He Fell Through Clouds, a novel

He Fell Through Clouds (Opening)

(The complete novel is available, either in trade paperback or as an Acrobat download, at my bookstore.)

Prologue

They grieve for they lost his living
he grieves for he lost his life
but dead he lost more than the living
in them he is still alive
while he lost life
and memory both

Chapter One

He knew by the cry of locked wheels on tarmac, by the sting of rubber smoke in his nostrils, by the core of silence in which he found himself despite the noise—and perhaps mostly by this stillness—that he was not going to make it.

He knew as he rushed towards it, or it towards him—for he felt stationary; knew as he saw the number painted on the undercarriage and looked again to make it out, 486 it said, paint peeling, or fading, no, it was peeling; he knew then, in the near timelessness of this immediacy, and with astonishing clarity, that he was going to die.

The tractor-trailer had just overtaken him. It had come up from behind, speeding surely, had blasted its horn once, then again—he had almost sensed the irritation, this was a vehicle used to being heard the first time—had then swung left and rumbled past him like an indignant mountain on the move. That accomplished, the eighteen-wheeler, without signaling, simply taking what was rightfully his, had steered right again, back to the slower lanes, its proper territory.

But a small foreign car, new and blue or blue-green and perhaps three car-lengths ahead, was in the rig’s way. This driver either didn’t notice or didn’t care. Neither did the rig.

The collision wasn’t much at first, just a touch, a scraping. But then the rig, as if suddenly aware, convulsed and slammed on the brakes. Smoke streamed from the locked wheels as it began skidding to its right.

He had all the time in the world to make up his mind, at least that is how it seemed. One moment came, stayed a while, then the next, each slow and long. He thought, and noticed himself thinking: he could simply brake and yes, possibly lose control, though that would lessen the impact, or—possibly a safer choice—he could perhaps avoid the sliding rig altogether by veering left for the fast lane, clearing now as the rig continued sliding to the right.

He made his choice and eased the steering wheel to the left, thinking yes, yes, he would miss the rig, easy does it, but not too fast since the rig, a helpless whale now, was slowing fast and not entirely out of the fast lane yet.

Then, and he should have done this sooner, halfway into the fast lane he glanced in his rearview mirror and saw the gray Pontiac—yes it was a Pontiac—come up from behind him at speed, also heading for the fast lane. To get out of Pontiac’s way and into the fast lane before him, he floored the accelerator and heard his Toyota gear down to gather strength and speed. But not fast enough.

Two things: the Pontiac, no doubt distracted by the skidding rig, did not hit the brakes in time; and the rig was not yet all the way out of the fast lane, now almost sideways in its slide. The Pontiac caught up and struck him from behind, careening him, still accelerating, directly into the trailer.

Those numbers, four eight six on the grimy blue of the undercarriage, were the last things he saw.

Metal screaming and the destruction of glass were the last things he heard.

Had he put away his groceries? was his final thought.

“An accident on the 110 freeway just before the 91 has all southbound lanes, I repeat all southbound lanes shut down, with traffic backed up to before Redondo Beach Boulevard. There has been a terrible accident involving a jackknifed big-rig and several other vehicles, with at least one fatality. Police and emergency vehicles are arriving on the scene with more on the way and according to Caltrans it will be two hours, at least, before any of those lanes will reopen. If you’re in a hurry, you’d do well to avoid this area. If you’re traveling south on the 110, we suggest you take El Segundo or Rosecrans and use the surface streets. Northbound 110 is also bumper-to-bumper due to spectator slowing.”

The impact was curious. There was pain, surely. There must have been pain, but if there were, it was very sudden and gone too soon to actually register.

No, not really pain. It was more like a burst of wind, a rushing upward from his feet to his head as iron and force crushed lungs and spine and his head was all but severed in this single act of bad luck and mechanical violence. The gust, like a giant exhaling, seized him and pulled him up and out and clear of the wreckage.

