Damascus Road (2 page)

The roads between home and Callahan’s were easy to follow,
easier still to speed along. I steered into each curve, enjoying the methodic
rise and drop of the tachometer, the speedometer's meteoric rise that made my
stomach drop. The feeling of driving was soothing to me, better than anything I
had ever experienced.

I pulled into Callahan’s and wondered at the near empty lot.
Why were there so few people? I checked my watch and realized that most folks
were still at work. Another shot of guilt. I lost my job; what was there to do
about it?

I parked the car and strolled inside. The place had either
been a bar that served food or a diner that started mixing drinks. I didn’t
know which and couldn’t be bothered to care. I grabbed a booth and decided to
kill time by perusing the menu.

A waitress arrived and asked me if I was ready to order.
Despite my plan to wait for Chris, I realized that I was hungry. I ordered a
plate of nachos with cheese and meat and salsa. Cold beer to start. The food
came, and I started to feast before the waitress retreated. Like any good bar
cuisine, it was the perfect amalgam of salt and sweet. Chips and salsa and
beer. It was hard to beat.

My watch gave me another forty minutes before Chris would
arrive. I didn’t know what prompted me to arrive at Callahan’s so early. To get
out of the house? Find company? What did it matter? I ordered a patty melt and
ate while reading the paper, doing the crossword.

The waitress cleared the plates and I ordered a tequila.
Just one. It came, and I drank and ordered another. I was finishing my third
when Chris arrived. I needed to tighten up.

“Hey buddy!” I said and shook his hand firmly. “Coffee?”

He nodded and I gestured to the waitress. She disappeared
then returned with both pots, regular and decaf, filling our mugs to the top.

“How’s it been?” Chris asked. “You know, with the family.”

I chuckled and smiled but didn’t really have a cause or
motive. It just seemed like the thing to do. Chris didn’t break eye contact or
laugh it off. He was serious and waiting for an answer.

“Oh, well, you know…” He didn’t. Just waited. “Grace left
me, man.”

He nodded, smiled and listened.

“We just couldn’t make it work,” I said.

“What’s she doing now?” Chris asked and sipped his coffee.

“She’s working with some consulting company,” I said. I
didn’t mean to sound so perturbed when I said it. She had always been a brain.
Two college degrees and cover girl looks. I had been a lucky man. Oh how the
mighty have fallen. I sipped my coffee and wished it were Irish.

Chris only nodded at that, mulling it over, savoring his
coffee.

“And Robert?” he asked.

Robert Marlowe was my son. Grace and I had fallen apart, but
not before we raised Bobby Marlowe. He was a good kid. Probably had heard his
old man yell too often, but what kid hadn’t, I thought.

“Bobby’s good,” I said. It was a lie. Well, not completely.
I didn’t know it was a lie. For all I knew, he was doing okay. “He’s off at the
university. Taking after his momma. About what you’d expect.”

“Yep,” Chris said.

He was staring into his coffee cup. I knew that look. He was
thinking about more than ground beans and hot water. There was something
skittering around in his head that he wanted to say, but couldn’t get a handle
on it.

“Chris, what’s bothering you, brother?”

He looked at me with something like a mix of relief and
trepidation.

“I’m not going to bite, man. You have a question, Chris, let
it ride.”

I had seen the look on his face before. It was the look the
bright young docs got the first time they had to tell someone in the Emergency
Room that their brother wasn’t going to make it. That despite their best
efforts, they were unable to revive him. Chris had that look.

“I’ve changed, Jim,” he said.

“I can see that.”

His eyes found mine, and a nervous smile flickered over his
lips and then was gone.

“I saw a preacher at this Indian reservation, man,” he said.
“Not treaty talk, you understand, but preaching. Hellfire. Brimstone. Deep on
the rez and he’s pounding the Bible.”

“I bet that didn’t go over so well,” I said. “Spiritual
people, am I right? Strong in the traditions, ancestors and such?”

Chris looked at me, his fear gone, eyes locked on.

“That’s the thing, brother,” he said. “They were listening.
Listening hard. These people were fearing God and praying for forgiveness. They
were fearing hell in a big way.”

“Wow, that’s something—“

“No, Jim, that’s not it,” Chris said. “I was on the road
outside of Yuma, remember? And it hit me.”

