I glanced back from the boxcar just in time to see the huge iron wheels roll over Shane’s leg. I was never sure if the agonizing scream came from him or Fran, but I never made a sound. From that moment on, I would replay the scene again and again in my mind with no loss of intensity. Looking back, I would recall only bits and pieces of the next few hours: somehow managing to get the kid to the emergency room, Fran lying on the waiting room floor crying, completely broken, unable to get to her feet—from time to time, pulling herself together long enough to vent her rage at me. Racked with guilt, I could only stare straight ahead, willing to accept any punishment that came my way.
The word “STUPID” flashed over and over, like a white neon sign in my brain. I had been showing off—the whole damn thing, just a lark. The three of us were out for a Sunday drive when we were stopped at a train crossing in the middle of nowhere by a slow-moving freight train. If it had just been moving a little faster, the crazy idea would never have popped into my brain. The idea was to demonstrate the technique I had used as a teenager to jump trains for a joy ride. When I jumped out of the car and sprinted off to grab the side-ladder on the boxcar, I never thought about the boy following. Now, I had nothing but time to think about the accident. Whenever my brain replayed the surreal sequence, my whole body would shudder and an unbidden whine would escape from my throat. Sometimes, I would stay up all night moving restlessly about the house, chain-smoking and drinking. There was no way to put this thing behind me. Inside, a storm continued to build.
______
“Fran, will you stop staring at me? If you’ve got something to say, go ahead and say it.”
“Staring, who the hell is staring?” she says and lowers her glass to the table.
“I won’t have you blaming this on me. It was a goddamn accident and you know it.”
“Well, you tell me John, who do I blame?” she says, looking down at the pattern of wet rings she’s been stamping on the table with the bottom of her glass, “Maybe I should just blame it on fate, or an act of God. Is that what you need from me? Will that clear your fucking conscience?”
Before I can stop myself, I reach out, snatch the glass from her hand and smash it against the wall. The tea runs in tiny rivers down the white sheet rock like a shifting Rorschach pattern.
“Screw you Fran. He’s my son too.”
I push back from the table, pick up my cigarettes and walk out to the porch. Cars are speeding up and down the street completely ignoring the “Slow/Children Playing” sign. For a second, I wish I had my gun so I could shoot out a few tires, then frustrated, I unfold one of the lawn chairs propped against the wall and sit down hard. I feel the nylon webbing give a little, as if one of the interwoven strips in the seat has split. Hoping it holds, I bend over and pick up the paper. When I unfold it, there’s my name right there on the first page along with the whole fucking story. I sling the paper as far as I can out into the front yard. One of the pages breaks away and blows back into the sad-looking shrubbery surrounding the porch. It hangs there waving in the breeze like a white flag. I take a drag on my cigarette, lean back in the chair and close my eyes.
I hear the screen door open and suddenly feel the sting of an open hand across my face. Startled, I open my eyes just in time to catch Fran’s wrist before the next blow can land. Instinctively, I raise my right fist—then catch myself just in time.
Trembling with rage, I lower my hand slowly to the arm of the chair. I want to stand up and shake her. I want to shake her until she breaks.
“It was an accident Fran. It was just a crazy goddamn accident.”
I stand up and walk back into the house. Still trying to calm myself, I walk to the kitchen cabinet, take out a bottle of scotch, pour myself a strong one, and sit down at the table. Fran walks in from the porch, goes directly to the bedroom, and starts packing. I make no move to stop her.
______
After Fran’s exit, I stayed in the house for three days in a row, without eating, without sleeping. I disconnected the phone and spent most of my time on the living room floor, staring up at the ceiling. Whenever I was thirsty, I’d walk into the kitchen and use my hand to get a drink from the spigot. One morning someone came to the front door and rang the bell. I waited. After a minute, another ring, then they went away. I didn’t give a fat-fuck who it was—there was no way I was going to open the door.
I was feeling shitty about not going back to the hospital to see Shane, but I was afraid of running into Fran and setting off another nasty scene. So, I just added one more failure to my growing list of things done wrong. At night, I lay motionless in the dark, my head pulsing with the same gruesome images. I would sweat until my clothes were soaked through. I thought of myself holed-up in the blackness of a locked house, completely mad, feeling a rage without focus, and I knew I would have to do something soon.
