The Wedge in the Doorway - 2. Chapter 2

After a long, hot, relaxing shower, I dress in gym shorts, sport socks and sneakers. Feeling duly attired to start my day, I head to the ground floor. Bouncing down the stairs, the steamy ritual of cleaning washing away more than dirt, my mind shines clearer, recollections of the nightmare vanishing, the strange embodiment of Beth's presence disappearing, visions of the scale that kicked me while I was down all but forgotten.

"It's going to be a great day," I declare as I reach the entranceway and swing into the kitchen. Nodding vigorously I add, "Yes indeed, it's going to be a great day. And it's going to be a productive day."

Stepping by the island and hitting the button to start a pot of coffee, the grinder crunches out the announcement that coffee beans are meeting their end. The water pump runs long enough to fill the heating basin before the machine falls silent for a moment. Finally that distinctive hiss-and-gurgle starts that declares in a resounding voice, "Coffee's on!"

Of the aspects of city life I miss most after four years living in the country, Starbucks sits pretty high on the list. I'm a coffee lover through and through. But the nearest coffee shop is twenty-five miles away in Marshall. I have no intention of driving thirty minutes for morning coffee, especially not on a daily basis, so brewing my own is the next best option. And since I buy the beans from Starbucks, that's as good as it can get under the circumstances.

With the machine summoning brown magic into the pot, I charm a bowl of instant oatmeal from the microwave and start eating it at the kitchen island. After coffee stops dribbling, I pour a cup, grab my breakfast and step outside to the screened-in porch. The northernmost table provides a sweeping vista of the lake. This corner of the house lacks surrounding trees and shade, so it becomes unbearably hot from noon through nightfall in summer, but at this hour it's relatively comfortable.

Only a handful of homes litter the edges of the lake. Settlers and businessmen divvied up the land years before Texas became a state. That means the area remains free of the overcrowding that often plagues lakeside acreage, most of which winds up owned by distasteful vagrants with wealth who infest a place for a few months every year but otherwise have no roots there. Most communities politely call such infections "summer folk"; I call them loaded vagabonds, rich tramps who take more than they give.

Limited residency essentially makes Lake Potisesse a large private reservoir. Although there are no restrictions on private lake use, disposition of the surrounding land means it's public but used mostly by King's Hope citizens. Well, that and the directionally-impaired outsider who stumbles upon this hidden gem.

The most invasive use it suffers comes as a throughway for boaters moving along the bayou, though in warm weather one can hardly feign disbelief if someone has a lake party that gets out of hand, something that rarely occurs. Mostly the lake is a haven, a sanctuary.

With coffee and oatmeal and plans, I enjoy the morning despite warm temperatures. The thermometer on the side of the porch shows eighty-two degrees in the shade at ten o'clock in the morning.

"Typical summer," I complain between bites.

* * * * *

Breakfast devoured beneath the volleying mêlée of chattering birds and insects, liberated bits of oatmeal greedily captured from the bowl's flanks, the dish bivouacs in the kitchen sink while I seize my laptop and the spare charger from the office. Back in the kitchen remnants from the once-full pot of coffee troop into a thermal carafe, then I march back to the porch with my booty. The laptop gets restrained to the outside socket to keep it alive. Meanwhile, I headquarter at the table to plunder a news fix.

I grant you these morning maneuvers appear hazardous, a veritable parade of perils, but I soldier through my daily routine sans too much struggle or collateral damage.

"Let's see if the world ended overnight. If so, the rest of my day clears up nicely," I mutter as my web browser starts.

I hit The New York Times site first. And the commanding headline leads to a complete surrender of my attention.

"Damn!" I blurt out to no one except me.

Over the past eighteen months a new disease has spread across the globe, relentless and stealthy and indiscriminate. But unlike so many of the new diseases that pop up regularly, like SARS and swine flu, the WHO, the CDC, USAMRIID, the NIH, and a long list of other acronyms, not to mention the global medical community, are utterly perplexed as to cause and nature of this disease.

I click the headline to open the article.

Sleeping Sickness Pandemic Grows; Doctors, Experts Remain Baffled

By Victor O'Hanlon, Staff

The World Health Organization announced this morning that the worldwide incidence of Sudden Acute Comatose Sleep Syndrome, or SACSS, has neared 300 million affected. Dr. Yin Sung-Chun , Director-General of the WHO, said during her weekly briefing from Geneva, Switzerland that, despite an ongoing media blitz and regular notifications to healthcare personnel regarding the pandemic, the incidence of infection could be higher due to unreported cases in remote areas. In reaction to censures apropos her organization's response to the mysterious ailment, Dr. Yin reiterated what has become the mantra of investigatory medical organizations around the globe; she replied, "I can't reiterate enough that this disease has no diagnostic symptoms prior to the presentation of comatose sleep. In addition to this lack of indicators, no one has yet to identify the causative agent or agents. We've found no bacteria, no virus, no protein or prion, no toxins, nothing. There appears to be no common marker among the infected save the outcome of the disease."

