Headlight

© 2002 Tim Arnzen
All rights reserved.

Tom stepped out of the car. He glanced toward the front bumper, hoping the darkness would hide the blood.

"Christ," he said aloud as he walked down the alley, knowing that he needed a few more drinks. Maybe something just as thick and heavy as the night, he thought as he felt the chill cut through his shoulder blades.

He stopped under the single bulb above the door to the Royal Room Saloon and glanced back into the fog, afraid of the ghost that might be following him. Then, quickly, he opened the door and hurried inside.

When Tom entered the saloon, the smell of spilled beer and cigarettes chased away his thoughts of his impending bankruptcy, but the vision on the road remained.

"Kitty," he said to the young woman behind the bar.

Kitty started to smile, but the smile turned to a frown.

"Evening, Tom. You okay?" she asked, a thick eyebrow lifting. "You look like you've seen a ghost," she said, tossing her rag in the sink and approaching the bar. "Foggy out, ain't it?"

Tom could see her concern, and could hear it in her voice. I must be as white as a sheet, he thought. He tried to shake it off. Kitty knew of his money problems, and he hoped the girl would chalk his reticence up to his finances and not the haunting vision that had materialized in the hazy light of his headlights.

"It's goddamned foggy," replied Tom. "A friggen' nightmare." He swallowed, trying to kill the shiver that wormed its way up his legs, his spine, his neck, and wrestled with the hair on his scalp. He couldn't fight the urge to glance back at the door to see whether the fog had followed him in. He saw Kitty look at the door, a curious expression on her face.

Kitty turned back. "What can I get you, fella?"

At the back of the bar a Hank Williams song crackled to life on the old jukebox, diluting the gossip of the locals. Tom knew everyone in the bar. A few looked up. A twinge of worry slid up his tailbone as the faces of people he had known for years took on the visages of monsters.

He removed his cap and forced a smile.

"I'll start with a Guinness."

"One Guinness, coming up."

Tom slipped his cap on the coat rack and combed his shaking fingers through his thin gray hair. His eyes adjusted to the dim interior, and he stepped up to the long, carved bar and plopped his middle-aged frame on the small red stool. He watched Kitty move back down the bar to fetch his drink.

A raven stared at the patrons from its position over the bronze cash-register behind the bar. Tom had always liked the raven and many of its stuffed companions placed around the bar, but it was the deer, not the raven, that was most intriguing. It was the largest Mule deer he had seen in a lifetime of prairie living. The creature wore its twisted, untypical rack as if it had once been the king of forest. It hung over the beer taps, its black eyes watching with cool indifference as the beer was poured.

Tom glanced around. Jesus, this place is a dive, he thought. The Royal Room Saloon had been around since the time of dirt streets, horseshoes, and shoot-outs at high noon. He frowned. The whole damned town was a pit full of backward people trying to live backward in time. He hated the place. What made him stay? I should have done like James and gotten the hell out a long time ago, he thought. Tom sighed. He wasn't that smart. The brains in the family belonged to his brother, not to him.

Tom's attention went back to the deer. He lowered his eyes s Kitty set the beer in front of him, not wishing to meet her gaze.

"Everything all right, Tom?" she asked.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he could see the look of concern etched on her face. "Fine," he lied. He knew that his voice gave him away. The single word stabbed him with its crime.

Kitty gave him a curious look and moved back down the bar.

Tom took a long first drink of the mug's dark contents. He turned on his stool and pulled a cigarette from his shirt pocket, fishing around beneath the pack for his lighter. His eyes came to rest on the man that owned the bar, Kitty's father. They had once been good friends, but when Kitty graduated from high school, Tom had tried to pressure him into sending the girl to college, and that had caused a rift between them. Ever since then, he had never joined Tom for another drink. The old bearded mountain man sat at the back of the bar, a yellow bulb burning above him and a table covered with accounting books in front of him. He looked up from his books and mumbled something in Tom's direction, and then an eerie smile curled the old man's lips.

What if he knows? Tom thought, panic leaving a slimy feeling shivering in his belly. Impossible. He gave the man a frown and swallowed the last mouthful of his beer, turning back to the bar. Kitty came just in time with a glass of his regular, Jack and ice.

"Tom! How ya doin'?"

Tom turned as another man straddled the barstool next to him.

Oh God, how cruel is life, Tom groaned. He wanted to run away—to leap up from the chair and just get away. He wouldn't look Marty in the eye; he was afraid of what he might see in his face, a vision of wide-eyed-horror ... of blood mixed with the dirt and the tall grass of a roadside ditch. It made the residue of beer in his mouth taste like copper.

"That damn youngest of mine," Marty began, "wouldn't go cat-fishin with me.

"Damn kid," replied Tom, showing too much anger. "Shouldn't be riding out in the fog," he mumbled.

"How'd ya know he was ridin' in the fog?"

Tom swished his glass in front of him like a stirring cauldron.

