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The Forgiven (237 hits)

Category: UberMadness! Entry
Labels: Ubermadness_IV

Rating: 2 on 1 review (Rate this item) (V)

Submitted by Jack McCallum (View user info) at 2007-01-22 15:24:18 EST

This post was an official UberMadness! entry. Click here to view the original matchup.

Coleman Green was standing on a lonely country road, watching the horizon where the two-lane ribbon of highway dwindled to a thread.

The sun was coming up.

Coleman knew he was dreaming, but this was his first dream in months, so he went with it for a while.

Coleman was at peace until two suns rose up over the horizon, two small and painfully bright disks ascending quickly. A hollow booming sound carried across the sky. The asphalt lurched under his feet as if a giant fist had struck the world and as Coleman watched the twin suns turned dark red and began to bleed into the sky and onto the road.

"My girls," Coleman whispered. He sat up in a bed half empty, awake but groggy.

He had been taking sleeping pills for months now to avoid dreams far worse than this one.

Coleman got out of bed. All he wore was a pair of cotton boxers. They were soaked with sweat, just like the sheets and pillows on his side of the bed. It was still dark outside. He glanced at his alarm clock. Just past three.

He looked at the bed, the bedding on one side undisturbed. Down the hall was an empty bedroom, the walls painted to look like blue sky and puffy clouds.

He went to the window and looked down into the back yard.

Frosted grass glowed in the moonlight. It was a cold night, the chill seeping through the glass.

Coleman saw movement in the corner of the yard. There was a kid down there, a kid wearing jeans and a black t-shirt and gray Converse sneakers.

"Ballpark?"

Coleman had spoken softly, but the kid in the yard looked up and nodded.

"Jesus Christ," Coleman said. He opened the window and leaned out into the cold, his body shivering.

"Hey man," the kid said.

The kid appeared to be in his early teens, and he was a dead ringer for Barry Franks, Coleman's best friend in high school.

Coleman rubbed his eyes and shook his head. He leaned out the window and drew a breath so bitterly cold he started to cough. This had to be a dream, but he was certain he was awake.

It had to be a dream because Barry Franks had been dead for more than fifteen years.

"I should go back to bed," Coleman said.

"Aw, don't be a pussy," Ballpark called out.

Coleman noticed that his own breath was visible in soft white cones when he spoke. That didn't happen when Ballpark spoke.

"Here, I'll come up, man," Ballpark said.

Christ, Coleman thought. It sure as hell sounds like Ballpark.

"You stay in that window you'll catch fucking pneumonia."

There was no longer any doubt in Coleman's mind that this was his dead friend. The kid had the same accent and nasal inflection everyone had ragged the out-of-state kid about back in school. Pneumonia was 'nee-moan-yah.'

"Hey," Ballpark said, now standing beside Coleman.

Coleman lurched sideways in shock, one arm flailing outside the window.

"Whoa," Ballpark said. "Don't fall out, man. That'll mess you up."

Coleman closed the window and padded across the carpet, dropping onto the edge of the bed. He looked at his old friend and shook his head.

"Those sleeping pills," he said. "I'm hallucinating."

"Nah," Ballpark said. "I'm here, man. I'm here cause I got a message for you. From your wife and little girl."

Coleman raised one arm and covered his eyes like a little kid who didn't want to see or hear any more.

"Hey, Green Lantern, listen up."

Coleman lowered his arm. Green Lantern. He hadn't heard that in a very long time. Coleman Green called Barry Ballpark. No mystery there. Barry Franks, Ballpark Franks. Ballpark.

Barry first called Coleman 'Green Lantern' when they were fifteen years old. The nickname came from the Green Lantern comic books both boys enjoyed reading, and from Coleman lanterns. Every kid had used a Coleman lantern one at one time or another, camping with their folks.

"This is a dream," Coleman said.

"No, man," Ballpark replied. "I'm here, Cole. I'm here because the guy who killed your wife and kid is going out on the road again."

Coleman closed his eyes, and bright images flickered in his mind, the hell of the last six months.

In late May they had visited Luisa's parents down in San Antonio. They had decided to drive now that Boo was old enough to take in what she was seeing as they drove from Nebraska to Texas and back again.

They had been only a hundred miles from home when the accident happened. In all of the investigations that followed, no one ever suggested what had happened was Coleman's fault.

