Short Story
Road Kill

There’s some comfort in driving home drunk at night when you’re familiar with the route. And living out in the sticks makes it less likely you’re going to get stopped by the cops or run head-on into another car. Those aren’t the reasons I lived there; it was a no-choice deal. We had nowhere else to go after I lost my last job. Two drunk driving convictions and thirty days in jail meant me, my wife, and our son Michael had to move in with her father Cesar and his third wife after I lost my job. That situation eventually led to my divorce and bankruptcy.

            “So you’re bringing me another trifecta,” my lawyer, whose name really was Errol Flynn, had said, trying to be humorous.

            “A what?” I thought he was talking about the track.

            “Trifecta. Divorce, drunk driving, bankruptcy. They often go hand-in-hand. You’re my fourth this year. Pays the bills.”

            What a jerk. No wonder people hate lawyers. Anyway, I rented a room in an old Spanish style house near Michael. Six years old and he speaks better Spanish than English. Cesar Santiago, an exiled Cuban and my father-in-law, doesn’t allow English to be spoken in his house. I complained to Errol and he said I had bigger fish to fry. Like the divorce custody battle and the upcoming sentencing for my latest DUI.

I blamed my wife Pilar for everything, but most of our troubles were cultural. Cesar is the patriarch, it’s his house we were living in, and I was supposed to kiss his ass. I’m American, so bullshit to that. Then they got a protection order on me so I couldn’t even see Michael unsupervised. I never hit her like they said. I would never do that. Now I can’t even talk to her or see my own son. It was her lawyer pulling the strings. My lawyer was multi-tasking all my other problems so I guess he wasn’t paying attention.

            It was dark when I drove by their house. Lights all on and someone sitting on the stoop, couldn’t tell who. They did that on hot nights. Cesar wouldn’t spring for air conditioning. I veered to the left, over the line in the direction I was looking, then jerked the wheel back. No cars coming so no harm done. I was drunk but not so drunk I couldn’t drive. I pulled out my crushed pack of Marlboro’s, extracted one, straightened it, and pushed in the lighter. It popped out, the end glowing red as I tried to light the cigarette. I dropped the lighter, and it bounced off my knee onto the floor. Damn, didn’t need a fire.  I reached for it, no car lights coming so I fumbled around, found it and burned my finger tips.

Then it happened. A sharp bang on the right front fender. I thought I’d hit a deer or a wild hog. Plenty of them at night. I backed up, but didn’t see anything. Probably knocked it into the swampy drainage canal alongside the road. I sure wasn’t getting out and go searching there for fresh venison in the dark. If it wasn’t the water moccasins or pythons that got you there were lots of gators. Plus it was fifteen feet deep in spots. They pulled a van out of the canal last year that had been missing since the seventies.

A bicycle peeked over the weeds, the front wheel twisted and the frame bent. I hadn’t seen any riders so that couldn’t have been what I had hit.

            Once home I drank a couple more beers and fell asleep watching an old Bruce Willis flick.

            When I awoke late there was no time for a shower. I had finally gotten a job with a landscape company supervising a yard mowing crew. Getting work after doing thirty days isn’t easy so I had to hold onto this one. I had no backup plan or credit. Plus I needed cash for the lawyer so I could get Michael back, or at least manage joint custody.

Jimmy, my landlord, stepped into the kitchen as I was getting my coffee.

            “You hear what went down last night?” He took the pot from me and refilled his cup.

            “What? I came home and went to sleep. Who would I have talked to?”

            “I heard on the radio that a bicyclist was killed by a hit and run driver right down the road.”

            “Anybody we know?” My heart skipped two beats. Had to be me. I turned to the window.

            “No names yet. You know how they talk, ‘pending notice to next of kin’ that kind of crap. I’ll find out.”

            I thought about the bike on the edge of the road, but couldn’t ask Jimmy any more without seeming too interested. I left the coffee and went to my truck. The headlight was broken. No blood or fur. I was sure it wasn’t a deer. What to do? If I turned myself in there would be a blood test. Alcohol would still be in my system and they could extrapolate and figure how drunk I was last night. I learned this from my last trial. This was manslaughter at best and prison for sure. I couldn’t bring the victim back to life so had to cover the best I could.

            Jimmy gave me a ride to work. I said the truck was acting funny. I bought a new headlight in town. There weren’t any witnesses to the accident—I had to stay calm—this  could all work out.

            That afternoon I got off early, begged a ride home, and replaced the broken headlight. Then Errol called. He told me to get to his office now, not later. The police were after me. He said it had to do with the bicyclist and clammed up.

            Errol’s office was in a strip mall on US-1 in Sebastian. Sebastian is a former fishing village now transitioning to a Florida tourist and retirement haven. Most of Errol’s clients were the trifecta kind, plus some speeding tickets and an occasional personal injury case.

