likes to talk about that, but it is true. In the midst of deep fear, it’s a secret beast pounding a giant fist on some inner door, demanding to get out. A few minutes before the accident, I saw a line of graffiti written on a wall. In scragged white letters a foot high, it said, THE DEAD LOVE YOU . What did that mean? What kind of citizen would think it important enough to paint on a wall in the middle of the city? Easy enough to dismiss as a stunt, or a message to the world from a Grateful Dead fan, but I sensed it was something more.
My name is Anthea Powell. I am a semisuccessful career woman in her mid-thirties. My holdings include a few valuable stocks, a small condominium, and a bad heart condition. I’ve listened to my heartbeat for most of my adult life with both fear and fascination. It is my engine and constant reminder. I do not want the dead to love me, yet.
I was in a hurry to get across town. If you ask me why now, I can only answer, “Because.”
Because
I thought I had to get there, because the clock in my car is always fast . . . because I had to keep my appointment in Samarra. I knew the intersection, even knew the stoplight as a slow one. It was red when I got there, red when the white Fiat pulled up behind me. There was nothing else to do, so I looked in the mirror and saw the car, the man driving. He was wearing sunglasses, which made me smile because it was nine at night. Was he smiling, too? I don’t remember. As the light changed, a bicycle came zooming by on my left side. At the same time, the Fiat sped up and tried to pass me on the right.
The bike was so close I was sure I’d hit it. The only thing to do was swerve right, into the car. Maybe I was wrong and wasn’t
so
close to the bike. Maybe a lot of things. I smacked the Fiat and simultaneously heard a metallic crunch and loud boom: my right front tire blowing.
Feeling a car accident happening around you is a bitter, hopeless thing. As it’s occurring you’re shocked, but already beginning to regret all that comes afterward.
Punching the brakes, I swerved hard to get away, but that was only reflex.
Stopped, I watched the bicycle rider weave fast away up the street. I wanted to wring his neck. I wanted it to be thirty seconds ago so I could do it right this time. I wanted to run away and have a healthy car again.
A car door slammed. “God damn it!” an angry voice bellowed. The driver still had his sunglasses on, but the lower part of his face told all: a furiously moving mouth. He was very blond and flapping one arm up and down.
I opened the door and started to get out, but a sudden arrhythmia of my heart grabbed hold and for a moment I was frozen there, scared eyes closed.
“Lady, are you out of your fucking mind?”
“Could you just wait a minute?” Unconsciously I’d put both hands over my heart. I felt like a piece of paper being torn in half.
“
Wait?
Listen, lady, you just about took off the front end of my
car
. What am I going to wait for?”
“I have a bad heart.”
“I have a bad
car
!”
The sound of a siren came up from behind and was on us in an instant.
For really the first time I looked up at the other driver. He’d taken the sunglasses off, and only then did I understand why he wore them: He was albino. Yellow hair on the edge of silver, transparent white eyebrows, pink skin. I don’t know if he had the pink albino eyes. It was too dark to see them clearly.
What astounded me was how all of that human whiteness seemed to glow, pushing him forward from the evening dark around us. A phosphorescent toy or night-lite, glowing.
“Okay, what’s the problem?” The policeman was big and burly, with a voice like a trailer truck shifting gears.
“The problem is she ran into my fucking car.”
“Watch your mouth, Ace. There’s a lady present.”
I looked at the cop and tried to smile thanks. My heart had gone back into its silence. So I got slowly out of the car and stood between the two men.
“I
My name is Anthea Powell. I am a semisuccessful career woman in her mid-thirties. My holdings include a few valuable stocks, a small condominium, and a bad heart condition. I’ve listened to my heartbeat for most of my adult life with both fear and fascination. It is my engine and constant reminder. I do not want the dead to love me, yet.
I was in a hurry to get across town. If you ask me why now, I can only answer, “Because.”
Because
I thought I had to get there, because the clock in my car is always fast . . . because I had to keep my appointment in Samarra. I knew the intersection, even knew the stoplight as a slow one. It was red when I got there, red when the white Fiat pulled up behind me. There was nothing else to do, so I looked in the mirror and saw the car, the man driving. He was wearing sunglasses, which made me smile because it was nine at night. Was he smiling, too? I don’t remember. As the light changed, a bicycle came zooming by on my left side. At the same time, the Fiat sped up and tried to pass me on the right.
The bike was so close I was sure I’d hit it. The only thing to do was swerve right, into the car. Maybe I was wrong and wasn’t
so
close to the bike. Maybe a lot of things. I smacked the Fiat and simultaneously heard a metallic crunch and loud boom: my right front tire blowing.
Feeling a car accident happening around you is a bitter, hopeless thing. As it’s occurring you’re shocked, but already beginning to regret all that comes afterward.
Punching the brakes, I swerved hard to get away, but that was only reflex.
Stopped, I watched the bicycle rider weave fast away up the street. I wanted to wring his neck. I wanted it to be thirty seconds ago so I could do it right this time. I wanted to run away and have a healthy car again.
A car door slammed. “God damn it!” an angry voice bellowed. The driver still had his sunglasses on, but the lower part of his face told all: a furiously moving mouth. He was very blond and flapping one arm up and down.
I opened the door and started to get out, but a sudden arrhythmia of my heart grabbed hold and for a moment I was frozen there, scared eyes closed.
“Lady, are you out of your fucking mind?”
“Could you just wait a minute?” Unconsciously I’d put both hands over my heart. I felt like a piece of paper being torn in half.
“
Wait?
Listen, lady, you just about took off the front end of my
car
. What am I going to wait for?”
“I have a bad heart.”
“I have a bad
car
!”
The sound of a siren came up from behind and was on us in an instant.
For really the first time I looked up at the other driver. He’d taken the sunglasses off, and only then did I understand why he wore them: He was albino. Yellow hair on the edge of silver, transparent white eyebrows, pink skin. I don’t know if he had the pink albino eyes. It was too dark to see them clearly.
What astounded me was how all of that human whiteness seemed to glow, pushing him forward from the evening dark around us. A phosphorescent toy or night-lite, glowing.
“Okay, what’s the problem?” The policeman was big and burly, with a voice like a trailer truck shifting gears.
“The problem is she ran into my fucking car.”
“Watch your mouth, Ace. There’s a lady present.”
I looked at the cop and tried to smile thanks. My heart had gone back into its silence. So I got slowly out of the car and stood between the two men.
“I
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