Dating : Road Signs

Author’s Note: I wrote this short story some time ago, a little earlier in my writing career. After my brother passed away, I felt untethered for a long time, and writing this particular story proved a helpful way to grieve, to process, and to learn how to say goodbye. Writing fiction, I have found, is more than simple catharsis; it makes the feeling, the idea, the notion a real three-dimensional object, almost separate and distinct from yourself. You can turn it over in your hands, and experience the whole of it at once.

Road Signs by T.L. Spezia

You ain’t never shut up, Davy!

The words erupted in his mind when the morning alarm viciously and rudely tore him from sleep. They must have followed him out of dreaming, but he knew they were the remnants of a boyhood memory, when summers were longer, Coca-Cola colder and sweeter, and the world somehow seemed more pristine and beautiful. The edges of time and space had been hazier and less-detailed, too. By comparison, adulthood was stifling, constricting. Its lines were clearly demarcated and its territorial reach narrowly defined. The cartography of life became increasingly disappointing the further along one’s ship sailed. These thoughts, sloppy and wavy in the groggy soup of early wakefulness, followed him to the bathroom, as he showered and shaved before work.

Half an hour later, downstairs, his wife gave him a peck on the check and squeezed his shoulder as he sat down for breakfast. He could faintly hear the pan still sizzling as she shoveled two eggs onto his plate, next to the bacon. Upstairs the children still slept. They wouldn’t be up for another couple of hours. Wilson Maynard stared at the simple, lightly seasoned breakfast and didn’t say a word. He wanted to eat it, but there was a heavy ball of lead in his stomach this morning. It had been there yesterday, too. And the day before that. And the day that it had finally happened.

She sat in the chair next to him and frowned. “You don’t have to go to work today. They’ll understand, Willie.” Willie. That had been his boyhood name and his wife’s favorite pet name for him. Only Wilson when she was mad. Easy way to gauge her mood, he thought and a quiet, breathy chuckle dropped out of his mouth. He shook his head. And she didn’t notice or ask, and he was grateful for that. But when he looked up he saw a question on her face. Not a question with any specific arrangement of words, but a general, heartfelt concern of one person for another. He could see it in the pained expression she wore as she stared at him.

Before she could learn how to formulate that question, he stood abruptly, muttered a “see ya later,” and was out the door. He slid into the driver’s seat of the rusted out pickup truck that just barely made it from A to B these days and started the engine. As he backed out of the driveway, he found himself wishing he had the courage to put the truck in park and go back inside. But he reckoned that wasn’t going to happen this morning.

Yesterday, when he had seen his boss, he told him he would be coming in tomorrow. The shock on his boss’ face — the raised eyebrows, the hanging lower lip. It was expected but had made Wilson angry. As if he needed coddling or pampering. People were shocked when he said he didn’t need it. He had balled a fist right there in the main lobby of the place. For a moment considered stretching it back, cocking it, and letting it smash the side of the man’s face. But he had instead relaxed the fingers of his hand and let it all slide by. Not there. Not then. It wouldn’t have been right to do it there. Losing his job then would have been the least of his worries. He just didn’t want to do it there. In the front lobby of that dimly lit funeral home, which smelled of flowers and subdued the spirit.

Wilson backed into the street and drove away, giving a sidelong glance to the house. The sun had just crested the tall trees behind the property and rays of light shot upward and over the house. The engine popped and rocketed his attention back to the road. He could feel the truck’s bones rattle and shake as he topped out at twenty five miles an hour. But that was usual. What wasn’t usual, he noted, was how heavy the lead ball in his stomach was. Normally the rising sun — those initial waves of light rolling over the treetops — brought a smile to his face and injected a little warmth and pep into his spirit as he started the day. But he was blank today, as if that leaden ball was leaching something poisonous and making him sick.