Chapter Two

She walked quietly past the closed bedroom door and down the stairs. It was still dark outside and the air smelled of rain. The living room was dark but the kitchen light was on, spilling onto the threadbare carpet all the way to the bottom of the stairs. She could hear Beth getting things ready for Bill’s breakfast.

She stepped into the kitchen then stopped short: it had happened again. Although she could only see the left side of her face, she could tell. Bruised and puffy. Her mom did not turn to face her.

“Morning, Mom.”

“Morning, honey.”

Elsie Reilly was only twelve years old, but had already known for almost a year that it was up to her to help her mom. This had come to her almost as a revelation on a dark and rainy morning like this one.

The old spruce outside her window, restless with wind, had scraped the roof and prodded her awake, she had opened her eyes on the dark, and realized she was thirsty. She had slid out from under her blanket and tiptoed down the stairs for a glass of water. Then back to bed. Not quite time to get up yet.

Then, as now, the kitchen light was already on, seeping out from under the closed kitchen door. As Elsie had entered—maybe it was the light, maybe it was that Beth didn’t turn to greet her right away, maybe it was something she had dreamt, she never really did sort it out—she noticed, as if for the first time, how tired her mother looked, how stooped and bent. After a while Beth had turned and smiled at her, but it wasn’t really a smile. Not a happy recognition, no, it had only been like a gesture before returning, almost mechanically, to the brush and the carrots in the sink. Elsie had looked at her face, at the side of her face really, at the tired shoulders, the bare arms, the graying hair caught in a small bun, at the struggle that was her mom, for what seemed a long time while she at the same time also saw a younger, happier mom; the face from before Tim and Sarah and Evelyn came, from when there had been only the three of them, a happier mom then with a brighter face smiling down at her, laughing often. Even singing sometimes.

Her mom had turned to her again, with the same not really a smile, and Elsie had smiled back, and known that it was up to her. Her mom needed help, and that was what being the oldest child was all about, wasn’t it? Up to her. She should have known sooner, she thought, but she had never put things together before: Beth was always up before everyone else and down in the kitchen to get them all fed and off to work and school and day care before getting herself ready and catching a downtown bus, to work a full shift sewing clothes. Then home again, hurry to day care before they close, fix dinner, wash the dishes, put the kids to bed, read them stories, make sure Bill has his TV snack and beer, mend socks and stockings, polish and clean, and perhaps even laundry before she could catch her breath and maybe a TV show if she wasn’t too tired, then off to bed, then awake again to everything all over.

That morning, as this had all added up and almost stunned her, she had decided that she would do a lot more to help. She would start by helping with the kids. She would take them to day care before school, she would pick them up after school as well. She would get them ready for bed. She would help clean, too. She would make her mom’s life a little easier, ease her load. And she had felt, seeing it all so clearly, and making up her mind, that she was growing up in a matter of minutes.

Recently, she had grown up further; had grown to understand Mom’s other problem. The one with Daddy and how her face got swollen.

For sometimes her mom would have a swollen eye or a blue cheek, sometimes she would favor her arm, but when Elsie would ask her about it, she would never really answer. Not answer answer; instead it was always just a stumble or a clumsy me or it was nothing really, darling; things Elsie couldn’t quite believe or make sense of. Then her mom had a broken wrist in a cast for six weeks and a bruised shoulder and face at the same time. Fell down the stairs, she said, clumsy me, late for work. Elsie did not know what to believe. But she had begun to notice how her mother stayed clear of Bill when he was drinking.

Then one night not long ago she had woken up from Tim’s crying in the room next to hers. He wouldn’t stop, and no one else was looking in on him, so she got up to see what was the matter. Once out on the landing she heard noises from the kitchen, angry noises. Dad loud, Mom answering, it sounded like begging. She had stolen down the stairs, and that’s when she saw how Beth got hurt.

Mommy had never told anyone about these things, so neither would she.

But knowing strengthened her resolve. She would do anything to bring her mom’s smile back. It was up to her.

“Let me do that,” she said.

Her mom stepped aside to let her help, but she still didn’t turn to face her.

The complete novel is available, either in trade paperback or as an Acrobat download, at my bookstore.

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