Rearview (7 page)

14

The pickup pressed on, ever closer to the New York state line, as if this entire scenario were being played out in a work of fiction, Pete and Dan characters, Constant the author, and the truck merely a prop used to follow the narrative and take Dan closer to the grand finale. But this was stranger even than Dickens's fiction, and the idea of someone
orchestrating
these events was too much for him to think about. Surprisingly the truck handled the poor driving conditions quite well, and Pete appeared to be relaxed behind the wheel, as if navigating snow-covered roads in the middle of a temperamental storm were an everyday event for him. Snow still fell and blew into the truck's windshield but without the fury that it had when Dan was driving the car.

Another big rig crawled by like a mammoth making its way across a barren tundra.

Pete's question sat in Dan's mind like a rock. He'd asked if there were regrets. Dan turned his head toward the window and said, “Sure. I have regrets.” His admission seemed trite compared to the agony he suffered inside.

Pete shrugged. “Most of us do, I s'pose. You ever wonder what your life would be like without those regrets?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, take me for instance. What if I'd never picked up the bottle? Become a drunk? What if I'd been a husband who loved his wife, who showed his kids he loved their mother? What if I'd been a father who didn't beat on his kids when he was loaded? What kind of a life would I have now? I wouldn't be alone, I tell you that. You ever think about that?”

Since he awoke this morning, Dan had thought of little else. “I guess that's what a regret is. A poor decision you made that you now wish like crazy you could go back and change because you know if you'd chosen another path, your life would be different. Better.”

If hope was good medicine, regrets were a disease, a viral infection that invaded every cell of the body and spread its poison, not at once but over time, gradually building toxicity until the whole of the life affected was consumed. For Dan Blakely, the incubation of the virus began years ago when, as a teen, he'd driven his father from their home with his anger, his hurtful words, his stubborn rebellion, and he blamed himself when a tragic, single-vehicle accident then took his father's life. The past week had brought the maturation of the infection.

Pete glanced at Dan, then adjusted the heat in the cab, turning it up a notch. “Sounds like you speak from experience.”

“Plenty of it.” He told Pete about Erin and the cheating and argument and her inappropriate advances. He told him about the harassment and assault charges, about the firing, and how he was ruined. But he mentioned nothing of the drive up the mountain and the encounter with Constant. That would only plant seeds of doubt about his sanity, and Santa or not, Pete would likely stop the truck in the middle of nowhere and dump him out on his posterior.

When he'd finished, Dan leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and sighed. He hadn't given Pete all the details—to do so would take much longer than he wanted to spend recounting it all—but he'd hopefully said enough to make his new friend understand the urgency of the situation. And with his telling came a brief recess from the weight he carried, as if to share even a fraction of his burden with Pete brought some relief that someone else knew of his plight, of his toil, his regrets. He would not go out wholly misunderstood. His headache subsided; it was now only a dull throb tapping behind his eyes.

Pete did not reply at first; he watched the road with a strange indifference, chewing again. When he spoke, his voice was strained and hoarse. “Don't know why, lookin' like you do and all, but I believe you.”

“That's why I have to get to New York. My wife and kids are there visiting for the day and I have to see them. I have to tell her in person what happened. I have to tell them I love them and always will.”

“And you want to hear them say the same thing.”

“Yeah, I guess. But more than that, I just want them to know I love them. No matter what.”

“And it can't wait till they get home?”

Dan checked his watch. Pete knew nothing of Constant and his gift of seven hours, of the monster on Dan's tail, gaining ground, growing closer with each tick of the second hand. Another thirty minutes had disappeared. “No. It can't wait. I'm tired of regrets.”

Pete's deep-set gray eyes shifted back and forth along the roadway as if tracking a thought and waiting for the opportune time to reach out and grab it. “New York's a big city. How do you s'pose you'll find 'em?”

“They're spending the morning at Macy's, then walking to FAO Schwarz. I know that much.”

“Narrows it down some.”

“Not enough, though. Can we go faster?” Sue's plan was to take the boys to FAO Schwarz for lunch in the café, then spend some time looking at the toys, but Dan knew he'd need time to find them once he got there.

As if it were drawn along on a track and its speed regulated by a transformer, the truck held steady at forty miles an hour. The road here was straight and the snow well-packed, providing a clean, hard surface for the tires. Snow still fell but not nearly as hard or thick as it had. The storm was dying a slow death, losing its will to fight, and moving on to more northerly victims.

Without an argument, Pete dipped his chin and pressed the accelerator. The speedometer needle went to forty-five, then hovered around fifty.

