Wayne Scheer "Without Tears" (Short Story) for Literary Potpourri)

It was July Fourth, one year ago, when life came crashing down on me. Actually--on my husband. And it wasn't life, it was a '96 Pontiac Grand Prix. He was under it when the jack slipped.

There wasn't much of a crash. I didn't hear anything more than a muffled crunch. I suppose Tom's body cushioned the blow, stopping the car's metal underbelly from hitting the concrete driveway.

Tom was considerate that way. After all, the driveway was newly resurfaced. That company must do good work because there was no serious damage that a cleaning crew couldn't remedy.

I was in the kitchen doing dishes when I heard something. I think what caught my attention was the oddness of the sound, like dropping a block of cement on a carpet.

I felt it more than I heard it. My guess is, the same could be said for Tom.

When I looked out the window, I didn't see anything unusual at first. I had a holiday weekend, no classes, no students, peace. I mean what would a holiday morning be without seeing the birds flutter at the birdbath, the sun reflect off the Hacker's bright yellow house and my husband's long, skinny legs stretched out from under one of the cars?

But something seemed different.

"Tom?" I called.

"Tom?" I shouted louder. Then I saw the jack on its side and the car on all four of its wheels and the blood running from under the car forming a small pool. My first thought was that Tom dropped the oil pan on the clean, white driveway. But I knew. I just tried not to imagine.

What I remember most at this point is the silence. I think I called Tom's name again. I think I screamed, but I'll never forget the horrible silence. Even the wind stopped blowing.

The Brandon's, Richard and Jenna, from across the street, came out first. I saw Rita Cohen pulling her little girl away and soon there were police and my mother and the ambulance and…

I tried not to look when they pulled Tom from under the car, but I couldn't help myself. The strange thing is, he didn't look too bad. I thought he'd look like one of those cartoon pancake men, as flat as a tortilla. Then I saw his head on the just-resurfaced, white driveway.

Did you know there are cleaning companies that specialize in cleaning blood and human remains off concrete?

The medics on the scene told me he died instantly. "There couldn't have been much pain, Ma'am," the young blond one said, trying to be helpful.

Not much pain? What do you mean not much pain, I wanted to ask him. But then I looked at his baby face. I remember thinking, Shit! I shave more often than he does. His upper lip and nostrils were twitching and his nose was turning red.

"Thank you," I said. I almost put my arm around him and told him it was going to be all right. I was suddenly wanting to comfort the poor kid.

That's when it hit me: Tom and I, married four years, would never have children of our own.

I came to,--in the hospital. I remember my mother sitting by my bed crying. I said horrible things to her. Tom, planning on buying a new car, was fixing the Pontiac for her. It was a surprise.

I remember cursing Tom, calling him a selfish son-of-a-bitch, caring more for his damn cars than for me. "How could that bastard die on July Fourth? Fucking Independence Day!" For some reason, that struck me as funny and I started lecturing my mother on 'irony' as if she were one of my Freshman Comp students.

I remember asking my mother to take notes for me because "I think I might have an article here," I said. "This could be my way to fucking tenure." Her face rumpled like a dirty hanky. It suddenly occurred to me that I had never really cursed in front of my mother before. It felt so good, I kept at it. At that, a nurse turned up whatever wonderful drug was in my IV and I drifted off to that special place where cars don't fall on people.

They kept me in the hospital for a few days, mostly sedated. I drifted in and out of consciousness. Sometimes Tom stood over my bed, smiling, and other times I watched them pull his body from under the car. Once I was alone in a restaurant ordering a pizza with anchovies and onions. One of the doctors said it was a good sign. I was getting my appetite back.

"But I hate anchovies," I said.

When I got home there was no anchovy pizza waiting for me, thank goodness. But you wouldn't believe the food. Do people keep a supply of vegetable soup, chicken cacciatore and banana bread in their freezers waiting for a catastrophe in the neighborhood? When Emil and Nancy lost their son, I brought a tray of deli meats from Publix. I wonder now if I committed some kind of suburban sin?

Oh, and the funeral. I wished and wished Tom were there so we could make fun of it, especially the minister who had never met Tom but performed the eulogy anyway. When I realized Tom *was* there, the humor of it left me. I felt I had just eaten that anchovy and onion pizza. Somewhere around the time the minister said, "Let us pray," I vomited. Tom would have understood; his parents not so much.

It's been rough getting back to my life, rougher than I ever imagined it would be. In four years, I grew so dependent upon him. I think of that every time I take out the trash. Or reach for him in the middle of the night. "Happy Independence Day," I hear him say. "You sorry-assed son-of-a-bitch," I reply.

I suppose I'm healing because friends are asking when I'll start dating. Even Mom has begun to hint. They all seem to know someone. Mom is after me to go on one of those "chatter rooms on the Interweb." She tells me her neighbor's daughter met a nice young man that way. But it's hard for me to imagine. What would I say? "Hi, my name is Chris. My husband was crushed by a car. Seen any good movies lately?"

Huh. I smiled as I wrote that. Maybe I am getting better.

Maybe.

WITHOUT TEARS

by

Wayne Scheer