The News

The call came on my drive home from the cemetery. I wouldn’t usually answer whilst driving, but for the last twenty minutes I managed to only inch my car forward a metre. A goddamn metre. All it takes is a spit of rain, Friday afternoon traffic and an impatient driver, and the whole city grinds to a halt. The wheel ceases to turn.

 If the call came from anyone else I wouldn’t of bothered, but it was my from best friend. Well, my only friend really. After high school I left my hometown, and all the drama behind, and moved to the city. For the first year I tried to keep in close contact with everyone, but soon I outgrew that part of me. The city shaped me, and my shape didn’t fit right with the people of my past. After that I never bonded with anyone. Sure, I had a few girlfriends and was married for a year, but none of it I considered real, at least in my mind. 

I met John through work. He wasn’t a client or anything, just someone I met on the job. A friend of the deceased. 

The phone rang, I answered, pressed the loudspeaker, and after some sharp crackling his voice became clear.

“Dante.” John said. “Hey, can you hear me?”

“Sure. Loud and clear.”

“What’s that noise? Are you driving?” He asked. I didn’t answer; just nodded, knowing full well he couldn’t see me. We sat in silence for a few seconds before he continued. “Well, I’m taking your silence as a yes, that’s really not like you mate. Anyway, I’m just calling to see if you’re holding up alright?”

“Hmm.” I mulled it over for a while. “I’m fine I guess, no worse, no better. The exact same as last time we spoke. Why do you ask?”

The speakers fell into silence, but to say the silence was complete would be far from the truth. The rain shifted from a drizzle into a decent downpour. Drops of heavy water tapered against my window, beating in perfect sync as the first movement of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata played softly on the radio. Not the ideal traffic scenario. The combination of weather and music cast a cloud of dread over my heart, somehow managing to be harrowing and beautiful at the same time. I had almost forgotten I was on the phone until John broke the non-silence. “There was an accident…a crash…Claire died mate.”

It took a moment to process what he said. “Oh.” Is all I could manage.

“She was t-boned at an intersection yesterday, the driver ran a red-light and ploughed right into her. They said she didn’t have a chance, died instantly. Just like that and two people vanish from the world. Crazy stuff.”

“Two?” I asked.

“You didn’t know? Shit. Claire’s six months pregnant. Well, was. Man its strange,  going to take some getting used to.” John paused. I could hear rustling in the background and could picture him shaking his head, making sure this was reality. “Sorry to drop this all on you mate. Are you alright?”

“Fine.” I replied. The truth. I didn’t know how to feel about not feeling anything. Claire and I were married for a year, together for three. Sure, I still loved her, but in that moment I did not feel sadness, or grief, or guilt. I felt nothing, even the current traffic had more emotions then I. “Any word on the funeral?”

“Nothing yet. Why? You looking for work?” He chuckled nervously, and I mimicked it. “Only joking. I have no clue, but I can send through her dad’s number. If you want to ring.”

“Please, I’d appreciate that.” 

We continued on chatting for another ten minutes, in which time I moved whole two and a half metres. He told me about work, and his girlfriend, a trip they were planning to Japan. I inserted remarks at the perfect moments to fane my interest. When the call ended I turned the radio up to try and cover the orchestra of angry drivers and idling engines. Beethoven descended deep into the madness of the third movement. I pictured him, fingers sprinting across the keys, deaf to what he was playing, but present to the awe of his audience. I envied him. Almost 250 years on and still remembered. I doubt the last funeral I played even remembered my name. Forever, the ukulele guy.

My lit up again, a number I didn’t know. I was looking for any excuse to kill the time so I answered.

“Hello.” The stern voice said. “I am looking for Dante.”

“This is he.”

An awkward silence ensued, only broken when he continued. “Its Mr. Busse, Claire’s father.” I felt tightness in my chest; it squeezed hard, robbing me off breath and thought. “I received you number from John. I assume you know of Claire.”

“Yes…sorry…I am sorry for your loss.”

“Its everyone’s loss.” He broke off. Faint sniffling played through the speaker, revealing him still present. “Your friend John told me off your new career, I know we have not always seen eye to eye, but you had a way that no one else did to make Claire happy. I know she loved your music, and I was wondering, if it was not to much to ask, if you would like to play at the funeral.”

I thought about it for a moment. It was not in my interest to play, but who was I to rob this man, who lost so much, of his request. “It would be an honour.”

“Oh thank you, thank you.” The joy in his voice eased me. “We plan for the ceremony to be on Tuesday, if that works for you.”

“Of course.”

Mr Busse thanked me again, gave me the details and hung up. I turned my attention back to the road, and ever so slightly moved toward my destination. I thought about my time spent with Claire, and the thought of her being pregnant and gone from this world. I desperately tried to feel something, anything, but nothing happened, just like the unmoving city.