“Yeah, what was it?”

“I was going to hell,” Chris said.

“Hell?”

“Hell, man, the lake of fire,” Chris said. “I was going to
burn for what I’ve done. The life I’ve led. I deserve it.”

“We all deserve it,” I said without looking at him. I was
scanning the bar, looking for the waitress, planning to signal her for a beer.
Chris grabbed my wrist.

“I pulled over and prayed on that road. Kneeling in the
gravel on the side of the highway, praying to God, man.”

“And how did that work out for you?” I asked.

“I am right with God, brother,” he said. “I got saved.”

“Well, good, I’m happy for ya,” I said. I decided to settle
for coffee, rather than risk offending my newly saved friend. I took a big slug
and let the brew burn its way down my throat.

“What about you, Jim?” Chris asked.

I didn’t like where the conversation was going. I missed my
friend. I didn’t want to debate religion. I wanted red meat and booze, so
pardon me.

“If God cared about me, why didn’t He keep my marriage
together? Why didn’t He help mend things with me and my son? Why did my mom
leave and my brother die in the war and my father become a chronic liar?”

“Jim…” Chris said.

“No, man,” I said. I threw my napkin down in my plate. “It
was great catching up, but I don’t need this.”

I stood and headed for the door. Chris’ footsteps were at my
back. The waitress appeared between me and the door, and I remembered I hadn’t
paid. I whipped out my wallet and peeled off bills. I paid and then overpaid
for the meal.

“Jim, stop, please,” Chris was pleading behind me. “What’s
wrong?”

I turned and looked him dead in the eye. He had been a
friend since we were kids, tearing around the neighborhood on bikes, then
motorcycles, then cars. I owed him an honest answer.

“I thought I was having dinner with someone else,” I said
and walked out the door. I fished my keys from my pocket and opened the
Chevelle. I dropped into the seat, safe finally inside my car.

The tapping at the passenger window was not unexpected. I
leaned over and unlocked the door without looking at Chris. He sat beside me,
closing the door. We both looked out through the windshield, never at each
other.

“We still good?” Chris asked.

“Yep.”

“You want to go for a ride?” he asked.

‘Yep.”

I fired the engine and dropped her into gear. I hit the gas
and peeled out of the lot. Light was gone, and I had missed sunset. We cut
across the countryside, avoiding intersections and traffic. I hit the gas hard
on straight stretches. Steered tightly through corners.

“Can I ask you something, man?” Chris asked.

“I think you just did,” I said.

“Something else?”

“Let her ride, man,” I said.

He didn’t answer at first. I looked over at him, first time
since getting in the car.

“If you would die today, where would you go?” Chris asked.

I had been watching the road and couldn’t help but look at
him. He was staring at me, waiting for my answer, completely oblivious to what
was going on behind him as we passed through an intersection of country roads.

The semi-truck slammed into the Chevelle on Chris’ side,
crushing that side of the car and snapping Chris’ head back with vicious
whiplash. The Mack truck. I saw the driver for a moment. His face had
character, neither old nor young, unremarkable except for his eyes. His eyes
were devoid of emotion even as he was about to hit us.

The car flipped and I felt myself wrenched free, airborne,
that sickening free feeling, waiting to crash, to land. Waiting for pain. I hit
the pavement in a bone crunching, jarring stop, face on the centerline. Somehow
I was able to see the truck skew out of control. The fuel tank that it had been
hauling rolled, punctured, ignited. I prayed that it wouldn’t, but that seemed
to do no good.

The tanker fire erupted, flames pressing out in a shockwave.
I saw the wall coming for me and suddenly everything that Chris said made
sense. I was going to die. I had no certainty of heaven and only the worst
fears of being bound for hell. And then, in the flames, I saw a face. My
father’s face. He was screaming, pleading, calling me by name, begging me to
save him from the fire and brimstone.

I awoke from my dream, bolting upright in my hospital bed,
screaming, body bandaged and damaged. Screaming again and again, my throat
raw.  I couldn’t stop. Wanted to but could not. Finally the psych consult came
and the thorazine and a dreamless sleep fell over me.

