The Horse and the Sparrow

By J. Paul Ross

There’s a whisper of misfortune and chaos in the wind and arriving with a heavy, unexpected torrent, it forces John March back into the country club’s mahogany doors. It churns inside the porte-cochère, it swirls the autumn leaves over his alligator shoes and while it capers amid the branches of the one-hundred-year-old elms groaning in the darkness, he can almost sense the latent call to anarchy in its bursts. It makes him nervous and irritable, and releasing a belch of twenty-five-year-old single malt, he straightens in his cocoon of double-breasted cashmere and anxiously checks the TSE on his phone.

“Good evening, Mr. March,” the valet greets. “I hope you had a pleasant visit with us today, sir.”

“Five over par.”

“Excellent and congratulations; this isn’t an easy course. So I guess you had a double reason to celebrate, huh?”

“Excuse me?”

“The party in there. You could hear it from the parking area.”

“Oh, yes,” he states distantly. “The markets were up.”

“Yeah, that’s what the other members were saying: something having to do with a cut in the corporate tax rate?”

“Something like that.”

“Well, I’m guessing you probably made a killing — you always do and—”

“Mine’s the SL 63.”

“Yeah. Right. I’m sorry. Anyway, since you’re the last one here, I already moved it up so it’ll just be a second.”

The Nikkei’s still rising and frowning at the departing valet, he sets the phone into his overcoat pocket and reaches into his jacket for the tip.

The billfold’s warm from his body heat, and taking it out, he spreads its folds open and caresses the smooth, clean notes inside. He strokes their tops, runs his fingertips down their length and rubs them one against the other, listening for the gentle, reassuring scrape of paper on paper. For a moment, he’s positive he can feel the ink on their surfaces and a smile is forming when once more, he’s pummeled by the cold wind and the feeling of dread, of impending bedlam reappears. His stomach knots and gripping the wallet tighter, he allows the textured leather to console him until, seeing the approaching headlights of his Mercedes, he clutches the smallest denomination he has — a lone twenty with a missing corner — and returns the billfold to its home.

“She sure is a sweet ride, sir,” the kid proclaims, climbing from the car. “It’s the only Midnight Blue Roadster I’ve ever driven.”

“Lunar Blue.”

“Lunar Blue. I’m sorry. My bad.”

Scowling, John March lurches forward with the bill pinched between his fingers. He takes a wobbling stride, then two and he’s one uneven step from his idling car when he stumbles and drops the twenty just as a surge of air roars through the driveway. There’s a fluid cloud of rattling amber and crimson leaves, a spray of dust and the narrow slip of paper is hurled out into the sky in a wild flutter. It quickly sails past the club’s peaked Tudor gables, pirouettes above the street lamps and the rolling, manicured greens and ascending into the night, it ultimately vanishes.

“Well,” John March says, collapsing into his Mercedes, “if you want it, I suggest you go get it, kid because it’s the last one I have. Sorry. My bad.”

He shuts his door and insulated from the prying, autumn chill, he watches the valet scamper toward the parking lot, bolting and pausing and bolting again in ever-widening rings. There’s a barely-audible curse, another eddy, another gust and forgetting his hopes for tomorrow’s tee time, he puts the car in gear and begins to laugh.

***

When they were married three years ago, she had no idea he was angry, no idea he drank and she never realized he’d be violent when the two combined. At first, she believed finding the perfect apartment would stop it but rents soared and they had to move to this awful city and cram the bits and pieces of their life into yet a tinier apartment. Then she thought his getting the job at the garage would make things better but there were downturns and layoffs, temp agencies and unemployment checks. And when the baby was born, she was certain he’d be different, certain things would change but instead they got worse. Now, he’s always mad, always drinking and yesterday, when he came home from the bar, she couldn’t believe he could take his handgun, point it at her head and squeeze the trigger.

Cradling her daughter, she darts across the street’s four lanes and cowers behind a parked car with the sound of the pistol’s empty “click” still in her ears.

