The Way We Die
She was a blonde. A platinum blonde, actually, Tom Post thought, and a natural one at that. As he peered
through his living room window, he could see her parked across the street in an older, nondescript sedan
with her face turned slightly to the right. She was wearing a single strand of pearls and a short black
sleeveless dress which appeared to contain an appealing figure beneath. Tom couldn’t actually see that the
dress was short – after all, the woman was sitting in a car – but somehow he knew.
Her face was all wrong. What features were visible were both small and faded – almost washed out. Her skin
was as pale as her hair; her forehead oddly high and rounded. Her ears were small and tight to her head.
She had no discernible nose, except for two thin slits which might have served as nostrils. Her penetrating,
little coal-black eyes stood out in deep contrast to her pallid skin.
She knows I’m watching her, thought Tom.
As if on cue, the woman turned and looked straight at him. She smiled with what passed for a mouth,
flashing the tiniest teeth he had ever seen. Tom could not meet her gaze and quickly looked away.
The woman opened the car door, glanced once more in Tom’s direction, turned and walked toward the
small brick house directly across the street from Tom’s own.
He let the curtain fall back, shivered slightly, and headed toward his kitchen. Pretty freaky. No more
afternoon doobies for a while.
Tom grabbed a beer from the refrigerator and pulled out the fixings for a sandwich. Just as he was sitting
down to eat, he heard the unmistakable, shrill sound of an ambulance siren. The siren came closer and
eventually wound down nearby. He looked out the window and saw the paramedics rushing into his
neighbor’s house.
God, it’s the Jarvik’s.
Tom raced out the door and ran across the street. His mind registered the fact that the sedan was no
longer parked in front. Already they were bringing Eddie Jarvik out on a stretcher. He was unconscious and
looked near death. Eddie’s wife Maria was weeping inconsolably.
“Tom, Tom. It’s Eddie,” she said.
“What happened, Maria?”
“We was just watching TV. He grabbed his head and started screaming. I called 9-1-1 right away once he
fell down. Is Eddie gonna be alright, Tom?”
“I don’t know, Maria. I don’t know. I’ll go with you to the hospital,” said Tom.
Less than two hours later, Tom was back in his living room, while Eddie was chilling in the hospital morgue.
A massive cerebral hemorrhage, they called it. Unusual for a man so young, they said, but it happens
sometimes.
Maria was a basket case, barely affected by the substantial dose of tranquilizers the doctors had given her.
She would remain hospitalized for at least the rest of the evening.
Before he left her, Tom asked Maria if the strange woman had done or said something to set Eddie off.
“What woman?” Maria said.
“That blonde. She was in your house not ten minutes before I heard the sirens.”
“It was just me and Eddie, Tom,” Maria said. “There wasn’t no one else there.”
He saw the blonde woman again five days later, standing by the side of a busy expressway. She wore the
same pearls and the same black dress. Her face – Tom guessed he would have to call it a face – looked
the same. She was staring intently back down the road. The woman nodded almost imperceptibly as Tom
drove by. Out of his rear-view mirror, he saw her make a pushing motion with both hands, as if she were
signaling pass interference at a football game. Moments later, he heard a horrendous crash, followed by a
deafening explosion.
Tom pulled immediately into the breakdown lane and came to a stop. Quickly exiting his car, he saw and felt
the huge fireball that was engulfing an overturned tractor trailer. Although he heard the driver’s screams,
the fire was too intense for Tom or anyone else to try to help.
The SUV was on its side in a ditch, dripping gasoline, but not yet on fire. He could make out the driver and
one, perhaps two small passengers in the back seat. They were not moving. He tried the door, but it would
not budge. Wrapping his coat around his fist, Tom pounded on the window, finally breaking through the
glass just before another explosion picked him up and tossed his body across the road and into the median.
He didn’t know how long he had been lying there. Days; weeks, perhaps. He knew he was in the hospital
and he knew what had happened. The doctors had told him. He also knew pain. Deep, intense pain.
“Mr. Post, you’ve been burned over fifty percent of your body,” they had said. “An infection has set in.
We’re doing the best we can to fight it.”
“Am I going to die?” he had asked.
“We’re doing the best we can,” they had said.
Tom drifted in and out of consciousness, welcoming its respite when it came, but dreading the attendant
dreams.
It was one of the bad nights. The worst he could remember. The pain was beyond unbearable. Tom knew
he would go crazy if he could not get some relief.
The rustle of fabric alerted Tom to the fact that someone was in the darkened room.
“Who is it?” asked Tom.
“I’ve come to help you, Tom,” a feminine voice said.
“Is it time for my Morphine?”
