MOBRIGGER BRIDGE (2013)
A short story excerpt from the 2013 published collection "The Most Important Thing Happening"
(Author’s Note: The entire collection "The Most Important Thing Happening” is subtitled “A Novel in Stories.” There are eleven stories in all and this one is the ninth. If there seem to be some moments that lack clarity, they make sense as you read the other ten stories.)
Oliver ruminated on the askew screw. A useless and delightful thing. He twirled it between his left thumb and forefinger. He liked the way the inconsistency of its bent caused it to roll farther down his thumb as it pivoted.
—Throw that’n away, Todd said —It’s worthless.
Oliver rolled his eyes at another ignorant missive from Todd Hobbs. That’s right. Todd Hobbs of Todd Hobbs’ Odd Jobs. You’ve seen the commercial. Oliver is the one smiling in the background behind the wheel of the van. Todd made him give a thumbs-up in the commercial. Oliver didn’t like that.
Oliver thought the screw a sad sort of thing. He had just removed it from where it had once served a purpose: securing the top of a screen door. Over time, it had rusted, bent under the strain of all the slammings—become more of an annoyance than a benefit. It was no longer capable of being a screw. Oliver knew Todd was right: he should toss it aside—or rather, into a garbage receptacle. A screw in the grass was a lawnmower accident waiting to happen and Oliver was quite determined to avoid being the conduit for an accident. Oliver was, by nature, quite careful.
Todd was saying that Oliver was not listening to him. But Oliver was. Always. Unless, of course, the Other Voice was trying to tell Oliver something at the time. Right now, Todd was going on and on about the screw being defective, knowing full well that that’s why Oliver wanted to hang on to it. Oliver tucked the crooked item into the chest pocket of his coveralls—another souvenir to a job well done.
Oliver was finished with the screen door, and so he bent it this way and that to illustrate that it no longer caught at the top. Miss Ottanot (the customer) clapped her tiny hands like a prayer and whisper-squealed her delight. The door had aggravated her for as long as she could remember. The sound of it scraping the top of the metal jamb had been horrendous, and when she threw the force of her shoulder against it to pry it open as she so often did, it would rattle like a bedspring. She leaned into Oliver to kiss him on the cheek in gratitude.
—For fixing it so well, Miss Ottanot offered.
But Oliver jerked backward before contact. Todd corrected her.
—Sorry. He don’t like to be touched. And he never says anything.
—Oh. Would you care to see my gun collection? I’m just about to clean my Colt M1911. It’s a dandy. Just precious.
—No thank you, miss’m—but we do accept personal checks.
Women were always leaning into Oliver. He was told he was quite handsome, and considered it a great nuisance. That sort of business seemed a bit of a waste of time. Todd assumed Oliver had no need for love. But Oliver was bursting with love. He just didn’t see the purpose of affection. Todd liked to call Oliver simple. Simple is the go-to word for an individual who resists vocabulary. Oliver did not speak. He was concerned that if he spoke, he would not be able to listen. And if he could not listen, he might miss the Other Voice when it gave him an important instruction, which seemed to be quite often these days.
Oliver lived by the Other Voice. Somehow it brought him peace, even though he regularly did not understand it or the consequences of its commands. Todd knew nothing about the Other Voice, but this was the way Oliver preferred things. No one could know about the Other Voice. It made would them think he was plum crazy. Full bore crazy. But, Oliver knew he wasn’t. He was just quieter than most. As of yet, there had been no need to tell Todd about it. Todd always took Oliver to the right place at the right time whether Todd knew it or not. Oliver often found himself faced with a choice. To the right or the left, up or down, one way or the other way—and if he would listen closely, the Other Voice would steer him well. It was the reason that Oliver considered every decision important—and every defective thing necessary. Todd, on the other hand, had different priorities.
—Thinking of getting a new hairstyle, Oliver. A swoop to the left this time, down over the eye. Not too differ’nt from what I got going now, jes’ the other side—the left side. My neck hurts on the right side from flipping it out of my face alla time, so it’s basic’lly for health reasons.
As they zoomed down the freeway, Oliver observed a housefly inside the car. He must have flown in at Miss Ottanot’s house. How surreal for him. He will work his way across the dashboard and fly out the other side once they are parked downtown. He’ll be thinking to himself how did I get here and where did my family go. Then, he’ll die later today like all flies do, still fairly confused.