She’s been trudging from nook to nook, advancing from shadow to shadow for twenty minutes in her torn, grimy slippers and halting in terror at every backfire or sputter or rumble of an engine. She’s crept and hid, and arriving at this street, she waited for what seemed like hours because it was the one where the traffic never halted or slowed, the one she was most afraid to cross. It’s a main thoroughfare and the gaps between the cars and trucks are narrow and now that she’s made it to the other side, she almost feels safe because the truck stop is close, a mere five lightless, hardly-traveled blocks away.

It’s not where she wants to go but she can’t afford a cab or a city bus, hasn’t had a chance to make friends here and he won’t let her have a phone to call for help. Her only hope is to find a trucker who won’t ask questions, a compassionate stranger who can take them far from here and far from him.

The wind’s paused and shifting the baby’s bag, she kisses her daughter’s cheek and prays she’ll go on being so quiet because they haven’t made it very far and he’s probably discovered the luggage in the bedroom. He’s probably searched the apartment and yelled and he’s probably gone to the closet and loaded his gun.

He shouldn’t have been this early tonight, shouldn’t have come home before she was ready. He should’ve staggered in at two-thirty but hearing the rattle of his truck in the parking lot, it was too late to hide the suitcase, too late to come up with an excuse for the baby being wrapped up, too late to do anything but run.

The air whips and stirs the trash in the gutters and watching the cars roll by, she notices something clinging to her ankle. Its flat edges are pinned to her sock and at first, it’s hard to discern what it is but when the road’s flooded by a motorcycle’s headlight, she catches a glimpse of its features, of its designs and she can’t believe what she’s looking at.

It’s a twenty-dollar bill, crisp, unblemished and except for a missing corner, perfect in every way.

The sight of it makes the breath cascade from her lungs and she hesitates for a moment before stretching out her hand and picking it up. Her legs are weak, her mind’s racing and she crumples it tenderly because with a single, fortuitous accident, all her plans have changed. It means she doesn’t have to go to the truck stop, won’t have to depend on a stranger for help. It means she can take a Greyhound and she can choose which direction she can go to find a life without him, without fear and without the pitiless click of a gun inches from her face.

A horn blares and gawking at the money in her trembling palm, she’s trying to imagine days where she doesn’t have to cringe at the slightest noise when she realizes the depot is in the opposite direction and she’s going to have to re-cross the street. She’s going to have to leave her hiding place and traverse its four lanes with their every inch bathed in the yellow smear from rushing vehicles and dirty street lamps.

But . . . a bus.

She’s not sure how far twenty dollars will get them but she knows he won’t be searching the depot. She knows if she can get a few blocks farther, they’ll truly be safe and peeking over the car’s hood, she sees a hole in the traffic. It’s a short one and after checking east and west, she leaves her hiding spot in a panicked dash.

One lane . . .

Two lanes . . .

Three . . .

She’s steps from the other side, feet from its row of parked cars and a new hiding place when a familiar rattle echoes across the pavement; and with her husband’s truck speeding directly at her, she grips her daughter in her arms and once more runs.

***

The soldier can’t remember when he’d eaten last but he also can’t remember the last time he was truly warm either. It’s strange to him because he can recall everything else in his life — even the things he doesn’t want to — and contemplating the fire’s sputter and its embers floating into the city’s halo, he reminds himself that it really doesn’t matter.

It doesn’t matter because there’s no food here anyway and it’s going to get very cold tonight.

The waiting chill makes the pins in his leg throb and he consoles himself with the fact it could be worse; he gazes from the old sailor with the holes in his shoes and the blistered feet to the shivering airman in the torn windbreaker and tee-shirt and finally to the marine who’s a couple of hours from withdrawal and peering into the surrounding field, he tells himself to quit whining.

There are others with them in this vacant lot but huddled in front of their own fires, they keep their distance from the soldier and his companions — some out of respect, some out of fear and for still more, out of shame. Tents flap amid the darkness and the tall weeds. People cough, there’s a moan or two, a mumble and in the distance, there’s the sound of the river pushing against the shoreline. Its water stinks of chemicals and its odor mixes with the reek of alcohol and puke and the stink of burning, oil-saturated pallets. And though it’s not the worst thing he’s smelled, when the wind shifts and begins to pry into the open seams of his coat, part of him is nevertheless thankful.