            We went to his small conference room. Errol sat, stood, sat again and drummed his fingers on the table top.

            “You’re in the shit this time. What were you thinking?” He tapped his pen on the table like a drumstick.

            “What the hell are you talking about? Why do the cops want me? What’s this about a bicyclist?”  I didn’t see how they could pin the biker on me. Was there a witness after all?

“The bike rider who died was Pilar, your wife.” He paused, searching my face. “They’re calling it premeditated murder. The husband is always first choice as a suspect. A wife is killed, arrest the husband, then sort it out later. Police procedure. They say she drowned. Might have been saved if someone had stopped.”

Tears came to my eyes. This couldn’t be. She had a bike but never rode it except to go to the little Mexican grocery in Fellsmere, and that was a two mile ride in the dark.

“Are you sure it was her?” I didn’t know what else to say. I was shocked; and felt guilty thinking no more divorce case.

“The sheriff is sure.”

“Look, I don’t hate Pilar. I wouldn’t kill her. Her father maybe, but not her. She’s Michael’s mother. Does he know?”

“We have to go to the police. I’ll go with you. It’ll only be worse if they have to come find you. You don’t want things to escalate. There are some good criminal lawyers I can hook you up with.”

I stood and moved toward the door. “I’ll turn myself in. You know I don’t have money so it’ll be the public defender, God help me. Besides, I didn’t do it. Just because I’m her husband doesn’t make me guilty.”

I left, but didn’t go to the police. I took off in the repaired truck. I would deny everything if caught. The canals along the roadway are deep and don’t have railings. It had been dark. And what was she doing riding a bike that time of night? But he was right. I would be presumed guilty and Florida has the death penalty. I aimed the truck away from town. There were places I could go. Work for cash, get off the grid. I travelled back roads and headed inland, through what once had been the Everglades before the swamps were drained. Nothing but palmettos, swamp grass, and citrus groves. When I got situated I’d come back for Michael.

I was only ten miles in when it happened. Three deer were standing in the middle of the sandy road as I rounded a curve too fast. I swerved and slid, my wheel caught the edge of the ditch and the truck flipped into the canal.

Seat belts save lives they say. Maybe, but I was suspended upside down. The dark was complete and impenetrable. The windows were covered in black water. I popped the seat belt and fell to the roof of the truck. The doors were wedged into the mud, wouldn’t open. I could feel and smell the water creeping up my shoulders. It was warm, like a stinking bath. The windows I thought. If I could kick one out I might be able to swim free.

But my shoes were rubber soled. I kicked until the rising water made it impossible. I had maybe two minutes left before the water inched into my nostrils and over my head. There was still about a foot of air space left below the floor of the truck above my head. My only option was to roll a window down and hope there was room to squeeze out and reach the surface. But the water would flow in quickly then, eliminating my little air pocket. I had to choose: die now or die in a few minutes.

That wasn’t how I had seen my life ending. Would they ever find the truck? Or me? Michael would think I had abandoned him. I took deep breaths, trying to oxygenate, then squatted for a quick push through the window once I got it open. The handle was below water. Power windows wouldn’t have worked under water. I reached down, keeping my face in the air pocket and cranked quickly. The water rushed in and I kept cranking as I was engulfed underwater. It had only been seconds I’m sure, but seemed longer. I tried to get through the window. It was soft mud. I forced my hands up through it, pulling mud inside the truck along with stringy roots, then water. I pulled more mud in, making a hole, then put my arms together over my head and through the window. I pushed with my coiled legs and forced my way through the narrow slimy opening, pulling with my arms and kicking and climbing with my feet and legs until I broke through, gulping the cool air and appreciating the sunlight as I splashed to the edge of the canal, then lay there, my head and shoulders on the mucky shoreline while my body remained submerged.

I recovered slowly, finally climbing up the steep bank, forgetting about snakes, alligators or anything besides being in the open air and on dry land. I stood exhausted and still heaving deep breaths. I leaned over, my hands on my knees and vomited. I looked back and could see nothing of the truck. I was covered in slimy black mud. When I wiped it from my face I discovered a small leech just beginning to work on my neck and I pulled it off in a panic. There’s something about leeches and snakes that’s unsettling.

There were no other cars on the sandy road. I walked back in the direction I’d come. A nearby clean pond gave me the chance to rinse myself and my clothes and I continued, drying as I walked; hoping I appeared presentable enough to be given a ride.

Had I killed Pilar?  Probably. It would be too much of a coincidence if not and I didn’t believe in coincidence. It didn’t feel good. Didn’t feel real. I wished I had stopped. Maybe I could have saved her. Errol said the funeral was tomorrow but I knew I shouldn’t go. Cesar would probably shoot me. If not, I would certainly be arrested.

