. The rug absorbs his footfalls, almost like he was never here. Rudy’s physical deterioration has continued. The dark circles under his eyes are as big as quarters. His eyelids are made of iron. Everything is fuzzy. His wrinkled clothes look slept in even though he hasn’t been sleeping, or eating. His hands shake and gums are bleeding and he tastes copper pennies, coins, always coins. His post-five-o’clock shadow is a few hours away from being considered a full beard. He walks with a limp and doesn’t know from

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where the pain in his left leg came, but just accepts it. Rudy has a small, tan denim satchel looped over his good shoulder. His bad shoulder is no longer in its sling. He speaks into the yellow cell phone. He says, “I’m still thinking about what I almost did.” She says nothing. She doesn’t need to say anything. Rudy stands outside of Karen’s door and listens. Karen is inside, singing a child’s song. Rudy pockets the cell phone and opens the door. Standing in the doorway, he watches Karen re-arrange the knickknacks on her bureau as she sings. She picks up the raccoon her baby sent her and pats it, puts it down quick, then picks it up and pats it again. If Karen notices the harlequin and dummy figurines are missing, she doesn’t seem to care. He says, “Hi, sis.” Karen doesn’t turn around. She wears a purple jumpsuit. It’s too small for her and her lower back and large, white underpants waistband stick out. She continues to pick up and pet, and now kiss, the knickknacks. There’s a kiss for a bear wearing a red sweater, another kiss for a green frog wearing a blue nightcap. “Karen?” She doesn’t turn around, but says, “Hi! You’re here early.” She is excited to see him and it’s as though nothing bad happened the last time he visited, as though nothing bad ever happens. “Yeah. I thought we might go visit Mom and Dad

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before lunch.” He pauses, remembering what it is he plans to say. “It’s nice out, and you were right the other day when you said that we hadn’t gone to see them in a long time.” Another pause, this one longer. “I think I really need to go see them.” Karen hums and tends to her knickknack ritual. This task won’t be interrupted. “That is a good idea, even though I hate the cemetery. It’ll probably make me sad. Sad on a beautiful day isn’t good.” He says, “It’s okay to be sad on a beautiful day.” “It is?” “Yes.” “Are you sure?” She sounds like a toddler trying to figure out if a parent is joking or being serious. He stands in the doorway. Maybe nothing will happen if he stays here, if he chooses not to walk through this one door. “As sure as I can be, sis.” “Will you be sad on the beautiful day, too?” “Oh yes. I will be very sad, Karen.” “So we’ll be sad together?” She puts down the frog in the nightcap and claps her hands twice. “Yes. You and me, sis.” “Being sad together can be good.” He finally walks into the room and stands right behind Karen. He says, “I know.” Karen turns around. She gives Rudy a glance then tucks her chin into her chest. The purple sweatshirt rides up a bit and exposes her white belly. She laughs. She tries to stop the laughing with a hand, but it comes out, and it comes out wet and choking. It’s not

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a pleasant sound, one that will haunt Rudy for the rest of his life. “What’s so funny?” She’s a student laughing at the teacher and trying desperately to hide it. “I’m sorry. You look funny because you have a beard.” Rudy smiles, but it’s an imitation. There’s no reality to it. “I know I’m funny looking.” She stops laughing, but still has a sly, I-got-awaywith-something smile on her face. Rudy pats the top of her head, and sees a clump of white hair in her bangs that he’s never seen before. Everything is changing. She says, “Where’s your shoulder sling?” “I don’t need it anymore. My shoulder is better.” “Really?” Karen fiddles with her sweatshirt, stretching it over her belly but it pops back up when she lets go, exposing her flabby white flesh, stretch marks, and the scar from the Caesarian section, and he hates himself for being repulsed, for thinking his sister is so ugly. He hates himself and everyone and everything because he can’t simply choose what’s beautiful or ugly any more than he can choose breathing water over oxygen. He can’t go against the lifelong onslaught of historical and cultural images, what he was sold as beautiful. He can’t and won’t choose to believe his sister is still beautiful. He’s not strong enough, and he’s sorry. Rudy says, “Yes.” “Did a doctor tell you that?” “No. I told me that.” He stands facing her, arms

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folded, waiting for the perfect thing to be said, some combination of letters and words that could somehow fix everything, but there are no such words. He says, “So, should we go?” “Yes! Let’s go.” She squeals and claps again. “We should stop and get flowers, too.” “Okay, good idea.” He thinks about asking her to change clothes, or at least, change her shirt, but he can’t deal with that conversation right now. Karen shuffles away from Rudy, and then toward the door. Rudy stays where he is, staring at the bureau and knickknacks and at the picture of him and Karen as children. He says, “I have an idea. How about we leave some of your knickknacks with Mom and Dad, too? I bet they’d like to get presents like that. What do you think?” Karen doesn’t say anything right away. She twists her shirt again. “Your friends and family always send you more anyway, right? You have so many friends.” Karen pouts, but there’s a smile behind it. “Do you really think I should?” “Yes. I think it’d be nice.” “Okay. But I don’t want to give Mom and Dad anything my baby gave me. Those are mine. They can’t have them.” Rudy stares at the picture on the bureau. “Don’t worry, I know which ones your baby gave you. I won’t pick any of those. I’ll just take a small handful of the others and put them in my bag. All right? Or you could

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pick, if you wanted.” “No. That’s okay. Just don’t take too many.” She pauses and adds, “I have to pee.” She giggles and hides her face. “Okay. Go pee. I’ll be right here.” Still giggling, Karen ducks into her bathroom, which is adjacent to the room’s entrance. Rudy quickly plucks all of her curios off the bureau and stuffs them into his bag. He scoops up the little porcelain dolls and tiny stuffed animals, the frog, and the raccoon. He picks up the picture and puts it face down like he can’t bear to have that memory staring at him anymore. Rudy reaches into a pocket and pulls out a quarter, the quarter. He holds it up. The toilet flushes and Karen sings again. Rudy says, “Heads.” He squeezes his eyes shut and the quarter tight into his palm, almost breaking down into more tears, always breaking down but never getting past broken. He doesn’t cry, and he flips the coin. He catches it with his left hand and puts the quarter on the back of his right hand. His hand shakes and he’s gentle as he takes away the hand. He has captured a grasshopper and he doesn’t want it to flee. Rudy peers at the quarter. It doesn’t matter if he called it correctly or not, because this time he makes up the rules. The sink is on and Karen will wash her hands for twenty seconds, no more, no less. Rudy pockets the quarter. He plucks the picture off the bureau. He makes a move like he’s going to stick it in his bag, but stops. He flips the frame over and inspects the wallet-sized

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Tommy and Karen wedding photo and the wallet-sized picture of her baby. He tears them from the frame and drops them facedown on the newly empty bureau top. He slips the picture of him and his sister, frame and all, into his back pocket. The bathroom door opens behind him. Karen says, “Ready,” and walks to the coat rack, grabbing her walker. It’s not required, but Rudy knows it makes her feel more secure on outdoor trips. “Let’s go.” He walks out of the room a pace ahead of Karen and her walker. She uses it all wrong, putting none of her weight on the apparatus, lifting it and slamming it into the ground in random intervals. Together they walk down the bright hallway. Nurses and staff issue well wishes as they pass. Karen hums again. Rudy has his quarter in his hand, passing it between his fingers, and he thinks about what he almost did.