“No, Tom. No. It’s your time,” said the woman in the black dress.
through his living room window, he could see her parked across the street in an older, nondescript sedan
with her face turned slightly to the right. She was wearing a single strand of pearls and a short black
sleeveless dress which appeared to contain an appealing figure beneath. Tom couldn’t actually see that the
dress was short – after all, the woman was sitting in a car – but somehow he knew.
Her face was all wrong. What features were visible were both small and faded – almost washed out. Her skin
was as pale as her hair; her forehead oddly high and rounded. Her ears were small and tight to her head.
She had no discernible nose, except for two thin slits which might have served as nostrils. Her penetrating,
little coal-black eyes stood out in deep contrast to her pallid skin.
She knows I’m watching her, thought Tom.
As if on cue, the woman turned and looked straight at him. She smiled with what passed for a mouth,
flashing the tiniest teeth he had ever seen. Tom could not meet her gaze and quickly looked away.
The woman opened the car door, glanced once more in Tom’s direction, turned and walked toward the
small brick house directly across the street from Tom’s own.
He let the curtain fall back, shivered slightly, and headed toward his kitchen. Pretty freaky. No more
afternoon doobies for a while.
Tom grabbed a beer from the refrigerator and pulled out the fixings for a sandwich. Just as he was sitting
down to eat, he heard the unmistakable, shrill sound of an ambulance siren. The siren came closer and
eventually wound down nearby. He looked out the window and saw the paramedics rushing into his
neighbor’s house.
God, it’s the Jarvik’s.
Tom raced out the door and ran across the street. His mind registered the fact that the sedan was no
longer parked in front. Already they were bringing Eddie Jarvik out on a stretcher. He was unconscious and
looked near death. Eddie’s wife Maria was weeping inconsolably.
“Tom, Tom. It’s Eddie,” she said.
“What happened, Maria?”
“We was just watching TV. He grabbed his head and started screaming. I called 9-1-1 right away once he
fell down. Is Eddie gonna be alright, Tom?”
“I don’t know, Maria. I don’t know. I’ll go with you to the hospital,” said Tom.
Less than two hours later, Tom was back in his living room, while Eddie was chilling in the hospital morgue.
A massive cerebral hemorrhage, they called it. Unusual for a man so young, they said, but it happens
sometimes.
Maria was a basket case, barely affected by the substantial dose of tranquilizers the doctors had given her.
She would remain hospitalized for at least the rest of the evening.
Before he left her, Tom asked Maria if the strange woman had done or said something to set Eddie off.
“What woman?” Maria said.
“That blonde. She was in your house not ten minutes before I heard the sirens.”
“It was just me and Eddie, Tom,” Maria said. “There wasn’t no one else there.”
He saw the blonde woman again five days later, standing by the side of a busy expressway. She wore the
same pearls and the same black dress. Her face – Tom guessed he would have to call it a face – looked
the same. She was staring intently back down the road. The woman nodded almost imperceptibly as Tom
drove by. Out of his rear-view mirror, he saw her make a pushing motion with both hands, as if she were
signaling pass interference at a football game. Moments later, he heard a horrendous crash, followed by a
deafening explosion.
Tom pulled immediately into the breakdown lane and came to a stop. Quickly exiting his car, he saw and felt
the huge fireball that was engulfing an overturned tractor trailer. Although he heard the driver’s screams,
the fire was too intense for Tom or anyone else to try to help.
The SUV was on its side in a ditch, dripping gasoline, but not yet on fire. He could make out the driver and
one, perhaps two small passengers in the back seat. They were not moving. He tried the door, but it would
not budge. Wrapping his coat around his fist, Tom pounded on the window, finally breaking through the
glass just before another explosion picked him up and tossed his body across the road and into the median.
He didn’t know how long he had been lying there. Days; weeks, perhaps. He knew he was in the hospital
and he knew what had happened. The doctors had told him. He also knew pain. Deep, intense pain.
“Mr. Post, you’ve been burned over fifty percent of your body,” they had said. “An infection has set in.
We’re doing the best we can to fight it.”
“Am I going to die?” he had asked.
“We’re doing the best we can,” they had said.
Tom drifted in and out of consciousness, welcoming its respite when it came, but dreading the attendant
dreams.
It was one of the bad nights. The worst he could remember. The pain was beyond unbearable. Tom knew
he would go crazy if he could not get some relief.
The rustle of fabric alerted Tom to the fact that someone was in the darkened room.
“Who is it?” asked Tom.
“I’ve come to help you, Tom,” a feminine voice said.
“Is it time for my Morphine?”
“No, Tom. No. It’s your time,” said the woman in the black dress.
Trunk Novels
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