Henry

It was senseless, but what else was he supposed to do. He had to have a job, a place to live, something to do other than wonder. Maybe if he slept in a new place, had a new job, a new town, a new life—then maybe those six years wouldn’t matter anyway. Much of his life had been years he wished to forget. What were six more? Or maybe they’d come back to him. He had no idea; he only knew he couldn’t stay in Detroit.

He’d rented an old beat-up Buick and headed south to take the job as the editor of the Silent Fields Post. A nothing newspaper in a small town he’d never heard of. Perfect. He’d been driving for nearly twelve hours, with only a few quick breaks. He didn’t want to stop until he was there. It was important that he just get there. A little after two in the morning on Tuesday, he was only thirty miles out of Silent Fields.

And it was raining like it would never stop.

Henry felt the bald tires of the wasted old Buick slosh and slip on the wet road. He managed to keep the car under control for a while, but then the backend swung out badly. He turned into the skid, but nothing happened. Hands fumbling on the wheel. Heart pounding hard in his chest. Slow down, slow down, he begged. But the heavy car only gained momentum.

The car spun. Once and then twice, whipping around like a carnival ride. Henry could hardly keep his eyes open—mostly from the panic—but also from the bizarre feeling that he’d done this before.

I shouldn’t have come here. This is what I get for running away.

Another spin and then the tires caught the lip of the shoulder. Before Henry could cry out, the car slipped down an embankment, falling fast for several terrifying seconds, and then slamming hard into the ground. The sound of crunching metal and smashing glass. And pain. Hot, razor-edged pain in his head, arms, chest, and legs as he was jerked with the momentum of the impact.

The sudden silence pressed down on Henry’s throbbing chest. For a moment, he could only breathe against it, shock numbing his reactions.

I’ve been in a car accident.

What do I do?

The question broke the surface of his shock. He was miles from Silent Fields. It was the late hours of the night. Another car hadn’t passed him for a good half hour before the accident. Had he seen a house? Any mailboxes? He closed his eyes. His right leg twitched with lightning pain. Please don’t be broken.

Henry opened his eyes. Fierce rain fell on the shattered windshield, illuminated by the one headlight left working. It was oddly peaceful. Which scared him. Get out of the car. No one is coming for you. Resolved to walking out of the ditch and dragging himself to the nearest house—if there was one—Henry tried to move.

He screamed, something between a bellow and a moan.

A wave of pain rocked him back in the seat. Glass crunched under his thighs. He tasted blood in his mouth. He sucked down cold air, trying to breathe and fighting the dizziness in his head. A sound made him still.

Is that a child crying?

The thick rain took all sound and deadened it, pulling it down into swampy puddles. Perhaps he hadn’t heard crying at all.

Just try the door.

Henry slowly lifted his left arm, which didn’t seem to be injured. He found the door handle. After a steadying breath, he pushed. The door creaked, but didn’t open. Leaning into the door, he held his breath and gave a heaving thrust with his shoulder. The door flew open forcibly; Henry yelled out in pain as his body flopped to the side.

Maybe someone heard that.

Doubtful.

Henry looked out his open door at the wet landscape, black beyond the small circle of light where his car rested. Get out. Good grief, it’s cold. A biting cold that went straight through his wool coat and jeans, along with the icy water.

A wave of dizziness forced him to close his eyes and breathe. He lifted a hand to his forehead; his fingers came back with bright-red blood. More scars … He didn’t look at it very long. He moved his hand down his right leg, praying he didn’t meet exposed bone. No bone, but more sticky blood.

After unclipping his seatbelt, which amazingly hadn’t become stuck, Henry took a long breath. He tried to move his right leg. It hurt like mad, but it moved. Assisting with his hands, he pulled the leg toward the door. Left leg out, boot in snow. Right leg … gritting his teeth, Henry yanked on the leg. His boot hit the snow with an unnatural drop and a punch of pain.

He had to lean into the steering wheel and wait for the spots in his vision to disappear. Now stand. Stand up. Using the door as a crutch, Henry pulled himself out of the car. Next came the big test. If he couldn’t put weight on his right leg, he might as well crawl back into the car and wait to freeze to death. Or drown. He pictured the car filling up with rain, like an aquarium tank.

Kansas is trying to kill me.

Briefly, his mind strayed to the words, as it did so easily. What words would he use to write this scene? Hopeless? Stranded? Facing his mortality? “Stop it,” he hissed out loud. This isn’t fiction. This is real. Don’t write. Save yourself.