1234567891011121314151617181920 Sun poured through the viewing room’s windows. Dust motes and other particles floated trapped in the sunbeams. Even in a hospital, the sun exposed the dirt underneath. Rudy stood outside the ICU and leaned against the viewing area glass with his arms up over his head. He had a plastic visitor’s badge marked FAMILY and with Karen’s scribbled name on it. Rudy watched Karen, waiting for movement he knew wouldn’t come. Only

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one family member per patient was allowed in the ICU viewing area. Tommy was in the nursery being taught how to prepare formula, burp after feedings, and how to perform the umbilical cord care and cleaning until the last bit would finally fall out. Rudy had left him there on purpose. Nurses and doctors flitted from bed to bed, hummingbirds allocating their intensive care, checking machines, reading the electronic blips and flashes, writing secrets down on charts. Other family members peered through the glass at their prone loved ones. It was busy enough for Rudy to be all but ignored by the action around him. Rudy tapped on the window a few times with his right hand, the slap of skin on glass. Then he tapped with his left hand, and there was a clinking sound, a sound a ring might make on glass, but there was no ring on Rudy’s hand. He stopped tapping and brought his hand down to his face, a quarter pinched between his fingers. He pressed his forehead against the glass and into the ghost of his reflection. Through his ghost and on the other side of the glass was Karen. He knew she didn’t want to live like this. Tommy had screwed everything up. Everything was officially his fault now. No more guilt, no more worrying about whether or not he was being fair. This, and everything to come after this, would be all Tommy’s fault. Rudy pushed off the glass and stood up straight. “Tails never fails,” he said and flipped his coin. He caught it, and smacked it onto the back of his hand. It

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was tails. It was more than tails. It was a decision being made for him, the clearing of a path in an overgrown forest, an actual answer from a god, and it was the answer he wanted. There was no indecision on Rudy’s part. No thoughts of why or how he would do this, no thoughts of possible consequences. He stepped to the right and slunk through the swinging double-doors and into the ICU. He paused briefly at the foot of Karen’s bed. A machine breathed for Karen. He listened to its sounds, its inorganic rhythm. IV dripped and so did the catheter. Sharp black stubble grew around the bandage on her head. The nurses and doctors and visitors and all the action around him were blurs and hazy in the bright light. Everyone else was the dust trapped in a sunbeam, prehistoric bugs in amber, and Rudy would be invisible. He would do this and everything to come after would be dealt with one way or another. This was right. He would save Karen, the real Karen, the person he always wanted to be, the person he always wanted everyone else to be. Rudy crouched and nearly crawled to the head of the bed, looking for the proverbial plug to pull but everything was a tangle of mysterious wires and tubes and it was all too much. He didn’t want her to suffer. He didn’t want to grab or disconnect something that wasn’t permanent. His hands fluttered everywhere but landed nowhere. Then he saw it. There, under the bed and plugged into the floor was a thick gray cord that led to a large power strip. Could it be that easy? It would be that easy. The path had been cleared for him and

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everything would be okay, if for one lousy moment of one lousy day. Rudy reached for the cord, wrapping his fingers around the surprisingly thick rubber and plastic, and he pulled, but it didn’t move. It was anchored into the floor. Screws likely. Didn’t matter. He’d try again and pull hard enough to yank it all out. He could do this. He was strong enough. Rudy slid his feet under his body, balancing his weight, coiling himself, steadying for a mighty yank. A nurse said, “Hey, what are you doing?” Rudy pulled his arm back and stood up as quickly as possible. He was sweating and red-eyed and guilty. “Oh, sorry. I was just…uh…standing at the foot of my sister’s bed.” He extended his FAMILY badge toward the nurse. “And I dropped my lucky quarter. It rolled under there, and I, you know, was just getting it.” He held out the quarter in front of him like it was a shield. The nurse was backlit by sunlight. She said, “You’re not supposed to be in here. I should call security.” Rudy brushed one of Karen’s hands, and it was warm, though likely some degree within the regulated climate-controlled temperature range. “I...okay. Sorry. I’m sorry. I’m leaving.” He wasn’t apologizing to the nurse. Tommy had failed Karen and now he had failed her as well. There would be no second chances at saving her. This was the only time he’d try this. This was what he almost did. He scurried past the nurse and out of the ICU and back into the hallway, the seemingly endless and

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endlessly bright hospital hallway.

1234567891011121314151617181920 Another beautiful day with soaring temperatures and cloudless blue skies, the grass is green and the paths are gravel and meticulous. No weeds, no pebble is out of place. The headstones are grey and white and countless, although they look like dulled teeth. Rudy lets Karen hold the cemetery map while they walk to their parents. The image of their stones is what Rudy remembers and what he will remember going forward, not what they looked like or who they were. They are too far gone for him to remember his real mother and father. Time has turned his parents into these stones. There’s Mom over there. She’s a lighter shade of grey than the rest, flamboyant almost, and she tilts to the left as if she has somewhere to go; yes a beloved wife and mother but also a rascal, the life of the party, unpredictable, a real pendulum of emotions. Dad is next to her. He’s sturdy and correct, proper, he doesn’t draw attention to himself and is content to sit back and watch, someone who will listen and be rational, but he would be very plain, even boring if not for his wife. Together, the two stones make a great team, the perfect couple if not for eternity then for as close as you can get. Karen is on her knees, picking single flowers out of a bouquet and placing them around her parents, the

