The Man in the Road

Leaving his father’s funeral, Joe was on autopilot, barely registering his wife Francesca and two daughters in as everyone piled into the old Volvo. A Stoic does not cry. Blinking rapidly, stern-faced, he had delivered his section of the eulogy, rather more eloquently than his brothers but not quite as ardently as his sister. Still, he had “kept it together”—how Father would have wanted.

Not like Rita, who spoke of the childhood things: old-forest hikes with Father, spooky tales around the campfire, funny faces and silly-yet-wise sayings that left nary a dry eye in the audience. Why had she ruined the solemnity? Why had she ruptured the supposed “closure” of a funeral by reopening old memories? Aggravating the loss, like tearing open a barely-stitched wound?

“Whoa! Watch it!” Francesca shrieked.

“What?”

“You ran a red light!” she cried, clenching the arm rest.

Damn. He could hear car horns braying.

“Pull over,” she said.

“No,” he said, glancing to both sides and in the rear-view. But he did slow down, a little. Other cars whizzed by, heads bobbing, fists upraised. “We’re almost home.”

“Pull over,” she insisted. Louder this time. “I’ll drive.” She started unbuckling—and that’s how Joe knew she was serious.

It was a relief, really. He could give up the pretense, hand everything over to her.

He signalled, pulled over, and came to a stop. He felt his daughters’ eyes—reddened and mascara-smudged—on him as he relinquished control. My better half.

In the passenger’s seat, he put his head in his hands as waves of grief washed over him. Father, O my Father. Yet he did not cry.

Francesca completed the drive home in silence, except for sniffling and murmurs in the back seat. The next thing he knew, she was gripping his shoulder. “Joe? You okay?”

He sat up sharply. Deep breath. Mask back in place. A Stoic does not cry.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I’m fine.”

*         *         *

Although elderly, Father had been in good health; his death was unexpected. Victim of a hit-and-run while he was out on his evening stroll. It gutted Joe, to think of Father’s undeserved and untimely demise.

The funeral overflowed the church’s nave, filling the parish hall and a makeshift tent. Although never an elected official, Father had represented an entire bloc of America, the immigrant Scandinavian, in his books and broadcasts, which were wildly popular in the 60s and 70s. Father had encouraged fellow immigrants to “visit the motherland” and stimulated nascent pride in their roots.

Joe was proud of Father. Unlike his siblings, who avoided reading, he had first editions of all six books and all recordings of Father’s interviews of other notable Scandinavians for the three seasons that “The Invisible Immigrant” aired. In the words of Booker T. Washington, “If you want to lift yourself up, lift up someone else.”

*         *         *

In his grief, work became Joe’s refuge. His personal assistant, Nora, forwarded all messages of condolence (and there were dozens) to a separate email folder, titled Sympathy, so he could avoid the overwhelm. His workplace assumed two days off—one, to make funeral arrangements, two, to attend the funeral—was sufficient to deal with the death of a family member. Perhaps, for some family members this was the case. But not for a man such as Father. He was irreplaceable.

Joe plodded around feeling numb, distanced. Hollowed out. If he were a firefighter, he would be thankful for many small fires to put out. But he was an office worker; he could stare at the screen for an hour before realizing he’d zoned out. Numbers, especially, comforted him. Ten symbols, infinite combinations, never needing translation. But he had responsibilities. A Stoic does not shun duty. So he went to meetings, forced himself to speak. To listen and respond. Distract and endure: that was his mantra.

On Friday mid-afternoon, Joe texted Francesca. “Working late. Don’t wait up for me.”

At quitting time, he got in the Volvo, noting as he did, that Dr. Lydia Bulgari’s car little Miata was parked indecently close, and drove out of the parking lot. What was up with that pretender, anyway? Staying past closing time every night this week?

His boss, Mr. Rockingham, had tasked Joe with a complete overhaul of “excellence” at Broadstone. What it was, what it had been, why it was slipping.

So Joe had struck a committee, the Excellence Committee. Lydia Bulgari had convinced all twenty-two stakeholders on the committee she should be Chair. She stalled, she manipulated, she incited internecine warfare—all in the name of “due process.”

And now she was thwarting the final report, “Excellence at Broadstone.”

Joe squeezed the steering wheel, imagining her smug face.

