July 19th, 1977
"It was warm, everyone remembered that. Warm and sunny. The first truly beautiful day all year. The temperature was high, the breeze was perfect, and the fields, still unplanted, seemed less brown for the pure smell of summer.
It had been a good day, too. An easy, laid-back, relaxed Sunday. A smooth drive through winding roads at twilight, listening to music, cruising, feeling summer… how perfect an end to the day.
Everything from the moment she rounded the corner, feeling the wind circling through her hair, the gorgeous evening embracing her sense of wonder and beauty about the world beyond this one, to the moment the phone rang back home, is nothing but brief smoking snapshots. Absolutely still, perfect capturing of moments.
She noted the wide, sweeping beam of her headlights flashing frenetically across a line of trees, illuminating for a split-second a pair of orange eyes, glowing in the darkness.
She saw the tail lights of a spinning car, throwing a crazy red tint on everything, like a camera malfunction.
She actually saw the low thump of both cars connecting before she heard the crash.
She saw the road circling beneath as the windshield soared up to meet her, the splintering of glass shattering into her, the trees moving ever closer.
She saw her children’s faces.
And the last thing was a smooth, complete absence of fear. She believed in life and she trusted death. As she glided through the summer twilight air, all she felt was the uniquely exquisite sensation of entirely unaided flight. She smiled blissfully, and closed her eyes to taste the sound of soaring.
She ended happy.
John was sitting on the couch, flipping through channels. Dressed in flannel pajama pants and bare feet resting comfortably on the footrest, he was about to shut the television off and simply fall asleep. He was content. Just then, the phone on the wall rang into the quiet house. He glanced at it, then got up and walked into the kitchen to pick up the cordless. The phone in the living room had a dead battery.
“Hello?” John said. He was in a good mood, despite the interruption.
“Hello. This is St. Mary’s Hospital. Is this the Callizio residence?” said a heavy, tired, but professional voice. John was puzzled. He sat down at a chair, smiling at the anniversary card next to the vase of flowers, lovingly placed there by his wife: YOU ARE THE BEST and I LOVE YOU!
“Yes. I’m John Callizio. What is it?”
A quiet sigh, barely audible over the line. John felt the beginning uneasy prickle of worry. He glanced at the picture on the opposite wall— the honeymoon to Washington, their first vacation together as a newly married couple. That was three years ago.
“I’m sorry to have to inform you of this, sir…”
“Don’t worry. What is it?” John said. Even to this unknown voice, John was comforting. This person, whoever he was, had something difficult to say. John ignored the sick feeling of foreboding that was beginning to make itself evident and listened.
“You have a wife. Renee M. Dominique-Callizio, correct?” John nodded, then realizing how invisible the motion was, he said “Yes.” Renee always went simply by Callizio, her married name, but on the bills and insurance papers it always came hyphenated with her maiden name. No one ever called her Mrs. Dominique-Callizio. It was stupid. And his thoughts were rambling. That fear was here now, oh yes. Beyond a doubt. Slick and cold. “Is anything wrong?”
“Sir… Mr. Callizio. Your wife…”
Oh, no. No, absolutely not, wrong number, John is certainly frightened now, yes, sir. He focuses on the tip of the cheery purple wildflower in the vase, thinking of all the good times they had together, all the plans they had, the taste of her skin, he knew what was coming and he didn’t want to hear it—
“…your wife is dead.”
John tears himself away.
“What? No— that can’t be right— theremustbeamistake—” The last words come fast, cascading from his lips as his hands shake. Please, just say it, just a few words, something like ‘Oh, sorry, sir, you were right, it’s someone else’s wife, not yours, not you, not your wife, not Renee
“I am so sorry.”
“Oh, God, not Renee!” John shouts, rising up from his chair, almost upsetting it completely.
“Mr. Callizio. I understand. Just—”
“How? How is that possible?” The man sitting at the desk on the other end of the phone lowers his head. Jesus Christ. He hates making these calls, absolutely hates them. His heart aches for the poor son-of-a-bitch on the other end. If it was his wife, his Angie—
“It was a car accident, sir. A drunk. I’m sorry.” Nurses, doctors, patients in white walked around on spongy shoes. Pagers beeped. Soft fluorescent lights cast a shadowless illumination. The wall across from him had a Van Gogh reproduction on it. “Cornfield with Crows.” A patient bound for OR on a stretcher was being wheeled quickly past him. The patient recovering in the room next to the painting coughed softly in his sleep. No one in this hospital knew, except for the few doctors and nurses who attempted to save her life, about this Renee M. Dominique-Callizio, age 25, blood type O, 115 pounds.