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two stones. There’s a pattern to what she’s doing, but it’s unreadable. She’s rough with her hands, fine motor coordination never having come all the way back, and most of the flowers have missing or mangled petals. Rudy stands, his hands in his pockets, head down, imitating his parents, a chip off the old block and all that. Today and the rest of the todays will be that much easier if he can become his own stone. The bag full of Karen’s knickknacks and trinkets and totems is still slung over his shoulder. Karen has already forgotten about the bag’s contents and its purported purpose. Rudy knew she would forget. He planned on it. He waits until she finishes arranging the flowers. “Time to go, Karen.” “Where are we going now?” “Let’s go to Rockport, get some lunch and then maybe some salt-water taffy.” “Okay. Bye Mom and Dad.” She stands and waves. The stones don’t wave back. *** Rudy and Karen sit in plastic chairs next to a wooden picnic table that has been painted green. They’re eating at the clam box next to the abandoned storefront. The sun is impossibly bright, bleaching everything. Rudy wears sunglasses. Karen squints hard enough to make her eyes disappear. The shade offered by the clam box’s mini awning is not enough. Karen messily picks at her clam roll, gouging into

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the bread, making holes and divots. She plucks out the fried clams and eats them one by one. She says, “I’m glad we saw Mom and Dad.” “Me too.” “It makes me feel better.” Rudy nods and takes a few bites of his clam roll although he’s not at all hungry. “The flowers we bought were pretty. Very pretty.” Karen inhales deeply through her nose, smelling their memory. “Yes, they were.” He looks over his shoulder to the abandoned storefront. It’s still there. People walk by the clam box and then the storefront, and to them it’s as grey and as forgotten as a gravestone. Karen fights through her squint. Her eyes open wide and exaggerated. “Oh no! We forgot to leave them one of my presents, Rudy! You know, from my bureau.” She defaults into stress-mode, making sounds under her breath and she slaps the table and her thighs. Rudy is surprised she remembered. Could something as simple as a memory ruin everything, ruin his second chance? He won’t allow it. Not this time. He says, “It’s okay.” He pauses as Karen fiddles with his French fries. He grabs her hand, gently, and moves it back toward her plate. “We can leave them a present next time, or even go back later if you like.” This seems to placate Karen and she dives back into her clam roll. Ketchup is smeared on her face and on her hands and wrists. Her shirt is a mess of grease spots and crumbs. She chews with her mouth open. Other

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clam box patrons fill the tables, but no one else sits and faces Karen, no one willing to confront her reality during their lunch hour. Rudy has finished eating. He watches her play with her food. She rearranges the clam strips instead of eating them. Rudy has had enough. He says, “What do you say to getting some taffy?” “Okay.” She gathers the remnants of her meal and squeezes it into a ball. Rudy slings the knickknack bag over his good shoulder. Karen stands and waits for Rudy to help her. He knows she’ll do what he tells her to do, no questions asked. He brushes off her clothes and wipes her hands and face with dispenser napkins, which aren’t enough to get her clean. The grease will leave stains. He moves chairs out of their way, clearing a path. She waits for Rudy, and loops her left arm around his and shuffles next to her brother. Earlier, he managed to convince Karen that she didn’t need the walker. They left it at his apartment. Karen waves hi to the other clam box patrons. No one returns the wave. Rudy wants to scream and shout and wring necks, force the tourists and lunch-hour monkeys to acknowledge his sister, maybe even to accept some of the blame for everything, but he can’t make a scene. He needs to be forgotten, invisible. While everyone here will remember Karen, no one will remember the man with her. They escape the clam box then slowly walk by the abandoned storefront. Rudy stares at his and Karen’s reflection in the bay window; a funhouse mirror

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that—

1234567891011121314151617181920 It’s the next afternoon but it’s the same afternoon, only a little later. It’s always a little later. The sun is alone in the blue sky and sheds its blinding white light. Light that no one can look at directly, not without some sort of filter, some feeble measure of safety precaution. As a child, Rudy once tried to impress big sis by staring at the sun for as long as he could. He counted out loud with his head and face turned up. He was supposed to be defiant with his chest puffed out, a hero who could even conquer the sun, but he was no hero and the staring contest was rigged, the ending already written. Rudy only made it to five seconds, then he crumpled to the ground, prostrate and madly trying to blink away the after images of light. Rudy is showered, shaved, and clean. He drives his car like a train, the yellow double lines are the tracks and disappear under his car. The car windows are rolled down and the radio is off. He listens to the steady rush of air. He’s on another rural route, a road flanked by green trees and grass and brush and only a few farmhouses with their abandoned and ruinous barns and sheds, their decay willingly displayed on front lawns and open fields. Rudy talks into the yellow cell phone. “For once I know where I am going.”

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There’s no response. His dashboard clock reads 5:10. On the passenger seat is the framed picture of Karen and Rudy. Pinned under the picture and fluttering in the open-car-window wind is the list of places, dates, and locations. Rudy tries the phone again. “But I don’t know what I am doing. So I guess that makes me one for two. Batting five-hundred, again.” Still no response. He swerves into his lane as a car passes him, but then he goes back to straddling the lines, following the tracks. He pretends her lack of response doesn’t push him toward the edge of panic, so he’ll keep talking. He’ll keep staring at the sun for as long as he can. He says, “Live or die. Act or be acted upon. Heads or tails. It’s all the same.” *** Jenny’s real estate office is in a converted Victorian house. Trendy and casual office furniture fills what was once a ballroom. It’s a stunning room with its high ceiling and hardwood floor, but a closer inspection yields molding that needs a new coat of white paint and walls with peeling wallpaper. Jenny wears another light dress, both in fabric and in its paisley coloring. She slouches in her chair and plays minesweeper on her computer, playing fast and playing well. She’s also aware that the clock in the lower right hand corner of the screen reads 5:10. She needs to leave soon.

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The office manager, John, sits across from her station. He’s tall, in his late twenties, and continuously worries about his physical appearance. He’s the only one in the office with a mirror at his desk. He says, “You’re usually out of here by five o’clock. Working on something big?” She doesn’t look up from her game and contemplates ignoring his feeble attempt at contempt and sarcasm. “Keeping tabs on me, now, John?” She shouldn’t be here and didn’t really need to come into the office today. It was more an action of habit. There’s plenty of other more productive ways she could’ve been spending her time, like selling a house. It has been a slow summer, one that has been dampening her enthusiasm for the job. Having John around doesn’t help either. John fiddles with his red tie and answers too quickly. “No. Not at all.” He smiles, as if he’s victorious in some way. He stands and adjusts his coat and brushes off his pants, attempting to regain a semblance of officespace authority. “It’s just that I can’t lock up until you leave, and you’re just sitting there playing solitaire or blackjack or something.” Maybe she won’t come to the office tomorrow. Maybe she should be looking for a new job, or perhaps a change on a smaller scale, something a little less life altering, like a new apartment and roommate. She could live with Dee Dee, or maybe get her own place, a condo even. She makes enough, but living alone has never held any appeal. We’ll all be alone eventually. It’s a natural condition, the human stasis, so there’s no