The air has the first touch of winter in it and burying his hands under his armpits, he knows no one will be sleeping tonight; there will only be the penetrating sting of the wind and yet, when they’ve used up the boards they’ve scrounged and the fire dies, they’ll have to make the attempt anyway. They’ll have to endure the black hours on their own and try not to dream of the battlefields where they’ve served, the Mekong, the Highway of Death, Ramadi and the Korengal Valley. They’ll twist in their thin blankets and ragged sleeping bags and their groans will announce their endeavors to fight off the pains of hunger, of cold and the ruthless, enduring memories they’ve been given.

But he tries not to think of the past, of what’s happened, of what he’s seen and hearing his stomach growl, he tries to recall the taste of hamburgers and fries, lasagna and garlic bread. He’s imagining the sound of searing meat and potato slices going into the oil and he’s picturing gooey mozzarella and the rising steam from a golden-crusted loaf when the wind suddenly fades. The air stalls and the distant voices rise and the field’s saturated with the easy rustle of dry stalks. The flames grow and in their flicker, he observes a twenty-dollar bill on the ground, its body crumpled and stained, its tattered corner fluttering in the shimmering glow like the wings of a moth.

It’s lying there, caught in the peripheries between darkness and light, and the others around him gasp and blink in amazement. It ripples in gentle spasms and appearing to call to them, promising warmth, food and a temporary respite from their pasts, their anguishes and their guilt, they come to their feet to the chorus of another oncoming gust roaring toward them.

Their pulses start to race and they each stare from one to the other. Their eyes narrow and leaning forward in the initial wave of adrenaline, the soldier grasps a broken 2×4, the airman picks up a rock, the sailor retrieves a knife, its edge dull and bent while the marine clenches his hands into trembling fists.

And there they wait, the memories of old battlefields rushing back and their bodies tensed in silence for one of them to make the first move.

***

Her tangled hair blows across her face, swirling and occluding her vision. It causes her to sway on the ledge and remembering how much she needed for this moment to be a quiet one, she utters a dejected curse.

It’s getting more and more difficult to stand and she wishes the conclusive minutes of her existence could’ve been peaceful and calm, could’ve been the singular time in her life when things would be clear and the question of “Why not?” wouldn’t be there. She wishes they could’ve been the way they were in her yard during the spring when the iris blossoms perfumed the air. The seconds drip past, the occasional car races on the street eight stories below her and she wonders if it’s blowing this angrily at the house, wonders if it’s twirling the chimes on the patio or shaking the porch’s windows.

She’d only signed the mortgage two years ago but she’d already populated its rooms and halls with decades of expectations: birthday presents opened in the yard, Super Bowl shindigs by the TV and Halloween get-togethers celebrated to the melody of ringing laughter. There were going to be grass clippings and mounds of shoveled snow, Christmas morning smiles and New Year’s Day hangovers. There were going to be a few boyfriends and eventually a husband, birth announcements, graduations and grandchildren, anniversaries and retirements, and a tranquil end once everything had been accomplished.

They’ve already put new locks on the door and she almost sobbed when she went there this afternoon. She gazed at the “Foreclosed” sign taped to the front window’s leaded glass and she crushed the suicide note she wanted to leave there in her hand. She was going to put it on the mantle above the fireplace and because she didn’t know how to say goodbye any other way, she was going to walk the floors one last time, going to listen to their creak and perhaps have a final sob in the foyer. It was where she was officially going to renounce her hopes for the future, her delusions of happiness but since they took those as well, she merely ripped the sign off the window and left her tears on the stoop.

The note’s in her shoe now, wrapped in a plastic bag in case things are messy because she doesn’t want it to be unreadable, doesn’t want them calling this an accident. What’s going to happen needs to be an act of defiance, not desperation, a statement too juicy for anything but a headline. When people read of the woman who killed herself in front of the governor’s motorcade, it has to make them want to know why. They need to understand that she didn’t do anything wrong and if SB-210 had been signed into law, she might’ve made it. She might’ve been able to refinance, renegotiate and would’ve been able to keep her home and the memories she’d hoped to build there.

The wind howls and twists and grabbing the ledge, she realizes its corners are missing their rough texture. They’re smooth and delicate, and glancing over, she notices the torn, jagged corner of a twenty-dollar bill trapped beneath her palm.