He veered left at the exit where normally he took a right. This part of the road stayed picturesque for a couple miles. Shops, restaurants, bed-and-breakfast houses. Nora had raved about a new gastropub in this neck of the woods … but his stomach sat like a brick. Friday afternoon had been crammed with last-minute arguments and amendments. Then he’d accidentally opened the Sympathy folder, and his anguish became real again…

He pressed harder on the gas pedal.

He thumped the dashboard, relishing its solidity. His siblings, Luke, Matt, Rita—the people Joe had shared Father with during the halcyon years of childhood—now seemed insubstantial, existing at arm’s length.

The traffic light turned amber, and, rather than braking, Joe sped up to clear the intersection. And did not slow down. Pet styling boutique, vegan donut shop, store-front church… he ignored the ghostly faces of children at play, safely behind fences.

The man Joe had revered as Father was now, what, just a gap? A void? A friendly spirit watching at a distance? He felt unmoored. He would never, ever, experience Father’s camaraderie again. His wit, his wisdom, his loving guidance.

What a loss. How tragic. And Father had suffered in the final hour of his life, a huddled mass on the asphalt, waiting. Damn that coward who had run Father down!

Joe’s foot grew heavier and his heart throbbed with a terrible ache. The shop signs became unreadable. A pulsating red crept into his peripheral vision. Then the siren made a whoop-whoop. Joe, glancing in his rear-view mirror, swerved off to the side, almost losing control as the tire bit into the gravel shoulder.

SCREEEEEE! The front fender clipped the guard rail.

With cold fingers, Joe unbuckled and got out, in a trance. Vaguely aware of how he must seem: Middle-aged absent-minded driver forgets he is in residential area. In a hurry to get home.

Joe stepped toward the guard rail to inspect the damage.

*         *         *

Suddenly he sees a man.

A man! Where did he come from? Where did that Mercedes SUV come from?

The man turns his face toward the driver. The man raises his arms, astonished the SUV is suddenly bearing down on him, big metal snout with hot engine breath about to trample his chest, his neck.

*         *         *  

Officer Adeyemi got out of his cruiser, sauntered to where Joe stood, eyes like saucers, mouth agape.

His friendly eyes took in Joe’s rumpled suit and stunned expression. “Are you all right?” he asked.

No answer. That man! That man is Father, eight days ago! How can that be?

Adeyemi moved closer. “Sir?” he said. “Sir!”

Joe recoiled. His hands moved around in the air, as if he was patting someone not there. He stammered lamely, “Sorry-sorry… My mind’s on... work stuff.” 

Adeyemi nodded and ducked his head close—sniffing for alcohol or weed, Joe realized. “Uh-huh?”

“And, uh, bad family news,” Joe blurted. It hit him then, as it never had before, not even at the funeral: My father is gone. I have no father.

“Anyone you can talk to?” Officer Adeyemi’s gaze held Joe’s.

“No need. I’m fine.” Joe touched Volvo, his fingers moving over the scrape. “Superficial.”

“You were lucky.” Adeyemi wrote out a ticket and pressed it, along with a card, into Joe’s hand. The way he said it struck Joe odd, with the emphasis on “were”—being lucky in the past.

Joe nodded. “It's just a little scrape.” A Stoic does not cry.

“Would you like to get a cab? An Uber?”

Hastily Joe looked around. “Where am I?”

Adeyemi gave a soft laugh and shook his head. He named the nearest major intersection.

“Oh, right. Thanks.” Joe nodded and got in his car. He didn’t look at the card until he was back inside the Volvo, not even while waiting for the cop to drive away first. He was in no hurry to look at the card because he’d heard about these rackets, cops who recommend mechanics for repair work and in return get a kickback. He looked at the ticket: oh no, speeding in a school zone and driving without due care and attention. At least the cop was courteous.

Joe opened the navigation app on his phone and let the English schoolmistress voice direct him home.

*         *         *

He arrived home after Francesca had gone to bed. A stiffly worded note asked him to sleep in the guest room. Oh, right—her job interview tomorrow. He had no idea what position she was applying for; her full résumé resembled a checkerboard.

He creaked open the guest room door, which looked as Father had left it, when he had visited just last month. Joe couldn’t have imagined he would lose Father so soon. To a cowardly hit-and-run.

What to make of tonight’s vision? Tomorrow he would call the traffic detective, see how the investigation was going.

The bed had a fresh coverlet on it. He opened the sheets. Clean, all clean. No trace of Father’s scent, Old Spice and a little honest sweat.

Joe undressed and the card fell from his pocket, the card Officer Adeyemi had given him.

Suicide Prevention Hotline. His stomach twisted.

THE END