Witnesses saw a Ford F150 cross the grassy median of I80 outside of North Platte, headlights flashing as it streaked across the lanes until it struck a Saturn in the far right-hand lane and then careened into the passenger side of Coleman's Oldsmobile.

Coleman remembered hearing a horn and seeing two bright headlights on Luisa's side of the car. He remembered feeling the impact, hearing a bang like someone hitting an oil drum with a wooden mallet, and feeling the wheel pulled out of his hands as the car shifted to the left and his body lurched to the right. Just before the Olds rolled onto its side and further memory of the moment stopped dead, Coleman had looked to the right, looking for his wife and daughter. On the impact-webbed safety glass of the front and rear passenger windows were bright red circles.

The drivers of the Saturn and the F150 were unharmed. Coleman had minor cuts and bruises. Luisa and Bonita were dead. Massive injuries to the head and neck.

Coleman learned later that the man who had hit his car had staggered away from the stalled Ford and vomited profusely in front of witnesses, including a Nebraska state trooper.

Coleman only saw the driver of the Ford once, in court, when Arlen Gantry's Lawyer argued that the results of the breathalyzer test administered by the state trooper were unreliable because the test was given just after Gantry, in a state of emotional distress, had vomited up what minimal alcohol he had imbibed that evening, and the resulting residue of freshly purged alcohol in his mouth had thrown off the results.

The give and take between the judges and the lawyers was fast and furious and Coleman couldn't really follow all of it, but the end result was that Gantry was sentenced to one year in a minimum security facility provided he took part in a substance abuse program.

His acquaintances and family wondered why Coleman wasn't outraged. Coleman couldn't tell them that he felt the accident was his fault.

"I killed them," Coleman said, getting up and going to the window again.

"That's bullshit, Cole," Ballpark said, sitting on the edge of the bed.

"Luisa kept saying I should pull over and find a motel, get some rest. But we were so close to home, man. I wanted to get Bonita into her own bed. So I pushed on. And I think I fell asleep, because I didn't see that guy coming. I didn't see him cross in front of us and hit that other car. I didn't see anything until we were hit. One minute I was looking at the empty road ahead, and the next... there was blood on the windows."

Ballpark stood up and began to pace back and forth. "No way, man. No way. This guy was ripped out of his fucking skull. When he puked on the asphalt people there could smell pure fucking booze, man. First his scumbag lawyer saves his ass with a technicality, and now that he's gone through a program and acted like a good boy he's getting an early release. Prison overcrowding, my ass. The whole thing is wrong."

Coleman simply looked at his old friend.

Ballpark had died in a car accident as well. He had been at Coleman's place late one Saturday night, just hanging out, watching movies and bullshitting. Driving home, Ballpark had lost control of his Camero on a tight curve and rolled his car into a rocky embankment.

He was the last person to be really close to Coleman until Luisa had come along.

Now Coleman had lost his family, and then his job, when he simply stopped going to the office. He hadn't paid the mortgage in months and was probably going to lose the house. He wished Ballpark had still been around, someone to talk to.

"Let's go, man," Ballpark said.

Coleman could no longer feel the bedroom carpet under his bare toes and he looked down. He was wearing jeans, a pair of old boots, and a sweatshirt.

"Grab your coat." Ballpark headed for the door. "We gotta hit the road.

Coleman felt a wave of nausea, and then he was outside the house, standing beside the rusted-out Chevy he'd picked up for under a grand after the accident. He was wearing an old Kansas City Royals jacket against the chilly November night, and he was holding the car keys in his hand.

He looked into the car and saw Ballpark in the passenger seat.

"C'mon," his friend said.

Coleman got behind the wheel, started the car, and pulled out onto the road. He still felt like he was dreaming.

"Where are we going?"

"Just drive," Ballpark said.

Coleman looked at his friend. Christ, Ballpark seemed so young, and he'd missed out on so much.

"I missed you, man."

Ballpark turned away, as if trying to hide his face.

Coleman took a turn, not knowing why, and took another. The wheel felt sluggish, and he seemed to be moving far too fast. Dry and brittle fallen leaves crunched under the tires as Coleman and Ballpark went from quiet residential streets to industrial parks and suburbs.

Ballpark leaned forward, pointing to a quiet street in a run down neighborhood.

"Here, Cole. Turn here and stop."