"Your youngest is always riding that damn bike! Shit." He could still see the red bike as it careened crazily away.

"Yeah, he is. He said he wanted ta play Monopoly with dat Burke kid instead. Can ya imagine, a boy choosin' Monopoly over fishin? I ought ta get over ta the Burkes' place and grab dat pup by the scruff, and drag 'im out ta Miller's lake. It's a gall-darn full moon, and ya knows dem cats love a full moon," Marty's drawl raised in volume as he gave a beer-spilling gesture in disgust. "Monopoly, shit!" he slurred.

Tom noticed Kitty standing at the end of the bar, watching them with interest. On the wall behind her, antique whisky bottles formed an amphitheater of glass that attested to the alcoholic consumption of the pioneers who had fled Eastern sobriety.

The sick sound of impact, the telltale crunch; his stomach lurched. Tom wanted to puke, and he gave Kitty a look of desperation. She must have interpreted the look as the need for another drink.

"Kid's always at the Burke place. You'd think he lived there," Marty said.

Tom returned his attention to Marty.

"What's your boy's name?" he asked, gulping the Jack.

Marty pulled out a can of Copenhagen and dipped his fingers for a pinch of the foul smelling tobacco. "John," he said, and shook the loose tobacco from his fingers to stuff the pinch behind his front lip. He took a long drink on his Budweiser to wash the loose stuff down. "I gotta take me a piss," he said and moved off.

Goddamn kid, as dumb as his father, Tom thought, drumming his fingers on the bar. He looked up at the deer. The animal appeared ready to charge right out of the wall and gore him with its twisted horns. He studied its dark eyes. He wondered where Kitty's father had shot the thing? He thought about walking back to ask about the animal, but....

"Thanks, Kitty," he said, as she set another glass of whiskey down in front of him. His voice was a whisper as he looked over her shoulder at the deer, the raven catching the edge of his sight. The bird wore a rapacious smile, as it always seemed to, the little tufts of feathers beneath its chin accentuating the dark creature's grin.

"You and that deer have something special tonight?" Kitty asked. "You know, if you stare at him too long, he's gonna steal your soul." She smiled, her dark eyes flirting with him.

"I've heard that from your father," replied Tom. "He said it would be the raven, though."

"I hate that goddamn bird," Kitty said and looked over Tom's shoulder at her father. "It gives me the willies. I wish Dad would throw the ugly thing in a closet or bury it in a garden so that it can push up some beans."

Tom took a long drink.

"Did you do something to the deer tonight?" he asked. "It ... looks a little different." He cocked his head to the side for a better look.

Kitty turned to the deer and then back to Tom.

"I gave the place a dusting today. Maybe I bumped it. Is it bothering you?" she asked, putting her hands on her hips as if she were about to tackle a serious project.

"No."

Kitty gave him a suspicious look, her thin lips tight, and walked back down the bar to help a waiting cowboy.

Ice clacked against his teeth, and he raised his hand for another before setting the empty glass down. The whiskey burned in his belly, and Kitty arrived with another drink. "You sure you need this, Tom? Maybe you should step out for some fresh air. Why don't you stick around tonight? We can talk."

Sweat beaded on his forehead, and he wiped it away with a clammy hand.

"Thanks, Kitty. I'll sit here and just finish this last one." His lips quivered. They tried to scream. Tom's mind flashed white, his hand felt frozen to a steering wheel. His foot would not respond. Everything moved in half beats ... the Cadillac's steel grill, unyielding, remorseless ... Tom wasn't sure if he needed the drink, but sipped at it anyway, trying not to look in the deer's direction.

"Fucking animal," he said, loud enough for Kitty to take notice and give him a queer look. Kitty glanced at her hated animal, the raven, and ducked from under its dark wings.

Why was that deer disturbing him so much tonight? It had been there as far back as his nineteenth birthday. Besides, there was nothing scary about a deer, especially when it was stuffed and hanging on a wall. For god's sake, he had just hit one. That was it. He had just hit one—a week ago—a bone crushing thump, still heavy in his ears.

Tom shot the glass of whisky and pulled out his wallet, slipping a fifty from it to the bar. He laughed a little about the amount. "Fuck those folks at the bank."

He stepped out into a thick fog and stumbled across the street.

"Goddamn," he said to the gloom, and pulled out his keys. He opened the door and dropped himself onto the Cadillac's cool leather seats and stuffed the key into the ignition, switched on the lights. The dash lights bored holes of guilt into his eyes. He slid the car into gear, pulled into the haze, and moved slowly out of the sleeping town.

Tom crossed the dark highway and picked up speed on the smooth prairie road. His tires hummed on the pavement, the interior of the car silent. He wiped the sweat from his brow again and told himself that he needed a drink. He thought about his nephew, Leonard, about how good he was with his sling, and the fly-fisherman that he had become. Thinking about his nephew calmed his frazzled nerves.