—You really took your time fixing that screen door. We gots two more jobs today and we hafta be finished by sundown. Important day. Important day. So, I’m with you—excellence and whatnot—but when we gotta get it done, gotta get it done. And I need botha these payments today if’n I’m gonna take Barbara away tomorrow for a weekend special. Sheez. I still gotta fit in that haircut. All I’m saying is you kinda took your time.
Oliver turned to Todd quizzically. Todd had not mentioned that they had an extra job today. Oliver knew they still had to tend to their maintenance contract with their largest client downtown. It was a hefty day’s worth of work that should finish out their Tuesday. But, an additional job? Important? Today? Todd rarely kept the details of a new job from Oliver—and Oliver did not like it when Todd did.
—Why you look'n at me like I didn’t mention the other job? I did. Didn’t I? I did. Course I did. I always fill you in—but maybe I didn’t cuz it was last minute and the details are need-to-know and you don’t always seem to want-to-know, so need is sorta another step above that.
Oliver pursed his lips and stared.
—I hate it when you do that with your lips. I don’t need your approval. It’s why it’s called Todd Hobbs Odd Jobs, not Oliver Hobbs Odd Jobs. Cuz I’m the boss—even though we’re equal partners. And because nothing rhymes with Oliver. Todd grabbed his newspaper and smacked the dashboard. — Dead housefly.—B’sides, we’re still gonna get to the reg’lar Tuesday job first. We hafta do the other job at a set-time later this afternoon down at Mobrigger Bridge.
The two words set Oliver’s eyelids on fire. He could not explain why—he listened for clarity from the Other Voice, but none came. He gazed at Todd suspiciously. Oliver didn’t know how he was going to do it, but he was quite certain he was not going to allow his brother to drag him anywhere near Mobrigger Bridge.
—Been working on my abs like in that infomercial they play during J. Aaron Epsom ev'ry night. Bought wunna them Abatronics—bends you automatically like with batteries so you can do crunches while you sleep. Here. Punch me as hard as you can.
Oliver did not.
Todd pulled into the parking lot of a large impressive building with a large impressive word emboldened over its large impressive door. Oliver had been here many times, enough not to be impressed. There was, as usual, a line formed out the door and down the block—but Todd and Oliver bypassed it. A checklist was waiting for them in the Management Offices. A week’s build-up of fixes that all fell under the Hobbs brothers’ areas of expertise. Enough to fill a Tuesday.
—So give it some elbow grease. Double-time. None of that lollygagging you did over Miss Ottanot’s screen door.
After several hours of changing fluorescent bulbs, tending to plumbing leaks, and mending a rather large hole in a rather small break room wall, Oliver was escorted outside by Phillip, the one slightly-amicable security guard. They walked toward the back of the building exterior. Oliver liked this specific contract. It was higher security than the other jobs, which meant the assignments specified great detail. Oliver liked detail. He liked it a lot. It kept him at peace. He was very good at taking instructions and following them to the letter. He also liked that when the job was especially sensitive, security would escort him. Oliver liked to be observed by experts. He liked being double-checked.
Oliver did not like it when choices were unclear. He did not enjoy the weight of the world rising or falling on his assessment of the options laid before him.
—Don’t see why management felt the need for me to join you on this one, Oliver. I mean to say: we trust you. Phillip plunged into his nose with his forefinger because Oliver’s back was to him, but Oliver could hear the digging —Then again, I don’t see why I can’t be trusted to do something as small as this all by myself. I mean — it’s what? An air vent cover?
Oliver nodded, quite content. He followed the instructions he had been given to the letter, removing the old vent with a special tool provided him by the building management.
—Course, I can be a bit scattered with the honey-do’s, bringing the wrong wrench and so forth. The company insists upon precision with their little details and you have certainly proven to be precise. And you don’t give excuses. You definitely know how to make the higher-ups happy.
Oliver knew this task wasn’t nearly as simple as Phillip assumed. No task was simple for this client. Oliver meticulously cleaned each vent divot, tiny though they were. He soldered the malfunctioning chip in the security beacon tucked just inside. He replaced the soiled polymer with a new filter Management had provided him and began securing the bolts tightly. He had made his way around the periphery of the vent and was working his way to the top left corner—the only portion of the vent unsecured and slightly jutting out.