Coleman turned and realized his foot was already on the break pedal.

They were parked at the curb down the street from a bar. A neon Miller sign stuttered on and off in the night.

A man came out of the bar, shrugging into a jacket, car keys jingling in one hand.

"That's him," Ballpark said. "That's Arlen Gantry, the guy who killed your wife and your little girl."

Gantry stopped beside a pickup truck and opened the door.

Ballpark shook his head. "Still driving the same truck too, the fuck."

During the trial, Coleman had only seen Gantry from the rear, and his memory of that time was unreliable at best. Now Coleman got his first good look at Gantry. The man had a long ponytail of dark, greasy hair. He was lean, and his face was creased. He had to be at least twenty years older than Coleman.

Gantry started the truck and pulled away from the curb.

"Follow him," Ballpark said.

"Why?" Coleman felt tired, terribly tired. "What's the point?"

"We have to stop him," Ballpark said. "He's gonna cause another accident tonight. And he's gonna kill again. Maybe that's why I'm able to be here like this. Maybe three fatal accidents are just too much for this guy to be allowed to walk away from."

Coleman pulled onto the road and followed the weaving taillights ahead.

"I could just call the cops and let them know this guy is drunk," Coleman said. He thought a moment, and asked, "How do you know what's going to happen?"

Ballpark shrugged. "I don't know, man. I feel like I've just been hanging around forever, you know? I've seen you from time to time, just checking in to make sure my best bud's doing okay. And then all the sudden I'm here, and I just know what's going to happen tonight. I've seen it. That fucker Gantry is gonna get out on the road and go head-on at another car and he's gonna be the only survivor. That's not right."

The Ford turned onto an empty stretch of a two-lane country road, and Coleman followed, saying nothing.

"Hey man," Ballpark said, a pleading tone entering his voice. "You gotta stop him, Cole. You can run him right off the road. He's drunk. Pull up alongside him, give him a nudge, and he's gone."

Coleman shook his head. This still felt like a dream, but it had to be real.

"I can't kill another person. I already killed my own family."

"Well... " Ballpark said softly, "They'll forgive you. If you do this."

"You said three fatal accidents. If one happens tonight and one was six months ago, what was the third?"

Ballpark just shrugged.

"No. I'm sorry Barry, but I can't do this."

"God damn it, you have to," Ballpark said. "He's the guy who ran me off the road seventeen years ago!"

Coleman was closing on Gantry's Ford. He glanced at Ballpark. "What?"

"That night I was going home from your place. I didn't just lose control of the car, man. That fucker ahead of us was drunk as hell. He tried to pass me on a curve and side-swiped me. Then I lost control and... and that was it for me."

Coleman was alarmed to see that he was now only a car-length behind the Ford. The wheel seemed to be fighting him, and then he was accelerating, and passing the Ford, driving alongside it.

"Now, man," Ballpark said. "Do it now! This fuck has been driving drunk all his life and we gotta stop him!"

The wheel twisted violently to the right, and as the Chevy veered closer to the F150, Coleman stomped on the gas, shooting ahead of the Ford.

Ballpark slammed his fists on the dashboard. "Fuck!"

Coleman saw headlights ahead. He looked in the rear-view mirror and saw only empty road behind.

"All right," Ballpark said softly. "It's all gonna be all right."

As the oncoming vehicle came closer Coleman realized he was approaching Gantry's F150.

"Jesus Christ, Ballpark. Are you doing this?"

"Come on man," Ballpark said. He sounded angry and desperate. "Let's nail this guy!"

The Chevy started drifting across the road, heading into the oncoming lane. The headlights went off, and Coleman felt his own foot pressing down on the gas pedal.

When the Chevy was a thousand feet from the Ford Coleman said, "No, this isn't right."

"You gotta do this, man," Ballpark said. "For your wife, and your little girl. For what you did to them!"

Coleman squinted in the glare of the Ford's headlights and saw Gantry staring back at him in horrified disbelief.

For the first time that night, Coleman had one clear and true thought. "No, Ballpark," he said, using all of his strength to turn the wheel away from the oncoming truck.

"They would have forgiven me."

The Chevy shuddered as it raced across the shoulder of the road and Coleman heard Ballpark let out an enraged shout. The dark shape of a broad tree trunk loomed in the windshield.

