Part 1

Accidents

1

He’d taken the northern route through Albany, skirted the Finger Lakes region, then headed south through Tiadaghton State Forest along the Pine Creek Watershed to Interstate 80 giving him a straight shot to the Ohio line. A string of storms was pushing north out of a tropical depression in the Gulf that would arrive the next day and he wanted to unload before they hit. The windows were down because the air conditioner wasn’t cutting it, neither was the road noise drowning out his music as he cranked up the volume, sweat soaking his shirt. Should’ve driven at night, it’d been cooler, less traffic he thought as cars, trucks, buses, semi-trailers, and hordes of Harleys roared past. Breaking down was not an option, the jeep straining on the hills as if an enormous magnet were pulling it back to Boston. He set the cruise at 65 and settled into the right lane of traffic, thoughts returning obsessively to the event that had spun him out of Charbel University in a tempest. Eight words in three seconds. What the fuck.

The phrase took on a life of its own. Students were aggrieved, repeating it to their parents, who informed the Order of monks. “Charbel is a myth, so is Jesus Christ,” he’d said in a clumsy attempt to explain how myth authorizes institutional power. He had no idea how threatening he'd become to the legend of the saint, whose sanctity was not to be questioned, and whose university would not be tarnished by an apostate. The priests confirmed the validity of the lesson, forcing him to resign without a hearing, without even inquiring into the reason for his blasphemy. Had they done so, they might have learned of the parish priest who first laid hands on him when he was a boy, telling him in the cloak room after mass that the Spirit was flowing through them, and that everything they did was Holy.

He knew nothing of the Charbel order of monks before working for them, but soon learned that they claimed an ancient origin in Canaan, of all places, a Philistine offshoot that befriended the Israelites and converted to Christianity following St. Maron. In the early 19th Century, they broke from the Maronites and formed a fellowship with Charbel as their patron saint, himself a monk of Maron. The story goes that when Charbel’s body was exhumed it hadn’t decomposed and a holy oil flowed from his tomb, a source of miracles. The Order emigrated from Lebanon when the Ottoman empire crumbled, established a monastery on the outskirts of Boston, and built Charbel University into one of the premier institutions of higher education in the United States.

Monks were just priests in different garb as far as he was concerned. Little did he know as a 12-year-old that disrobing them after mass would be more hazardous than farm work. He’d escaped Father Maloney’s clumsy attempt, but not the itinerant priest who’d been called to serve at the church his family attended in the Ipswich River Valley. The cleric cornered him. “I was fishing when they called. Do you like to fish?” After that, he refused to pour wine into the chalice for the priests to transform into the blood of Christ, thus ending his career on the altar. He said nothing to his parents, fearing his father would barge into the rectory and commit some heinous act, and his mother would doubt him in favor of the priests.

2

Steam was now rising from the hood of the jeep, the temperature gauge racing toward the red. Damn. He slowed, tapped the blinkers and pulled off the highway nearly scraping a guardrail. A convoy of semis rumbled past, the clouds of dust stifling, the noise deafening. Sidling along the edge of the road he lifted the jeep’s hood, secured it, stepped over the guardrail, and scurried down the rocky embankment toward the woods, sliding most of the way, not noticing the Pennsylvania state trooper who pulled up behind the trailer, lights twirling.

A multiflora rose thicket pushed him further toward a culvert where he found Queen Anne’s lace, daisies shooting up between concrete blocks, cattails in a bog below a crumbling spillway. A vine maple with black spotted leaves poked its head out of the shade where he stood to relieve himself. Further up a stand of spruce bereft of needles and towering above them all was a mammoth cottonwood with twin bands of bark that flanked a streak of darkened wood. The trees stood like sentries on the front lines of a battle, absorbing the brunt of attacks perceptible over time and through their conspicuous wounds. He lingered in their shade. A cardinal flitted by. He thought of his father, whose ashes he'd spread by the creek where they fished. “Stone to stone,” his father would say, “Remember we inhabit the oldest of known names.” His mother's voice seemed to rise from the gurgling stream. “Don't miss your chance for redemption,” she'd said before passing into the light.

A cool breeze drifted up from the deep woods, beckoning him. He stepped across boulders intertwined with enormous roots to take a deep draught of it. The roar of the road receded as he squatted to rinse his hands in the trickle of the stream, tempted to go deeper. But the jeep was wide-open, and he must keep moving so he turned to see the state trooper in wide brimmed hat standing behind the trailer watching him with hands on hips. “Just my luck,” he muttered as he scrambled up the slope hunchbacked on all fours, like a bear.