Then, it came to me. I had to feel the pain. I had to know what it was like to be without a part of my body. Not just any part, but the same part as Shane. Maybe then, I could be forgiven, released from these shackles. I stood up and stumbled through the room bumping into furniture. I turned on all of the lights: the living room, the kitchen, the bedroom, the bathroom. I took off all my clothes, found the key to my workshop, and walked out into the backyard. The moon was shining across the lawn like a searchlight. I unlocked the door to the shop, walked over to the workbench and picked up what I was looking for. I plugged the thick black electric chord of the skil-saw into the outlet and sat down on the floor. Everything had come down to this single, blinding point—understanding this one thing perfectly. I extended my right leg as far as I could along the cool, white linoleum, and placed the circular blade against my thigh, just above the knee. I leaned forward and pushed down as hard as I could. I found the trigger with my right index finger and squeezed…
_____
I’m sitting in a wheelchair, staring through a metal-grate that covers the window. I’m watching the gardener, who’s hard at work in the flowerbeds. It’s the same guy who’s been the gardener through all of the years I’ve been here. There’s nothing to do here in the dayroom except sit—unless you’re into jigsaw puzzles, playing cards or wandering aimlessly around the room. I hear the ward door open—up the hall out of my sight. I wonder, as I do every time someone walks through the door, if this time it might be her, coming to apologize and take me home. After all this time—a little mercy.
The mail carrier’s voice calls out, sounding bored and impatient, “mail for John English”, but I’m so weighed down by medication and disappointment, I don’t feel like answering. So, somebody from the nurse’s station brings a plastic-covered magazine down and lays it in my lap. There must be some mistake. I don’t know anybody who would send me a magazine. The label is addressed: Mr. John English, St. Landry Psychiatric Treatment Center, Opelousas, Louisiana.
I look down at this alien communication from the outside world—something called “Contemporary Living”. On the cover, there’s a picture of a good-looking couple in a golf cart. Both are smiling as they travel along, in style, to the next tee. There’s a large caption under the picture that reads “Get Back In The Game”.
For the first time in years, I laugh. Through the metal mesh in the window, I can see people moving across the hospital grounds—all walking with a sense of purpose. “The game” is about movement over time—the illusion of moving toward something: Cars and trucks speeding in both directions along the street, trains rushing along static steel rails to nowhere, fading jet trails intersecting across the skyline—already history. All headed for some crucial appointment with the nobody that waits in the distance.
My rambling thoughts are interrupted by one of the nurses.
“Mr. English, would you like to get up and walk a little today?” she says holding out her hand to help me up.
“Hey, fuck you—get up and walk! You know I have only one leg! I’ll tell you, just like I’ve told the rest of the talking heads in this factory—I’m on to your bullshit game.”
“Oh come on Mr. English, you have both of your legs. Look, you can count—one, two.” she says pointing them out, as if she’s talking to a child.
But I’ve already turned her off. No more talk. I bring the black curtain down like a lead pipe. Shut her out. Shut it all out. I know what they’re trying to do. They want to suck away the only thing I have left. Destroy my last hope for forgiveness. Erase my precious sacrifice as though it never happened.
It’s quiet here, inside my hole. The hum of the machine, just blue static in the distance. Each time I’m able to stay here a little longer. Soon I’ll be strong enough to stay here permanently. Here, where I control time—slow it down, speed it up as I please. The hands on the clock move at my command. A world without motion where I can sit and wait. I can wait for as long as it takes.
DB Cox is a blues musician/writer from South Carolina. He can often be found in the early-morning hours bent over a Fender 
Stratocaster guitar in roadhouses, honky tonks, and juke joints throughout the south. His poems and short stories have been published extensively in the small press in the US and abroad. He has published four books of poetry. His first chapbook, entitled “Passing For Blue”, was published by Rank Stranger Press. Two other chapbooks, “Lowdown” and “Ordinary Sorrows”, were published by Pudding House Publications. Main Street Rag published his first full-length collection, entitled “Empty Frames” A new chapbook called “Nightwatch” has just been released by Pudding House Publications.
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