A Little Longer
By Michael Putegnat
1st January 2016
The gasp for air shocked him awake. The intermittent flashes of yellow were stripes of the road reflecting as vertical dashes over the hood of his car, when suddenly, someone in a white nightgown just before him. He jerked the wheel just in time. He shook his head awake. It felt like he’d been driving for hours in pitch black darkness. It must have been the drone of the engine, he told himself. He must have drifted off to sleep for a second. The air felt so heavy.
Coffee. Maybe he ought to get some coffee. But no. He was less than a half hour from the end and, besides, he allowed himself only three cups a day: one in the morning, one at noon, and one at 3:00 P.M. Anyway, just a little longer. What he wanted was sleep: a long, uninterrupted, dead-to-the-world coma. Oh, how good that would feel. Just letting go and falling like a snowflake, drifting this way, then that, floating finally into a feathery haven.
He shifted in his seat and began to tighten then loosen his muscles, trying to get the blood going, to wake himself up a little. As was his habit, he checked his gauges at least every quarter hour. Pressure good. Temperature good. Just enough gas to make it home. Just as he planned it. He reached over to turn up the radio volume. Maybe something to keep his mind occupied. It was a late night talk show. Someone was moaning about the trouble in the Middle East. God. Enough of that, he groaned and pushed the tuning button. A religious station. “You’re a good person,” she said. “We all have troubles. You need to let go.” Something in the voice seemed oddly comforting and familiar. It sounded like his mother, he thought, then pushed the next button.
“Our next caller is Ken from Coos Bay. Ken, you’re on Talk Radio,” the host announced.
“Hi, Larry, thanks for taking my call,” he began.
“What’s on your mind tonight, caller?”
“I’m just so disappointed,” the caller sighed.
“At what particularly?”
“All of it. Sometimes I feel like I’m holding up the whole world,” the caller replied weakly.
“Atlas, shrugs…” the host interjected.
“What?”
“Atlas; you know the Ayn Rand ‘Atlas’, in her book.”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about. Who’s that?”
“Never mind,” the host hurried, “what exactly brought all this on all of a sudden?”
“Oh, it’s not sudden, really” the caller corrected, “You know, when I was a kid, all my father told me was ‘one day, you’ll have responsibilities,’ and he always said it wagging his finger, like he was mad at me. Come to think of it, my father was always mad. You know, as soon as I graduated, I ran from home as fast as my legs would carry me. I went looking for my freedom!”
“And did you find it?” asked the host.
“What I found was responsibility, that’s what.”
“Sounds like you’re had a tough week, there, caller,” the host said flatly, “Maybe it’s time to grow up,” cutting him off and going on to the next caller.
“Right on, Larry!” Charles muttered to himself. “Cut the whining bastard off!”
The voice trailed off into the darkness that swallowed up the car. The drone of the engine filled the fetid air. The flashing yellow, again. I’ve got to stay awake, Charles said to himself.
She awoke and lay quietly listening, then turned her head to her right. Charles wasn’t back yet. What time is it, she wondered, craning to read the alarm clock on the bed. He must have left late, again. She felt a warm flush of anger as she yet again remembered that night sitting alone at Wanda’s recital, watching her daughter’s eyes scanning the back of the auditorium. He didn’t show, another missed event, not that he promised to be there; he’d long since stopped making those empty promises. She could still hear his litany. “I had to work, we’ve got bills to pay, need to put away enough for the kid’s college,” he lectured her. “I’ve got responsibilities.” She cringed. Worse than the words was the grim, long-suffering face he showed at every family gathering, ruining everything with his insufferable pouting. He was a black hole that absorbed any and all joy. Then, when he was home, he would sit in his recliner, sip his beer, and then drift off into a slow regular snore in front of the television. She used to resent it. Not anymore. Now it was a relief.
She dozed into a dream. They were in the front seat of his red Mustang, the one he bought and fancied up. Charles was laughing as he tickled her while she screamed in painful delight, laughing so hard it hurt. He wouldn’t stop until she pushed her lips into his and they both relaxed into a warm calm, kissing with hunger in it. He was so good looking, straight, tall, and full of fun and energy. She noticed him the first time she saw him walking by at the school. He had this confident stride; it had purpose; he was going somewhere. His bright, dreamy eyes seemed to be looking far ahead. She knew she loved him instantly.