That is precisely when he heard the Other Voice.
—Wait.
Definitively. And louder than he had ever heard before—as if the Other Voice were nearby. Oliver turned briskly toward Phillip to make certain the word had not come from his mouth.
—What’sa matter, Oliver?
The Other Voice had never told Oliver to wait. Never. It had always told him what to do. It had never told him to stop doing. Oliver stood, the tightening tool in one hand, the screw held carefully in place with his thumb and forefinger. Oliver held his breath, perplexed at this missive. And the Other Voice spoke again.
—Not yet.
Oliver was so startled by the directive that he dropped the screw. He quickly dropped to his hands and knees, searching the grass, as his thoughts became scattered.
This didn’t make any sense to Oliver. Why did the Voice tell him to pause his efforts? He sat up into a kneeled position and listened carefully for clarification.
Silence. Absolute silence.
It was a new sensation for Oliver. Others might describe it with a word like emptiness or panic. All Oliver knew was that for the first time, the Other Voice was suddenly gone.
He sat unmoving, the tool still in his hand.
—Now, what on earth is this all about?
Phillip’s words brought Oliver back to reality enough to see Todd walking toward him down the alleyway between this building and the next. Todd was not alone. He was being escorted by two police officers.
In the holding room, Todd rocked back-and-forth in the chair, then suddenly out of the chair—then suddenly back in the chair again. The room was windowless, but Oliver noticed a handful of dust bunnies gathered or swept into one corner. They danced playfully as if manipulated by a gust of air conditioning nearby that was too slight to cool down much of anything. Todd prattled.
—Man oh man. I’m just gonna have a field day. Didja see that one cop grabbing my elbow like I was arrested? And today of all days. What time is it? I ain’t arrested. They cain’t arrest you if they don’t know nothing.
The last sentence gained Oliver’s attention. Todd noticed.
—And also if you didn’t do nothing. You don’t think they got listening devices in here, do you? I did like that cop’s watch, though. I saw that watch in a catalog in the department store bathroom. You think I’d look good in that watch? I would. Course, I’d have to get a suit coat.
Two detectives interrupted Todd and sat at the other end of the table. Most would call their outfits similar, but Oliver knew one wore a white shirt under his grey blazer while the second gentleman’s shirt was bisque.
—I am Officer Johnson and this is Officer Jameson.
—I know my rights.
—Yes, Mr. Hobbs—and you are welcome to call an attorney, but you are not under arrest. We just need to ask you and your brother a few questions.
—I ain’t calling no attorney. That’ll just make me look guilty.
—We haven’t accused you of anything.
—I’m still not taking that bait.
—And—you are his brother—Oliver Hobbs?
Oliver nodded tentatively. Where was the Other Voice? Where was the peace that came from its company? Oliver had never needed its companionship more than right this moment—and it had abandoned him.
—And you are mute? I understand you are mute but not deaf.
—Todd was quick to reply, It’s called selective mutism.
—What does that mean?
—He has the ability to speak but he don’t. Not since the accident.
—What accident is that, Mr. Hobbs?
Oliver shook his head no.
—He’s asking me, Oliver. You cain’t talk anyway. So, we was jus’ kids. Little ones. I mean Oliver was always little even for being younger. He still dragged his blanket around—called it his mush. Even at four. Can ya believe that? Oliver’s screaming something awful ‘bout his mush, jus’ screaming along like a cat underwater and not none of us can find it anywhere. Daddy didn’t do too well with the baby screaming. Momma left a few months before and Daddy didn’t take that too good. And I was running all around trying to find the kid’s mush and Daddy jus’ gave up and drove away to go buy a new one and then he crashed and then he died.
—Was he high? Was he drinking?
—Oh, I don’t think that mattered much. Daddy got real good at driving drunk. Craziest thing. It was cold and we’d been leaning against the hood of the car. You know—it’s warm for a coupla minutes when Daddy turns the engine off. And Oliver’s mush got caught on the grill, just dangling there. It’s why he was screaming in the firs’ place. It wasn’t lost. He jus’ couldn’t get his mush unstuck—but insteada saying that, he just screamed a buncha nothing. Once Daddy got to the main road, that mush musta been flapping around like a wounded bird when it untangled itself and blew up onto the windshield. Daddy couldn’t see nothing and drove right inta a whole messa trees.