And just when he was resigned to the blank feeling inside, something turned and replaced it. Something that crept up from below and settled in his chest and his face. He had left so hurriedly and without much of a goodbye to his wife. He shook his head to silently scold himself. Leaving so abruptly made it all plainly obvious. Would maybe make a person think he really needed all that coddling and pampering with the way he had so suddenly fled from his wife and his own home. The way a child rushes out of a room in distress.

But that look on her face. That tensely set expression that made him feel so damned low and pathetic. He had seen the look before, the day after his brother’s diagnosis. When she had walked into Mikey’s over in Frenchtown, north of Missoula, and found him huddled up inside himself at the end of the bar about six drinks deep. She had put a gentle hand on his shoulder and given him that look. He remembered how it damn near broke him. Split him wide open and made him hate himself a little. She hadn’t said a word but he followed her out of the bar and let her drive him home. Neither had spoken about it initially. But she had given him the look again when she had to drag him out for the sixth time. Then that had warranted a conversation.

And that was what he wanted to avoid this morning. He simply wanted to pretend everything was normal and as it was supposed to be. He didn’t want the question phrased or spoken or put to him in any way. The moment she broached that conversation. The day after the funeral. Then everything would come tumbling down.

No. He just wanted to pretend today. Going to work was a good way to pretend. And his workmates sure as hell wouldn’t give him that look. Not if he threatened them. So work could maybe feel normal and regular today.

He turned onto the entrance ramp that would get him on I-90 and picked up speed. The highway would take him north and eventually into the Lolo National Forest, where he was assigned as a wildland firefighter for the United States Forest Service. Always on call to suppress fires. To tamp down and strike out and wash out the fires wherever they should arise. And maybe a little highway driving would do him some good — especially once the road closed in on the Clark Fork River. A little highway driving. A little nature. It might do him some good.

Anything to suppress, he shook his head, distract me from this heaviness, he thought. Distraction, yes. He figured he could find some of it in the shining waters of the Clark Fork River or in the greenery he was about to pass by on the highway. Not suppression, idiot. But in the meantime he figured he could flick on the radio and get lost in a country song or two.

But when he turned the radio on, there was only static. Odd, because he always left it tuned to his preferred station. It broadcast early country music from somewhere in Alberta, Canada. But just static this morning. Whatever. He twisted the dial. More static. Kept turning. Static. Finally he landed on something that sounded promising. Pop music, which he didn’t care for. But it was between frequencies and didn’t come in clear enough. Damn. Like navigating murky waters. So he turned off the radio and rolled down the window.

He was the only one on the highway this morning, in either direction. Just him and the ailing pickup truck. It was early, but it wasn’t that early. He expected other cars along with him. But nothing. It was a narrow four lane highway, with a grass median separating the two directions of traffic. Wilson looked around and the world felt emptier without fellow commuters. Just the pale grass of the gently undulating landscape and taller hills in the distance. The world spilled away from him and he sensed the considerable expanse around him and felt unsettled. He hadn’t quite given it much attention or thought to just how spread out and wide it all was. But that didn’t surprise him much.

His universe had been terribly small and constricted the last three years or so. The parameters had shrunk on the day his brother was diagnosed with cancer. So there hadn’t been much room for anything else. Just his brother’s health, his wife, children, and his job. There wasn’t much space left for the sprawling lands of Montana, for the rolling grasslands surrounding I-90. And then he felt the lead in his stomach drop. Massive. Heavy. Painful. A strange fear prickled his skin and quickened his heart. Surrounded by the vastness of the earth, he trembled and felt shamefully small. A pressure welled up behind his eyes, so he grit his teeth before anything could happen and waited for the moment to pass. And finally it did.

He was just going to stare straight ahead as the highway gradually curved and over many miles bent southward and tangled with the Clark Fork River. Yes, he would think about that river. He thought about the places along the road where you could see the smooth waters on your left when heading north. He thought of the concrete bridge that straddled the blue-green waters, where directly ahead and rolling to the left of you were tall, tree covered hills. And how on certain days you could see white, wispy clouds mingling between those hills. And how it seemed as though the white fluff was filling up the short valleys between them.

