“Maybe it’s just leaves burning,” Ian said.
“Maybe. Though, burning leaves don’t envelop the sky.”
Deciding to track the giant plume, they elbowed through the congested traffic and past the mall toward where the small city concrete turned to fields frozen over by December.
“This shouldn’t be so interesting,” said Ian, gripping the wheel at ten and two and looking out from under the roof of the Blazer.
“No, it’s exciting, like watching someone get arrested,” said Garrett.
“Well, if anything, we can tell everybody we were there when it happened.”
The cloud of smoke was branching out, claiming more of the atmosphere and growing in perspective as they moved closer to the summit of the smoke, further away from the city.
Off the main road, they turned to meet, what seemed to be, a lonely street now lined with vehicles stopped on the shoulder. Surrounded by barren fields, only a small, dead-end cul-de-sac forked from the road, and in the distance stood the Zilwaukee bridge arching like a rainbow over a thick cluster of trees obstructing the smoke’s origin.
Ian hooked his steer left, hugging the ditch and joining the proverbial bleachers, where some were out of their cars speculating what could have caused the dark cloud of smoke with their necks stretched up to the sky. It was darker there, the cloud of smoke, and, upon their closer view, it had subtle blue rays, like the tips of a bonfire, gleaming through its thick, aluminum-colored clouds. But there was no fire to be seen.
“All of these people were thinking the same thing,” said Garrett.
“I know. Saginaw’s Roman Holiday,” said Ian, “Nothing draws a crowd like a tragedy.”
“Yeah, it’s all fun and games ‘till someone gets hurt, but, if we’re being honest, it’s more fun when someone actually does.”
They sat in the warmth of Ian’s Blazer for another minute waiting with the crowd, as if expecting God to miraculously reveal the smoke’s genesis by parting the row of trees like the Red sea. But He didn’t. Instead, they continued to speculate, never once conversing with the crowd, never once stepping into the cold.
“What do you think, man?” Ian said while fiddling with the heating dial. “The smoke could be a ways away still—might be in Bay City or something. Wanna keep going?”
“Yeah, I don’t know. Whatever you think,” said Garrett.
“I’m curious,” said Ian, hesitating, “but I’m also hungry.”
“Maybe it’s better that we don’t know what it is, ya know? I don’t want the catastrophic to be ruined by the truth.”
“Let’s head out. I just got a text; Claire’s going to join us.”
Ian turned into the cul-de-sac where there were three farmhouses, not rundown but far from sterling. Each house was surrounded by overgrown shrubbery and the unkempt branches of tall trees seemed to canopy the small road, which ended not far from where it diverged from the line of cars. Patches of ivy soaked in a fine layer of snowflakes climbed the first house, where they turned in to turn around. White paint was chipping from the siding, and the windows, as with the roof, appeared as to invite the cold rather than protect against it.
“Looks like a horror movie waiting to happen,” said Garrett, while two other vehicles drove into the cul-de-sac behind them, turning around as well. “What’s the story on this place, huh? Who the Hell would live here?”
“It does look pretty creepy.”
Ian and Garrett were prone to storytelling. They saw the world and all its corners, like most storytellers, as a massive narrative made up of chaotic little chapters, never insignificant, no matter how coincidental or seemingly trivial. To respond to the world’s overwhelming questions they crafted stories, and, in many ways, this narration furthered their understanding of the world. On occasion, however, to the constant narration they felt themselves slowly sacrificing their sanity.
As their imaginations continued to mold the physical house before them into an elaborate fiction, Ian unthinkingly backed out of the driveway, and in his unthinking, collided with a slowly moving green Ford, forcing the old and rusting truck to slide from the frozen gravel of the cul-de-sac drive to where the winter worn grass began across the road. The collision was not serious—it was more of a bump than anything—but it was enough to draw both parties from their vehicles and into the frigidity of Saginaw’s winter.
“I am so sorry,” announced Ian, his breath visible. “I wasn’t paying any attention.”
“No, it’s—,” said the vaguely familiar stranger. “Oh hey...”
“Oh wow. Yeah. It’s been a while, right? What’s up, man?” said Garrett, “How have you been?”
“Oh, you know.”
But he didn’t know.
The three of them inspected the minimal damage done to either vehicle and soon Ian and Garrett found themselves listening to Radiohead and making haste toward their early dinner once again.