Oliver pursed his lips and stared.
—I really hate it when he does that with his lips. You see what he's doing with his lips? I hate that. Can we go?
—Why? You in a hurry?
There was silence for a few moments before Officer Johnson placed a photograph on the table and asked if they knew the man.
Knew. Past tense.
They did not know him and Todd said so.
Officer Johnson asked if they were absolutely certain they had never seen the man before.
—I dunno. How’m I supposed to remember every guy I ever met? I mighta seen you before, but I wouldn’t remember. I mean, I’ll remember this time cause it stands out, right? But, have I run into this guy at Whales or the Casa del Pancake? How should I remember? Would you?
Officer Jameson clarified that they were likely to know the man in the photograph’s sister, a Miss Esme Ottanot, who had just killed the man today right around lunchtime.
Wait, what?
—That’s a mistake.
—No, assured Officer Jameson, —It isn’t.
—But, we was just at Miss Ottanot’s this morning and she was happy, even tried to kiss Oliver.
Oliver found himself very confused indeed.
—We didn’t do NOTHING.
—Miss Ottanot wasn’t expecting her brother, continued Officer Johnson. —She wasn’t expecting anyone. He snuck right into the house to surprise her and she shot him.
—After we was there, right?! What’s that gotta do with us?
Oliver began to feel a bead of sweat forming at his hairline. He knew exactly what it had to do with him.
—Miss Ottanot claims the reason she was surprised was because she didn’t hear the screen door stick to the jamb.
Todd was at a loss for words. So, that’s what it takes, Oliver thought.
—Evidently, the doorbell was broken and her brother didn’t see the harm in sneaking on in. He caught her by surprise.
—But—but, we just fixed that door this mornin’.
—Maybe you should have fixed the doorbell.
Oliver absorbed what was being said. How was this possible? The Other Voice. The Other Voice had led him to Miss Ottanot and her squeaky door. How could his compliance have ended so tragically?
Todd was regaining his limited vocabulary.
—What we done ain’t no crime! It was jes’ an odd job! A Todd Hobbs Odd Job!
—Odd, indeed.
—That’s not a crime. That’s a coincidence.
—We thought the same thing—at first.
—At first?
Officer Johnson pulled a large manilla folder onto the table and began pulling one photo out at a time. A lady in a kitchenette. A man in a foyer. Two gentlemen in an automobile. More.
All dead.
—This first one was taken a few weeks ago. She used a metal knife to clean out an old toaster oven she didn’t realize had just been fixed. Electrocuted. This one: slipped on a newly installed and waxed floor. Broke his neck. These two: swerved to miss some traffic cones that had been set out while an office exterior was being painted.
Oliver began to turn green. Todd just stared, his mouth hangdog.
—It’s a fluke. It’s all jes’ happenstance.
—Of course we thought the same thing, Johnson interjected, Until lunchtime today. It was something Miss Ottanot said that gave us pause.
—Whadid—whadid she say?
—She said the same thing somebody said at every one of these crime scenes.
Oliver knew what she had said.
—She wished the silent man had never done that odd job.
The room remained still for some time while Todd turned, wide-eyed, and gaped at his brother. Oliver knew all eyes were upon him, but all he could connect with was the hair stuck to Officer Jameson’s blazer. It flitted as if half of it wanted to stay put and half of it yearned to fly away. Oliver stared and tried his best to find the Other Voice. It was distant the first time he heard it. Maybe again. But, nothing. There was nothing.
Officer Johnson continued.
—These all do seem like random coincidences. Certainly not the sort of premeditated killings someone could pull off with an intricate plan. They leave too much to chance. Far too much. So then, please tell me, as the Hobbs brother who WILL speak, why every one of the deaths in this file are a chain reaction that began when your brother Oliver put his hand to fixing them.
Oliver stared at the hair.
—What do you know, Mister Hobbs?
Jameson interjected, —Don’t make it personal, Johnson.
—What is your secret? Why are you really so afraid to speak and how does it shed light on these deaths? What is it? You can read minds? Tell the future?
Oliver’s eyes locked.
—Are you one of those idiot savants who sees numbers dancing in your head and somehow knows when fixing a door will kill someone?
