Bruce
Webber

Brendan
Connell

Loren
MacLeod

Myth
Spinner

Forrest
Aguirre

Brian
Rosenberger

Three miles of highway I knew her. She was such a careful driver, never speeding, acutely aware of her surroundings and always at least two car lengths behind me. So it amazed me when her head flung back like a rag doll being thrown across a room – an elderly Ophelia, long gray tresses splayed out on a river of traffic. She flew, expressionless, over the steering wheel, an angel of white besmirched with thin crimson smears, and swan-dived through my back window, sending a scintillating cloud of fine glass billowing through the shattered world of my car. Her saggy cheeks did not tighten, her sky blue eyes showed no surprise. She must have been resigned to her fate, thought I am dying, why should I panic? As she breathed in the last exhaust-laden breath of her last mortal flight. She landed, draped over my passenger side front seat, looking at me blankly.

Her purse had somehow made it with her. Carrion carry-on, I thought with a giggle. The bag’s contents were spilled our on the passenger seat – driver’s license, a spare pair of spectacles (the primary pair was now a permanent part of her face), a prescription pill bottle and a small change purse with an exposed seam of green cash.

Money. I was thirsty, had been for the last mile or so. Those few bills would buy me something wet at the gas station – and with gas prices as they were I could stand to fuel up the car.

I reached toward the cash then stopped as the cash purse rolled clear of the bag. A design was impressed on the leather – a sun surrounded by ancient writing of some sort – Aztec or Mayan or somesuch. I recognized the design. My family had taken a trip down to Baja when I was eight, towing Grandma along for the ride. I was sullen about her presence, certain that she would prove a hindrance to our family fun. Then, at a small market on our first day across the border, Grandma pulled out her little purse and treated us to ice cream. Cold never felt so good in my mouth – my throat went dry just thinking about the scorching Mexican heat. Grandma indulged us several times on that trip, much to my surprise and delight.

I smacked my dry lips and slipped the change purse back into the bag. I was now thirstier than ever, but my conscience wouldn’t allow me to spend the money.

But greed runs strong I thought as I exited onto a country highway. The woman’s gold teeth glinted in the sunlight, ore deposits sparkling within the cavern of her open orifice. A necklace and ring also shone with that dull light which had illuminated the minds of perverse geniuses to build weapons of war and take advantage of multitudes for time untold. It would be easy to take the haul to the local pawn shop where I could haggle enough money out of the shop keeper to make the last payment on the car – after all the back window now needed a replacement.

It wasn’t the first window I had seen shattered into a silicon aerosol. When I turned twelve Dad took me to the pawn shop to buy me my birthday present. I was of age, had taken the safety courses and eagerly looked forward to my first pheasant hunt. I only lacked a shotgun. So we entered old Don’s pawn shop and Dad and Don jabbered small talk while I knelt in front of the gun case, eyeing the choices.

I looked them over carefully then hefted each one, trying to keep in mind that fact that I was a growing boy and could live with the awkwardness of a bigger gun for a few years. An engraved-stock Remington 12 gauge over-under caught my attention early. I cradled the weapon in my arms, testing for weight, then brought the blue-barreled beast up to my shoulder to look down the line of sight and did what any over excited, absent minded pre-teen in the throes of early puberty would do – I pulled the trigger. The gun was loaded.

I hit the floor with a bruised shoulder as the main window on the front of Don’s shop seemed to vaporize, casting tiny glass beads out onto the sidewalk. I recall snippets of conversation from the experience, but nothing else. Don – "I knew I should’ve checked the chamber,"; Dad – "I’m so sorry, Don. We’ll pay for the window, won’t we, son?"; Don – "I’ll call the police and tell them it was an accident,"; Dad – "Don’t just sit there, get the push broom and start sweeping while I find a dustpan,"; Don – "Hey, accidents happen,"; Dad – "Looks like you’ll have to wait a year for your present."

I decided against hocking the gold.

In fact, I decided against taking advantage of the dead old lady at all. She had, simply by her presence, brought back a spate of youthful memories that I had thought lost. I felt melancholy, then joy – despite its minor complications my childhood had been good through the ups and downs. What would have been the same drab commute home from work had become, because of this old woman’s gift to me, an opportunity to see myself again as a child. A winsome breeze fluttered in my heart, a celebration of childhood innocence. This woman had given so much to me this day. I had to return kindness with kindness.

She was heavy, but I was able, with one hand on the wheel and the other on her, to bring her over the front seat. I pushed harder on the gas, red-lining my little car. 70, 80, 100. I thought the car would lift off the ground if I went much faster. I leaned over and rolled down the window, then draped her arms and head out the window. Her arms flew up in the wind like a child holding its hands up on a roller coaster. I reached down to her rump and shoved with all my strength, sending her out the window and once more into the air. I watched her in the rear view mirror as she vaulted end over end, arms, then legs flailing like a windmill over the shoulder of the road, spinning off into the cornfields where she became hidden from view among the tall rustling stalks.

In my mind’s eye I saw a little girl with sky blue eyes in a white dress cartwheeling on a beautiful grassy lawn, laughing at the swirling world, old age and death the farthest thing from her mind. And now, when I drive down that stretch of highway past a certain corn field, I look into my rear view mirror and see the bleeding face of the old lady as she mouths a silent "thank you, thank you."