The Marriage of Sticks (31 page)

She had never planned to reread her account, but riding along now she grew furious that she would never even have the choice. All that work, but now she could not go back to relive for a while certain experiences that she might already have forgotten. How much can an old brain hold before it begins to spring leaks from the weight of so many years?

Honey-cooked hams, discount sunglasses, Mansfield Avenue, street signs all flew by the car window. He was driving faster now. Where were they going? She remembered Frances Hatch in her hospital room surrounded by flowers.

Maybe Shumda would drive her someplace but then drive her home again. A flutter, a hummingbird’s heartbeat of hope raced through her but was gone just as quickly. It was over. Whatever he had waiting for her would be appropriate and terrible, she was sure. She remembered walking back into Frances’s room and seeing her crying.

He turned left on La Brea and accelerated. Evening was beginning. The sky was still bright but when they walked to the car from her house the air had been cool and still, already starting to settle for the night. Down La Brea past the cheap furniture stores, cheap drugstores, cheap fast-food places. More people stood out on the sidewalks here waiting for buses, waiting for friends, waiting for some kind of luck or change that would never come.

Miranda had been lucky and she knew it. She had traveled, she’d had an interesting job and been her own boss. She’d made money. For a short time she knew and was loved by a remarkable man. Hugh. If this was the end, she wanted to spend it thinking about Hugh Oakley. As if he knew what she was trying to do, Shumda interrupted her.

“Why did you do it?”

“Why did I do
what
?” Her voice came out cranky—she wasn’t interested in answering his questions, especially not now when there was so little time left.

He lifted a hand off the wheel and let it fall back again.

“You’re not alone, you know. There were others who did what you did. But I’m just interested, you know? What would possess anyone to voluntarily give up the life you had for this one?” His hand rose again off the wheel and batted the air as if flicking away a fly. “And you didn’t even know who you were giving it to! That’s incredible. You handed over your immortality to a stranger. Someone you never even met!”

Coming to a red traffic light they slowed to a stop. He glanced at her and made a face. She ignored him and looked straight ahead. The light changed but instead of accelerating, Shumda continued watching her.

Eventually she said, more to herself than to him, “I never really thought about it. The moment came and it had to be. That’s all. Isn’t that
interesting
? I was always fighting with myself—my head, my heart. Sometimes one won, sometimes the other. But with that there was no fight. There wasn’t even a question.” The old woman beamed. Her whole demeanor changed, as if whatever inner storms had been raging had now passed and she was at peace. Shumda had never seen anyone in her position at peace, and he had seen his share. Oh yes, he had seen quite a few.

“Life is about to spit in your face, Miranda. I wouldn’t be too smiley about that.”

They were silent the rest of the ride. To her great satisfaction, out of the corner of her eye she observed that he kept looking at her to see if her expression would change—if the enormity of whatever terrible thing was about to happen to her had finally sunk in. Why
hadn’t
the great final fear wrapped her in its arms as it always did with the people he had escorted to their destruction?

It took another ten minutes. He kept looking over but her pleased expression never changed. All right, so it didn’t change. Wait till she got there. Wait till she saw what waited!

The road suddenly became hilly and there were oil wells all up and down those hills doing their slow work. The land was khaki-colored, sun-parched. It was a strange part of Los Angeles, neither here nor there, a kind of oddly empty no-man’s land between downtown and the airport.

Signaling with his blinker, Shumda slowly merged into the right lane and then pulled off the road onto the shoulder. He cut the engine and sat there, savoring what came next. He grinned at her. “Remember this spot?”

Miranda looked around. “No.”

“You will.” He opened his door and got out of the van. It was all she could do not to watch him. He walked around to the back and opened the two rear doors. She heard him push and slide something metallic.

“Be with you in just a sec. Sit tight.”

Slowly reaching up, she twisted the rearview mirror so she could look out the back. He was fooling around with something and it took her a moment to realize what it was. He did something and the thing went pop and suddenly unfolded into a wheelchair.