Oliver felt his palms ache. His fingernails digging into them, fists clenched.
—Or are you just very bad luck?
Oliver vomited all over the table, causing both detectives to lift their coffees and shove their chairs backward. It was the screeching of the metal chair legs against the concrete floor that yanked Todd out of his stupor.
—Have we done anything illegal?!
Neither detective answered as both were trying to wipe the previous contents of Oliver’s stomach off of their photographs.
—Have we?! Have we done anything besides be in the wrong place at the wrong time?!
—Not that we can prove.
—Then, I’m pretty sure you gotta let us go.
—I will tell you when it’s time to— Officer Johnson didn’t get to finish his sentence. Another officer, a woman, shoved her way brusquely through the door.
—Johnson! Jameson!
—Debra, can we get a mop in here? There’s…
—Forget that. Come quick!
Officers Johnson and Jameson scrambled after her, leaving the door open.
Oliver sat, spent, uncertain if what was dripping down his face was a tear or the remains of his breakfast. He glanced up to meet Todd’s anxious gaze.
—Oliver—what have you done?
The melee in the next room hit a fever pitch. It sounded like gasps of shock and despair. With no Other Voice to guide him, Oliver was uncertain what to do next. Todd stood up hesitantly and worked his way to the open door. After peering out, he spoke.
—Come on, brother. We’re leaving.
Oliver thought this an unwise decision, but without counsel or another ride home, followed Todd’s lead. As they exited, they passed the break room. It was filled to capacity with police officers, all staring at the television. On the television, a building had collapsed somewhere downtown.
Todd was driving very fast, arguing out loud to no one in particular that they weren’t exactly escaping. After all, the police had left the door open and moved on to more important things. Oliver found it difficult to focus. His head was spinning—and silent. The absence of the Other Voice should be bringing him clarity now—but the silence was noise. Troubling thoughts inserted themselves. Thoughts of who he might have been listening to, and what it seems had come from his obedience.
—Didja see that building come down? That huge one downtown? That wasn’t the one where we worked last night, was it? Where you installed that camera and monitor on the sixth floor? Naw. Dang it. Cain’t be late! We’ve got eleven minutes. Hafta be there at 3:17. Hafta. Important day.
They were not slowing down, speeding past the off ramp that led toward downtown. Oliver glared at Todd suspiciously.
—Are you crazy?! There’s no way I’m head’n back downtown.
Oliver scrambled to clarify and pulled the tool out of his chest pocket—the tool he had been given by the management of the last job. He waved it in front of Todd’s face.
—You can finish that job tomorrow. They’ll be closed up and empty the rest of the day. Just like ever’body else downtown. Look.
Oliver followed Todd’s finger toward the black cloud on the horizon emerging from the middle of a cluster of high-rises. Rising from the place where the tallest building stood just this morning. The building Todd and Oliver had worked inside just last night.
This was not reassuring. So much information. So much devastation. So quickly. And the Other Voice absent.
Oliver closed his eyes and concentrated.
There was no way around it.
He didn’t mean to. He didn’t. He had meant well. Always meant well. He wracked his brain and attempted to determine if the Other Voice forced him to do those seemingly insignificant things. No. Not really forced. It just eased him into those moments. Coaxed him. Never really giving an explicit direction. Instead—an urge to do something. Something seemingly helpful. Always seemingly helpful.
But then—something new this afternoon. For the first time, the Other Voice had asked him to wait. To not do something. Why hadn’t the Other Voice done that the other times—when Oliver’s actions were about to cause irreparable damage? The Other Voice must have known. Did the Other Voice want those awful things to happen?
Or was there no Other Voice at all? Was it possible that it was all just him?
Just Oliver.
But how could it just be him? He didn’t know the future—didn’t wish ill on others. Maybe Officer Johnson was correct. Maybe Oliver was bad luck. But then how to stop the pattern? Disobey the Other Voice? The Other Voice was gone now. You can’t disregard orders you don’t know. The only thing that made any sense was for Oliver to stop doing odd jobs completely. To stop helping anyone. Period. To stop doing anything at all.
But wasn’t the absence of doing anything a choice as well? Wasn’t waiting an action? Stalling could do as much damage as moving forward. Standing could wound as much as running. It was all happenstance. Coincidence. So, why was Oliver in the middle of it? No. At the start of it. Always at the onset. He was the spark that lit all of these bombs. Why? Why? Why?