Henry eased weight onto his right leg. The pain came from his ankle. Awful, twisted pain. But it took a little weight. Henry hopped backward, using mostly his left leg. He angled himself toward the light. There was an ugly gash in his shin. Something in the underside of the dash must have shattered and cut into him. Blood trickled into his eye now, and his chest felt tight, like a weight had been strapped to it.

At least I will know the cause of these scars. Maybe I was in an accident before. Head trauma? Amnesia? The idea made him feel even colder, so he shook it off. He needed to help himself now, not worry about before. He needed a doctor. There could be internal injuries, more head trauma.

Walk.

But it wasn’t really walking—it was spastic hopping crossed with dragging.

And how it hurt!

Once away from the car, Henry found the darkness not quiet so black. The rain seemed to glow with its own light, pearlescent and beautiful. The words tried to come, but Henry pushed them away.

Back on the road, he stared for a whole minute at his chaotic tire tracks. Gouges in the gravel, like tracks of wounds. How did this happen? An edgy flare of panic raced up his throat.

Henry turned away and headed in the opposite direction. The rain swallowed him; the wet wind pushed him forward.

After walking for an interminable amount of time, the pain growing worse with each step, and the rain turning his skin to soppy mush, Henry finally saw a single square of yellow civilized light tucked into a gathering of trees. He pushed forward, turning off the road, and trudged down the long driveway. He kept his arms pressed close to his body, his coat collar turned up. His ears, nose, and fingers burned with the cold.

Finally, he collapsed on the weathered porch steps of a small farmhouse. In the darkness, the clapboards looked sickly gray, the paint peeling like sunburned skin. Lamplight filled one curtained window, but there was no sound or hint of movement in the house.

Pulling in air, trying to ignore the throbbing pulse of blood at every injury, Henry bit his bottom lip in hesitation. A sudden shyness stalled his onward attitude. What would these poor people think when he knocked on their door in the middle of the night, beaten to a bloody pulp, soaking, and nearly helpless? Would they help him? Or call the police? Introduce him to the end of a sawed-off shotgun?

After another moment of pointless debate, he stood, climbed the stairs, and confronted the door. He took a deep breath and knocked quietly. His ears strained to hear a response. None came. Forced to knock again, he did so a little louder this time, Henry grimaced at his intrusion.

A shuffle of movement behind the door, the thudding of feet, possibly angry feet. Henry swallowed, stepped back. The door flew open to reveal a gruff figure hunched behind it. The man swore under his breath at the sight of Henry and then asked angrily, “Who are you?”

“I’m so sorry, sir. I know it’s late—” Henry shivered so hard his words bounced around on his tongue.

“Late? Boy, it’s three in the morning!” The older man, dressed in faded flannel pajamas, straining at the buttons over his generous belly, frowned sternly.

“I really do apologize, but I … my car slid off the road. I’m hurt.” Henry swallowed and then added quietly. “I need help.”

“Well, that’s what you get for driving in this freak weather.” The farmer squinted in the dark, narrowing cold, wrinkled eyes at his unexpected visitor. His eyes changed as he finally saw the extent of Henry’s injuries, but there was no softening. The man opened his mouth to say something, shifting slightly as if to shut the door, but was cut off by another voice. “What’s going on, Gill?”

A short woman, round and soft in all the grandmotherly ways, appeared behind her bald husband. Her hair was raincloud gray and hanging in thin long wisps around her kind face. She took one look at Henry and put a hand to her heart. “Oh, you poor thing! What on earth happened to you?” She pushed passed an annoyed Gill.

“Abby, we don’t have any idea who this guy is,” Gill protested. “You can’t …”

“Oh, shut up, you old grump,” she shot back. “The boy needs help. And I can tell just lookin’ at him that he’s good through and through. Be a decent Christian for once in your miserable life.” She frowned reproachfully, but then turned a bright smile on Henry. “You a thief?”

Henry blanched, blinked. “No, ma’am.”

“Ax murderer? Annoying salesman? Fugitive? Nail biter?” She smiled as she said the last one and the tension in Henry’s gut eased slightly.

“No, ma’am.”

Abby nodded and reached for him. “Then you come in now, out of the icy night, and let’s see what we can do.”

Henry looked to Gill, who huffed and stomped away. Abby gently took Henry’s arm, pulling him forward. “Come on. That old dog won’t bite, he just likes to bark and act tough.” Gill’s scoff was loud, but Henry sighed with relief and almost smiled at the older couple’s banter.

Abby tucked a crocheted throw around his shoulders and pulled him into the small house. He looked down on the top of her head; she was short and waddled when she walked. She gestured to the sagging couch in the living room that appeared trapped in the 1960s.

Henry sat heavily and promptly passed out.