Ballpark let out a half-shout, half-sob. "I'm sorry!"

"That's okay," Coleman said, just a moment before the Chevy slammed into the tree. "That's okay, Ballpark."

-

Hours later, as an EMS unit took Coleman's body away, a scared sober Gantry told a state trooper what had happened.

"He crossed the median and was heading right for me... and at the last minute, he turned. I saw him cranking that wheel like a madman. He... he saved me."

-

Coleman was behind the wheel of his rusted-out Chevy. Nothing hurt, and the car was moving down a road he'd never seen before. The sun was low on the horizon, a ball of molten gold.

He looked to his right and Luisa was sitting beside him. Her window was rolled down a little, and a strand of dark hair was dancing in the twilight breeze.

Coleman thought about this and wondered why he didn't feel shock or surprise. If anything, he felt content. Things were as they always should have been.

He looked into the rear-view mirror knowing he'd see Bonita, and there she was, showing teeth in need of braces that gave her a slightly goofy and heartbreakingly adorable smile.

"Hi daddy."

"Hi Boo." He heard his voice break and cleared his throat.

Luisa turned to him, the sun filling her eyes and turning them to glowing amber. She didn't say a thing, but she reached toward the wheel and put one hand on his.

Coleman had to ask. "What's going on?"

"You'll see," Luisa said. She looked down the road.

Coleman followed her gaze and saw that he now on a familiar country road. Ahead was the tree that was the last thing he remembered seeing. The rest of the landscape was unknown to him, but there was the road and the tree.

An old Pontiac was parked on the side of the road and a man was standing by the tree. There was a jagged white patch on the trunk of the tree where a lot of bark had been torn away.

At first Coleman thought it was just a guy taking a leak, but as he slowed the car to a crawl and took a closer look he realized that he was looking at Arlen Gantry.

The man had cut his hair and cleaned himself up. He still looked rough. His skin was pale and damp, and his were eyes hooded in shadow.

Now that Gantry's hair wasn't held back in a long, greasy ponytail, Coleman could see that the man had a lot of gray.

Gantry looked up and down the road, clearly feeling self-conscious. Then he got down on one knee and set something at the base of the tree.

It took Coleman a moment to realize he was looking at a half-empty bottle of whiskey, and then he heard Gantry's voice as if the man was whispering in his ear.

"No more man. That's my last bottle. I'm done... I hope. I'm gonna do my goddamn best to stay dry, man. You gave me a second chance. I swear I'm not gonna blow it."

Coleman didn't say anything, but he gave the man an unseen nod as he passed by, a nod of acknowledgement, of release, of forgiveness, and he watched the man in the mirror when the tree was behind him.

Gantry stood and walked to his car. Before he got in he took a deep breath and let it out. Then he got in his car.

Coleman glanced at the road ahead, and when he looked back into the mirror Gantry, the familiar stretch of road, and the tree were gone.

He turned to Luisa and asked, "Baby, where are we going?"

"One more stop to make," she said, nodding toward the side of the road.

Up ahead was a kid holding out a thumb. The kid was wearing jeans and a black t-shirt and gray Converse sneakers.

Coleman pulled over.

"Move over, Boo," he said to his little girl. "It looks like a friend of mine is coming with us."

Ballpark opened the rear door and stuck his head in. He leaned into the car and gave Coleman a sheepish, hesitant look.

"It's all right, man," Coleman said. "It's all right."

Ballpark nodded and got into the car.

"Hey," he said to Bonita. "I'm Barry. I... was a friend of your dad."

"Is," Coleman said.

Colman and Ballpark made eye contact in the mirror, and Ballpark just looked at his old friend until he felt a tug on his sleeve.

The little girl gave Ballpark her goofy smile. "People call me Boo, but my name is Bonita. Do you like to color?"

She took a coloring book and some crayons from a pocket in the back of Coleman's seat.

"Why don't you color," Ballpark said, "And I'll help out if you need it."

"Okay," Boo said.

Coleman felt Luisa's warm hand on the back of his neck.

"Now we're ready to go," she said.

Coleman looked at the empty road disappearing into the red ball of the sun now touching the horizon ahead.

"Where to?"

"Into the sunset, Cole. All of us, together."

"Okay," Coleman said. "Okay."

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Submitted by kaos-king (user info) at 2007-06-04 22:41:08 EDT (#)
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