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need to rush it, to actively seek it out. “Sheesh, glad you so enjoy my company. I was leaving anyway.” Jenny closes out the program and logs off the computer, then stands and stretches. She decides that on the ride over to the tracks she’ll call Dee Dee and pitch the idea of living together. Dee Dee’s wallowing and flailing artiste has a chance of getting old fast, but Jenny believes they’d get along fine. She can sell this to Dee Dee. They are very similar people. Jenny throws a wadded up piece of paper at John. It bounces off his chest. She says, “Have a wonderful evening, John. Oh, and just for the record, I hate blackjack. It relies too much on luck.” She walks out of the office doors and John follows her out, keys jingling in his hand. *** The commuter train makes its late-afternoon run out of Boston and up the North Shore coastline; a leviathan dutifully touring its territory as though the timed-to-the-minute journey has always been and ever shall be. The businessman sits in his usual seat and has a newspaper on his lap, although this newspaper is worn and folded and obviously read. The conductor’s voice blasts through the intercom. “Next stop, Swampscott. Next stop, Swampscott.” He has always thought Swampscott sounded like a depressing name, a town built over some secret and ancient quagmire, a place with cursed inhabitants,

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people who were stuck and wouldn’t be able to leave. Only the train is allowed impasse, the false hope of transportation, not true escape. The businessman has lived in Newburyport his entire life, yet it’s the name and concept of Swampscott that he fears. The train slows to a stop. Some of the passengers stir and leave their seats and empty into Swampscott’s greedy streets. He imagines they all secretly dread going home and staying home, they will look out the window and find scenery that doesn’t change. The businessman opens his paper to the real estate section. He has tried but has never been able to convince his wife that they could move out of Newburyport, maybe even out of Massachusetts. People move and change their lives all the time, but she wouldn’t hear of it, it was crazy talk, and she used the children as her prime defense, and then she followed with counter-offers concerning all the great houses for sale right in Newburyport. His cell phone rings. He takes it out of his jacket. It’s his wife. “Hi, honey…A couple of pizzas?.... I don’t think I can. I’m going to be late and miss dinner. I haven’t even left Boston yet…. I’m still walking toward the Park Street T stop…Yeah, I know, but I told you this morning that my meeting might run a little late…. Look, I’m about to duck underground and I’m going to lose this signal. I’ll be home as soon as I can. Bye, love you.” Lying to her is second nature and he can’t remember a time when they didn’t trade in lies. Lying is normal, essential. Lying propels the wheels and gears of their relationship.

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What if he proposed a move to Boston? Could they do that? A prospect that’s both exciting and frightening, and he indulges in the scenario like it’s a forbidden thought, like he’s imagining a tryst with another woman. But it’s too late for that move. Their lives are too small for the big city. They’d be lost. That particular leviathan would swallow them whole, or worse, ignore their presence completely, and they’d be forgotten fleas on a body that couldn’t be bothered to even scratch itself. *** Rudy turns onto a dirt road, an access road. There’s a no trespassing sign on a rusty iron bar gate, but it is unlocked and open, just as promised. He still talks into his yellow cell phone and she is still not responding. He says, “This is what I am doing.” The road is full of potholes and ruts and divots. Rocks bounce and clang off the undercarriage, his car struggling to move forward. The brush closes in on the road. Branches tap and scratch his windshield. Rudy is following a plan. He is doing what he was told to do. His steps have been predetermined. This is an incredible comfort. “I am parking two miles away from the tracks on a dirt road that I didn’t know was there.” He stops the car three miles deep onto the access road. Rudy rolls up the windows and locks the doors, then gets out. There is no noise and the surrounding

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canopy hides the sun. He has the framed picture of Karen and himself in one hand, the cell phone in the other, and he steps off the road to the right, walking into a thick wall of woods. Branches and thorns bite his skin. There is no path and the woods are almost impenetrable, but he makes progress and he knows where he has to go. He says, “This makes sense to me.” *** Dee Dee said that she’d think about getting a place with her, but couldn’t commit to it. Jenny was surprised the initial answer wasn’t a speedy and grateful yes. Dee Dee has always been temperamental, it’s a fundamental facet of her character, but she struggles with the rent now and Jenny as a roommate would be the perfect financial solution if nothing else. Maybe Jenny will allow herself to ponder what Dee Dee’s hesitation means about Jenny, later. After. Jenny drives her red convertible down the same road she was on a week earlier. The radio is loud and plays something full of hooks. This time she isn’t singing along. She is tired and growing more upset about Dee Dee’s response. Dee Dee said that her decision wouldn’t be personal, but she enjoyed living alone. Her diplomacy was almost as off-putting as her initial hesitation. Jenny drives through the same curve that crosses that same section of railroad tracks, then slows and turns onto the same gravelly roadside area. When did her young,

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supposedly exciting life become a routine, or a burden? She gets out of the car and stretches her arms and legs. Jenny disappears into the woods, but takes a different path than the one she took last time. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll be a longer, more challenging hike, but sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll end up in a similar place. *** The meeting that did not run late also did not go well. Red numbers replaced the black. Tough decisions would have to be made, decisions that would not be his to make. After reading the real estate section, the businessman scans the help wanted ads. There isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t much there. Thinking about a new job or even a different career path is as much a fantasy as moving given his age and qualifications, which have been specialized to the needs of his company. He stuffs the paper between his leg and the arm of his seat. The train rolls through Salem. An ocean inlet is on the left, and on the right is the site of the old Parker Brothers manufacturing plant. His father worked at that plant as a material handler, someone who supplied the assembly lines and workers with game covers, playing boards, and pieces; stacks of paper money, plastic hotels, and the thimble, hat, wheelbarrow, and little dog for Monopoly. In 1992 Hasbro bought the eighty-year-old company and plant, and they subsequently closed it, its two hundred and fifty plus employees fired. Salem