3

The trooper yelled out over the din of the road. “Engine troubles?” It was a woman’s voice, but the body was stocky, masculine. He hesitated, climbed over the blistering guardrail, faced the sun-glassed officer still expecting to see a man then noticed the smallish hands, neatly manicured nails, full lips, and a slight coating of makeup.

“Overheated,” he shouted back.

“You’re on a recorded line,” the officer said. “What were you doing down there?”

He wanted to say, what do you think I was doing? But caught himself. “Checking the wildflowers while my car cooled off,” he said.

“Awful steep drop just to see some flowers.” The trooper walked toward him with one hand on the butt of a Taser, a situation he’d faced before. He backed up showing his hands, filthy from the climb.

“They’re special flowers,” he said. 

“Special?” The officer stopped and looked him up and down.

“Queen Anne’s Lace. You can see the tops of them from here, the white ones with the purple blemish in the middle. Some yellow composites, daisies, cattails in the bog . . .”

The trooper said, “It’s against the law to leave your vehicle unattended on the side of the road, especially in a precarious place like this. You’re required to put out cones or flares and notify state police.”

“Truth is, officer, I had to pee.”

“Indecent exposure is a misdemeanor offense,” the trooper replied.

“I was in the woods, nobody could see me, sir . . . I mean ma’am, uh . . . officer.”

The trooper’s sunglasses slipped to reveal shadow around dark blue eyes, brows clipped tight. “License, registration and insurance please.”

He strode alongside the trailer, steps measured against the rhythm of the traffic in the far lane, then slid into the jeep, found the papers nestled in the console, and retrieved his license from his wallet. The engine needed time to cool, so he quenched his parched throat with two gulps of water, exited the jeep and regarded the tableau unfolding in the far lane. Vehicles had slowed to a crawl. A child in a van laughed and waved, its nose pressed against the side window. A woman in a passenger seat did a double take, her curiosity piqued by a man who appeared to come straight out of a Matrix movie. A smirk appeared on the face of a man behind the wheel of a pickup truck. A biker pumped his fist in the air. Schadenfreude on parade.

The trooper hollered, “What’s the holdup?!”

“Sorry,” he said, wanting to delay further. “May I see your badge please?”

“Excuse me?”

He repeated, “May I see your badge?”

“Hand me your license and papers so we can get this show off the side of the road.”

“I have a right to see your badge, then I’ll cooperate fully,” he insisted.

The officer pulled the badge from a side pocket, flashed it, then pocketed it again in a single motion.

“I didn’t see it,” he said. “Sorry, but I need to know your name and number; i-i-it’s a precaution if you don’t mind.”

The officer held out the badge again. The name Casey Cline was written in bold letters. He noted the number, then studied the photo. An image of a man appeared, which turned into a woman, then a man, a reversible figure whose identity shifted each time he blinked his eyes. “Thank you,” he said and handed the trooper his Massachusetts license and papers.

The trooper stared at him. “What’s your destination?”

“Lundston, Ohio,” he replied

“What are you doing there?”

“I have a job,” he said.

“What kind of job?”

“Teaching at the University.”

“You don’t say.”

“I do say,” he said.

“Where are you coming from?”

“Boston. Have I violated any laws?”

“That’s what I’m going to find out.” Officer Cline returned to the patrol car, lights twirling red and blue, headlamps streaming white pulses as he stood at the back of the trailer in partial shade, intrigued. A woman transitioning to a man, or a man transitioning to woman? It was the first time he’d fully grasped what non-binary meant, neither man nor woman because both male and female. A doubling. He’d never thought of it that way. He knew that in the natural world individuals displaying both sexes were common. Spotted hyenas, bearded dragons, clown fish, some birds, male plants that appear feminine to attract insects. Even some trees. The officer emerged from the car. “You have a record.”

“Arrests at peaceful protests,” he said.

“Disorderly conduct, resisting arrest,” the trooper countered.

“I laid on the ground; the cops carried me away.”

“What were you protesting?”

“Fascists,” he said.

“Fascists?”

“Yes.” And then it struck him. “Our common enemy.”

A slim smile curved at one corner of the trooper’s mouth, vanishing as quickly as it appeared. “What’s in the trailer?”

“My stuff,” he said.

“Let’s take a look.”

“Sure! Let’s search the jeep too!”