He is crying now. He sits down again, staring at the flowers and the card and the blue vinyl tablecloth. Cheap. Sam’s Club. “It’s a good deal, John, trust me. It’ll look good with the wall color, won’t it?” Her bright laugh. Her sparkling green eyes, so courageous and brave and beautiful. Her cheery smile. Her lips, hot against his skin in a passionate kiss—
“Ah. Oh God. Jesus. Ah, God.” he says, rambling disjointed nothing thoughts, backlit by pain. “Whatchdyousay?”
“A drunk driver. He lost control of his car. He hit her head-on.”
“How—Christ!—how long?”
“I’m sorry?”
“HOW LONG WAS SHE DEAD BEFORE THEY FOUND HER?!”
“Oh. I am sorry, sir.” And he really is. He must sound like the most stupid person in the world right now. The man just lost his wife and he was forced to repeat himself. Christ. “Just a few minutes. A jogger saw the collision and called the ambulance. The doctors estimate— because she was found in the ditch some ten feet away— that she was killed instantly.”
“No pain, then?”
A pause.
“No, sir.”
“Can I come see her? Please”
“Yeah. Certainly. Of course.”
“Good. I’m—shit!—I’m on my way. ‘Bye.”
John hangs up. The twilight fills the house with calming, soothing light. But he doesn’t feel calm or soothed. His heart is ripping to shreds.
“Renee. Oh, God. Honey. Oh, baby, I’m sorry.”
He speaks to the empty house, like a priest relating his story to an invisible congregation. He grabs his keys, his coat, and, his face still wet with hot tears, heads for the door.
After this…
Azrael.
But we’re not here to watch that, are we? It’s disturbing. It hurts us to even listen. Besides, we’ve all seen it before. Hollywood has quite the penchant for heart-wrenching tales of pain. How many times have you seen an actor crying over the body of a loved one? It happens. Life —and death— happens.
Let’s move away, shall we? Let’s travel over many miles and many years. A new world altogether. Good literature accomplishes many feats of talent and style, but one excellent aspect is instantaneous travel. We can go anywhere we please, to any time, seep like transparent liquid through the ears and into the minds of anyone we wish. Let’s go.
March 17th, 2003
“On the whole it was really shitty thing to have done. And I mean shitty. You know? I mean, come on! Damn punk.”
“Damn punk? Punk?”
“Well, what would you call him?”
“I’d call him an asshole!”
“Right on, then.”
It was an odd conversation taking place. It was in a truck stop, just off the freeway. Greasy burgers, lumpy fries, slimy eggs, country-fried steak in colorless gravy; bored gum-chewing teenage waitresses; dusty gift shop filled with postcards, greeting cards, mugs, beer holders, and South Park toys; showers and two private rooms complete with a bed and chair; all set for the long-night-over-the-road trucker man. Two women sat across from each other in a cracked leather-seated booth. White mugs filled with steaming strong black coffee that tasted like crap sat in front of each. One was young, one was old, but they shared a common resemblance. Mother and daughter, perhaps.
This is Sharon, a senior-citizen ex-rebel who drinks a case a week, watches daytime soaps, keeps the house relatively tidy, swears at her eternally sloshed crew-cut draft-dodging husband, and occasionally indulges in the ever-enticing Thai stick of her wild-child youth in the desert. And the younger one? That’s Emmy, a thirtysomething barmaid who lives in a scummy apartment and often brings home several men a week for a drunken wrestle on her ratty mattress, who smashes out windows in people’s cars if they don’t tip well, who watches late-night porno channels, and reads the tabloids while smoking a cigarette at her window in three in the morning. She is Sharon’s daughter. They are destined for the same wild-ride-live-free-die-young-play-hard death together. Call them each Ex-Rocker-Babe-I-Hate-My-Life-But-It-No-Longer-Matters.
The discussion to which we are avidly eavesdropping (invisible, of course, to everyone present) pertains to a certain man who never tips, cheats on all his women, and recently proclaimed to an entire church full of people, at his own wedding, mind you (he was under considerable influence at the time) how many women he had slept with in his life. Not a pleasant man they are lambasting, no sir.