He arrived at his home, and the black windows reflected his morose mood. His throat ached for a drink as he idled up the driveway and pulled his car in the garage, sitting in the giant interior, the engine idling without remorse. He went straight for the bar and poured himself a tall glass of Jack Daniel's and seated himself in his favorite recliner, clicking on the TV. Tom sat back, sipping his drink, his mind buzzing with the sound on the television.

"Death," was his last thought as he drifted off into a fitful slumber; his drink spilled on the floor.

Tom stood on a flat, hazy plain. He was dreaming, but the dream was alive, and settling down over him like a thick layer of darkness, like being buried alive. He heard a groan of pain from somewhere within, yet he knew that it was not his own. He was cold cold like a body a body in its coffin ... deep in the ground. The body; he had to bury the body.

Tom awoke. His neck was stiff. He lifted himself from the chair and headed for the garage. The spilled drink cooled his bare feet as he crossed the carpet.

The garage was dark. He flipped the light on and went to the wall where his tools hung. He pulled a shovel from the wall and threw it into the back seat of his Cadillac, and seated himself in the front.

The fog was thick on the road. He drove slowly, his knuckles white on the wheel. He was close to the edge of the ditch, the ditch where his nightmare lay. He knew it had happened along here. He knew the road. He pulled the Cadillac to a stop. What would he do when he saw it? Would he feel guilt? Enough guilt to turn himself in, now that he was sober? He wanted another drink. No, he needed one. He reached to the jockey box. His fingers were stiff as he pulled the flashlight from the compartment and stepped into the fog.

The Cadillac idled beside him, the door left open and the lights left on. Tom slowly stepped in front of the Cadillac to the edge of the ditch. The Cadillac's headlights were a blur behind him. It was cold, and the prairie was silent except for the hum of the engine and the buzzing in his head.

Would he see the bike or the body first, he wondered. As if the thought had made it real, there was the bike. And not far, the twisted body, its black hair matted with blood, its dead eyes staring into the flashlight. He knew the boy was dead. The sick sound of impact reverberated through his mind. Tom replayed the incident with hideous clarity as he moved down the steep ditch. He could hear the boy's scream and the tires of his Cadillac humming in his head like a grim chorus of demons. And then the impact, the discordant sound turning thunderous with a heavy visceral blow that left him empty and weak. Tom moved the light away. He could not look into those eyes. He shut the memory out.

He stood above the body, took a deep breath, and leaned down to grasp the arm. The arm was cold, bitterly cold. Tom could feel the dead chill extend into his own hand and make its way up his arm. He could feel the warmth of his body drawn into the body at his feet. He was lightheaded, his head disconnecting and floating off into some unknown darkness.

It was there, death, so close that the fog tasted like the copper of blood. The earth sapped his strength into its grave depths. Tom's knees began to quaver, and the hair bristled on his arms and back. He shivered and took a deep breath to steady his legs. He pulled on the body; the sound of it moving through the grass and dragging on the dirt nearly made him retch.

He felt his strength waning, but he knew that he had to do it. He pulled the body out of the ditch and onto the side of the road. Then he gasped for clean air, air that did not smell like the dead; saliva poured into his mouth and he swallowed its slimy texture.

He would bury the boy at the edge of a field under a fence line, with the bike buried on top to keep the coyotes away. He lifted the body onto the cold, black surface of the road. He thought he heard something, but when he looked down the road he could see only his headlights in the fog.

I need a drink, one solid shot to settle my stomach, he thought. There's a bottle at home, when I get home ... home.

He pulled the body down the road toward his Cadillac, the boy's shoes and legs scraping on the pavement.

Maybe I should take the boy into town, Tom thought. Report it to the sheriff. It was an accident, after all; we were both on the road at the wrong time. I was drinking, but no more than I usually do and it was the fog, not the drink, that caused the accident. I might get manslaughter, but it would be better than living with the guilt of it, knowing the boy was buried in a field. What did Marty say his son's name was?

Tom bent down and picked the boy's stiff body into his arms and began to carry the body to his car. Two headlights pierced the fog. Tom's mind focused sharply ... his name was John, the boy's name was John, and he had been playing Monopoly before he rode his bike home.

Tom watched the Ford speed around his Cadillac with a roar. The man in the driver's seat had his head turned, gaping at the parked car as he passed. The Ford was moving too fast; Tom knew that the driver was drunk.

Tom saw the twisted face behind the steering wheel. The mouth came open into a silent scream. Marty's eyes moved over the body that Tom held in his arms.

The mule deer flashed in the driver's seat, its dark eyes laughing and its slim mouth open. The deer smiled, a snarling smile of victory and retribution, and then the deer was Marty Engle. The tires began to scream, but it was too late. The Ford's steel grill slammed into Tom with a bone-crushing thump and tossed him into a ditch.

The truck skidded to a stop. Tom could hear the door open. He couldn't move, he couldn't breath ... and then the clicking of heels on the pavement: tap, tap, tap, ta, t....

"Johnny," said Marty, his country drawl taking Tom into the dead of night.

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