The manicured fingers tipped back the campaign hat to reveal sweat beading on a pale forehead. The trooper pulled out a handkerchief, took off the sunglasses, wiped them, frowned, put the glasses back on, and adjusted the hat. “There’s a truck pull-off in a couple miles. Get it out of here or we’ll have to tow.”

“No need for that,” he said. Tossing the papers in the jeep, he grabbed a small towel and ambled to the front of the vehicle and slowly loosened the radiator cap. A piercing hiss forced him back but there was no eruption of coolant. He tightened the cap, slammed the hood, got in the cab, and started the engine. The temperature needle rose rapidly, quivered slightly as if it were about to lurch forward, then held steady. Heaving a sigh, he put the rickety vehicle in gear and pulled onto the highway. Bigger mountains ahead, steeper climbs. When the cities lie at the monster's feet, there are left the mountains. He’d memorized the Jeffers poem in his youth. Corruption has never been compulsory. “Ha. Not anymore,” he muttered. Shine Perishing Republic.

4

Memories gathered like clouds, fleeting reflections of a chaotic life, images lingering then dissipating as he coasted down the western slope of the Alleghenies. The road undulated before him like a slumbering beast, its curves and bends lulling him into a state of reverie. Vacant puddles receded one after another, the mirages shimmering then dissolving into the stark reality of a small herd of deer in his peripheral vision. At first, they too seemed ephemeral, but then three young ones were in his path. With a jolt of adrenaline, he slammed on the brakes, car horns behind him echoing off the hills as the jeep swerved, the trailer jack-knifed, tires screeched. He clung to the steering wheel as he slid into the console, his heart pounding against his chest like a caged bird. The deer vanished into the sanctuary of the woods as he regained control of the vehicle, leaving behind the lingering specter of what could have been. He guided the jeep into the next Rest Area, pulse racing.

Entering the men's room, he stared into the distorted, foggy mirror. The blinking buzzing fluorescent light cast odd shadows on his countenance, making him appear older than his years, the weight of disasters etched into the lines of his brow like hieroglyphs. With a sigh, he washed his hands and arms, splashed cold water on his face, and combed back his black hair that was beginning to show speckles of white at the temples, even though he was only in his mid-thirties. He bought a bottle of water and strode out back seeking respite from the heat. He found it under the shade of a towering white oak, its branches outstretched over a picnic table. Brushing off crumbs and avoiding the remnants of dried guano, he sprawled on the weathered surface and dozed fitfully, haunted by images of crucifixes and crows, the rector's mocking laughter echoing through his dreams. “You can’t escape from our birds!”

He awoke startled, sweating in the crippling heat, leaves crimping on the limbs above. He didn’t know where he was, then swung his legs around and drank from the bottle of water when, as if on cue, two large crows approached from a field of rolled-up bales of hay. He shivered despite the heat. Messengers. One perched on a fence post, the other flew over his head and defecated, the dark grayish dollop splatting on the table as the crow settled on the branch above, cawing.  The other joined, taunting him as it glided to the ground. “Caw-caw! Caw-caw! Caw-caw!” It screeched. He said, “Who sent you?” The one on the branch flew to a nearby stump, cocking its head from side to side, eyeing him. “You’re thieves, murderers, and scoundrels,” he said, getting the attention of a family eating at a nearby table. The larger began barking like a dog as it hopped toward him. The other picked up an acorn, flew and dropped it just missing his head. “Okay, I’m going!” Grabbing the water bottle, he strode to the parking lot as the crows flew back into the field, their mission apparently accomplished.

The rig that had pulled alongside the jeep cast a shadow that offered refuge from the relentless assault of the sun. He sat on the trailer’s wheel-well thinking he’d rather be following a tractor or a buggy than jockeying for position in heavy traffic. After charting a new route, he kicked the trailer’s tires and tightened the hitch before climbing into the sweltering confines of the jeep. The engine coughed to life, rattling in protest, the needle of the temperature gauge rising and holding steady. Desperate for relief, he tried the air conditioner. It kicked in. He smiled for the first time that day. In several miles he exited and merged onto a state highway, the hilly landscape unfolding before him like a tapestry woven with layers of history and conflict. Enclaves once inhabited by indigenous tribes now bore the imprint of the new riotous era, stark reminders on signs everywhere of the political troubles that had swept the country like a tempestuous storm.

