Don’t Be A Stranger

At the intersection, I could go right and head home–but turning left would take me back. Back to July, the sultry heat of summer settled into the cracked asphalt. Back to the deafening whir of crickets and the chorus of frogs nestled in soggy ditches.

The stop sign marked the split, but I knew it like the back of my hand: a narrow, serpentine stretch of road that divided the dense rows of pines from the barb-lined pastures. It was a sorry excuse for a road, forgotten by the county, littered with cavernous potholes and crumbling shoulders.

We used to take those curves at breakneck speeds, racing for the pulloff to McAllister’s pond. Crack open a cold one, hang your clothes on a branch, sink your toes in mud that was likely half cow shit. Reckless driving, trespassing, underaged drinking–the usual facets of teenage bravado.

And then one day you wake up and your bones ache a little bit more, your sense of invincibility shriveled to some pathetic whisper of doubt. The furrows in your brow have grown deeper, for many reasons, most of which you stuff down and lock away in some forlorn part of yourself.

Your ragtag troup would dwindle, settle down and pop out a few kids. Midnight bonfires turned into afternoon cookouts. Tailgates were replaced with lawn chairs. Conversations became cursory, the goodbyes ending in, “Don’t be a stranger!” which was canonically code for “See you the next time social obligations bring us together, and not a minute sooner!”

I’d played the role well for a while–doting husband, superhero father, blue collar workhorse. Broke my back at the shop everyday only to find her on hers with another man in our bed. Spousal neglect, she claimed in court. I found that rather backwards, but she’d put on a real show. Took me for everything I had, which wasn’t much to begin with.

But the final straw had been that night, one year ago, those words seared into my brain.

If you don’t get your act together, you’ll lose her too.

Over text message, to boot. I remember the blinding rage, the sting of my heart dropping to my stomach. Remember the song blaring in the truck cab, some crooner wailing about unrequited love. I remember not seeing until it was too late–

The engine idled, groaning with exhaustion. How long had I been sitting at the stop sign? Not that it mattered; the nearest house was two miles and this neck of the woods turned into a ghost town after sunset.

I flipped on the radio, blinking away the anger as a boisterous voice raved over the fireworks put on tonight.

“Well, folks, I’ve gotta tell you–this might have been the best fireworks show to date. Thanks again to our sponsors at McAllister Feed and Supply–proud supporters of the community for four generations. And let’s not forget Kress Hardware–fix it for less, shop at Kress! Now, let’s take it back to 1980 with Air Supply–here’s ‘All Out Of Love.’”

Fourth of July. I’d marked it off on the calendar earlier today, counted the roadside fireworks stands on my way to the store by the increasingly witty banners.

FIREWORKS SOLD HERE

IGNITE THE NIGHT–NOW HALF PRICE

BIG BANGS, SMALL BUCKS!

The place buzzed with last-minute shoppers flocking to the ground beef and buns. A smashed watermelon stained the parking lot like a casualty of war. Icy air billowed from the freezer, door ajar as I teetered between Stouffer’s and Banquet, the six-pack in my basket growing heavy.

“John?” A syrupy sweet voice came from behind me.

Turning, I was met with a buggy filled to the brim, baby babbling from the seat. The woman flashed a smile, luminescent against her sunkissed skin. “I thought that was you!” she chirped, eyeing the sad contents of my basket. A real bachelor’s feast.

I willed the ground to swallow me whole, but the tiles stayed intact as she lamented, “It’s been too long.” The baby–whom I couldn’t recall the gender, much less the name of–yowled in frustration. She handed over a crinkly bag of barbecue chips, a peace offering that seemed to work, at least temporarily. “We’re having some folks over for a cookout tonight. You can see the fireworks just over the trees. You should come on over. If you’re not busy.” The last bit was a courtesy.

“Thanks, but–”

The baby cried out again, hurling the chips in a fit of boredom. “Shannon won’t be there,” she added, quickly backpedaling into, “But I’m sure you already knew that.” A manicured hand found her forehead as she blew air between her lips, laughing nervously. “Anyhow, you should stop by. About seven o’clock, okay?”

“Yeah, maybe,” I lied, offering a tight-lipped smile.

She retrieved the chips, tossed them onto the mountain. “Don’t be a stranger, John.”

The freezer door thudded closed. She was already halfway down the aisle, cooing to the baby.

It was dark now, the Stouffer’s lasagna undoubtedly starting to thaw in the passenger seat, beer losing its chill. But I couldn’t bring myself to move, couldn’t bring my foot to the pedal. Air Supply carried on, crescendoing. The stop sign blazed alone in the darkness.

A familiar heaviness settled in my chest. One could easily mistake it for grief, but I knew to call a spade a spade: guilt, its leaded tendrils sucking greedily at my insides. Sometimes, doubled over in pain, I wondered if it was possible for a body to collapse in on itself. Even if it did, it would never be punishment enough.

I hadn’t seen her that night, honest to God. Walking on the wrong damn side of that damn road. I wasn’t even supposed to be going that way. But the couple of beers I’d knocked back at the bar had oiled my joints like a rusty tin man. And when the guys called it a night, homebound to their dearly beloveds, the prospect of an empty house was an unfavorable one.