Oliver couldn’t remember the last time he had so many thoughts of his own.
—When we get there, I’m gonna need jus’ a bit of help. I’m gonna have to step out of the van real quicksies and get something from a fella. So, you’ll hafta switch with me and drive from then on out.
Todd took Oliver’s silent stare into the distance as disapproval.
—Just some guy. A business associate. You don’t know him.
More silence.
—Jes’ this one time! I never make you drive. Won’t even be far. It’s only seven miles to our apartment from Mobrigger Bridge.
And Oliver realized where they were driving. For a moment, he forgot his existential crisis enough to take a stand against his brother’s extra errand.
—Do this one thing. This one errand, Oliver. I cain’t explain it yet—but we won’t have to do these odd jobs no more. And you won’t cause no more accidents. It’s an important day.
Oliver hesitated.
Why did he feel so demonstratively against this errand? Why did it set his head on fire?
He knew why.
Because of the Other Voice. This morning, when Oliver first heard about Mobrigger Bridge, the Other Voice had set off an alarm in Oliver’s head. The Other Voice wanted Oliver to stop this from happening. He was certain of it. Perhaps the Other Voice was wrong—or rather misleading him. If Todd was correct and this errand to Mobrigger Bridge could end their need to perform odd jobs, it would be the exact sort of thing the Other Voice would dissuade.
But, that doesn’t necessarily make the errand wrong.
Oliver hesitated.
Now is as good a moment as ever to disregard the Other Voice.
Perhaps this time, no one will die.
Todd pulled the van down a neighborhood street and doubled-back, parking under the shade of a tree in front of a small empty residential lot. He stared into the distance and said nothing. A police siren wailed in the echoed faraway. Oliver could see Todd’s neck hairs standing on end. They relaxed back down to his nape as Todd realized the authorities were all headed toward the incident downtown.
—Some timing, huh? Crazy. And we should do this. We should. 3:17. Hafta be on time. Hafta.
Oliver connected the dots, though he was certain Todd was only talking to himself.
Todd held his hand motionless over his dangling keys and after a ten count for certainty, turned the ignition. The van crept slowly toward the shallow slope leading down to the flood drainage canal that Oliver knew would eventually lead underneath Mobrigger Bridge. Todd looked this way and that until he was convinced the van was out of the sightline of passersby. Oliver saw Todd’s shoulders relax as he stepped on the gas and headed northeast.
The bridge was a dot in the distance—the yawn of an insect—as Oliver fixated upon it. He glanced at Todd, seeing hesitation in the eyes and determination in the foot pressing the gas pedal. Something inside Oliver wanted to grab that steering wheel now and turn it around—as if the mouth of the bridge was a precipice—but Oliver stood firm. No. If he was going to resist the Other Voice, it would require conviction.
But Oliver’s gut churned.
He had never gone so against his own instinct. Every follicle, every nerve ending fretted. This was not good. Simply not good. And yet—
The Other Voice had agreed with Oliver’s instinct. The Other Voice. The one that had led Oliver down so many regrettable paths. How could it have been wrong so many times and yet right now? Oliver must deny what he felt. He must. He must stay the course of this foolish errand.
Trees whished past at the top ledge of the drainage canal, blurring into a dark mesh of nothing very pretty.
Mobrigger Bridge was becoming clearer. Not long now. Oliver could see the faint outline of something there. Something mustard. A taxicab. Someone stood outside of it. A man with a cardboard box.
No.
This is not good.
Oliver gripped the dashboard and closed his eyes.
The motor revved, struggling to live up to the weight of Todd’s foot.
Oliver thought. He focused, uncomplicated by the Other Voice.
He thought his own thoughts. He came to his own realization.
He never felt like this when he obeyed the Other Voice.
Never.
His instinct had always agreed with it. Every single time. Because regardless of the destined outcome of each good and generous act, the choice Oliver made was still the right choice for Oliver. It was still the best option to help. To look for ways of making someone’s world better. It wasn’t merely the urging of the Other Voice.
It had always been Oliver’s instinct as well.
He and the Other Voice had agreed. Always agreed.
Oliver reasoned through this truth.