It’s stained with dark red blotches and thinking it’s too little, too late, she’s beginning to let it go when she stops.

She’s always had to scrimp and count her change and she’s never thrown money away in her life. Of course, she’s never had cash fly into her hand either and she ponders if this is a sign telling her not to do this. Maybe the loss of her dreams was merely a test, a path she has to navigate in order for things to improve. Maybe this is a way of making her reconsider, a call for her to hold on a little bit longer.

She’s never believed in those kinds of things but she can’t explain why this would happen when it did.

It has to mean something, she thinks and a fissure of a smile crosses her lips. She inhales the frigid air and she’s reveling in its clean taste when the wind again heaves. It slams into her body and her foot slips. Her knee buckles, her arms flail but she catches herself at the last second. Her heart’s throbbing. Her fingers are grasped around the ledge’s rough brick and she moans while the twenty dances into the air in spiraling figure eights. It twirls farther and farther away, rising and frolicking into the sky until it disappears just as the governor’s obsidian black limousine pulls out of the capitol and onto the street below her.

***

Check the shadows, the alleys and the corners and never stare.

Those were the first things he learned when he came to this neighborhood, the things he learned when they pulled a knife on him, stole his tips and laughed at the amount. They said it wasn’t enough but they took it anyway and from then on, he’s been more vigilant.

It was a lesson he never knew he had to learn, a lesson they never taught in his hometown. And yes, he could’ve found a safer part of the city but having been left to putrefy for decades, this one’s been ignored and forgotten; it’s an area no one would look, a few square blocks even the police are afraid of.

It’s been the perfect hole in which to disappear.

To hide.

To plan.

“Where’s my steak, Mr. Waiter?” the dealer on the corner shouts. “I told you what’d happen if you didn’t bring me a steak.”

He’d spotted him a block ago but he still had to keep watch, not only for the other dealers, the gangs and hungry addicts but for the Feds too and picking up his pace, he lets go of the pistol in his belt and moves his hand to the bill in his pocket.

Finding it on the way back from the job interview was a bit of luck because it puts him ahead of schedule. All he needs to do is get a couple of prepaid cell phones and he’ll have the final piece, the thing he’d almost saved up for, the thing he was planning to buy with his next check . . .

The detonator.

It’s nothing but a simple hunt now, an easy game of waiting.

It won’t be a long wait either because although his office is guarded and his neighborhood is walled, he never considered the country club, the haven where he goes to relax, to escape from his troubles.

The place that’s just hired a new member for its kitchen staff.

Washing dishes will be easy work for him because the journey to get here has been a hard one. It’s been a path littered with a dozen menial jobs taken solely to keep off the radar and build a résumé. There were days when he didn’t sleep because he took every shift he could, he’s lost thirty pounds because he didn’t eat to save money for supplies and there are restless nights when he can’t remember what things were like before. But it’ll be over soon; there’ll be a week or two to get established at the new job and maybe three more to study his patterns, his habits and to find the perfect spot, the perfect moment.

Thanksgiving, at the latest.

He thinks he’s safe at his precious club, thinks no one remembers what he did, what he said to the reporter when the mine was closed.

When the town lost hope, its people began to leave and a hundred families, plus one were destroyed.

“The entire board is truly sorry for this decision. But profits have been tight and with the current state of the markets, there was bound to be collateral damage.”

Well, he’s going to learn what collateral damage really is and what happens when people can’t bear the taste of the shit they’ve been forced to eat. He’ll get to see it firsthand and so will anyone else who’s with him.

Deck screws and ball bearings do that kind of thing.

He turns the corner onto yet another darkened street, chuckling at his good fortune and wondering if finding the soiled, mangled twenty was providence.

Yes, he thinks, leaning into the wind and tightening his grasp on the bill. This should just about cover it.

J. Paul Ross is a Colorado native. Most days, he can be found in a dark walk-in closet, cursing his monitor for its annoying love of comma splices. This, of course, is insane because everyone knows that comma splices aren’t the monitor’s fault, they’re the CPU’s. Despite this terrible habit, his fiction has appeared in numerous online and in print magazines and journals including, 34 Orchard, The Antioch Review, The Bacopa Literary Review and Fiction International. Currently, he is working on a novel set along the Pan-American Highway.