The door opens. Bells twinkle out merrily, then crash back against the grimy glass, cutting off the sound. People glance up to see who it is, and those who know him smile. He is a regular here. Sad, but there you go.
“Hey. A coffee, please.”
“Anything else, sir?”
This man does not look like a sir. His eyes were a piercing, crystalline, iridescent blue, and his hair was dark and curling. A few days of being unshaven had given him a rough shadow that made him look dangerous. He took off his thin black jacket and tossed it carelessly across the seat next to him to reveal the rest of his clothes were thin, black and dusty. He sips his coffee quietly, adding nothing.
“No thanks.”
Emmy looks interested. So does Sharon, but this intriguing man is closer to Emmy’s age. Sharon nods. It she did pick him up, it would be strenuous at best. Most likely impossible. He was young and strong. She was not.
Emmy slides her fat form off the leather seat and moves towards him. In skintight leather and with a pierced lip, her pale fat face just makes her sickening hideous body appear more obese.
“Hey,” she says, sliding onto a stool next to him.
He looks up and beholds her coldly, then looks wordlessly back towards the floor. It was the most tactful and most blatant dismissal Emmy has ever encountered. She is hurt.
“Hey, babe, what are you doing? I just wanna talk,” she says, in her best pouty voice.
“Indeed.” he says. His voice is strong and confident. He holds up his left hand. A golden wedding band graces his ring finger. “In case you have not noticed, I am married.”
She inhales in a long a-a-h-h-h-h-h-h. Counts to ten mentally. With as much dignity as she can, she meanders back to her seat.
“Man. How weird.” says the guy sitting next to him. A country boy trucker from Montana, he took up over-the-roading when his own wife left him. A faint smile begins on the man’s face, then fades quietly away. He is watching the room very carefully.
“I’m Joe Wendell.” he adds, extending his hand. The man shakes it. Firm grip.
“Hello. I am Azrael.” Joe looks pleasantly surprised. He’s never heard the word before.
“What kind of a name is Ass-reel?” shouts Sharon, standing up, her fat face flushing.
He turns smoothly.
“I don’t recall your face. Who are you?”
“Sharon Lisbon.” she says defiantly, her beady little eyes staring at him.
“Well, Sharon, I will have you know that there is no such word as Ass-reel, or whatever you called me. Even an uneducated woman like yourself should recognize this. My name is spoken as I pronounced it.”
“Don’t you have last name?” she spat.
“I have no other names. I am Azrael.”
This rather strange name frightens both women, and interests everyone else. The two quickly gather up their coats, make a few mumbled excuses, and head for the car.
“So, Azrael, what brings you this way again?”
He turns back to his coffee.
“I found myself in a desolate, lonely, and desperate situation. I used to know people here. Years ago. I thought I would return.”
He seems so cool, so collected, so calm. None of them believe his explanation. A guy— no, that is far from the right word— a man so composed as this would never find himself in a desperate situation. Even if he was a criminal. He is too good for that.
He comes here often, but they know very little about him. He is an enigma. A mystery, wrapped in a puzzle and cloaked in a conundrum, to egregiously misquote a poem no one knows. He is simply Azrael. He’s married, but no one has ever seen his wife.
“Say, man… you’re married, but…”
His shimmering blue eyes are fixed intently on Joe Wendell from Montana as he speaks.
“But?”
“Well, dude… I mean. What. What is her name?”
He exhales, lowering his eyes for the first time. He drops a twenty on the counter, rises, reaches into his pocket. He pulls out a sexy silver lighter and a pack of expensive cigarettes. He walks away from Joe Wendell, pushing the door open swiftly, then stopping with one black boot outside.
He lights the cigarette in a quick plume of flame. The lighter clicks shut. He drops it back. Exhales a cloud of smoke.
“Her name was Samantha. I… I lost her to a car accident. Five years ago.”
He exits, smoke breezing quickly away behind him. The bells clang. The diner is quiet.
Hmm.
“Uh.” mutters Joe. “Damn, but that was fucked up, man.”
Azrael is in his car. The cigarette is smoldering somewhere on the highway behind him. Why had he mentioned that? Why? John was never so careless. John, when he spoke of Renee, was always carefully guarded. It was so strange."
(and that’s all I have. Feedback? Comments?)