The road ahead was straight, of white sand and shell, bordered on the left by the canal and on the right by orange groves. It disappeared into the horizon. The sun beat down and I had no hat. Still no cars in sight.

My friend Rick had been punished by a long and expensive custody case a couple of years ago. Accusations went both ways, the poor kids were a mess. His wife, Anna, couldn’t deal with it. She locked herself in the garage and started the car. He got the kids of course. And the house. He later told me he felt relief, not remorse after her death. I didn’t feel that way. Had we not had to move in with her father I was sure we could have worked things out. But living with him put her under powerful familial pressure with which I couldn’t compete. I had been weak, self pitying, and surrendered to drinking and denial. I should have insisted we move and find our own way. Pilar would have gone with me if I had made her choose. I realized all that too late.

A dust cloud over the road in the distance indicated a vehicle. I was willing to take any ride, even one going the opposite direction so I stood to the side of the road to signal for help. I looked myself over and brushed at my clothes to try to smooth them out. I had shaved that morning so that part was okay. I used my fingers to comb the hair straight back and waited. It was a car, not a truck as I had hoped. As it got closer the occupants were visible. A man and woman in the front and a baby seat in the back. I held my thumb out even though my chances of getting picked up had dipped to nearly zero. The driver had the courtesy to slow down to reduce the dust but didn’t stop. I kept walking.

I decided that I had to go to the funeral. Pilar was my wife. At one time we meant more to each other than life. All those feelings don’t just disappear. And there was Michael. I couldn’t give him up. How could I make this work, get out of this mess and take care of him?

A ride finally came along. Migrant workers in a rusted pickup. I rode in the back with them, speaking my broken Spanish. They dropped me off a few miles from Fellsmere and I walked. There were no police cars around my place so I skirted around the back through a field and went inside. My truck wasn’t there of course and that’s probably what they were looking for. I took a quick shower and changed into clean clothes. I emptied my wallet on the kitchen table and let everything dry. I counted thirty-two dollars, mostly ones; all I had left. And now no truck.

Our Lady of Guadalupe Catholic Church was on the main road at the edge of town and the funeral would be there in the morning. I would wait and sleep on the roof tonight. That was what I did when it was too hot. Mosquitoes didn’t usually venture that high up and I could catch a breeze. The police weren’t likely to look up there if they came by.

I stayed on the roof in the morning, waiting until the last minute. Timing it so I would have time to get dressed and slip over to the church after everyone was inside. Pay my respects. Maybe get a glimpse of Michael. Fellsmere isn’t a busy town. Its heyday was in the early part of the twentieth century when it was a big agricultural area. But a tremendous flood changed wiped out the development and people moved on. Now there was a movement to revitalize the town. People had moved back and aquaculture was the new industry. Growing fish and shrimp in big tanks. Even so there weren’t many cars were on the roads and few people walking the streets. Most everyone in town would be at the church by the time I got there.

An empty sheriff’s cruiser was parked in the shade of a moss covered live oak. Other cars and trucks were parked nose to tail along the drive and the parking lot was half full. I steeled myself and walked up the steps to the church, genuflecting and then sitting unnoticed in the last row. The casket was open at the front near the altar. It was draped in white with a large spray of white roses. I couldn’t see Pilar from my seat. Roses were her favorite. Her family was in the front two rows. Michael must have been in the front row but he was small so I couldn’t see him over the back of the pews.

As the service ended those in the front filed from their seats and approached the casket. Her family. I should have been first in line. I teared up, then stood and walked forward. Cesar was holding Michael’s hand as they stood looking at Pilar. I didn’t want to cause a scene. Just a say a short prayer, kiss Michael, and leave if they let me. I walked further, past a sheriff’s deputy on the aisle. I was waiting to be grabbed. For someone to cry out. To be thrown to the ground and put in handcuffs. Or be beaten. I didn’t care.

I reached Cesar and touched his shoulder. He turned. He had been weeping.

“Cesar,” I said.

He flung his arms around me, a bear hug, the crowd murmured, Michael looked up and rushed over, clinging to my leg.

Cesar began sobbing loudly. People patted my back. Expressing sympathy. I was stunned and picked up Michael, crushing him to me, kissing his forehead. I was not being blamed.

“They found him,” Cesar said, looking up into my eyes. “The malparido that killed our Pilar has been discovered and has turned himself in. Gracias a Dios you came back.”

Relief is what I felt at that moment. Relief that I had Michael back. And had reconciled with Pilar’s family, who were, after all, Michael’s family. I wouldn’t want that changed. Pilar was gone. I would miss her but was not to blame—and I had my life back.

Perhaps thanks to her.