THUMP
- John P.
Kristofco
Phillip was in the kitchen when he
heard it. Thump! Like a box dropped on the bedroom floor above him or a
chair
shoved against a wall.
He stepped into the living room and
looked out front to see a brown car halfway on his lawn, crashed into
his maple
tree. The bumper hung askew, and the grille was wrinkled where it met
the tree,
but it wasn’t very bad, about worthy of the simple sound it made. He
had seen
more damaged vehicles pass him on the interstate.
As he looked out, another car turned
into his driveway. A short, blonde woman in a bright red top and black
shorts
swung out as the door flew open. Phillip stepped out on the porch. She
looked
up, startled.
“Did you see that?” she said, agitated.
“Did you see? He just looked down for a second, and the car jumped the
curb!”
Phillip shook his head as she trotted
toward the brown car.
“That was all, and thump! He hit your
tree,” she managed as she moved.
He turned to look. In the car there
was a man, his head resting on the wheel as if he was asleep, though
his eyes
were open, staring at the side view mirror.
Phillip stepped off his porch. The
woman stood beside the car, peering in.
“Mister,” she tapped on the window. “Mister.”
The driver didn’t move. She cupped her hands around her eyes, pressed
her face
against the glass. “Mister!” she tapped louder.
Phillip stepped beside her and looked
into the car. A small trickle of blood ran from the driver’s nose onto
the
steering wheel, dripping on what looked like denim pants. He did not
blink but
glared as if transfixed upon the mirror where the sun was captured in
this
segment of its arc.
The woman stepped back, trembling.
“He isn’t moving,” she looked at
Phillip. “What the hell?! He wasn’t going fast; he just looked down for
a
second, maybe reached to change the channel, and the car jumped up the
curb and
hit your tree.” She shook her head.
“He
didn’t hit it very hard, just a ‘thump’,” she hit a fist into her other
hand. “Just
a damn ‘thump’!”
Phillip reached for the car door just
as the whine of sirens sounded down the street. His neighbor ran out
from his
side door.
“I just called them,” he said as he
arrived. “Is he O.K.?”
Phillip drew the car door open. As he
did, the man’s left hand slipped from its hold on the armrest, the
fingers
spread like a pianist’s reaching for a chord, perhaps in harmony with
the cyclic
sound and red-blue lights expanding up the street.
Phillip looked into the driver’s eyes
and knew. Though he had never seen before, he knew. He lifted the limp
left
hand and pressed his thumb against the wrist. He knew. Though he had
never felt
before, he knew.
He closed the door, looked over at his
neighbor, and slowly shook his head. The woman gasped, her left hand
covering
her mouth. The neighbor stepped back from the car and turned to watch
the red
lights flashing.
The Buick was shaded by the tree, a
garnishing of bark splashed across the hood from the exhale of the
maple when
it was struck. A faded red ‘Wittenberg’ decal stretched across the back
window;
an umbrella and a jacket rested on the back seat.
The twisting flash of red light found
them standing on the lawn, spraying them with shrieking waves of sound
that
assailed their ears.
An ambulance and police cruiser pulled
along the curb. Three men jumped from the truck. A cop rose from his
car,
clipboard in hand. He looked at the Buick as the medics reached the
driver,
then slowly walked up beside the woman in the bright red top.
“Did you see this?” he asked coolly.
The woman looked up, nodding, tears
now in her eyes.
He motioned her aside as two medics
worked quickly on the driver, one thumping on his chest as the other
held a
clear mask over his nose and mouth. The third drew the stretcher from
the
truck.
The officer continued with the woman
who now barely whispered, wiping reddened eyes. Phillip and the
neighbor
watched in silence until each was called over by the cop.
A second cruiser pulled up just as the
medics pushed the stretcher into the back of the ambulance. The vehicle
did not
move for several minutes, the garble of its radio chewed upon the air.
Then it
pulled away; its siren pealed once again.
Phillip was still talking with the
first cop while the second took pictures of the car, the tracks, the
tree. He
rolled the little wheel on the stick along the skid marks on the
driveway and the
sidewalk. He took a long time jotting in his notebook.
