His body rests in the cornfield and a crowd of stalks stands over him. Waning sunlight, green warmth, insects and silence. An ant crawling on the back of his hand. Mosquitoes and then a single Monarch butterfly. Almost time for you to go, he thinks. He remembers a visit to Point Pelee, something the guide said about their incredible migration. The amount of time it takes to make it down to Mexico every year, their repeating cycles and the long distances and short lifespans. Four rounds before they get through. Whole generations born and giving out while still en route.
There is a whirring when he opens his eyes. He hears the road but can’t see it. It is dark and cold and he is stiff. His watch says 8:30 but the night is already full black. More than four hours of sleep and he is still exhausted. He tries to stand but his joints feel calcified and arthritic. A swollen knee and puffy fluid he can squeeze through his jeans. Tough going from here. Need to be careful and take it easy. He limps out of the field and up the ditch. Grabs at a tangle of grass to get some leverage. There is a pain in his foot when he pushes off and something wrong with his breathing, a soreness behind his ear. He emerges onto the shoulder and crosses over.
A single ray of light cuts the dark and comes down on him fast. He hears a high-pitched drone and watches the light approach. There is nothing reflective on his body and the kid is almost on top of him before he sees and makes his adjustment. There is a quick cut away from the side and a fading waaaaaaaaah. He catches only the first syllable of the boy swearing at him. Ninety miles an hour, he thinks, at least. Wearing only a billowing T-shirt and a pair of jeans. Skinny arms and bare elbows and his legs wrapped around the engine of a purple Kawasaki. A yellow helmet with a fire decal, streak of colour in the night. Maybe a hundred, he reconsiders. That kid might be moving a hundred miles an hour.
He keeps the flashlight pointed at his feet and walks with one foot on the asphalt and one foot on the gravel. There is a white line that separates the road from everything else and he tries to follow it, but the pavement crumbles in spots and comes apart. He turns his back and pushes his palm against his eyes whenever a car approaches. Needs to keep his pupils from dilating if he wants to hold his night vision. There are no stars in the sky and he remembers a smog warning from the forecast, high rates of particulate matter in the air.
He is not certain if this is the right direction anymore. Could be mixed-up and turned around and moving out instead of back. There is wetness in his socks and dryness in his mouth. He thinks there must be one sandwich left, but it isn’t in the bag. Should have brought more water. He feels himself weaving across the line, but can’t adjust in time and comes back too far, rolls his ankle, and falls into a swampy culvert. People with their high beams on and the slipstream from every passing vehicle. Always this wind knocking him around. The biggest trucks create a vacuum that takes everything away, even the air. He has no idea how long he has been out here.
It would be easier to stop and take three steps to the left. He knows this. No one would be surprised. Just time it right and close his eyes and move laterally and open his arms. He could wait for the next Plymouth Voyager. Select the one he wants, identify its approaching headlights and press himself against the oncoming grill. He could feel the sails of the ship and sink all the way through. Penetrate directly to the core and meld with the moving parts. The option is always there.
Another pair of lights rises up, but they seem different and more threatening. The beams aim and come directly and the horn wails from too far out. He covers his eyes and turns his back. Hears the tires as they hit the gravel. He makes himself small. Crouches. Feels the skidding up through the ground. There is a hot smell of exhaust and burning rubber. He puts his chin on his knees and waits for the blow, but it doesn’t come. A door opens and slams shut. He hears footsteps and sees a darkness in front of the light. Then a hand sweeping his face, fingers on his cheek. The voice from the telephone. A weak connection, but the signal coming through. I’m here, she says.
Fresh water pouring over his head. She puts the bottle to his mouth. You need to drink. Drink this.
His eyes adjust. She is coming back and, at first, he is not sure if this is real. It could be a stranger, just another person in a car. Perhaps he is making himself see something. It takes a second before he knows. She is there and it is true. He puts both his hands on her shoulders, tests it, and then transfers some of his weight over.
Where have you been? she yells at him. There is no apology in her voice. The forgotten phone call happened years ago. Her eyes are bright and scared and she is spitting the words.
I’ve been going back and forth on this road for hours. You know that? Just looking and looking and hoping I’d find you before something happened. Driving past that same spot again and again. I didn’t know what you’d do out here by yourself. I almost called the police, Dad. You almost made me call the police.
She pulls her hands through her hair and looks far off to the side. The cars roar by and each one makes her wince. She seems exhausted. Older than he remembers from the last time.
She leads him over to her car, engine still running.
Get in, she says, and she opens the door. We need to go home. We need to get you into a bed.
She waves her hand into the space at the passenger’s side but he will not enter. He is standing in the mouth of the car, the V between the open door and the interior, and he tells her no. Tells her he won’t.
A motel, he says. How much farther? The idea is there, but the words slur a little. A motel in Essex. I need to get there. Just for tonight. Then we see.
She shakes her head, no. No. We need to stop this right now, okay? I’ve been out here for hours and I want to go home. Please stop this. Just get in. Please get in. Please.
He hears a hint of alarm in her voice and knows she is trying to cover it up. She likely thinks he isn’t right in the head anymore. Her hand goes to his shoulder and she pushes him down, tries to lower his body onto the seat.
He resists, feels his feet set hard on the ground. A sense of clarity returning and some strength. The shock of water helping. Everything is coming back to him now. Her hand on his shoulder. The right place at the right time and they are here together. This has always been the plan.
I am going to a motel tonight, he says. And you can come or you can go. Just tell me how much farther.
I don’t know, she screams. How am I supposed to know? Why are you doing this? Maybe a couple of miles that way. Her hand waves in the dark. Let me bring you at least. It will take us five minutes.
The still moment of confrontation. They stand one foot apart on the side of the road. He sways from the ankles and she looks at his hair and his clothes and his feet. Streaks of filth running behind his ears and down his neck. She shakes her head, stares at the space between his eyes and then looks away. He can see it when she turns. A tremor moving through, the crack in this hard performance. Her cheeks flush and he watches the anger and frustration mix with something else he can recognize. There are things we must allow each other that have nothing to do with kindness.
This doesn’t change anything, she says and she spreads both her arms wide as if to absorb the whole scene. A muscle ripples in her cheek. You know that, right? This won’t change what you did.
She pushes the heels of her hands hard against her eye sockets and then she shakes her head again and leans over to kiss him on the cheek. She walks back to the car, puts it in gear, checks over her shoulder, and sweeps through a U-turn. When she pulls up beside him, she hits the hazards and he looks to her through the window. She flicks her wrist and waves him ahead and he nods and starts to walk. She follows with her tires rotating to match his pace, a half-turn at a time. The four-ways flash and her headlights shine up on his back. He walks on the shoulder, then on the side, then in the middle of the lane and his shadow stretches out in front, the outline of a human body cast down onto the pavement, but still moving. Other cars come up from behind, slow down and almost crawl. There is a moment of confusion, a pause. A string of red tail lights extends back into the darkness and the whole strange parade inches forward.