Regardless of how tragic the outcome, had there never been the Other Voice at all—had Oliver decided and acted upon his own nature—he would have made the same decision every time.
It seemed foolhardy now to deny acting upon what he knew to be right simply because he didn’t know where that action would fully lead.
The engine screamed in pain, the van barreling forward.
Oliver’s bottom lip quivered. He knew what must be done. The only thing that would actually stop Todd now. Oliver opened his mouth, not quite a yawn, not quite a gasp for air.
Todd glanced, then turned toward him in disbelief, for he could see what Oliver was attempting.
And as they hurtled at breakneck speed toward Mobrigger Bridge, Oliver forced out a single word.
—Wait.
Completely flummoxed, Todd slammed on the brakes—the screech echoing throughout the surrounding trees. The rear tires drifting and leaving the stench of burnt rubber behind. Todd stared.
—What? What did you just say?
The man outside the taxi was a hundred feet away from them now. He appeared displeased, uncertain how to respond to this turn of events. Oliver spoke one more time.
—Not yet.
Todd gasped, not realizing how long he had been holding his breath.
Todd stared.
—Did you—did you say something? Did you say wait?
A shadow passed over the windshield, blotting out the sun.
—Wait for what?
The windshield burst.
Shards of glass flew about the inside of the van.
Chaos and confusion.
As Oliver came to his senses, the rearview mirror dangled a few inches from his face. There were broken things and radiator steam everywhere. All was quiet, save the hissing of the brutalized vehicle. He could not see out, because the windshield was blocked by something—something protruding through the broken glass.
Hands. Two hands.
Oliver shoved his door open with his foot and wriggled his way free from the passenger seat of the van.
A man.
A man had fallen out of the sky.
A man had fallen out of the sky and smashed directly into the windshield of Todd Hobbs’ van.
Evidently hands first like a swan dive.
It took Oliver a moment to gather his wits. He glanced at Todd, who had also made his way out of the vehicle, completely bewildered. Todd’s face was bloodied. Oliver attempted to help him, but Todd suddenly remembered why he was here and spun on his heels to gaze down by Mobrigger Bridge. The man with the cardboard box was snapping photos with a high-speed camera.
—NO!!
Todd began charging toward the man, but the man darted the other way, discarding the cardboard box (clearly empty) as he sprinted. Todd ran as far and as long as he could, but would have struggled to keep up with a toddler. He stopped, palms on his knees, stooped over and spitting blood. The taxicab hurried away.
Oliver stared at his brother and then back at the van.
A body.
Where could it have come from? Not Mobrigger Bridge. It was too far away. Of course, any place this body could have come from was too far away. Was he a jumper? His landing gave the appearance of someone who had time to realize he was falling. But, falling from what? Where?
Oliver turned back. He could barely see the taxicab now. A dot on the shimmering hot landscape.
Todd was puking on the pavement.
Oliver stepped closer to the human on the hood. If the fall didn’t kill him, whatever was sticking out of his eye probably did. Because he had to be dead, right? Oliver attempted to mop the sweat from his own face with his hand and found his fingers sticky and wet.
Were his hands bleeding? He didn’t feel an injury there. Or was it the blood of the stranger?
Oliver looked down to see that it was neither. His hands were not red.
They were blue.
His hands were covered in ink.
Oliver made his way back into the van. It seems the stranger had been holding a blue pen. It had broken open and the ink was dripping from Oliver’s hands.
Oliver turned around at the sound of an oncoming motor.
It was Officer Jameson.
They had been followed.
Oliver had never minded waiting rooms. The woman seated a few yards away from him had her back turned enough so that Oliver could see several independent grey hairs co-mingling with the brunettes. He counted seventeen and wondered how many of them were caused by whoever she was waiting for.
The swinging doors—the one to the right labeled ENCY and the other labeled EMERG—made a sound much like the grocery entrance. Out came Officer Jameson. He held two coffees.
—Seems your brother needs some stitches on his face. Probably going to be several hours. The building collapse victims are the priority. The man who fell on your car is evidently alive—but barely.
Officer Jameson handed Oliver one of the coffees. The one that appeared the least bitter, the most dulled by dairy. The sun was setting outside. They both sat in silence as the EMT’s wheeled in a woman who appeared lifeless—her mouth wide open in a frozen scream. She wore a wedding dress. Oliver stirred his coffee, the cloud of cream forming an ouroboros. Jameson interrupted his thoughts.