He was right, Charles was sure. His experience and thirty-two loyal years of with the company made it clear as glass. The plant was in good shape now but it was old and would eventually need investment. And, let’s face it, the wage scales couldn’t hope to compete with labor in Mexico. It was clear as a bell, he’d argued. The division was a drag on profits and business was about profits. Right’s right and that’s what his report said.
And so, in some far away board room, an agenda item, the report, a vote before drinks and dinner, and ten cents was added to the quarter’s earnings per share. No one noticed who wrote the report. That’s ok. It doesn’t matter. It was the right thing to do.
He could feel the stinging in his skin and worried it might redden and give him away. He forced himself to breathe slowly, regularly. Slade was talking, he could see his mouth moving, but he could hear nothing after the first sentence: “Charles, I hate to tell you this but the division is being closed. They’re moving the plant to Mexico.” Charles didn’t know what to do with his face. He knew he had to register something like calm but it felt as if the nerves to control his expressions were suddenly on strike. He knew he couldn’t just stare and he barely managed to time his blinks to something that might look normal. It might be some sort of test, Charles hoped. They’re putting us through some sort of test. The weak ones will be slaughtered. They were going to keep the strong ones. He had to act nonchalant. He had to act strong. He fought off an assault of distracting thoughts. Where could he get another job at this age? What if he couldn’t; where would he go every day? What was he going to tell Mary? He could hardly breathe. He blinked at the blurred flashing yellow. He shook himself. Just a little longer.
She was awake again. Why couldn’t she sleep? She lay there in the darkened room, no sound but the alarm clock’s second hand lurching from second to second. And the hum in her ears, that constant tinnitus that she almost never noticed anymore. Why now, she wondered. She slowly drew herself up and sat slouched, arms limp in her lap, staring at the gossamer window curtains and the street light painted shadows of the oak tree branches. Still no Charles. She wondered what was keeping him. She sighed. The humming in her ears was beginning to irritate her. Maybe a glass of water. She dropped her feet to the wood floor and felt for her slippers. She slid her feet along the hallway like they were snow shoes, the lightness in her step some years ago surrendered to an arthritic hip. The humming in her head was growing louder. She pulled open the refrigerator door, spilling light across the linoleum floor. She poured out a glass of water from the pitcher then tilted back her head and drank it down. Her nose tickled.
There was something different about the humming now and she turned her head toward the pantry and stared. Was that someone talking? She put the glass down on the counter and walked toward the back door that led into the garage. Carefully, she turned the knob and pulled the door open and stepped forward. She immediately coughed and her eyes burned, forcing her to squint. A car engine was idling, a radio was playing, an amber light was blinking. Through the windshield she could see his head bobbing. He seemed to be looking straight at her. Time slowed to a stop. She could hear the front wheels suddenly being turned on the slab. She began to cough. She pulled the hem of her white nightgown up to her cover her mouth but she couldn’t stifle her choking. She backed into the kitchen, as she watched his head roll forward onto his chest. She closed the door and stood shaking, staring into the dark of the kitchen, the hem of her nightgown still covering her mouth.
Then, from the other side of the door she could hear the humming stop. She gasped and held her breath, turned and stared at the door knob. Except for the bounding in her chest, silence. What seemed like hours passed. Slowly, she stepped to the glass of water on the kitchen counter and took a drink. Then she shuffled back to bed.
She lay, watching the undulating shadows on the ceiling, then gradually fell asleep. In a dreamy haze, she thought she heard something in the hall. Footsteps? They drew nearer. A shadow filled the doorway and crossed the room. He sat in the chair by the bed and untied his shoes, removed them and put them neatly together by the wall. He stood, undressed, folding his pants and shirt, and placed them on the seat of the chair. He quietly slid into bed, turned on his side to reset the alarm clock, and pulled the sheet over his shoulders. She awoke and slowly, she inched her hand across the bed, feeling for the heat from his back without touching him. She felt nothing. Just a little longer, she thought.