I AWOKE TO THE SOUND OF my shades
being pulled back. Light hit my eyes, and I grimaced, groaned and tried to sit
up. It was easier than before. The aches were there, raw flesh and such, but I
could move. I held a hand in front of my eyes to shield them from the light and
saw the silhouette of a man in my room.

“Chris?” I said.

The name was on my lips before my head caught up.

“I’m afraid not,” said the man. “I’m Officer Tyrell from the
State Trooper’s office. I’m here to talk to you.”

The words chilled me. I was open, exposed here. I was in a
hospital room in a paper gown, with a broken arm, fractured ribs and a bed pan
to defend myself against law enforcement.

“Sure,” I said.

“Chris died in the crash,” Tyrell said. “I’m assuming you
knew that.”

I nodded slowly, feeling the bones shift in my neck.

“Sorry, I’m still out of it, I guess.”

“Understandable I suppose,” he said. His voice was slow, the
words weighed carefully before they came out.

“Could you--?” I gestured at the shade.

He louvered the blind enough that I could see him. He was a
bulldog of a man. Thick in the neck, jowly even, but muscle not fat. I imagined
he would be tenacious if need be. The kind of man who was as comfortable in his
squad car behind the wheel as his predecessors had been on the back of a horse.
He was a law man of the old school.

“Thanks,” I said. I didn’t like what I saw, but I was glad I
could see.

“You want to tell me what happened?” he asked.

“What happened?” I repeated.

“The crash,” he said patiently. “How did it occur?”

“Chris and I were talking in the car,” I said. “We got
T-boned by the semi.”

I looked up and he was writing on a pad. I never saw him
pull it out. It was like a magic trick. Now I don’t have your statement… now I
do. Abracadabra.

“And then?” he prompted.

“I must have been thrown from the car,” I was trying to move
my shoulder, but my arm screamed in pain.

“It’s a hairline fracture,” Tyrell said, without looking up.
“Tell me something… how does someone get T-boned by a semi while not wearing
their seatbelt, thrown from the wreck and only come out with a hairline
fracture and some bumps and bruises?”

I didn’t have an answer. Not divine intervention or
conspiracy. I just didn’t know.

“Alcohol,” Tyrell said, looking at me. His eyes were fierce,
contempt barely contained. “I’ve seen drunk drivers crash into families, kill
them, total both vehicles and walk away without a scratch. Booze keeps you
loose, I guess. No other explanation that I have for it.”

“How do you know--?” The words were out of my mouth before I
could stop myself.

“The waitress at Callahan’s said you had a few beers, three
shots of tequila and a cup of coffee,” Tyrell replied.

I nodded my head slowly.

“Do I need a lawyer?” I asked. “Are you here to arrest me?”

Tyrell just looked at me, the pen in his hand doing a quick
tick-tock metronome like he was trying to figure out what to do with me.

“You were rushed to the hospital after the accident,” he
said. “The truck driver ran off. We’re trying to find him now. According to the
trucking company, no one from their fleet was supposed to be in that area that
night. The truck was stolen.”

“What?”

“The woman that hit you was trying to avoid the semi rig,”
Tyrell went on. “She’s hoping you don’t sue her for everything she’s got.”

She was the last thing on my mind. The truck driver… where
had he come from? Where had he gone?

“Your blood alcohol results have been sealed,” Tyrell said.
“You know and I know you were under the influence, but I can’t prove it.”

“Who sealed the record?” I asked.

“Senator Ellis Marlowe. I believe you know him.”

“Aw, shit…”

My heart dropped and I felt my face flush. I pinched the
bridge of my nose and tried to keep the headache back that I felt coming and
knew there was no point. A chill ran over me and gooseflesh rose on my arms.

“I know him,” I confessed. “He’s my father.”

“Ah,” said Tyrell as if that were the answer to all things.

I cursed under my breath and made to get out of the bed.

“Where are you going?” Tyrell asked.

I jerked a thumb toward the restroom.

“There’s more…”Tyrell began.

“Did I miss the funeral?” I asked. The thought occurred to
me as my head was clearing. “Chris’ funeral. Did I miss it?”

Tyrell shook his head slowly like a church bell,
side-to-side real slow.

“No, and I thought that was strange to be honest with you,”
Tyrell said. “The Beck family wanted you to be in attendance for the funeral.”