Cars zoomed by, some close, others far away, all of them loud and smooth, rushing and dangerous. And then of course it dawned on her.

So many years ago she was in one of these speeding cars on her way to Los Angeles airport. She had been in bed with Doug Auerbach that day and afterwards they went to a big drugstore together. Afterwards she rode to the airport in a taxicab and the driver, like Shumda now, wore a San Diego Padres baseball cap. She was so young then, so young and busy, and she hadn’t met Hugh Oakley yet. She hadn’t met Hugh Oakley and she hadn’t seen dead James Stillman alive again. She was flying back to New York that night and only days later her entire life changed forever. So long ago. All of it so long ago, but now all of that day and what followed was crushing her and she couldn’t stop the memories and the results, all of them crystal clear.

Shumda pushed the wheelchair around to her side of the car and stood there waiting.

When they drove to the airport that night so long ago, it was just about this time. She remembered the woman sitting in a wheelchair by the side of the road.

“Let’s go, Miranda. Time to watch the traffic.”

But there was no traffic. Unbelievably, all of the cars had disappeared from the road, every last one of them. A strange silence surrounded them, as if the sounds of the world had simply vanished.

“I can open the door and pull you out, or you can get out and make things easier for both of us.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Nothing. I’m going to put you in this chair and I’m going to leave. And you’ll be alone. To tell you the truth, I have absolutely no idea what’ll happen next. But I’m sure it won’t be pleasant. It never is.”

“Shumda, was it me? Was it me that night, here, in the wheelchair?”

“I don’t know. I just do what I’m told. Let’s go, get out.”

To her great surprise, the only thought she had was, Do whatever is in front of you and do it fully. Commit yourself to the moment and if you are lucky—

Her door was flung open. He took her roughly by the arm. “Don’t touch me!” She pulled away from him and slowly heaved herself out of the van.

The road was empty. Up on a hill an oil well pumped, and now she could hear the roll and heave of the machine. A flock of sparrows fled across the sky cheeping loudly. Those were the only sounds—the machine and the sparrows. She made it over to the wheelchair and, taking hold of the two arms, lowered herself into it. The seat was much too narrow for her wide bottom. She tried to move into a more comfortable position but there wasn’t one. She gave up trying and looked up into the evening sky again. What if that night years ago they
had
stopped to help the woman? Would it have changed anything? Had it been she that night? If they had stopped and she had seen the other woman, would she have recognized her?

Shumda pushed the chair closer to the road. “I’d love to stay and see what happens next to you, but I’ve got things to do.” He looked at his wristwatch. “Enjoy the silence. The cars will be back in a couple of minutes.”

He looked at her and his face showed nothing. He turned to leave.

“Shumda!”

“What?”

“Did you love her? Did you ever love Frances?”

For a moment it appeared he was about to respond. Instead he turned around and went back the van. The door was open and he reached in for something. He pulled out a red book, her red book, the diary. When had he gotten it? When had he taken it? He pretended to skim through the pages. His face grew serious and he rubbed his chin. In a perfect imitation of the silly lisp of Daffy Duck he-said, “Fath-sin-atin’!” and then in a pitying voice he asked, “Did you really think
this
would change anything?” He flung the book back into the car. He got in, the engine came to life, and he was gone. She watched the van climb a hill and disappear.

Everything seemed to be holding its breath. She looked up, but the birds were gone. When she looked toward the oil pump it had stopped moving. Silence. Gripping the arms of the chair, she shut her eyes. She remembered that Hugh’s piece of wood was in her pocket, so she took it out. Everything that had ever mattered to her lived in that wood. She gripped it tightly in both hands. How smooth it was. Smooth and warm and the last thing she would ever hold. How would they do it? Would they come from behind, or from over the hill, or the other side of the road? What would it be?

She could have tried to get up and move away from there—but what was the use? If they wanted it to be tonight then it would happen tonight no matter where she was. And how far could she get on her old legs?