5

An accident is a fleeting specter of chance that lurks at the murky edge of the visible like a predator poised to pounce and disrupt the rhythm of a life; or end it. Anticipating the pounce is possible, as in the adage ‘it’s an accident waiting to happen,’ but that’s usually about someone else who’s oblivious to the peril. We prepare for an accident when riding a bicycle in heavy traffic or climbing a ladder to clean out a gutter, but not while checking a phone in a parked car or cutting up vegetables for dinner. As Alyssa Waite stepped through the threshold of her childhood home, she had no way of knowing that before day's end she’d be ensconced in the surreal confines of Lundston Memorial Hospital's Emergency Room with her left index finger sliced to the bone. Nor that she’d sit near a man whose bloodied face seemed hauntingly familiar, and whose shock-induced behavior was oddly captivating, despite herself.

Not that she was on the lookout for a man. Far from it. Not after the tumultuous marriage she’d been through. The last straw came when she returned home from work and found her husband stumbling out of the bedroom with fistfuls of her jewelry. She blocked his path. “What are you doing?” 

“I paid for most of this stuff,” he bellowed.

“Too bad for you,” she said.

“Get out of my way, Alyssa.”

“Gambling debts?”

“Not your business,” he snorted.

“You're making it my business,” she retorted.

“Out of the way. I’m coming through.”

She released her large tote bag, dropping to the floor with a soft thud, then stood as she’d learn to stand through years of self-defense training—feet apart, one positioned ahead of the other, knees slightly flexed, arms aloft, fingers splayed, poised to fling the man she once loved across the kitchen if he tried to barge through like the bull he was. “Put it back,” she said calmly.

He chuckled and shook his head mockingly. “You really think you can stop me?”

She knew how forceful he could be, and that her best weapon was her voice. Her fingertips tingled. Time froze. She said, “On the table. Then we will talk.” The timbre of her voice ensnared him. His shoulders slumped and he peered at her with a look of bewilderment. Unclenching his massive fists, the remnants of their shattered marriage cascaded to the floor. She stepped back, snatched her phone from the bag and held it aloft saying she would call 911 if he didn’t pack up and leave. To her surprise, he retreated to the bedroom and emerged with two overstuffed duffels dangling from his shoulders.

“I’ll be back,” he said.

“I’m changing the locks and filing a restraining order,” she said.

“You’ll regret this, Alyssa.”

“That sounds like a threat, and I’m recording.”

As he brushed past and disappeared into the garage, relief coupled with disbelief overwhelmed her. Past wounds reopened and unspoken regrets surged to the surface. She picked up the jewelry and tried to undue the knots of chains tangled with gems, but finally bundled them up, jammed them into plastic containers, and stuck them in a cabinet.

After the divorce, her father, a man of local Lundston renown, died of a sudden heart attack. She was grief-stricken; unlike her mother, who, after a short period of mourning, found another man. Alyssa rebuffed those who sought her attention, wanting no involvements until, when least expecting it, a photographer at a charity event kindled a spark that surprised her. She found herself entering uncharted territory, this time with a woman. As she traversed the familiar roads from Pittsburgh to Lundston, she was tempted to call Mandy McGee. But opted to wait.

Questions raced through as she drove. What will happen with my clients? What am I going to do with the house? What will it be like as a student? What about my mother? She was looking forward to seeing her cousin Nicole and husband Stefan who’d finally been tenured after years of legal battles with the State System. “I’m the most observed man in Ohio,” he’d say. Or “we’re nothing but nodes in noxious language games.” During a conversation, he’d look around and say, “surveillance is encroaching.” Or he’d say, “anyone notice that fascist discourse is normalizing?” She loved him like a brother, had known him since Nicole dated him in high school, and delighted in his wit.

Things started off well enough. Her mother greeted her warmly, they unloaded the car, ran errands, ate lunch, shopped for groceries, and unpacked clothes in her old bedroom. At 5 p.m. they opened a cold bottle of Chardonnay, which her mother had been saving for the occasion. “A Chairman’s Select, 91 points and 4.1 on Vivino,” she said proudly.

Alyssa pulled two glasses from the cupboard, handed one to her mother, and said, “Let’s see if it stands up.”

They sipped and chatted in the enclosed patio, straining at times to hear one another over the buzzing air-conditioner in the corner window. The curtains were pulled against the late afternoon sun, and after a few minutes her mother dozed. Alyssa was checking her phone when she remembered that the broccoli salad had to chill in the refrigerator. Back in the kitchen, she took out the florets, red pepper, crème fraiche, sriracha and lime along with cotija cheese to crumble on top, grabbed the white onion from the counter and realized they’d forgotten the pepitas. Darn. Searching for a knife, she pulled from the block a Japanese Nakiri, rounded in front with a razor edge that was perfect for slicing julienne.