The next thirty minutes passed as slowly as the tide receding into the vast open sea. Dan checked his watch often and repeatedly asked Pete to get the truck going faster. Each time, Pete complied and each time inched the speedometer's needle closer to sixty. Snow still fell outside, but the farther east they traveled, the smaller the flakes appeared and the lighter they fell. Their time was mostly occupied by small talk now, mottled with patches of silence. Pete said no more of his family, of his past, of his regrets. He talked about the weather and politics and even touched a bit on the upcoming holiday and his abhorrence of the commercialism that had overtaken it.

Dan listened but said little. His mind was elsewhere, on his family and finding them once he got to the city. He planned to head straight to FAO Schwarz and have Sue and the boys paged on the public address system. That would save him precious time.

The highway in New York had been plowed and salted, clearing a path of stained asphalt all the way to Sloatsburg. Pete was able to push the truck to sixty-five and make good time.

Finally they arrived at the metro station. The town of Sloatsburg wasn't more than a handful of streets nestled next to the Ramapo River and Interstate 87. The train station sat a block off State Route 17 as it exited the northern end of town. It consisted of just one automated ticket machine and a glass enclosure.

Pete steered the truck into the small parking lot, shifted into park, and let it idle. “Well, this is it. Sloatsburg station.”

The lot was full of unattended commuter cars, quietly waiting for the end of the day when weary workers would return from the big city and drive them home to suburban driveways and garages. No one occupied the platform or the glass enclosure.

“Train should be pullin' in soon,” Pete said. “Takes about an hour to get to the city from here.”

Dan stuck out his hand and shook Pete's. “I can't thank you enough for the ride.”

“Sure you can,” Pete said. “You just did. I hope you find your family. And for what it's worth, I think you're doin' the right thing. Somethin' I shoulda done a long time ago.”

“You still can, you know.”

“Nah.” Pete shook his head and glanced at the rearview mirror. “It's too late for me.”

Dan opened the door and slipped out of the truck. He faced Pete, hands resting on the frame. “It's never too late, Pete. As long as there's breath in your lungs, there's still time. Regrets don't have to die with you. You can still make it right.” He nodded toward the mirror. “And then you can stop looking at that thing and get on with your life.”

Pete chewed his lip and winked. “You ever consider bein' a preacher?”

“Nope. Never have.”

Pete shifted the truck into drive. “Well, you oughta.”

Dan shut the door and the truck pulled away, turned right, and disappeared around a bend in the road.

He looked at his watch—2:35.

15

The train arrived at the station ten minutes later, stopping with a hiss of air and a screech of metal on metal. As it passed, Dan noticed that every car was empty and wondered if this train was from the future and, after having dumped its payload of passengers in the afterlife, had returned for one more straggler. But this time of day all the commuters from Sloatsburg would have already done their traveling and clocked in to their jobs in the city.

Dan sat in a seat next to the doors, an uneasy anticipation quickening his breath. The interior was brightly lit by a double row of covered fluorescent bulbs running along the ceiling. Cushioned orange plastic seats lined each wall—some decorated with hastily sprayed, indecipherable graffiti, some littered with discarded newspapers and gum wrappers.

The overhead lights blinked once, twice, but before the doors closed, a man stepped through them. He glanced at Dan, brushed past, and headed for the rear of the train. Dan watched as he parked himself a few rows back, slouched forward, and bounced his head to whatever tune his iPod was pumping into his ears. He appeared to be young, early twenties, and had narrow, deep-set eyes, a short bulbous nose, and a round face full of old acne scars. He wore an oversize field coat, a plaid scarf wrapped tightly around his neck, and a black skullcap. As the beat of the music intensified and the bouncing of his head became more pronounced, his entire body began to rock.

Dan faced the front of the car, shut his eyes, and let his mind wander to the edge of peacefulness. It was a boundary that was impassable for him, though. There was no peace, not with Death on his tail and time running out.

The train's brakes disengaged and it began to roll forward, accelerating at a gradual pace.

Suddenly the car felt like a crypt and Dan had to open his eyes. The leafless trees moving by outside appeared to be bony specters ushering in the end of life. His chest tightened and a steady ringing started in his ears, bringing with it a throbbing headache.

From behind him, Dan heard the words “Time is ticking away.”

He spun around and stared at the passenger four rows back. The man's dark eyes met Dan's and blinked once, twice. His head continued to bob, keeping an even cadence. He lifted his chin at Dan, then turned his face to the window.

Slowly Dan faced forward again.

Seconds later, the voice was there a second time. “You're running out of time.”

Without hesitation, Dan looked and found the man still lost in his music, rocking back and forth.

Things are not always as they appear.
This was a truth about life that Dan now knew better than ever before. Once again, he entertained questions about his sanity as he studied his fellow passenger. Hallucinations, bodiless voices, paranoia—all signs of psychosis. But he wasn't crazy. He had heard the voice just as plain as day. And this man was the only other passenger. He must have spoken, possibly as some messenger of Death sent to torment, to harass and mock, to remind him of the relentless foe from which he fled but could never escape. And maybe, when the time came, to quicken death in a violent, tragic way.