When he was done, the two officers met
together by the first cruiser, looking back at the car, pointing here
and
there, nodding their heads, looking over at the three of them.
The woman got into her car and slowly
drove away. Phillip and the neighbor stood silent until
the first cop came over to them.
“This your house?” he looked at the
neighbor.
“It’s mine,” Phillip offered.
The cop nodded. “O.K.,” he said,
“we’ll have a truck here in about ten minutes to tow the car away.”
Phillip shook his head.
“If we have any more questions, we’ll
give you a call. Thanks for your help.” He looked at them both, turned,
and
walked back to the cruiser. Phillip and the neighbor stood and watched
the
policemen pull away, no flashing lights, no sirens.
“I gotta call Sarah,” the neighbor
said. “I gotta tell her about this,” and he patted Phillip on the
shoulder and headed
back to his side door.
“Yeah, sure, O.K.” Phillip managed,
still looking at the Buick sitting at the edge of his lawn, half on the
sidewalk, half on the grass that he just now realized needed to be cut.
Cars slowed as they drove by. Phillip
felt their eyes on him a second but mostly on the car,
shaded by the maple tree in the growing afternoon.
He stood there maybe five minutes
staring at the brown alien that was now the center of the neighborhood,
the
center of the world, then walked slowly up the steps to his front porch
where
he plopped down in a chair.
Clouds were building in the south,
down the street where the squad had gone. It would not rain, but it
would be
dark early.
The car sat there waiting, just like
him, silent just like him, mute, uncaring witness, staring now
cross-eyed at
the tree on which it leaned.
Before long, a black tow truck with
gold lettering rumbled up the road and pulled into his drive
just like the woman did. Phillip leaned forward in his chair.
Two men hopped from the cab, and with
a blend of nonchalance and skill had the reluctant car pulled up on the
tow
bed, locked down, and ready to take away. Before he got back in, the
older man,
the driver, looked up at Phillip.
“You’ll get a call tomorrow or the
next day, you know, in case you got damage, O.K.?”
Phillip waved his left hand and
nodded.
In a minute they were gone. All that
was left at the front of his yard were the wounded tree (that now
almost looked
like it was smiling), muddied tire tracks, skid marks, and a spray of
tree bark that would fade into the growing grass or blow away in the
moments of
the wind.
That night Phillip couldn’t sleep. The
light beside his bed seemed louder than the night before.
The dark outside the window seemed to reach further through the blinds,
as if
to separate the slats and peek inside.
He pulled “Under the Volcano” from his
shelf, found the marker where he stopped the night before, and started
back in:
The Consul felt a pang. Ah,
to have a horse, and gallop away,
singing, away to someone you
loved perhaps, into the heart of
all the simplicity and peace
in the world; was not that like the
opportunity afforded man by
life itself? Of course not. Still,
just for a moment, it seemed
like it was.
Phillip rubbed his eyes and laid back
on the pillow.
The maple tree’s smile turned into a
siren laugh. The woman in red lay covered with tire marks and tree
bark. The
first cop ate a sandwich as he listened to the radio while the second
cop drew
his picture in a huge notebook and the medics played cards in the back
of the
ambulance, and his neighbor raced down the street in a brown Buick with
a wrinkle
in its grille...
Thump!
Phillip sat up straight in bed,
sweating, breathing fast. He swung his legs out and walked slowly to
the
dresser, stepping over the book that had slipped from his hand.
He looked into the mirror and saw his
eyes.
He knew. He had seen before, and he
knew. John
P. Kristofco's poetry, short
stories, and essays have appeared in over a hundred different
publications,
including: Rattle, Cimarron Review, The Bryant Literary Review, Folio,
Poem,
The Cape Rock, Blueline, The Chaffin Journal, Grasslimb, Plainsongs,
and The
Sierra Nevada Review. He
has published
three collections of poetry and has been nominated for the Pushcart
Prize five
times. He lives in Highland heights, Ohio. |