(Scene Two will make more sense with the amended first paragraph for Scene One below.)
Ron sat quietly, dutifully, outwardly complacently staring out the large window that stretched across the rear wall of the living room and studied the hills over a mile off in the distance while Ben performed his ritual of lightly tugging and straightening and smoothing out Ron’s pant legs, stopping at times to pick off specks of lint or dust.
Ron wondered what it might take to convince Ben to drive him to a remote spot in those distance woods, allow him to disembark from the van and then have Ben drive off. The thought was quickly dismissed as being a completely unfair request to ask of Ben, yet still, it gave him some hope a fleeting moment of feeling still in control of his own destiny.
II
“There it is,” Ron said as they came down the quiet country road; a small bridge with steel and concrete roadbed panels stood before them.
Ben brought the van to a stop about twenty feet short of the crossing. With the vehicle still in gear and Ben’s foot on the brake, the van engine hummed as they both stared out the windshield, Ben taking in the scene for the very first time while Ron, having viewed the surroundings numerous times from the seat of a bicycle, digested an entirely new perspective.
Ben allowed his gaze to wander to the creek that ran underneath the bridge to the small red house that sat about a hundred yards down the road to the left; Ron’s gaze remained fixed on the bridge, seeking answers.
“Let’s go ahead and park,” Ron finally said.
Ben lifted his foot from the brake and the van moved on its own volition across the bridge; the distinct sound of tires on grate reverberated through the vehicle as it slowly made its way to the other side. Just past the bridge, a dirt road came out from the right. Ben pulled in, turned the van around and maneuvered into a position where he could park and lower the ramp.
“I think this angle will be all right,” Ben said, more to himself than to Ron.
“Seems to be.”
Ben began the process of unhooking the straps that held the wheelchair in place. Sometimes, the straps gave Ron a sense of security when he would hear them ratcheted taut and an aura of angst would overcome him when they were released as if the chair would suddenly roll and pin him inside the van. Today, with his caregiver’s head just beneath him and reaching around Ron to release the straps’ hold, Ben was his savoir, smashing his shackles that entrapped him inside a dungeon.
“I got it,” Ron said before Ben could ask and Ron began the to and fro process of going forward and backward to align the chair with the ramp that led down the van to the dirt road. Ben stood at the ready in case Ron’s steering was errant as he went down, always prepared to use his heft to heave against the five hundred plus pounds of chair and flesh if it should begin to ride over the rim.
While Ben locked up the van, Ron looked down the dirt road that quickly curved off to the left. Ron turned his chair and eyed Ben inside the van then turned his chair to face back down the road. Would death come quickly exposed to the elements? Shock, hypothermia. Maybe even coyotes, but probably not.
“Ready?” Ben asked.
“Yep.”
Ron turned and bumped his way along the road to the pavement with Ben walking right alongside, watching Ron’s head bobbing with every bit of gravel the chair went over.
“You all right?”
“I will be.”
A few seconds later they were on the asphalt and Ron headed straight for the bridge, parking his chair in the middle of the road. He studied the two steel grate panels that were sandwiched between the three slabs of concrete on the bridge’s road surface; Ben took brief glimpses in between checking their flank for any approaching vehicles.
Ron moved forward, rumbling slowly across the grate. Light reflected from the creek water below and poked erratically through the grid like a strobe. Ron tried to push the harsh glare aside and focused on the crack that ran between the metal grate and concrete panel. Sometimes it was imperceptibly narrow, the two surfaces practically touching, while other times the gap widened to what seemed to be just the right amount to trap the wheel of a road bike.
They reached the end of the bridge and Ron turned again, facing the bridge from the other end.
“What stupidity.” Ron said.
“What? The construction?”
“No. Me.”
“How can you say that?”
“It’s obvious. I know this bridge. I know its dangers. How could I have let myself get distracted enough to allow a wheel to get trapped in there?”
“You don’t know what happened.”
A long, long silence. Ben looked from the bridge and studied. He was increasingly worried with Ron’s mood that morning and questioned more and more the wisdom of coming out there. Maybe nine months after the accident was too soon. A few more minutes, Ben thought, and they would be back on their way home. He would make some hot chocolate, put on a movie and they could forget about this outing.
“No. I remember nothing.”
Ron turned and went further up the road away from the bridge.
“Where are you going?”