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fought Hasbro, fought them to designate the plant a historical building, but it came down anyway. After the demolition the city found decades worth of toxins and poisons in the soil, mostly the result of Nerf product waste, but that didn’t stop them from selling the land and nothing stopped the huge rows of condominiums with their water view from shooting up. The train passes the site and heads toward the Beverly-Salem bridge, the plant and the memory safely behind him. He closes his eyes. He’s hiding and no one can see him. The surrounding commuters argue. Three, maybe four different voices, all sounding angry, sounding like they know they’re right. He doesn’t open his eyes to see who’s who. They talk about the train bombings and they talk about police shooting and killing a suspect who was innocent. They speak in clichés and aphorisms. They say the suspect was in the wrong place at the wrong time. They say it was his own fault for being there. They say you can’t live your life in fear. They say the odds of being hit by a bus or slipping and falling in the bathtub and hitting your head are higher. They say we can’t give in to them. They say we can’t let them get away with it. They say more things about we and them. The businessman knows better. *** It’s dark in the woods and at least ten degrees cooler. Rudy climbs over fallen trees. He pushes through and

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ducks under branches and bushes that snag his clothes and marks the skin on his bare arms. His barreling through the woods, his forging a new path disrupts and wakes clouds of mosquitoes and flies that disapprove and attack. He even comes upon a swampy area and he trudges through, mud soaks his shoes and spatters onto his jeans. But he does not stop and he does not ever doubt he’s going in the right direction. Rudy’s persistence and faith are rewarded. He finds a worn path. He follows it like he’s supposed to. The path is short. One-hundred yards away is the opening and its bright light. Rudy runs and emerges from the woods, at the top edge of an embankment, the train tracks below him. He’s alone and there’s nothing on the tracks. Everything is bright sunlight again. Rudy climbs down the gravel embankment then up a smaller slope and onto the track plateau. He places a foot on one rail and imagines it’s a vein or artery warm with its blood. Then he steps onto the ties, placing himself between the rails. He walks north toward a sharp curve in the track, a curve he has led a train through many times. As Rudy walks toward the curve its visible length expands. There is something on the tracks, standing in the middle of the curve. A lone, motionless figure dressed in black and white, a harlequin clown. Rudy reaches into his back pocket and pulls out the picture of him and Karen. He pulls apart the frame, breaking the glass and letting it fall onto the wooden ties and gravel, and he removes the photo. He brushes

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away the real and imagined glass shards and dust. The picture is clean. It’s perfect. It’s better than a memory. It doesn’t change. All his memories have been changed by the past and future. *** —distorted and dampened their features. Rudy did not recognize the couple reflected in the abandoned storefront’s glass. She was short enough to be a child, a younger sibling, or a pouting teen dressed in dark clothes, her head pointed down. Rudy reached out and touched the glass. He wanted to see if their images stirred or changed, his finger as a stone thrown into a reflecting pool. Nothing changed. A taffy store was up next in the line of downtown businesses, but Rudy led his sister left into an alley between the storefront and taffy shop. It was dark in the alley. The neighboring building blotted out the sun. He removed his sunglasses, suddenly careful to avoid his reflection in the lenses. Rusty chain-linked fence lined both sides of the alley. There was a blue Dumpster missing its covers on the left and a stack of mangled, wooden pallets toward the alley’s end. Karen said, “Where are we going?” There was no trace of alarm in her voice. This was a new experience for her. She had nothing to serve as a frame of reference, nothing to alert her to danger. Maybe she thought the taffy shop was back here, or maybe she forgot that was where they had planned to go and she followed Rudy

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because following Rudy was what she was supposed to do when out of the home. Rudy didn’t know. He didn’t want to think about it anymore, either. Rudy said, “Just back here for a second. I want to show you something, okay?” The words felt heavy coming out of his mouth, as if they were capable of breaking things upon impact. She said, “Okay. Ew, it’s *** There are people crouched in the surrounding brush and woods. He knows they’re supposed to be there. Just like he is. Rudy stops walking. The harlequin and the curve are only one-hundred feet away. Even from this distance, he can see this harlequin is short and squat. This harlequin has distinct and familiar size and proportion. This harlequin before him this harlequin be fore him this harlequin be for him. Rudy looks away and hugs the photo to his chest. He wants to unzip his breastbone and take out his organs, become that empty mannequin, replace his innards with the photo and then continue to fill himself with other clean and safe and perfect images and words and everything that hasn’t been turned yellow. He leaves the tracks, walks to the right, climbs the gravel embankment and to his very own hiding spot in the woods. He crouches in some bushes and stares at his photograph.

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Jenny walks along the edge of the embankment, toward Rudy. She approaches loudly, trying not to startle him. Rudy doesn’t look up. She stops and stands about five feet away. There’s a tree branch between them and it’s thick with fat green leaves, though they still appear fragile with their thin anchoring stems, like they could break and fall at the slightest provocation. Jenny eases the branch away from her face, smiles and says, “Hi,” like it’s a question, a request for permission. Rudy says, “Hi,” and still doesn’t look up. He’d rather stay inside the photo. Jenny sits next to him. Her legs brush against his. He looks up. She smiles bigger and tucks some of that wheat-blonde hair behind her ears. He looks away and to the harlequin standing in the middle of the tracks. The sun is behind it so the harlequin’s face is in shadow. All of this will be easier if it stays in shadow. Across the tracks and emerging from the brush and various hiding spots are an old retiree, a man in a suit, and a larger middle-aged woman wearing green scrubs. Rudy pulls the yellow cell phone out of his pocket and speaks into it. “They’re waiting just like me. I’m waiting just like them.” Jenny puts a hand on his shoulder and gently pushes the phone away from his face. “Are you okay?” “I don’t know.” He pockets the phone, but only because he is supposed to. “What do you have there?” She motions her head toward the photo in his hands.

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Rudy makes a move to hide the picture, to stuff it into a front shirt pocket he doesn’t have. She doesn’t get to have this. She and they and everyone can have everything else, but not this. Not this. He says, “Nothing much. Just an old picture.” “Can I see it?” No. She can’t see it. She won’t understand what it means or why he’s doing what he’s doing. No one would understand, and understanding is the lie she’s been telling him all along and the lie he’s wanted to believe all this time. But he will show it to her because he’s giving in, completely. He’s going to follow and finish everything by their rules, even if he knows it’s all a big, fat, yellow lie. Rudy extends his hand and the photo, holding it like it’s a handful of mercury. Jenny takes it. She says, “Is this you?” Rudy nods. “You’re so cute. And she’s very pretty. Who is she?” She leans closer to Rudy, almost into him, the picture pinched between just two fingers. The photo shakes in a small breeze. It’s a leaf on a branch. More games. Why can’t she play it straight with him now? Doesn’t she know he already lost? He says, “Don’t you know, I mean…” She interrupts, but not sternly. Her voice is low and fragile. She acts as vulnerable as a question with no answer. “No. I don’t know. I want you to tell me everything.” Where does he begin? That’s an impossible request.

