Upon A Pale Horse

TEN Hit and Run

When Jeffrey arrived at the airport at ten the following morning, on the ticketing agent’s advice he paid extra to be in the first boarding group, preferring to carry the guitar onboard and stow it in the overhead bins rather than trusting it to the baggage handlers — if he was first on, he was guaranteed to have room for it.

Once on the plane, he naturally thought about his brother and the enigma he’d become. Becky’s misgivings aside, it did seem odd that he hadn’t told her he was taking an international trip, unless there was a good reason. And what about his unusual behavior those final days? Keith, skulking around, consumed with forty-year-old animal mutilations? What did that have to do with anything? He took Becky’s agitation with a grain of salt — she wasn’t necessarily firing on all cylinders with the stress, and perhaps she was seeing conspiracies where none existed.

No matter how hard he tried to make the fragments add up, though, he couldn’t; and as the plane took off and ascended through the scattered clouds, he decided that he might never know what his brother had been thinking or doing. Besides which, none of that would bring him back, so it was pointless to dwell on it. Now Jeffrey needed to figure out how to move forward, not try to recreate the last weeks of his brother’s existence.

When the stewardess came around, he decided to ignore his commitment to sobriety and ordered two mini-bottles of vodka, silently limiting himself to only those two, and possibly another in an hour. Just enough to stay comfortably numb and maybe doze — his night had been restless, disrupted by nightmares he couldn’t remember on waking but which left him feeling like a piano had fallen on him.

He began reading a book he’d bought at the airport, a treasure hunt theme of pure escapism, and found himself nodding off before he’d made it thirty pages. The next thing he knew the plane was descending on approach to SFO, twenty-five minutes out from the airport.

On the ground, he opted to take the BART train into the city, foregoing the taxi in favor of frugality, and after a half hour ride, he disembarked at the Embarcadero station and caught a cab to his apartment. Relieved to be home after the whirlwind of travel, he set his new guitar on a stand next to his Gibson Hummingbird acoustic and unpacked his clothes, briefly debating whether to dry clean his suit before he shrugged and hung it back up in the closet — with any luck at all, it would be decades before he’d need a funeral suit again, by which time hopefully the damned thing would have rotted into nothingness, taking with it the cursed memories that were an indelible part of its fabric.

It took him an hour to clear his email inbox and get organized for work the following day, and after responding to a few of the most urgent requests, he sat down with the financial file he’d brought and began making a list of action points he would need to pursue in order to handle his brother’s estate.

Becky had taken the day off from work. Cleaning her apartment more than occupied her time between long periods of staring off into space, Keith’s absence like a throbbing hole in her heart that would never heal. She hadn’t wanted to tell his brother, but part of what made Keith’s recent distance from her so disturbing was that they’d been just about ready to set a wedding date, the time for starting a family overdue. And then he’d shut down, slowly at first, and then abruptly just before his European trip two weeks earlier. At least he’d told her about that one; not like Rome, which had taken her completely by surprise.

She placed a photograph that had been torn from its silver frame back into the protective metal rectangle and set it on the bookcase, a happy memory of better days, taken at the Washington Monument on a weekend early in their courtship: Keith grinned infectiously at the camera and Becky leaned against him, beaming like a supernova. His eyes seemed to glitter in the photo, and Becky suddenly couldn’t draw breath. She looked away, crying softly, and chastised herself for her weakness. She cursed Keith: Damn you. Damn you for leaving me alone, never to hold you again.

The tears continued, Becky powerless to stop them, her stomach in knots as she shuddered with boundless grief. She collapsed onto the sofa and lay there, helpless, unable to do anything but mourn the loss of her soul mate — the best man she’d ever known. Why had he been on the plane? Why, God, why?

Eventually the emotional storm faded, replaced by a cold numbness, nothing more left in her. The reality of Keith’s death came and went, and sometimes, in the quiet moments like now, it overwhelmed her.

She struggled to her feet, gazing around as if surprised that she was still in her living room, and then blew her nose into a paper towel she’d been clutching to clean the photos. This was no good. She couldn’t do it. She just couldn’t. It was still too fresh.

Becky returned to her cleaning, and by late afternoon she was done, the glass shards all gone, the damage hidden. Her phone rang but she ignored it, staring dully at the handset as it screeched, its strident tone filling the apartment with sound. She didn’t want to talk to anyone. Not now. Maybe tomorrow, when she had to go back to work, assuming she could make it without breaking down. But not today.

Relieved to finally be finished, she went into the bathroom and twisted the shower handles on, then stripped and stood under the stream of water, letting it calm her, wash away the grit and dust, and maybe a little of the sorrow. She remained like that for half an hour, and then when her fingers resembled oblong prunes she shut it off and grabbed a thick towel from the nearby rack, taking her time drying herself before taking her measure in the vanity mirror.

She looked like shit. No surprises there. Haggard, miserable, none of the healthy glow that had been her norm as recently as a few days ago.

She opened the cabinet and retrieved her makeup, then applied a light base, evening out the discoloration beneath her eyes before dusting her cheeks with a hint of rouge. Studying the result, she shook her head. It was no use. But necessary if she was going to get something to eat — she hadn’t gone shopping in days, and there was nothing left in the refrigerator but some celery and yogurt.

From her dresser, she selected a long-sleeved sweater and a pair of jeans and then grabbed a down jacket with a hood from the hall closet on her way out. Outside the building, she debated taking her car but opted to walk the three blocks to the little corner market where she could get necessities, enough to tide her over for at least a few days. It was getting dark, but her neighborhood was one of the better, relatively speaking, in a city with a deservedly bad reputation. Until yesterday’s break-in, she’d never felt unsafe. How quickly everything could change.

The big delivery truck, its lights off, roared down the street and slammed into her as she crossed the intersection. Moving at over fifty miles per hour, its massive grill and heavy bumper were as deadly to a hapless pedestrian as a lethal injection. Becky was dead before her body hit the ground like a rag doll, bouncing twice and then rolling to a halt in a heap.

The truck continued on without slowing, then rounded the corner and disappeared. There would be no witnesses to come forth, no images from a conveniently located traffic camera — the one at the next intersection had gone dark earlier that day, leaving the area effectively blind.

Becky’s form lay motionless in a crimson puddle, her head crushed against the hard asphalt. By the time the EMT van arrived she was already cool to the touch, another regrettable victim of the hit and runs that plagued the city in even the most upscale neighborhoods.