Again, Dan turned around in his seat. Then he took one more glance at the stranger behind him. Still, the man appeared absorbed by the beat in his head and oblivious to the path Dan walked.

Dan looked at his watch. Only four minutes had passed since they left the Sloatsburg station. The conductor's voice on the loudspeaker had mumbled how long it would take to get to the next stop in Suffern but Dan had missed it.

The train eased around a corner and the car tilted almost imperceptibly. Snow blew past the window outside, a white speckled blur. Dan's chest continued to constrict. He glanced at his fellow passenger again, wondering if he had a knife hidden beneath that coat or maybe a handgun.

The man opened his mouth and licked his lips with a thick tongue.

Dan looked out the window and through the ghostly snow to the barren trees. He wondered what it would be like if the train derailed . . .

A man's voice said, “Ticktock, ticktock.”

Dan sprang from his seat, reached the guy behind him in four quick steps, and grabbed the front of his coat with both hands. Lifting him off the seat, he said, “What did you say? How do you know? Who are you?”

Fear twisted the man's face and widened his eyes. One of the earbuds came loose and dangled from its lead wire. The man raised both hands and stuttered, “I d-don't know wha-what you're t-talkin' 'bout, mister.”

“What did you say?”

“N-nuthin'. I d-didn't say nuthin'. You're crazy.”

Dan saw honesty, even a childlike innocence, in the man's eyes. He released his grip and the man scurried across the aisle to the far side of the train. He checked his watch and placed the bud back in his ear; then, eyeing Dan cautiously, he tapped the side of his head against the window as he began humming a disjointed tune.

Dan stumbled back to his seat, his mind turning tight circles, as the train slowed and the conductor announced that they'd arrived at the Suffern station.

The train stopped and the doors opened. Dan quickly exited and pushed through the small group of people on the platform. He had to find a secluded place. He needed to collect himself, settle his nerves, calm the trembling that had overtaken his muscles.

His watch said 2:15.

A block away, Dan found an employee bathroom in the rear of a box-making warehouse. He didn't ask permission to use it. After locking the door, he leaned against it, put his head in his hands, and took a series of deep breaths. He could no more stop the shaking in his hands than he could stop the world from spinning and thereby halt time. Oddly, he could still hear the voice—
“ticktock, ticktock”
—taunting, reminding him of the time slipping through his fingers like sand.

He only had about two hours left and he still had over an hour of travel time to get to New York. Then he had to find Sue and the boys.

He turned the knob to run the cold water in the sink. The bathroom was small and in need of updating. The walls were missing a few tiles, the porcelain-coated sink was chipped and stained, but at least the toilet had been flushed and the floor appeared clean. Cupping his hands under the water, Dan splashed his face. His head continued to throb.

He ripped some paper towels from the dispenser, dried his face and hair, then dared to look in the mirror. The man who peered back at him through the dark side of the looking glass was not Dan Blakely, associate professor of English, scholar, gentleman, husband, daddy; it was a man beaten into desperation, a man in a frantic cat-and-mouse game with Death. The gash above his left eye had scabbed over but was still swollen. The left half of his lower lip was purple and swollen. Bruises and abrasions mottled his face in a calico pattern. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the bottle of aspirin, emptied three into his hand, and tossed them into his mouth.

Gripping the sink with both hands, Dan looked into his eyes and wondered if they were windows to the soul of a sane man. With the idea of him being stuck in a dream already debunked, the only other alternate explanation was to question his lucidity. It was entirely possible that in the
real
world, he was tethered to a gurney in some psych ward babbling on about how Death was just around the corner, about how he could hear its labored breathing, smell its rotten, putrefying flesh. Possible, but not probable. He doubted a man as far gone as that would have the mental acuity to analyze his own sanity, to objectively stand aside and determine what was real and what was fantasy.

He didn't know which was worse: admitting all of this was real and he actually had cheated death and had—he glanced at his watch—two more hours until his time was up or admitting that he'd gone nuts and concocted an entire alternate life in his brain, one he felt and experienced as if it were as real as the teeth in his mouth.

As if he needed to convince himself one final time, he concluded he
was
sane. And to the dark-side Dan Blakely in the mirror, he said, “I am of sound mind. All the cards are in my deck. I am sharp as a knife.”

But still the doubts were there, doubts about his ability to discern what was real and what was fantasy, doubts about the chances of reaching Sue and the boys in time, doubts about his future, what was left of it. He didn't want to die alone, abandoned; he'd had enough of abandonment.

He had to see his family and tell them one more time that he loved them. Nothing else mattered. He had to stay alive long enough.

He had to catch the next train out of Suffern.