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It’s not fair. It’s asking too much. If it’s not against the rules, it should be. It’s this simple question that sets his heart wildly bouncing and his lungs gasping and greedy for oxygen and makes him want to run, back through the swamp and mosquito clouds and thorns and woods and streets and roads, but where could he run to, where could he go, where could he get away from everything? She grabs his hand and says, “It’s okay. You can talk to me.” Rudy slows down his breathing as he realizes what it is they both want and need him to say. He says, “That’s my sister, Karen. She…she’s gone.” He turns toward Jenny, their faces not quite close enough for a kiss but too close for a conversation, and they stay like this. “I’m so sorry to hear that. When did that happen, if you don’t mind me asking?” Rudy smells peppermint on her breath and faint perfume from her skin. He moves his face closer, almost touching his nose to hers. “Karen died six years ago. She had an aneurysm while giving birth.” “That’s so terrible. Was there a family history? Did anyone know that might happen?” “No. No one could’ve known that was going to happen.” Jenny shudders and her hair falls out from behind her ears, but she doesn’t break eye contact and doesn’t move her head away from Rudy’s. She says, “That’s so unexpected and horrible. It just might be one of the worst things I’ve ever heard.”

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Rudy nods. His part in this should be done or almost done. “Did the baby make it?” “Yes, her daughter lives in Florida with her father.” Rudy offers no names and no more insight into the story. He doesn’t need to. Jenny puts the photo into Rudy’s open hand, which rests on his lap, palm up. He doesn’t close his hand right away. A warm breeze threatens to take the photo away and make it as imperfect as a memory. The photo quivers and its corners lift, but the breeze dies and the photo stays in his hand. They share a silence, and neither one of them moves. Eventually, Jenny says, “Would you like to get a drink with me after?” They sit like lovers at a picnic, face to face, sun dappling their skin; a warm breeze returns and whispers in the surrounding flora. Her suggested date is the cliché of the romantically hopefully, really. All except for her last word. After. Is this part of it? Is this part of everything? Rudy laughs and closes his eyes. Jenny betrays mock outrage and slips into an impersonation. “Hey, what’s so funny? Do I make you laugh? Am I funny?” He says, “No, nothing. That would be nice. I’d love to have a drink with you after.” “Great! It’s a deal then.” She grabs his free hand and shakes it. When she takes her hand back, she looks at her watch and sighs. “The train is late. Very aggravating.”

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“What time is it?” It doesn’t really matter though. He’s here. He only asks to keep the conversation going. “6:14. It’s unavoidable, obviously, but we don’t like it when things don’t work out how they’re supposed to.” “Neither do I.” They share innocent smiles, only Rudy knows better. Nothing and no one is innocent. Just as nothing and no one is safe. Jenny squeezes Rudy’s arm. She says, “I’m so glad you came out today. You’re my first successful recruit.” “Is that what I am?” Jenny laughs. There’s a horn blast in the not-sodistant distance. “Finally, here she comes.” Rudy has the urge to sing, “Oh, Susannah.” She’ll be coming around the mountain when she comes… He pokes his head out of the bushes and looks left. Tons of locomotive metal roar up the straightaway. More people emerge from their hiding spots. They were closer to him than he thought. The sun, finally dropping toward the west, throws tree shadows over the harlequin. The clown has been positioned at the beginning of the big curve. Rudy guesses that the engineer won’t see it until the train is right on top of it. She smiles that innocent, friendly smile, one that begs for belief in the kindness of strangers, and she says, “My name is Jenny, by the way.” Rudy watches the train, its cargo and populace and its momentum and power and violence all balanced on two maddeningly thin rails. He says, “I’m Rudy.”

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She says, “I know that, Rudy.” *** dirty back here.”

“I know it is, sis.” The alley funneled into a fenced-in area behind the abandoned storefront. The fence was comprised of sixfoot-tall planks and buttressed with a set of parallel tinwires running between scattered metal posts. Only the gabled roof of the taffy shop was visible from behind the fence. There was an edge of a crumbling boat-ramp peeking through locked fence doors. To the left was a bulkhead and beyond that a rotting wooden stairwell, white paint chips flaked off like dead scales. The stairs led to the storefront’s back door, which was also white. They walked with their arms interlocked, and Rudy escorted Karen to the stairs, and she sat. Karen breathed heavy as if she had been working hard. It was just something she did after walking any foreign distance. She folded her arms under her chest and rocked, and Rudy couldn’t look at her anymore. His eyes were dead weights in his sockets. He turned away and faced the fence. He said, “It was heads.” Karen said, “What was heads?” “Nothing.” The cell phone was a rock in Rudy’s pocket. The bag on his shoulder was a boulder; a sack of dead memories. His skin, the air, everything was heavy, loaded with meaning. “I’m sorry, Karen.”

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“Sorry for what?” “I’m sorry for yelling at you yesterday. I’m sorry for making you sad.” Karen interrupted and said, “That’s okay, Rudy. I forgive you. I know you didn’t mean it.” She shook her head. Rudy was being silly. Her love for him was unconditional and uncomplicated. Rudy dropped to his knees in front of Karen and clasped his hands together. He whispered, “I’m sorry that I didn’t help you when I had the chance. I couldn’t make him listen. He wouldn’t listen. Then later, later I tried, but I wasn’t strong enough. I’m sorry for everything, Karen.” Tears filled those heavy eyes. Everything was drowning. Karen frowned and stared at her feet, going into her defense posture. “I don’t know what you’re talking about and I don’t like it.” He moved closer to Karen, but still in a crouch. He lifted her chin with a finger and found her eyes. For a moment, he allowed himself to hope that he could find the person who was gone, the person he could hardly remember. Would he even be able to recognize that person if she was still there? What if she was there and he had been too stubborn, too lost to see her? No, there was no going back now. The choice had been made. Rudy stood and brushed his hands on his pants. He said, “I’m going to get us some taffy. Then I’m going to open those doors over there,” and he pointed at the long neglected boat-ramp, “and show you a pretty boat, okay? It’s my special surprise.”