The crispy outer skins of the onion rubbed off easily and with each thin slice a milky essence seeped from the inner rings, wetting her fingers. She washed the florets, put them in a bowl, spread the onion loops on top, took a sip of wine, cut out the stem of the pepper and was slicing it when her mother called from the patio, startling her. The blade slipped off the waxy skin, lacerating her left index finger, the cut widening before her eyes like a blooming crimson flower. In the instant before the pain reached her brain, she noted that the color of the blood matched the flesh of the pepper. Then she let out one sharp high-pitched shriek, grabbed a nearby napkin, pressed down on the gaping wound, and leaned against the counter, feeling faint.

Her mother rushed in, snatched a towel off the refrigerator door, wet it, rung it out and draped it over her daughter’s head. “Let me see.” When Alyssa peeled away the blood-soaked paper, her mother nearly fainted as well. “We’re going to the ER,” she said.

“The bleeding will stop if I hold it. Let's wait and see.”

“There's no ‘wait and see,’” her mother snapped. “You cut it to the bone! It needs stitching! The sooner the better.” Opening a drawer, she grabbed a first aid kit, tore open a roll of gauze, squeezed the two parts of the finger together as Alyssa bit down hard on the wet towel, then wrapped gauze around the wound and sealed it with adhesive tape. “Keep your finger above your heart,” she said as they drove to town, emergency lights flashing.

Alyssa said, “You can turn the flashers off, mom. I’m not near death.” By the time they reached the hospital, the throbbing had lessened, the flow of blood stopped, the pain was under control. She told her mother to drop her off and go to the store to buy pepitas.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. I’m fine,” Alyssa insisted, “and what’s the salad going to be like without that extra crunch?”

Her mother reluctantly agreed, Alyssa popped out of the car, the doors to the E. R. opened, and she passed through Security with her bandaged finger in the air as if she were about to make a point. An elderly lady wearing black was sitting in the second row toward the front of the room and observed her attentively. After checking in, Alyssa walked past the woman and sat three seats down facing the door as a man entered with dried streaks of blood on his face. He registered and came toward her. Wonderful, a walking ghoul, she thought as he drew near. But wait, he looks familiar.

6

He slumped into a seat directly across from the elderly lady and glanced at the younger woman a few seats down who sat with perfect posture, auburn-streaked hair pulled back into a loose bun, left elbow resting on the arm of the chair, her bloody bandaged left index finger pointing straight up in the air. Her profile imprinted on his befuddled brain instantly. High cheekbone, small pug-like nose, sharp chin. She had a bright face with emerald eyes that were looking straight at him. He nodded, forced a smile, then fixed on the lady across the aisle with her creased face, bundled gray hair, dark eyes soaking him up like a sponge. He was transfixed, looking through her like a cipher that took him back in time. Any slight delay, he thought, any change in that miserable fucking drive would have kept me from getting shot up.

Oblivious to other people in the room and the noise blaring from the television on the far wall, he relived the bit of the journey that had put him in front of a bullet. It was as though he’d lost a game of Go and had to figure out which stones he’d misplayed. “The cop,” he muttered, evoking a smile from the elderly lady and a glance from Alyssa who was trying to figure out who he was. “And the crows,” he added.

“Omens you did not heed,” the old woman said. “Yera Retour.”

He remembered wanting to enter the city through its bowels, so he turned off the state highway, crossed a bridge with a sign that said Honing River, and headed northwest on a county road that ran along the river’s banks. Unimpeded by traffic, he saw in the distance a vehicle coming toward him that morphed into a black jeep like his own, pulling a U-Haul trailer the same size as his. Both vehicles slowed and the drivers’ eyes met, each peering through their rear-view mirrors until all that remained were two orange dots in the distance. It was as though he’d passed through a portal, entering a place that defied the bounds of reality, in a time that superseded the present, encountering a spectral version of himself returning the way he’d come.

Traffic picked up—trucks of every size and shape. He passed manufacturing facilities, an industrial park with massive, abandoned factories whose silent smokestacks stood behind razor-wire fences. Large expanses of fenced-off, browned-out landscapes, dilapidated warehouses, broken-down loading docks, rusted heavy machinery strewn across the checkered landscape like the abandoned toys of some iron god. Welcome to Lundston, Ohio, pop. 63,416, the sign read as the jeep crept across railroad tracks and coasted into a freshly paved parking lot of a refurbished warehouse, tires crackling on scorching blacktop. The hangar doors were ajar, an open padlock dangling from a hasp. He scanned his surroundings. At the front of the building next to the dock sat a Ford F150 truck with an empty gun rack in the back window. A slight breeze wafted through the driver-side window as he eased it down and glanced back to make sure the trailer was off the road. He pressed the brakes. The engine sputtered. The jeep juddered to a stop.

