Sorry I Worried You

Wire’s Wire, until It’s a Body

101 Wire’s Wire, until It’s a Body Coming home from his father’s funeral, late spring twilight settling in, Ray Salter felt a small jounce just outside of Lewistown. “What was that?” his wife said, slowing. “Nothing,” he said, but Cindy pulled onto the shoulder, looked in the rearview mirror where nothing, he thought, could be visible but the dark. “I hit something,” she said. “You felt it.” “A small rock,” he said. “A crack in the road. A tree branch.” “No, Ray. Something.” She put the car in reverse and backed it up a hundred yards. “OK,” he said, “maybe a rabbit or a squirrel. What can you do?” “I want to know what I’ve done.” Cindy stepped out and looked, walked back and forth, checked both shoulders. A car passed. Another. “Satisfied?” he said. “Some little piece of debris was all it was.” 102 “OK.” Something strange, Ray thought, settling back into the passenger seat. Something to talk about with his wife at breakfast the next day, but then, ten miles later, Cindy stopped again, crying this time, and searched the road for the dead body she was sure was just off in the shadows. Five minutes he helped her look, and then Ray took the wheel and told her to rest. “Maybe I should do the night driving if it worries you so much,” he said the next day. Cindy sat across from him at the kitchen table. She’d started a second cup of coffee, but she hadn’t touched it for ten minutes. “You don’t see well enough at night to make out everything,” she said. “Nobody’s night-blind at forty-two,” Ray said. “Not even down at Eyeland. I’m not the one stopping for bumps in the road.” “You haven’t had a checkup in years. You’ll hit somebody and not know it.” “Of course I would.” He reached across the table and touched her hand, but she pulled it back. “A glancing blow,” she said. “A little quiver and they’ll spin off into the shadows someplace where you won’t see them.” “If you think that way you won’t be able to drive.” “I’ll be more careful,” she said. “I can drive as long as I’m cautious . I have to get to the office. You have your own troubles to worry about.” “That’s old news,” he said, but she shook her head. Over a year ago now, in early May, he’d been surprised at the tenure decision. Shocked, he’d said. Everybody but the incompetent got tenure, he’d thought. Lousy teachers. Those who never published and didn’t show up for committee meetings. He had decent evaluations. He’d 103 put out a couple of articles. He’d hit a dry patch the last two years, but he thought it was the pressure of needing an article at a crucial time. It would have all sorted out. The point was there had been no black marks in his book—three adjunct jobs and six years of fulltime —and yet the dean had called him to her office a week before graduation to break, she said, the news personally before the registered mail arrived the following day. He had a year, of course, to pursue a new position. She was sure he’d find something suitable, but the year had come and gone, and here he was, the last week in May, eligible to file for unemployment. “The old news needs to be updated,” Cindy said finally. “You go take care of that paperwork. All I need to do is fit a pair of glasses, help somebody pick the perfect frames, and I’ll be good as new.” Ray drove to the social services office, passing the college on the way into town. He wanted to get in and get out as early in the day as possible. As long as nobody he recognized saw him, he could stand it. The line, he was happy to see, was short. The woman who handled the forms looked at his personal information and said that she’d see to it his checks were sent in the mail, that someone like him wouldn’t have to report in person to receive compensation. An hour of his time and he was assured an income for another year. He’d need it, Ray...