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Karen clapped her hands and said, “Wow!” It was an appropriate response, but one Rudy doubted had any authenticity. She had already reset back to her previous rocking pose. Nothing she had done or said over the past two days had seemed sadder than this. “You wait here, okay? I’ll be right back.” Karen nodded and deflated even further, emotions turned off until she was required to power up and respond again. This was *** The train hasn’t quite reached their hiding spot, but the brakes scream. From the sound, Rudy knows the emergency hydraulics were thrown. The screaming is metal versus metal and the train won’t stop before the curve. It won’t. The wailing giant’s shadow falls over Rudy and Jenny. He stands and counts passenger cars. He gets to ten before Jenny grabs his hand and pulls him down the gravel embankment. The braking train is just above them and the earth rumbles under and around the stressed machine. Others leave their hiding spots along the tracks and join the chase. The train blots out Rudy’s view of the harlequin. For a few seconds he sees nothing but the lumbering train, and then an explosion of blood and other debris plumes out and above the engine car. Jenny pulls hard on Rudy’s hand, imploring him to follow her to the curve and to move faster. He looks at the passenger

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windows but there’s only dark glass. Jenny yells but he doesn’t understand her. The train lifts and rises as it jumps the tracks and derails while emergency-braking on the curve. There’s a loud thud, a cannon shot as the engine car shoots off the track plateau. It fishtails sideways then rolls into the woods, splintering and uprooting trees. The doubledecker passenger cars lose the tracks and peel away from each other, tipping onto their sides, smashing into the gravel embankments. The cars nearest Jenny and Rudy fall in order like well-placed dominoes. Rudy is transfixed, watching the machine fall apart, watching it die, and the cars land on the people running alongside the train, gravel and shrapnel buzz through the air like insects, branches break and trees fall and even an unmoored track rears its head, bends, and impales the body of a fallen passenger car. Jenny pulls him out of the way of the crashing and falling train, out of their pocket-apocalypse. They scuttle up the embankment and back into the woods, but they don’t run away. Jenny yells, “That wasn’t supposed to happen.” It’s not a complaint or a shakenfist at circumstance, but a statement of fact, the reality to which they simply have to adjust. They run through the woods, parallel to the tracks. The stopped and felled body of the train is visible through the edge brush and woods. There’s the unmistakable smell of oil and smoke. There’s the whoosh of flame, and there’s breaking glass and renting metal and screams. And they run through the woods,

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toward the engine. They’re adjacent to the curve, and there is blood and tissue spotted on the bushes and trees, red on green. The leaves buckle under the added weight. Jenny purposefully runs her hands through the branches and leaves, and the skin on her arms changes color. Rudy slows to a walk while she sprints off ahead. There’s a crunch under Rudy’s sneakers. He stops and finds another face under his foot, this one belonging to one of Karen’s porcelain dolls. The face is only the size of a quarter, and half of it is missing. He walks closer to the curve and deeper into the woods. Karen’s destroyed dolls and knickknacks are everywhere. Tiny arms and legs, miniature hands and feet hang from the tree branches above his head, torsos litter the ground, ripped doll clothing and broken heads stuck in bushes, the woods turned into a shrine to violence, turned dollhouse abattoir, and everything covered in blood and bathed in a soft, dying, yellow light so everything is yellow and everything has always been yellow. Rudy walks through this, thinks this an appropriate rite of passage, and he is almost to the engine car. He steps over a cracked tree and the cracked porcelain remains of the harlequin doll from Karen’s bureau. *** happening and now it was happening fast. Rudy said, “Sit with this, please.” He gave her the

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big stuffed bag filled with her knickknacks. He wanted to run. She said, “What’s this?” “Just my bag. They won’t let me go into the store with it, you know?” But she didn’t know, wouldn’t ever know. Karen didn’t question. “Okay. I’ll hold it. It’s heavy.” “I know it is, Karen. You’ll be okay with it.” Rudy took two steps backward, said, “I’ll be…” then stopped talking. Karen wasn’t listening. She had her instructions, to sit and hold the bag. Rudy turned and walked quickly then, and into the alley. There the sounds of cars and foot traffic echoed and bounced between the buildings, everything yelling at him, telling him there was no more what he almost did. He walked out of the alley. He was by himself and no longer invisible. He gave a quick look to the storefront’s bay window, then turned left. He walked past the taffy shop and its window shoppers and kept walking. He took out the yellow cell phone. He said, “You need to know that I hate you and I hate me.” She said, “That’s fine.” “So tell me what happens next.” “I don’t know what happens next, Rudy.” “What?” He had an image of Karen sitting at the stairs and nothing happening for hours, days, weeks, and she wouldn’t leave and she wouldn’t move, dutifully waiting for him to come back. “Like everything in life, it’ll either happen or it

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won’t.” Rudy pulled out the piece of paper from the envelope, the list of track times and other meeting places. Rudy had circled the last line on the page. All donations are encouraged and accepted. He said, “I understand. It’s a coin flip, then. It always has been.” “Not quite, Rudy. At least you chose action this time. It’s the best that any of us can do.” Rudy continued to walk without looking behind him, past downtown Rockport and into an affluent residential section populated with the kind of homes that Rudy would never pass while driving his train; houses with multiple-car garages and bay windows as large as his apartment. He didn’t keep to the sidewalk but walked on front lawns and passed through automatic sprinkler systems, and through bushes trimmed into shapes that were supposed to mean something, through some gated backyards, past decks, and he climbed over swing sets and plastic play structures and landscaped mulch and sheds and Japanese Maple trees and the leaves were purple and fragile and he walked through the shallows and depths of in-ground pools. No one was home and no one saw him. Rudy walked and walked and walked and didn’t care where he stepped as long as it took him away from where he was. *** Rudy comes to the clearing the engine car made in the woods. The results of the derailment are spread out

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before him. Tipped and gnarled passenger cars behind him along with smoke and bodies and the wailing injured and small fires eager to grow and a surprising amount of blood and flesh spread out over the area, shocking in its excess, so much that it all couldn’t have just come from the one harlequin. Rudy pulls out his cell phone again and talks into it. “The world is chaos,” although he feels absurd saying it, announcing a secret that everyone already knows. The businessman’s head emerges from one of the tipped cars. He strains to climb out an emergency window that billows smoke like a chimney. He steps on an unconscious passenger, using the body for leverage. He wouldn’t be able to get his bulk out, otherwise. Jenny gives him a hand and helps to pull him up, then she searches the cars and gravel for a prize, a treat, and she ignores the train full of people screaming for help. There are others like the businessman and Jenny, scrambling across the train and searching for what the harlequin left them. Jenny finds a hand-sized blob of flesh and puts it in her mouth. Three other people, in succession, gnaw on their similar carrion rewards. Maybe this is happening everywhere. Maybe there’s no maybe about it. It is happening everywhere and does happen everywhere. Rudy runs past the clearing and into the black clouds of smoke issued by the still groaning engine car. He coughs and is momentarily blinded, but keeps walking anyway. He wades through destroyed brush and broken trees and shattered glass to get to the front