As he thumbed his new address into the phone’s GPS, what sounded like a cacophony of firecrackers reverberated from within the warehouse. He leaned forward to restart the engine when a clang like a cymbal rang out and the passenger-side window collapsed into a shower of micro shards that stung the side of his face, the projectile passing behind his head. “Fuck!” He yelled. The next thing he knew he was crouched on searing asphalt, phone in hand talking to a 911 dispatcher who said, “Stay where you are.” In less than a minute two squad cars appeared. One drove to the warehouse, the other pulled up beside him. A female police officer put down her window and asked, “Are you ok?”

He stared at her, stupefied. His brains could have been splattered across the dashboard. “I’ve been . . . shot . . . at.” His voice quivered.

She was squatting next to him now, checking the side of his face. “The bullet missed but the window glass didn’t.” She stood and peered over the hood of the jeep to see her partner pull up beside the pickup, blasting a bullhorn. The shooting stopped and she watched as her cohort walked slowly up the loading dock steps, checked the hole in the tin siding, and slid open the hangar door. Voices boomed. The policewoman nodded. “Probably a ricochet,” she said.

The man stood and leaned against the jeep. “A ricochet?!”

“Yeah, guys use that warehouse for target practice.”

“Target practice? They could kill someone! Who are they?”

 Her partner’s voice came over the radio. She went to the car. “That’s what I figured,” she said, and then, “Good idea.” She signed off and told him he’d have to come downtown with her. 

“Why?”

Her demeanor had changed. “You've been shot at, that's why.”

He shook his head, trying to think. She wants me away from the scene.

“You’re gonna see a doctor then we’ll write up an incident report. Can you drive or should I call paramedics?”

He touched the side of his face, then bent to look in the driver’s side mirror to see red streaks of blood, stains on his shirt. “I can drive,” he said, ans crawled into the jeep, found some wipes and cleaned up. From his daypack he pulled out a spare shirt and changed into it when the officer reappeared, tilting her head.

“You passin' through?” Her tone was a tell.

His lower lip quivered. “I’m m-moving here.”

“Well,” she said, hesitating, “let me be the first to welcome you to Lundston. I’m Officer Mary.”

“N-nice to meet you,” he said, the sound of his words reverberating in his head as if in a cavern.

“May I see ID please?”

He fumbled for his wallet and handed her his license. “What will happen to the g-guy who shot me?”

“We'll take ‘im to headquarters and see if it amounts to reckless endangerment. Depends.” She handed back his license.

“Depends”?

“We'll see. Let's go.”

“What about the broken window?”

“We’ll take care of it. Follow me.”

7

Now here. Nowhere. Brightly lit room. Blaring TV. Head pounding. Mouth like cotton. Three seats down, Alyssa googled ‘shock induced psychosis,’ remembering that she saw this guy during her visit to campus a few weeks earlier. That’s it! This is the guy they hired. Stone. Yes! Sam Stone? No. Sid? Close. Slade? An Arabic name, with an “S” and a “D.” Saeed. Saeed Stone. She looked to see him hunched over, hands clasped, still transfixed, the old woman was humming, rocking, her eyes locked with his in an alarming mind meld. Say his name, she thought. That would shock him more. Walk between them. It’s not your business. Cough loudly. It’s not your business!

For Saeed, the elderly lady had morphed into a crow, sitting as a crow would sit if it could, feathery wings resting on the arms of the chair, its beak pointed toward the floor, bushy brows fluttering over penetrating eyes. He heard the crow whisper, the creep in the jeep. He nodded and repeated, “the creep in the jeep.” The nurse appeared and called the name Edna Crowly. The old woman stood with the help of her cane and shuffled off, glancing back. Eyes like black holes. The cop, the crows, the creep in the jeep.

He sat up and looked around, scanning the room for a water fountain or restroom. Across the aisle, the woman with the bloody bandage index finger was scrolling on her phone. She caught his eye and said, “hello.”

He forced a smile. “Hi,” he said, then looked away.

She wanted to confirm who he was without being cheeky. “What happened to you?”