He almost smiled, but a billboard up ahead killed it. The billboard must have just been erected, but he recognized the stupid damn face on it. The face was well known to residents in this part of Montana and to hapless drivers along I-90 who had the great misfortune to tune their radios to a certain station. The billboard was a great massive thing. Not high off the ground, but propped up with 2x4s with the ends cut at angles to align with the back of the board and the ground. The billboard stood up straight and could not be missed. In large, blue letters across the top was the name of the radio station and just below that in the same style and color of lettering was the preacher’s name: The Reverend Zebediah Fisher. Missoula’s #1 Radio Preacher!

Only radio preacher, Wilson thought. If you were the only one that automatically made you number one. On the right side of the sign was a head to knees picture of the man himself. He took up so much of the available space that his left elbow and the top of his head extended beyond the confines of the board. He wore a pink pastel suit with a puke green tie accented with criss crossing Xs of dark blue. His auburn hair was cut short and perfectly parted. He smiled that enormous Hiya, Jesus! smile, exposing those perfectly white and perfectly aligned chompers. They were blinding. They looked plastic. And in his left hand he held the Bible close to his chest. The right hand was frozen in an eternal wave.

Wilson doubted the reverend’s name was actually Zebediah. Probably a moniker he had adopted to appear more spiritual or holy or touched by God or some other superficial nonsense. He also doubted his teeth were naturally that white. False name and false teeth for a false prophet. And Wilson couldn’t help but laugh, despite the leaden weight in his belly and the indeterminate spot of pain that throbbed now that he saw the sign. The pain was thready and coarse somewhere deep below the surface. He felt sick.

On the left side of the billboard in a curvy script, in quotes, because it was Fisher’s catch phrase: “Give yourself to God, and the rest is easy!”

Crock, he thought. He had given himself and much more to God many times. In hospital chapels. In hospital cafeterias. In hospital hallways and waiting rooms and parking lots. And late at night, lying in bed under the covers, praying, begging, only half-sleeping because somewhere in a cold, dark, and lonely hospital room his brother was certainly not sleeping, shot through with the aggravating and gnawing caffeine of dying. So he’d given more than a fair share and had nothing to show for it. Less even. So to Hell with Zebediah and the Pearly White Teeth of Heaven.

He passed the sign and hoped putting it behind him would provide instant relief like fresh air or a hot shower. But a nasty tension twisted in his forehead and in his gut and did not abate. It coiled tighter and stretched wider until he felt it in his teeth and his eyes and his hands and everywhere. Wilson had seen the smarmy little face plastered all over Missoula and other places. But those damned shiny teeth and that ridiculous pink pastel suit. And that awful, ridiculous, nonsensical catchphrase! Why did a radio preacher need a catchphrase anyway? He wondered.

Give yourself over to God and the rest is easy!

It was an open secret just how much Zebediah made every year, and Wilson shook his head at how that made the statement all the more ridiculous. He thought of camels and eyes of needles and that was that. So who was he to say what was easy and what wasn’t? He felt a pressure build up behind his eyes again and so he grit his teeth until it passed.

He could see the concrete bridge up ahead and the Clark Fork River running beneath it. A large hill rose up ahead of that and seemed to loom over him. It dominated the landscape and that strange, shameful sensation of smallness passed through him again. So he grit his teeth again, even though he didn’t feel like crying. But the lead ball in his stomach had given way to an open flame that lapped at the inner lining of his stomach and singed his heart. That hill that rose up so high above him! And the clouds hung low this morning and girded the hill like some curly, white beard.

Finally he came to the concrete bridge and started to pass over it. The trees and the grass fell away and there was only the sweet scent and sound of running water. In no time at all it smothered the fire inside him and for the first time since a while, he felt the restorative, quenching power of the river beneath his tires and beneath the bridge. It had been warm out today, but the water almost seemed to pass over him and cool his skin.