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of the engine. On its front grille, pasted like a bug on a windshield, are the limbless torso and the head of the harlequin clown. Steam and smoke leak out around the body, which faces away from Rudy and into the engine. He doesn’t have to look at the harlequin’s face if he doesn’t want to. Boiling oil, radiator fluid, and blood mix and bubble and leak out of fissures in the engine and the body. Rudy reaches out and touches the back of the head. Its plastic has gone warm and soft. He sticks his hand inside the harlequin’s back and feels around. The wind changes and the engine smoke blows back into his face. Rudy pulls his hand out and it emerges with Karen’s stuffed-animal raccoon. Its fur is all matted with blood and gore. It’s smaller than he remembered. Everything is smaller. He brings it to his chest and hugs it. There’s something hard hidden inside. It is the doll within a doll within a doll. He flips the raccoon belly up and prods his fingers inside a ragged tear. Rudy pulls out stuffing and sifts through it, though it’s difficult as the stuffing sticks to his bloody hands and clothes. The raccoon is an almost empty shell, limp in his hands. Then he finds the hard lump, finds his quarter. The black smoke is all around. Rudy bends in half coughing, smoke penetrating his lungs and eyes. Rudy’s hands shake. He drops the raccoon and wipes the quarter on his tee shirt, then clutches it tight in his palm. He stumbles out of the smoke cloud, away from the engine, and toward the clearing and the rest of the wreck.

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Rudy has his phone out again, and his quarter in the other hand, and he walks on the gravel, toward a tipped passenger-car. This double-decker somehow managed to roll over onto its roof, which has collapsed and compacted. It leans against the woods and embankment. He says, “I understand chance and choice now.” The car’s inverted second-floor windows are intact and only a few feet off the ground. He looks inside the dark windows. Trapped hands and feet and faces press against the darkened windows; fish in a dirty aquarium. This is happening everywhere and it’s everyone’s fault. Rudy says, “Understanding means you know we’re the train full of people headed to nowhere.” Rudy walks past the car. People run in and out of his vision. They’re everywhere, crawling over the wreck and running into the woods. Jenny appears and grabs his arm. She says, “You don’t need this anymore.” She takes the phone away from Rudy and throws it, and it bounces off a fallen passenger car. She presses a long strip of fatty flesh into his newly empty hand. It’s cold and wet. “Come on, and be quick. You’ve come this far. Meet me in the woods, on the path, after.” Jenny winks, then runs away. Rudy stands in the midst of the horrendous accident that really wasn’t an accident, surrounded by smoke and destruction and screaming and death. He stands with his arms bent and palms up, each hand holding their treasures; the pound of flesh in his right hand and the quarter in his left hand. He turns his palms over

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and drops both onto the gravel. The quarter disappears between the stones, but the flesh does not. He runs through the wreckage, climbing past and over bodies and passenger cars and tracks. He stumbles upon the businessman leaning against the undercarriage of a tipped passenger car. The rusty wheels and struts having been long since stilled. The businessman’s eyes are closed and his breathing labored. He clutches an arm, holding it to his chest, his shoulder dislocated. The businessman’s mouth is red. Rudy offers no warning, and he attacks. He is back in the showroom and on the staging. He’s missing a crowbar but he improvises. He punches and kicks and gouges. The businessman tries to stand up, but falls down under the weight of the brutal assault. He doesn’t put up much of a fight after the fall. Rudy is primal. He bites and scratches and pulls. He takes the businessman’s head between his hands and bashes it against a rail repeatedly. The businessman’s body goes limp and Rudy doesn’t stop. The back of the businessman’s head goes warm and soft, its original shape lost and won’t ever be found. Rudy stands. He’s breathing heavy and he walks away, to another passenger car, this one lying flat on its side. He climbs on top and finds a missing emergency window. He lowers himself inside the passenger car. It’s dark and cool inside. The interior is an Escher painting; bodies and chairs in the wrong places and blending into one another, but this place isn’t chaos. It’s another showroom, another stage set up, and again the bodies

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are in complex poses and positions that had to be orchestrated, everything is where it’s supposed to be. Rudy just needs to figure out where he goes, where he fits. Rudy positions a dislodged seat and lies down with the missing window and its fading light above him. Rudy pulls the perfect picture of him and Karen out of his pocket. He says, “I’m sorry, Karen. Goodbye,” and that is the end of Rudy. He does what they couldn’t do despite all of her promises. He imagines himself away and he becomes someone else, anyone else, a you. And you say that you’re sorry and you say goodbye again to the Karen in the picture, even though you fear that you speak and act in yellow words and have always spoken and acted in yellow words. You run a hand over the perfect photograph and it’s not perfect anymore. This comforts you because the weight of perfection is too much for anyone to bear, certainly too much for you. And it’s not perfect because you smear it red with all the blood you have collected on your hands. You’ll never know exactly how much blood you’ve collected. You open your mouth but you are done talking. You’ll never speak again. You open your mouth and place the photo between your teeth, place it on your tongue. And you eat the picture, and maybe after, you’ll become an imperfect memory as well, and you’ll be both victim and victim-maker, and you’ve always been both.

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GRAMMAR RULES •

There are eight parts of speech: 1. 2. 3. 4.

•

NOUN—the name of a person, place, or thing VERB—an action word ADJECTIVE—describes a nour or pronoun ADVERB—describes a verb, adjective, or another adverb

5. 6. 7. 8.

PRONOUN—substitutes for a noun PREPOSITION—connects a noun to another part of the sentence CONJUNCTION—connects words or ideas INTERJECTION—an exclamation

Examples of correctly constructed sentences: Paul G. Tremblay was born in Aurora, Colorado, but raised in Massachusetts. He graduated from Providence College in 1993, and then the University of Vermont in 1995, earning a master’s degree in mathematics. After graduation, Paul taught high school mathematics and coached junior varsity basketball at a private school outside of Boston. He has sold over fifty short stories to markets such as Razor Magazine, CHIZINE, Weird Tales, Last Pentacle of the Sun: Writings in Support of the West Memphis Three, and Horror: The Year’s Best 2007. He served as fiction editor of CHIZINE and as co-editor of Fantasy Magazine, and was also the co-editor (with Sean Wallace) of the Fantasy, Bandersnatch, and Phantom anthologies. He is the author of the short speculative fiction collection Compositions for the Young and Old and the hard-boiled/dark fantasy novella City Pier: Above and Below. His first novel, The Little Sleep, was released in March 2009 by Holt Paperbacks. He is a two-time finalist for the Bram Stoker Award and a juror for the Shirley Jackon Awards. To learn more regarding Paul G. Tremblay, visit his website at www. paulgtremblay.com.