He contemplated the question. “Well,” he began, then he didn’t know what to say. I was harassed by priests, he thought. That’s what happened. Hounded by a cop, harried by crows, and passed through the mirror of my future into a post-industrial wasteland. “Car accident,” he heard himself say.

“It looks like you put your head through a window.”

He tried to unfold. “The window went through me.”

“My goodness. Sorry to hear.”

Say something. “What happened to your finger?”

“Oh . . . um . . .” She looked at the bloody bandage. “My boyfriend threw a knife and nearly cut it off.”

“What?!” The bracken in his brain began to dissolve.

She said, “He's a knife thrower and, um, uses me as his target. You know, the girl they tie to a wall, the guy throws knives, missing under her arms, by her head, between her . . .” She paused.

Her voice cut through the remaining bits of Pteridium esculentum in his neural pathways like a cleansing solution. He fixed on her laughing eyes. “You're kidding.”

“Oh no, I'm quite serious,” she replied.

“Let me guess,” he said. “You were slicing an onion julienne.”

That startled her. He saw it and smiled. She composed herself, scrutinized him with a piercing look, eyes narrowing, her head jutting up ever-so-slightly and said, “Red pepper.”

8

The nurse reappeared and began to call Allysa’s name when her mother burst into the waiting room. “Why hasn’t she been seen? The finger must be stitched while still fresh!”

What he heard the nurse say was “Alice,” then, after the interruption, “wait.” He suddenly felt as though none of this was really happening. It was a scene on a stage and they were rehearsing their lines. She stood, saying hers perfectly. “Nice talking to you,” then walked swiftly toward the nurse.

Only then did his words tumble out. “Yes . . . hope that . . . my name is . . .” Too late. He’d dropped his lines. Or maybe those were his lines. He wasn’t sure of anything anymore. He rose from the seat, steadied himself, found a water cooler, drank long draughts, and went to the men’s room. Looking in the mirror, reality rushed back. The right side of his face was oozing blood and puss. Grabbing a paper towel, he wet it and dabbed the wounds, finding pieces of glass like tiny diamonds in the towel. He lingered, drank more water from the faucet, patted the wounds until the seeping stopped, then returned to the waiting room. As he neared his seat, Alyssa emerged with a band-aid on her finger.

“Looks like I'll live,” she said to her mother, who was sitting near the nurse’s station. “Three stitches.” She twirled her wounded finger in the air and looked at him.

“Glad to hear,” he said.

The nurse appeared and called his name, but he was watching the two women leave, hearing Alyssa say that she knew who he was, her voice lingering like a fragrance that evaporated as the ER doors slid closed.

The nurse said, “Mr. Stone?”

He turned and studied the face of the tall brawny man standing in front of him, who had the gentlest countenance Saeed had ever seen, white as snow, brown scruffy hair, jowls that belied his physique, blue eyes that looked at him sympathetically. Nurse Braun cranked his head toward the opening of the door, and Saeed passed through.

9

Alyssa was glad she didn’t have to keep her finger in the air anymore, even though it throbbed when she dropped her arm. The doctor had given her a prescription for opiates, but she had a high threshold for pain with no plan to fill it.

“So, who is he?” Her mother asked, looking over the roof of the car, the distress about her daughter’s finger having evaporated.

“Dr. Saeed Stone, new faculty member in the department,” Alyssa replied as they got into their seats and strapped on seatbelts.

“Isn’t that quirky?”

Alyssa said, “I’m not sure what to make of it.”

“Nothing much I think,” her mother said as she started the car and drove off.

“Camella said I’d be assigned part time to Dr. Jones. But he left, so I might work for this guy.”

“You’ve met your new colleague,” her mother replied.

“Not a great first impression,” Alyssa said.

“It’s only a cut finger for heaven’s sake.”

“No mom, me of him. And there was this elderly lady, she was humming and rocking, he was muttering, they were staring at each other, it was bizarre.”

“Lovely.” Her mother steered the car down the freshly chipped road that led to their property.

Alyssa said, “He guessed how I cut myself.”

“He what?”

“He guessed I was slicing vegetables julienne when I cut myself. He said julienne, which is exactly what I was doing.”

“He’s clairvoyant?”

“That’s more than I want to deal with. Let’s get back to the bottle of wine.”

“I’m ready for a cocktail!” said her mother.

The magnolia bushes on either side of the paved driveway lifted as the muggy heat of the day dissipated. She asked her mother if she knew Edna Crowley. An older woman. Gray hair. Wore black. Walked with a cane. “Never seen anyone like that around here,” her mother replied. As they approached the garage, a large crow landed on its apex, hopped along then stopped and looked down at them letting out a staccato string of caws that sent chills down her spine. Crow. Crowly. Edna. Saeed. Coincidence. Just coincidence. For heaven’s sake.