Ron said nothing and continued his trek down the road. Ben knew better than try and argue. He followed suit, periodically checking the road behind them as they made their way further and further away from the bridge.
The road curved gently to their right while also slowly gaining in altitude. About a quarter of a mile up, the road began to curve to the left.
“You know. We have a van back there. We don’t have to walk all the back to town.”
“Who’s walking?” Ron answered.
Ron continued climbing until they reached the elbow of the curve where, if they went any further, the bridge would disappear from view. Ron stopped and turned to take in the view of the road leading down to the bridge. The blind curve above them made Ben nervous.
“So. You remember anything?” Ben asked.
“No. Not a damn thing.”
“That’s what I’m saying. It could have been a dog chasing and distracting you. Maybe a car passing on the bridge, even sideswiping the bike and forcing you into the crack.”
“Maybe.”
“Being here isn’t bringing anything back?”
“No. The last thing I remember is going to bed the night before.”
Together, they continued to gaze down at the bridge below and then Ron moved over to the other lane, stopping in the narrow grassy shoulder with a guardrail separating Ron from the slope that ran down to some thickets and the creek beyond that.
“What’s over there?” Ben asked.
“The creek.”
Ben took a position uphill of the chair between Ron and the blind curve that was above them. A ridge with a limestone bluff rose up across on the other side of the creek.
“It’s pretty,” Ben said.
“Yes. This was one of my favorite routes.”
They watched as a hawk rode the thermals through the creek valley, gliding out of view to their left.
Buzzards, Ron thought. He wasn’t very keen on being pecked at by buzzards.
“What’s that?” Ron asked.
“Where?”
“Down there. In the brush.”
Ben followed Ron’s gaze and caught sight of a glimmering reflection twinkling in the thick stand of creek saplings.
“Looks like a gold chain,” Ben said.
“That’s what I was thinking.”
Ron continued to watch the light dancing about but Ben looked back across at the bluff, admiring a cedar whose roots clung tenaciously in a crack in the wall face while the tree grew vertically up seeming to defy gravity.
“Why don’t you go check that out,” Ron said.
“What?”
“The chain.”
“You want me to go down there?”
“Yes.”
“Why? Are you missing a chain?”
“No. But my interest is piqued. You never know what curio may end up downstream.”
It was the most animated Ben had seen Ron all day or all week for that matter.
“All right.”
Ben had Ron turn more parallel to the guard rail before he climbed over it and cautiously made his way down the slope. More than once he slipped in the thick grass and landed on his bottom before finally reaching the thicket. From down below he could not see Ron and Ben did not like the idea of leaving Ron alone tightly squeezed against a guard rail on a blind curve; he was not liking this wild goose chase.
“Ron!” Ben called out.
From above, Ron called back but his voice barely carried.
“I’ll be right there.”
Ron said something else but Ben had no idea what it was.
He looked around for the dangling charm, surprised that he was having trouble spotting it. From above, Ben could hear a vehicle coming down the hill around the blind curve.
“Oh, great,” he muttered and contemplated making a mad dash back up the hill but knew the car or truck or whatever would be long gone before he made any sizeable dent in the climb.
“Ron!” Ben called out again, not even sure why and then thinking all it did was distract Ron from hearing the approaching vehicle.
“Damn it!” Ben muttered as he listened to the sounds up above and hoped all he would hear was the shearing of wind.
Ben looked again toward the thicket, wanting to get back up as quick as possible. The wind blew and the curio caught the sun, hanging about twenty feet away. Ben made his way to it while keeping an ear to the vehicular activity above. He looked up and paused in his stride as he caught a glimpse of the top of a pickup passing beyond the guardrail. He waited a moment longer; no screeching brakes, crunching of metal or objects flying through the air. Ben sighed deeply and took the few last remaining steps toward the treasure.
“Shit,” he muttered. He held the bright and shiny and what even could pass gold plated fishing lure in the palm of his hand; it certainly wasn’t worth a trip down the hill, Ben thought.
From above he could hear Ron.
“Yeah. One minute,” he called back.
Ben tried to pull the lure out of the branches to take back to Ron but the line was too strong. He reached for his knife strapped to his belt and as he was reaching for it, down below, poking out from the large debris pile from a past flood that had accumulated within the thicket, was the unmistakable skeletal remains of a human hand.
copyright © 2012 Philip Zweig
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