Wreckage

WRECKAGE
By Eric VonDohlen

He Became Well-Known

He made an arc with his hand to describe to the others how the
groceries were launched from the bed of his truck as the collision
happened. He shook his head and looked down at his plate of eggs when
he told us how the heads had smashed through the windshield of the
other car, and how they stuck out like the people were buried up to
their necks in glass. You could hear a pin drop while he told the
story. He said you could hear the cans of creamed corn thud into the
ground, a hundred yards away from the wreckage. Then he bowed his head
and ate eggs, scrambled, with link sausage, while the others sipped
coffee and shook their heads. He used wedges of toast to scoop eggs
onto his fork. The story would get around town, he would become known
for it, and for a while he would stand out from everyone else. Men
would want to be him; women would want to comfort him, to bake for him,
to love on him, just for what he'd seen.

Even at Bingo, They Nodded Grimly

After some time had passed, he thought he could go out and get on with
things. But at the Parish Hall on Friday Bingo nights, they still cut a
wide berth. They nodded grimly and frowned slightly when he made eye
contact. It's what they did when they wanted him to know that they knew
the weight of what he had seen. He thought maybe they wouldn't even
holler Bingo even if they'd won, just because he was in the room, and
he had seen people die, and yelling Bingo is a lusty, happy thing. They
did holler Bingo, but it was more like an admission of guilt. The room
was down. You could hear the bingo balls tumbling in the cage.

For a While, The Rain Seemed About Right

Then it started raining, and it seemed about right. He carried cups of
black coffee away from the diner in cups without lids, and he didn't
mind the raindrops. He wondered why he remembered the wreck in slow
motion, why the tiniest things were unforgettable. He remembered the
shadows from the flying cans of corn tracing their way over the
blacktop, and the way the sun glinted off the crystal of his watch
after the accident had ended. He wasn't hurt. He called for help on his
carphone and checked on the others. When he saw they'd passed, he
thought about collecting the groceries, and later the police would say
they were glad he didn't. The insurance companies would conduct tests
with cans of creamed corn, just to see if he was speeding. Meanwhile
the rain kept falling, and the soil turned to muck.

The Strangest of Gazes

They weren't from around there, but he went to their funerals. They
were a man and a woman who had been cheating on their spouses, speeding
around on the country backroads about an hour from the city. There was
a giant box of chocolates in the backseat, along with some lilies and
tiny suitcases filled with weekend clothes. They were headed to a
little hotel where they were registered under a false name, one that
was sort of funny if you thought about it. None of that came out at the
funerals, not even at the receptions. The families kept their heads low
during the services and the meals. When they did look up, they had the
strangest of gazes. One of the families had a large cake at the
reception, which made people whisper about whether this was a funeral
or a wedding. He had two big pieces and drove back home.

The Little Things Were Gone

He got a new truck, and people got used to seeing him drive it. All of
the little things from the old truck were gone: the compass, his
lighter with Jesus on one side and a naked lady on the other, a fresh
pack of cigarettes, and probably ten dollars in loose change. The
clutch was harder to operate. After a while he didn't think of the
accident every day, only the sight of the wreckage and how everything
seemed loud and magnified for that little while afterward. By and by,
men stopped nodding at him on the street, and he couldn't feel the gaze
of the womenfolk, and he could get along again as though it hadn't
happened, as though he still had all the little things.