10

Sitting with the bright light on his face made his head throb harder but there was nothing he could do about it. Nurse Braun checked his vitals, washed his wounds, then tweezed out the smallest pieces of glass implanted in his face. The doctor entered, greeting him. “Mr. Stone. I’m Doctor Shields.”

“Hello,” he said, half expecting her to turn into the Queen of Hearts.

She examined his face. “You're fortunate.”

“You have no idea what the means,” he said.

“I mean you could have lost your head,” the doctor said.

His eyes widened. Nurse Braun smiled.

“You should keep these areas clean,” she continued. “It's okay to apply antibiotic ointment but call your PCP if there are signs of infection. There’s nothing to stitch, probably no permanent scarring.”

“Too bad.”

“Apply Vitamin E to make sure.”

“I want the scars,” he said.

“Why in the world do you want scars?”

“To sue whoever shot the window out of my car.”

“No amount of money will compensate for a scarred face. Vitamin E.”

“Vitamin E,” he repeated mechanically.

“Leave the small bandages on overnight then remove them in the morning. Let the wounds scab up. Avoid sleeping on the right side of your face for a few nights.”

“Right,” Saeed said.

“Nurse Braun will give you discharge papers. Any questions?”

“Don’t think so.”

“Have a nice evening.” The doctor smiled and exited the room.

The nurse handed him the papers. “You're good to go.”

“Thanks.” Saeed said as he slid off the examination table.

11

Officer Mary was standing by the door talking to the Security guards when she saw him emerge. She walked toward him. “Hello again, Mr. Stone,” she said cheerfully.

“Hello officer. My car’s okay?”

“We cleaned it up, taped plastic over the window opening. Should be fine ‘til you get it repaired,” she said.

“Super,” said Saeed.

“We want to help you get settled after this unfortunate incident. I can take your statement here. You don't have t’go to the station.”

“Great.”

“. . . and we have the boys who shot out the window.”

“They're boys?”

“Young men, teenagers, 18 or 19. We're holding ‘em downtown and the chief’s talkin’ with the DA about bringin’ charges.”

“Felony charges?”

“Reckless endangerment isn’t a felony in this state, unless there’s intent to harm.”

“That’s a contradiction,” Saeed said.

Officer Mary smiled. “I know. Think of it as a flagrant one foul. You’re charged, but you don’t get suspended from the game.”

“This isn’t basketball.”

“The Lundy boys, Charles and Robert, are responsible for the accident,” she said. “Their father owns that warehouse. Robert Lundy is the one who shot out the jeep’s window. Here’s the form.” He sat, wrote, signed, and handed it back. “Ok, that covers it,” she said. “I see your address is on Strand.”

“Yes.”

“The Winchell house; I know it. Follow me. I’ll get a couple guys to come over first thing in the mornin’ to help unload the trailer.”

“That’d be great,” he said as they walked into the parking lot toward the vehicle.

12

In the dim light of the jeep's cab, the taut plastic sheet covering the passenger side window seemed to quiver, its stretched surface reflecting the mounting fury that surged inside him. It was a visceral sensation creeping up from his bowels, igniting a fire of indignation that flushed his cheeks. The bullet that came within centimeters of striking him was a threat he could not dismiss, its recklessness signifying a world he disdained, a world of white men with guns and the impunity to use them. It was a world he knew all too well, cutting through time to mock him. Time itself was mocking him. The agonies of Charbel, so vivid and all-consuming, faded. The old adversary had arisen on a new front as if it had foreknowledge of his arrival.

He drove behind the police car in the sultry evening, streetlights flickering under limbs of giant maples whose canopies covered the entire street. A tunnel of green. The humid dust-filled air of the city receded. The breeze through the open windows blew lighter as he passed one Victorian house after another. The cooler air brought clarity as well. Images of the ER scrolled through. The old woman, who was she? An expeller of demons, a voice said. My demons? Of course, your demons. And the woman with the sliced finger. She knows me? She knows who you are. How? How do you think? The University. Bravo. Her name is Alice? Accent on the second syllable. Elyse? Close. Alicia? Short Y, S like in ‘kiss’. Alyssa. Yes, Alyssa. Her last name is White? What did the nurse say? Wait. Almost. Alyssa Waite. Yes, Alyssa Waite.