She thought of her diary and what she might have said to finish it. An intriguing question that might have comforted her, or taken her mind away from what was imminent. But then she heard it: the deep rumble of many cars coming her way that grew louder every second. It would be the cars. Something to do with these cars would be her end.

She wanted to close her eyes but knew she mustn’t. A moment more and it would all be over. The rushing sound grew and then she saw them. She saw them coming and had never heard anything like it. An eruption of noise so impossibly loud that it filled the world.
Wham thump wham wham thump!
They slashed by her at astonishing speeds: trucks, cars, motorcycles. All of them beating her down into her chair with their power and threat until she felt there was no more air to breathe.

Close. They came closer by the second. Was this it? Was this the second? Or the next? The next?
Whump! Wham! Whump! Whump!
The draft off their speed slammed her face, pushed her body back into the chair. She started to hyperventilate. She wanted to stick her fingers in her ears and make the sounds go away. But how could she? How could anyone block out the end of the world? She tried to swallow but there was no liquid in her mouth.

Because there were so many, she didn’t notice the blue car until it veered from its path and came right at her. Headlights straight on her face, it still didn’t really register until it flew up to within feet of her—and stopped. There was a wild shush and scrabble of sand, gravel, and dirt flying into the air all around it. Cars on the road hammered by. But now there was this one, so close. Was
this
it? Time passed—seconds? And then the door opened and first she heard a shrill ting-ting-ting of a bell inside telling the passenger something was wrong.

The overhead light came on and she saw the driver inside. A man. He was staring straight at her and did not move. But then he was getting out of the car, careful to look behind so he would not be hit by the slam of oncoming traffic. He pushed the door closed but not enough to stop the ‘ting’ inside.

He walked slowly toward her. A middle-aged man. There was something in his face, something familiar but so distant and remote that her pounding heart couldn’t figure it out. Something…

“I didn’t know if I’d get here in time.”

She said nothing, only stared at him and the noise was brutal and all over but something she knew, something on the tip of her mind said, Look harder, find it. And she did. She recognized him.
“Declan?”

Only when he smiled did she know for sure it was Hugh’s son, because he wore his father’s smile. She would have recognized it if she had lived to be a million years old.

“We have to hurry, Miranda. They’re coming and I don’t know how much time we have. I’ve broken every rule in the book—”

“How did you know I was here?”

“You know
everything
when you’re one of us. Being immortal has its advantages.” He looked worriedly behind him.

“How can you know already that you’re immortal? You’ve only lived one life! That’s why I was writing the diary! So you’d find it and know and then you could avoid—”

“
We have to go,
Miranda! There’s no time. Tell me in the car. We have to get out of here right now. They’re coming.”

“Why, Declan? Why are you doing this?”

He spat out the words. “Because you gave me my life! Because you sacrificed your own daughter so that
I
could live. How could I not at least try to help you?”

A pause. Recognition. Amazement.

All she could do and it was done without thinking was hold out the stick his father had given her. Declan would understand what it was.

A Biography of Jonathan Carroll

Jonathan Carroll (b. 1949) is an award-winning American author of modern fantasy and slipstream novels.

He was born in New York City, the son of Broadway actress June Carroll and screenwriter Sidney Carroll, who wrote the classic Paul Newman film
The Hustler
(1961). His childhood was split between Hollywood and New York; Carroll then attended boarding school in Connecticut and college at Rutgers University. Shortly after graduation, he got married, and taught English across the country before moving to Vienna.

Carroll began writing fiction while at college, and decided to pursue a career as a novelist after being encouraged by one of his first professors. His debut novel,
The Land of Laughs
(1980), tells the story of a children’s author whose imagination has left the printed page and begun to influence reality. The book introduced several hallmarks of Carroll’s writing, including talking animals and worlds that straddle the line between the real and the surreal. Though Carroll’s work is often classified as fantasy or horror, some critics align it with the South American tradition of magic realism.