A Good Thing
written by: P. A. Farrell
@drpatfarrell
Timing traffic lights along the major avenues is a quick way to navigate without stopping, as long as you remain vigilant to side streets. Drivers have learned or are taught the art of rolling along. But tonight, one woman’s timing will be off, and it will prove more than problematic.
The cars are almost sliding down the wide avenue. Everything is going so smoothly that she wonders why she hadn’t wanted to go out tonight. Her friend had to coax her, but she has an odd chill in her bones that can’t be shaken off, even now on this warm night with a full moon.
Why had she wanted to stay home? Her keen eyes watch as the traffic lights turn in a synchronized, anticipated row of green to yellow to red. Nearing the street corner, her signal is beginning to turn yellow.
From a side street, another car, starting forward at the green light, means an unfortunate combination of brands in the middle of the upcoming intersection.
Shouting begins, finger-pointing and a quick call for a police car as well as an ambulance is made, although no injuries are apparent to any of the parties in the cars. It all begins and ends quickly, and everyone goes their separate ways. The borrowed car limps home with serious damage. The friend’s mother, the car’s owner, is not pleased once the car is at her house. But she says little to the side-street driver.
A few weeks later, calls are made regarding insurance reimbursement and a lawsuit for injuries suffered in the accident. The side-street driver and the car’s owner are expected to appear at the courthouse to hear the charges and make their plea.
“Don’t worry, kid, it’ll all be fine. I know this is upsetting, but believe me, it’s gonna be fine.” The woman’s gravelly voice has a degree of unexpected confidence. Everything would be fine. But how does she know that so emphatically?
The large wooden door to the courtroom opens suddenly and a man in a green Brioni knit golf shirt comes walking out as though he owns the building. His head cocked, he whispers, “It’s fine, it’s over,” to the woman.
“So, wha happened, Butchie?” The woman looks at him in a way that bespeaks an understanding the young driver doesn’t have. “It was a good thing. They dropped the case. The other driver’s dead, so there’s no witness for the plaintiff and there’s no evidence against your car.”
A hint of a smile flickers across his craggy face. Again, it’s in a matter-of-fact fashion, a shoulder shrug and an upraised palm highlight the yellow diamond pinky ring. After all, the car’s owner is the daughter of the most important guy at the local social club, and Butchie wants to help her out.
Now the woman turns her attention to the young woman beside her. “See, I told you honey, it would all be fine. Tonight, we’re gonna play cards at my house. You’re coming, right?” This was no question. No one ever turned down this invitation.
The house was in a neighborhood of homes of her relatives, all bought by a generous grandmother. Each child was given a home when they married and the grandmother of the director of the card game, handled the family money. All the players at the game are either related or members of the local social club.
This crew of childhood friends has a regular Wednesday evening pinnacle or poker card game. It’s on Wednesday because Thursday is for taking girlfriends to clubs to show them off. For the young driver to receive an invitation, is incredible. “Come on kid, you want to join the game?” It is left as an open question, requiring no response.
At the card game that night, the question is the same, but this time in front of the intensely interested men sitting around the large dining room table.
“No, I don’t know how to play cards. I’ve tried and I just can’t do it.”
An unbelievable remark. The group laughs and gives her permission with upraised hands and waves to leave the room without joining. But first a pastry and coffee from the sideboard. After all, she is a guest, even if she was driving Anna’s car when it was demolished.
“Ok, then, you go watch TV with the girls while I lose all my money.” Again, the throaty smoker’s voice blends in with others’ equally roughened by years of cigarettes and Cuban cigars.
The woman’s ‘girl’ visitors, wives of the players, arrange themselves on the furniture and make fun of the shows or adjust their makeup. No one dares interrupt the game. The intensity in the room is palpable as the smoke and the language turn the air blue.
Then the car incident comes into focus.
The cigarette smoke swirls as one player yells out. “Hey, Butchie, where’d you get that outfit? Did it fall off a truck?”
“Yeah, off a truck,” comes the response with a smirk. “You got a few suits, didn’t you off one of those dumb trucks?” The wisecrack is well-received with more joking.
Now the laughter raises and lowers like a verbal tide in the room. But the short-lived joke is followed by another question.
As the laughing dies down, the man dares to ask. “So, what happened with that car accident Anna had? There was a court date today, right? You went with Anna, right?”
Butchie works his Cuban around his mouth as he feigns little interest, lasering his cards. The slightly lifted brow tells another story.
“No, I met Anna there. Yeah, the other driver’s dead, so the case was dropped.” The reply comes matter-of-factly from behind Butchie’s fanned-out cards.
“It was a real tragedy,” he says with no note of emotion. Again, the chewed cigar is shifted in position in his moist mouth as though he were about to do a magic trick with it.
“Yeah, a real tragedy. I loved that car,” Anna says almost in a moan. The sense of loss for her is a psychic blow no one would understand. She loved that car. Her father gave it to her as a Christmas present before he got that diagnosis.
Anna never lifts her head as she responds and continues to throw chips into the pot piling up in the center of the table. Yes, she’s losing all her money tonight as usual.
The inquisitor continues. “No, yeah a tragedy about the car, but the driver… Who knew? But, Anna, she hit your car. Right? It was her fault you lost that car, and you loved that car. Right? You loved that car?”
All the players know the accident is a closed matter. They nod in almost Bobble-head comedic agreement that she loved that car. A mixture of soft, affirming comments stops the game, but only briefly.
The men know how much Anna loved that car. It was like one of her children and she’ll take a long time getting over the loss.
Toward the side of the room, a newspaper is draped over a chair. The front page tells a story no one in the group needs or wants to read. A disturbing photo of a young woman’s body lying in an apartment doorway takes up much of the front page.
The bold headline screams about the homicide as though it were announcing the bombing of Pearl Harbor.
According to the newspaper account, the young woman, recuperating from a recent car accident, had answered the doorbell at her ground-floor apartment the night before. Opening the door, she was confronted by a man.
A handgun was pointed directly at her left eye, the trigger pulled, and she fell backward. The shooter turned slowly and got into a waiting car.
The media would surmise it was a disgruntled boyfriend, but they would be wrong. One passerby’s comments were noted in the article. The witness told police in a quivering voice that he thought the man was wearing some sort of flashy, designer golf shirt. But the trembling man wasn’t sure because it was dark. “I can’t be sure,” he reiterated repeatedly.
- A Good Thing - August 8, 2024