“Chris something,” Garrett said. He struggled through the name, breaking the brief and unusual silence between them. “We went to high school together, and the name doesn’t matter right now.”
It appeared to Ian as if Garrett was physically searching for memories, his eyes squinted and brows furled.
“Something happened to him, but I can’t remember what,” he continued. “Sherman. Chris Sherman. What happened to Chris Sherman?”
They drove, mostly in silence, though not uncomfortably, away from the smoke, which persisted without definition. In the coming days, as with all smoke, it would surely evaporate into the atmosphere and into the recesses of their faded memories. Through the rearview mirror, they ignored this process beginning.
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Cecil’s was not known for it’s cheery atmosphere or beacon of welcome. It was as much of a rut as Garrett’s mental match—something happened to Chris Sherman in high school—and yet the cheese covered French fries, cheap drafts, and cougar waitresses were enough to overshadow the dim lighting and the grim faces that drug through it.
It was getting darker earlier now, and they had not known it was raining until Claire burst through the rackety, unhinging door with a chilled wet frame; she playfully bumped into Ian, whose sleeve-rolled forearms she gripped as if to say “Hello” and “You belong to me.”
“Wait ‘till you hear what happened to me and my mom today—” she started.
“Can you—I almost have it! Just gimme a—” Garrett trailed off across the booth with a retraced agony sculpting his posture.
Ian smiled at Claire’s submissive, playfully aggravated reaction, taking in the moments before the chance to combatively spike their story at her, like the winning slap in a ping-pong battle.
“Something happened to Chris Sherman in high school,” said Garrett, “but I can’t remember what.” Unsatisfied, he sat back, looking at, but also (and especially) through Ian and Claire, trying to envision Chris Sherman taking a seat at Cecil’s. “We ran into someone today, and he—”
“Yeah, we slammed into his truck—”explained Ian, winding up for his pitch to Claire.
“In high school, he left because something happened.”
Claire rolled her eyes impatiently and reached over Ian to snag a poorly laminated menu. While she read, Ian wiggled in his seat, forgetting that he had been interrupted twice.
“Is the car okay?” she asked.
“Yes. We are as well—thanks for asking.”
On the other side of the booth, the pieces to the puzzle felt separate now, though the big picture was looming. Garrett looked over the menu before him reflexively as his mind cast a wide net over his memories—something happened to Chris Sherman in high school.
Sensing a lack of new information and spark in Garrett, Ian decided to read the menu over Claire’s shoulder. “I don’t know why I’m reading this. I get the same thing every time.”
Claire smiled and shook, snorting a bit of laughter that brightened the color in her face. “No special orders this time.”
Ian snapped in response, “The steak sandwich?! Oh my gosh—”
“No, it was bad. Your bread was like soaked in cow blood. If that chick takes our order tonight, I’m gonna slit my wrists.”
At this, Garrett’s head floated toward the door then made a careful turn to Claire and Ian; his eyes widened as he remembered what he once deliberately forgot, and for good reason.
“That’s it,” he said, “He cut the wrong way. Like across instead of uh… up and down…”
Claire set down the menu, finally recognizing Garrett’s intensity.
Ian bellowed, “What?” but it was the “what” you say when you’ve heard exactly what was said.
“This is someone you saw today?” Claire asked.
“That’s right. Matt Grosser found him laying in the showers. Just naked and bleeding. He wrapped his towel around Chris’ arm and screamed until their coach or whoever came.”
Simultaneously, the three of them imagined various versions of Chris Sherman. In each instance, he was vulnerable, with steam surrounding and blood flowing from his silhouette into the circular metal gutter in the middle of the locker room. Their thoughts were one: What would be so difficult? How would one work up the nerve to? What might have kept him from?
They let out a deep breath to release the tension such memories inflict on the body and finished their collective thought: If only hindsight could more clearly bridge the gap between the realities of our present and the nightmare of history.
The very waitress Claire had mentioned finally arrived at their table and asked, “You need some more time to think it over?”
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Next on The Hindsight Bridge: From Michigan, Tyler Germain presents “A Carving,” the story of a day in the life of an old man, who sculpts a recognizable bust from the wood of an old, dying tree. Tell a friend about our site and come back on April 18th, 2011 for more.
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