Swedenborg - Chapter 10

10.

     The line at the bookstore had not been long, and nearly $300 poorer after purchasing five texts, Frank drove back toward Jack’s apartment. But before he got halfway there, he ran into a traffic jam. In the distance, he heard sirens. He rolled down his window and yelled over to a crowd of people standing on the sidewalk facing the road up head.

    “What’s up? An accident?”

    “A fire,” one of the men in the crowd called back. “A building.”

    He peered through the windshield and saw smoke rising in the distance. No way home this way, Frank thought.

    He looked behind to see if he could turn around. The road was already jammed there. Then he noticed some cars turning off onto a side road just ahead. He inched his was forward to the corner. As he turned, he saw out of the corner of his eye a man standing on the sidewalk, staring at the fire, grinning. There was something familiar about the man, he thought, but he had no time to look again as the traffic flowed away from the congested street.

   As he drove on, he looked at the signs at every intersection to find a familiar street. None. He turned onto a side street trying to move in the direction of the hill, then another. The buildings grew more and more rundown. People standing at corners or sitting on stoops stared at him.

   He turned onto yet another street, and found himself in a neighborhood where it seems as if every other house was boarded up. He had to swerve to avoid broken glass in the road. A boy carrying a bike missing a front wheel glared at him.     

   Sour air flowed into the car. A three-legged dog limping along the sidewalk stopped and looked at him. The boy carrying the bike picked up a stone and threw it at the dog, saying something Frank couldn’t understand but which sounded foul.

    Frank stopped at an intersection with what appeared to be a larger street and looked around anxiously, hoping no one would approach. He felt under the seat for the tire iron he kept there and inched in forward.

    Not knowing which way to go, he turned onto the larger street and drove half a block. Suddenly he heard yelling. A crowd burst from an alley between two buildings. Three men were beating one man, with the encircling crowd cheering them on.

    The man being beaten broke away and ran through the crowd into the street, staggering as several people in the crowd clutched at him. Half way across the street, he stopped, regaining his balance, and looked about terrified. A battered station wagon struck him. His body spun through the air, landing face up in front of Frank’s car. Frank slammed on his brakes. The station wagon never slowed, disappearing down the street with a new dent.

    Frank looked at the approaching crowd. They’re still after the guy, he realized. He grabbed the tire iron and jumped out of his car and ran to the man lying in the road. A pool of blood was already spreading on the pavement beneath the man’s head.

    The crowd swarmed toward Frank and the fallen man, the three men who had been doing the beating at the front.

    “Out of the way,” one of the trio snarled.

    Frank stood over the fallen man and brandished the tire iron.

    “Try me,” he bellowed, swinging the iron.

    The beater who had spoken stepped toward him. The crowd began to circle behind Frank.

    Frank looked at the advancing beater. He sensed the man’s hate. But he also felt the man’s fear.

    Smiling, Frank said in a calm, low voice, “No matter what, you’re dead.”

     The man stopped, the snarl on his face fading. Sensing his uncertainty, the crowd hesitated.

      “Go on,” someone said. “He’s alone.”

      “Get him, too,” another said.

      At that moment, a woman’s voice rose above the noise of the crowd. “Clear away. Move aside.”

      Sharon Sweetwater pushed her way through the crowd, accompanied by several men and women from the clinic. She bent over the fallen man, touched him gently on the neck, then looked up at the crowd.

      “Nothing more to see here,” she said loudly. “It’s over.”

      She then said to one of the women who had come with her, “Call the police.”

      As the woman passed back through the crowd, the three beaters retreated and disappeared. The crown began to disperse. Several boys stood off to the side, jabbering excitedly. “Look at the blood. Cool.”

    Frank cautiously lowered the tire iron. He looked at Sharon and the fallen man.

     “How is he?”

     “Dead,” Sharon said. “Broken neck I think. But I didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of knowing what they’d done.”

     Frank felt suddenly shaky. I could have died defending a dead man.

     As if sensing his thoughts, Sharon looked up at him.

     “That was pretty brave. Thanks for trying.”

     Frank looked at the dead man’s face. Except for an old v-shaped scar running along his chin, he looked peaceful.

     Suddenly Frank felt light-headed. He took a step back to keep his balance. Sharon stood and looked at him quizzically.

     “Do you need to sit?”

     He nodded.

     The woman who had left to call the police came back with a sheet. Sharon draped it over the man. A police siren became audible in the distance.

     Sharon took Frank’s arm and gently but firmly moved him in the direction of the clinic.

     A new crowd was gathering. Some pointed to Frank.

     A police car pulled up, then a second as Frank and Sharon entered the clinic.

     “They’ll probably have some questions for you,” she said as she led him into the staff office.

     “I don’t have much to say,” he said, sitting in a chair. “It was all so fast.”

     “Like something to drink?” she asked. “We’ve got bottled water, diet cola, coffee.”

     “Cola.”

     She pulled a bottle from a small refrigerator and handed it to him. He unscrewed the top and took a sip. It settled sour in his stomach.

     “They wanted to kill that guy,” he said. “I could just feel it. Do you know him?”

     “No,” she said. “I’ve seen him around, but that’s it.”

     She pulled up a chair opposite him and sat with a bottle of water. She took a drink.

     Frank studied her. She wore her long black hair tied back, framing an oval, olive-colored face. Hispanic? Native American? Her eyes were dark, with glints of fire in them. She was stocky, but not fat. Solidly build, he thought. She would have made a good pioneer wife.

   Not conventionally pretty, but attractive, he concluded.

    “You the doctor here?” he asked.

    “Nurse,” she replied.

     “I couldn’t do it,” he said. “By the way, my name’s Frank.”

     “Sharon.”

     “I wanted to be a vet when I was a kid,” he continued. “I even got a job helping at a vet’s office. But every time a suffering animal came in, it was as if I felt their pain and fear. I used to feel sick all the time.”

      “You get used to it,” she replied.

      He cocked his head. “You don’t feel anymore?”

      “You stop yourself. Like closing a door.”

      “What happens when that door opens?”

      Sharon suddenly thought of the nights when she awoke gasping for air. Or the times she’d burst into tears while watching television or a movie. Or her last date, ending too early when a song on the radio made her feel sick to her stomach. How long ago had that been?

      And as if on cue, she felt the urge to cry. She bit the inside of her cheek.

      “You learn,” she said. “You avoid things that might,” she paused, “unlock the door.”

      “Doesn’t sound like much of a life to me,” he said.

      Why am I having this conversation, she suddenly thought. Who is this guy?

      “I’m a new student at the university,” he said, as if he’d read her thoughts. “I got lost trying to get back to where I’m staying.”

      A police officer appeared at the door.

      “He probably has questions for you,” Sharon said, standing. “I’m sure he’ll give you better directions out of here than I could.”

      “Thanks,” Frank said. She turned and gave him a puzzled look.  “For the drink,” he explained. “Maybe I could repay it some time.”

      “Maybe,” she smiled.

      She hurried from the office and went out the back door to the alley behind the building. The air was heavy with the threat of rain.

      At least it will wash away the blood.

      God, she thought, that’s morbid.

      She took a deep breath, reached for the door and pulled. It was locked.

      Sharon laughed.

      Figures.

Pax et bonum