McAllister’s pond. I hadn’t been in years, but the idea of partaking in something risky–something youthful–sent a thrill through me like a shockwave. Screw the fireworks. Sliding into that cool, moonlit water was just what the doctor ordered. If I was going to wallow in self-pity, I might as well do it in the comfort of memory lane.

I had cranked up the radio, smacked the heel of my hand against the steering wheel, leadfoot leading me through the fog curling across the road. The speed limit sign flashed in ghostlike warning, but I had set fire to that youthful recklessness that smoldered within me, and now it felt like flying. It felt like freedom. I cracked the window, sucked in a deep breath. Damn, it felt good. For a moment, I was alive.

Above the howl of the night air, my phone pinged.

I shouldn’t have read it, but somehow I knew it was from her. As much as I hated her, she still pulled the strings, and I danced like the obedient puppet I was. It was a momentary distraction, but it was just long enough.

If you don’t get your act together, you’ll lose her too.

My hands shook. Tears pricked my eyes as I thought of the missed recitals, the too-short phone calls, the crayon scribbles hanging on my fridge that boasted Me and Daddy–Lucy’s handwriting proclaiming a badge of honor I didn’t deserve.

Glancing up, a flash of blue caught my eye. A flicker of fear crossed her face as my headlights closed in. My foot didn’t find the brake until it was too late, rubber screaming against asphalt. When the truck came to a stop, she lay crumpled and motionless, her blue sweatshirt contorted at unnatural angles. Backpack protruding like a shell, I realized she was just a kid, probably coming home from a party.

And I–I didn’t move either. Like some twisted staring contest between fractured souls, I took in the sight of what I had done. White-knuckling the wheel, my body trembled, the contents of my stomach threatening to expel themselves.

I should have gotten out to check on her, attempted CPR, called 911. Anything. But the vacant stare and the crimson pool spilling into the road told me she was gone.

I was a coward, plain and simple. Too afraid of losing the remaining slivers of my own pitiful life to own up to the one I’d just destroyed.

The cover-up wasn’t hard; that was the sickening part. No cameras, no witnesses, a garage of spare parts. I sweat and cried over the hood of the truck, working into the early morning hours to fix the damage.

Her face was plastered across the news the next day. Blue eyes, blonde, cheerleader at the local high school, volunteered at the nursing home–a light I haphazardly snuffed out. Over the following weeks, her mother pleaded for the perp to come forward while her father stared angrily into the camera, silent with fury.

“Please,” her mother croaked. “If you know anything at all, come forward. What if this was your child?”

I ran for the toilet, her choked sobs echoing in the caverns of my skull.

The days blurred. I kept seeing her–in long lines at the grocery store, in crowds trick-or-treating on Main Street, in the swathes of spectators at the Christmas parade. Always just out of focus, a spectre in blue lingering at the edges of my vision.

At night, she haunted my dreams, eyes deploring, dark stains consuming that blue hoodie. I’d wake, drenched in a cold sweat, chest tight with the weight of what I’d done.

I stopped answering calls, stopped going out with the guys, took a backseat to parenting that left Shannon seething most days. But I couldn’t look at Lucy. The way she looked at me with all the hope in the world gutted me, and I felt my insides spill out each time.

Perhaps I had lost her, after all.

Perhaps that’s what I deserved. An eye for an eye. Some kind of cosmic retribution.

The radio emcee returned, far too chipper. And then–that song. That same song from that night. I couldn’t put my finger on it, couldn’t remember but a few words. But I felt it in my bones.

At the intersection, I could go right and head home–but turning left would take me back.

I needed to go back.

Back to that night, to the bloodstained curve, to the cross I’d heard they hammered into the damp earth.

I turned left, and the road unfurled before me, pines looming menacingly. Ignored that familiar speed limit sign once again. The crooning on the radio intensified. Ahead, the cross jutted up like a beacon, bound with flowers and streamers.

The thundering of a few rogue fireworks echoed in the distance. Somewhere, Lucy was probably waving a sparkler, maybe spelling her name and giggling. She wouldn’t know I was here. Nobody would. It was better that way.

I loosened my grip on the wheel, gravel popping beneath my tires as the shoulder sucked me in. Throngs of weeds hissed around the nose of the truck. One of those chronic potholes caught a rear tire, the wheel jerking autonomously. I knew this road like the back of my hand, but the curve seemed different, sharper than I remembered. More vengeful.

For a moment, I felt weightless, the way we used to on our joy rides to McAllister’s pond. We’d hang from the open windows, hollering into the night sky with unbridled glee.

It was different now, though, as with most things in life.

The truck caught that unforgiving curve, rolled. Glass rained down, metal folding around me as the radio hummed a staticky farewell.

Then suddenly–

Quiet, save for another firework rattling the unsuspecting night.

I wondered if anyone would know the truth. Would they deem it another tragic accident? Here I was on death’s doorstep, and even now I couldn’t bear to face reality. Who had I become?

A stranger to myself.

A stranger pretending this was just another Fourth of July.

Just another accident.