And when he had reached the mid point of the open bridge, he looked out the passenger side window and spotted a proud stag emerge from the trees on the other side and meet the waters to drink. Wilson tapped the brake to slow his truck. He checked the rearview mirror, and seeing no other cars, came to a stop and watched the beast. He kept sneaking glances at the side mirror to ensure traffic was empty but gazed serenely at the animal. He must have been about twenty five yards away but there he was! His coat was light brown and his belly a clean and crisp white. The line that demarcated the two tones was wavy. But his antlers were massive and contained many points.

Wilson could not say for certain — and would never be able to articulate — just why he stopped on that concrete bridge to watch the stag drink from the river, but he had. He had stopped unconsciously. Something had gripped him and without words asked him to stay awhile and watch. He stared open mouthed, eyes wide and joyful, as if he had never seen a male deer before. Well, certainly not this one! He couldn’t recall ever seeing one so massive!

And then the stag slowly, gracefully, lifted its head and Wilson swore he could see droplets of water roll off the stag’s mouth and splash tiny ripples into the river. But it seemed to be looking right at him. From this distance he couldn’t quite be sure but the stag’s head was reared in his direction and its solid black eyes seemed so probing and directed.

He wanted to hit the accelerator again and get to work on time, but he wouldn’t move. As if something was holding him in place. Then the deer stepped away from the river, eyes locked on Wilson, and bounded up the steep slope and onto the highway. And rather than cross to the other side, as Wilson expected he would, the stag started toward the bridge, toward Wilson’s truck.

The deer seemed so much taller and bulkier at this distance, and still he kept coming, approaching the side of the vehicle, until he stood close enough for Wilson to reach out his driver’s side window and touch him. Then the deer stopped, still staring at Wilson. He reached a hand, gently, slowly, his breath shaky, ragged, excited, and started to stroke the side of the stag’s face. The fur was soft and still wet around the mouth. And as he stared direct into the creature’s large black eyes, nervous because it could bray or snort or bite, Wilson thought he saw something familiar. The deer’s eyes were so . . . intelligent, knowing, insightful. It leaned into Wilson’s petting, happy, it seemed, to receive it. But it did not avert its gaze. It continued to look.

And in those eyes Wilson thought he saw his own brother, but realized in a moment his foolishness. He saw his own shining reflection in the deer’s black eyes, but quickly forgave his mistake. The similarities were close enough. But still, there was something familiar and knowing in the deer’s eyes, and Wilson felt a shiver run up his back. The feeling was not eerie or uncanny, but strangely comforting. The deer seemed more like an old friend than a wild animal just then.

But Wilson then withdrew his hand and told the deer he had to get moving on. “I’ve got to get to work, but good boy!” He looked down to note the time on the truck radio and when he put his eyes back to the road he saw that the deer was standing in front of his truck now, blocking the way. The deer snorted and puffed and stomped his hoof. Again and again. Without stopping. The damn thing was talking to him and wouldn’t stop!

Any other day, the flame Wilson had had in his belly only a moment ago would have flared up and he likely would have blasted his horn. But instead Wilson started laughing. First a quiet chuckle as a smile broached his lips. And then a few regular rolls of real laughter as his smile stretched wider, until finally he was gripping his belly. The lead weight wasn’t there anymore, but a slight tension or stretching from the laughter that felt good.

“Get out of the way, man! I’ve got to be some place!” Wilson exclaimed. But the deer only went on snorting and tapping his hoof. And he knew why the deer seemed so familiar. A personality he had grown up with.

You ain’t never shut up, Davy! The remnant of dream and memory came back to him, and he nodded his head. “Alright, I think I’ve got it now.” He put the truck in reverse and slowly backed off the bridge, until he had the space to turn around. As he drove away, southbound, he gave intermittent glances into the rearview mirror, watching as the stag watched him. Then finally it turned and trotted away. Wilson smiled because he knew it was okay now to part ways. He noticed for the first time that his eyes were streaked with tears. They clouded his vision. He blinked and could see again.

He decided he would go home in fact and wait for that question on his wife’s face because he was ready for it. He was ready to be strong again.