—You’re going to be separated from Todd for quite a while. Blackmail is serious business, especially against someone as well-connected as Mr. Eeley—but we think your brother was just the courier, not the instigator. If Todd lets us know who he was working with…
Oliver kept staring into the coffee. Unmoved. The ink on his hands now making a mess of the styrofroam cup.
—Too much bad news to handle today, I suppose.
The officer sighed deeply and removed his hat, scrubbing his short haircut with his bitten fingernails. Eight grey hairs.
—You’re going to be on your own now.
As hard as he tried to keep still, Oliver knew that Officer Jameson detected the quaver in his hands, the tiny ripples in his drink.
—Oliver, look at me.
He didn’t. He just stared into his coffee. The officer studied Oliver for a moment, considering his next words. He looked about the waiting room and then, after assessing Oliver one more second, spoke just above a whisper.
—Have you ever been in a life-or-death situation, Oliver? I have. I’ve been in many. Shootings and heart attacks and a near-drowning one time. But once, it was my eight-year-old. My Nissi. She was laying on the floor turning blue and it didn’t matter what training I had. That all went flying outta my head. I just knew my baby wasn’t breathing and I froze. I absolutely froze. I honestly did not know what to do. And then—then I heard this Voice.
Oliver blinked.
—And it brought me peace and confidence and it helped me. Now, it didn’t tell me anything I didn’t know. I knew what to do—but the Voice gave muscle to it. Gave me the strength to actually go to those places a person knows about but struggles to land all by hisself. You hear that Other Voice, too. Don’t you, Oliver.
Oliver frowned to keep his lip from shaking. He wiped the corner of his eye.
—Today was unfortunate. Officer Johnson’s take on the matter was unfortunate. You heard some awful things. Terrible results of your actions—and of course the photos—the proof. But, your odd jobs—they weren’t the only thing those cases had in common. In every one of those cases, you played a part, yes. But you did a wise thing. You know who didn’t? You know who did not do a wise thing? The person who died. Nobody should stick a knife in a toaster oven, Oliver. A man’s gotta be careful on a slippery floor and everyone has to pay attention while they drive. Miss Ottanot was careless with her gun—and your daddy...
Oliver’s gaze fell.
—Well, your Daddy shouldn’t have been drinking. I think you heard right, Oliver. I think you heard the Other Voice correctly. And more importantly, you obeyed. Even today. I think you did good things there. But that doesn’t make it simple. It doesn’t undo everyone else’s actions. It can’t change what the people who don’t listen to the Other Voice do. I’ll bet there are plenty of times in your life where your actions started a chain reaction of something—wonderful. Unfortunately, there’s no stack of photos to prove what bad things didn’t happen. No. I’m afraid no one gets living proof.
Officer Johnson stood to go.
—Like I said, I’ve been in a lot of life-and-death situations, Oliver. Everything is a life-and-death situation. Sometimes they live, sometimes they die. Don’t punish yourself just because the dying is the only end anybody wants to talk about.
Oliver sat for a long time in the newfound silence of his thoughts. He sat and thought as Officer Jameson was urgently called back to help locate the man who had fallen through the van window as he seemed to have disappeared. He sat and thought as a stitched-up Todd was escorted in handcuffs out the waiting room doors. He sat and thought as night became darker and darker. And then, he wandered.
Oliver wandered for a very long time. Everything had changed today. Todd would be gone, locked away for years. Oliver’s decisions would no longer be simple and clear.
And the Other Voice—it remained absent.
His head was stuffed with the same heavy silence that occupied these abandoned and dusty downtown streets.
In the distance.
In the dark.
He could swear a voice cried out for help.
Uncertainty filled the farthest reaches of his thinking.
It was time to act without clarity.
He gazed down at his open palms.
They were stained.
Stained blue.
Blue as the nighttime with echoes that lingered of Mobrigger Bridge.
Next: Read "ORI G AMI PAJ AMA" Short Story #10 from Mark Steele’s Novel in Stories “The Most Important Thing Happening” (2013)
©2013 Mark Steele / Published & Permissions by David C. Cook Publishing - “The Most Important Thing Happening: A Novel In Stories” is available HERE in paperback.