When questioned about the spread of the pandemic, including potential vectors for infection, she repeated that they have not identified a "ground zero" or a "patient zero" since preliminary reports of infection came concurrently from the United States, Pakistan, Turkey, South Africa and New Zealand. She stressed, "As I've said before, we know only of the initial cases made public at the time. It's possible—in fact, it's likely—that other cases arose elsewhere and that those cases weren't reported in a timely manner, attending physicians and individuals not recognizing the disease as critical because they knew only of their limited number of patients. As to the question of contagion vectors, we've identified none, and we know definitively that those caring for patients show no statistical increase in the rate of disease acquisition. That suggests that proximity has no role in spread, though intense research continues."

Dr. Lance Erraway, director of the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention in Atlanta, agreed with Dr. Yin's assessment, adding that the extensive force of the world's medical and research industries had been brought to bear on SACSS within a month of initial reports of illness when the outbreak's scope became clear. "That happened before the WHO officially designated this a pandemic," he said. "Health professionals and scientists recognized early that a portentous incident was taking place and that a global response of unparalleled size was necessary."

SACSS produces an abrupt comatose-like state in patients who fall asleep normally but who do not awaken later. Attempts to induce consciousness by artificial means, such as medication, sound and physical contact, produce no result. Disparate from true comatose patients, sufferers of SACSS show consistent electroencephalograph readings demonstrative of brains in D-sleep, called paradoxical sleep or REM sleep. Because those infected display the characteristic signs of this level of sleep, including increased brain activity, elevated pulse rates and rapid eye movement, world health authorities caution that misdiagnoses both for and against infection persist.

Governments around the globe meanwhile continue struggling with the unprecedented strain on healthcare facilities. SACSS patients cannot care for themselves, requiring medical intervention to sustain them. Where therapeutic care remains limited, fatalities from the pandemic have soared, though the overall death rate remains moderately low because the disease does not educe physical sickness...

I click the back button to reload the front page. A repetitive recording of the same old recording doesn't interest me. The only insight comes from the number of confirmed cases and how that number keeps climbing, accepting of course that no one has a real clue about what's happening and false positives and negatives abound. But more importantly, the whole thing troubles me given this morning's nightmare.

I wonder aloud, "What if...What if it starts with a dream? They're staying in REM sleep. They show signs of dreaming."

The rationalist inside me labels such conjecture paranoid riffraff.

"No, that's silly," I say as I mentally debate the thought. "Dreams don't equal infection. No, symptoms don't represent causes. That makes sense. Symptoms indicate ailment, not causes of ailment. Fever doesn't explain illness. Inability to walk doesn't explain illness. Pain, an insistent cough, bleeding don't explain illness. Those are symptoms; they tell us problems lurk beneath."

Letting my eyes wander as my mind does the same thing, I think, So people locked in dream sleep show symptoms, not causes. Having a weird dream can't possibly indicate illness.

"Not that I'm a doctor, but I've written about them."

Shaking my head to clear away idle thoughts, my attention returns to the front page of The New York Times. Scanning the other headlines and finding no interest in them—after what I already read, nothing heavy seems appropriate—I open the bookmark for New Science of the Times, an online journal I relish due to my unflagging interest in science. The site offers the latest goodies from cosmology to particle physics to biology and everything in between. As a science enthusiast, keeping abreast of discoveries makes me happy; as a novelist, keeping abreast of discoveries generates inspiration and provides truth I can use to great effect in stories.

I refill my coffee cup as I peruse the latest topics: bacteria in Antarctica, ant supercolonies, dark matter, particles possibly moving faster than light...

"Ah, here's something."

The article opens. The headline sounds interesting for reasons I won't admit.

Lucid Dreaming Increases Globally

By Nancy Jaster

Do you fancy yourself Leonardo DiCaprio or Ellen Page as you amble through your dreams bending them to your will? Maybe you don't walk up walls or twist streets toward the heavens, but perhaps you fly around the world à la Superman or sit down to a meaningful chat with a dead loved one.

Years ago, Inception brought the idea of lucid dreaming to movie screens. Today, America's leading sleep researcher, Professor Marshall Blanton, reports that the ability to consciously manipulate our dreams is increasing. Professor Blanton, a psychologist who runs a sleep research laboratory at Rice University in Austin, Texas, says the incidence of lucid dreaming has increased nearly fifty percent in the last forty years.

"When people recognize that they're dreaming, they have the ability to take control of the dream," he explains. "We know dreams come from the unconscious mind, so lucid dreaming provides a fascinating glimpse into that otherwise inaccessible place."

Recent studies from sleep researchers around the world indicate the last several decades have seen a marked increase in people's ability to recognize and participate in their dreams.

Professor Quinton Riecke, director of Harvard University's Sleep Research Laboratory, says we shouldn't jump to conclusions. "Dreams are mental entertainment the mind shows so we stay asleep, a way for the brain to avoid waking up too early. We should understand they're completely subjective. No matter what the research shows, it hinges on people being honest about something that happens while they're asleep. It's possible an increase in lucid dreaming is really just an increase in wishful thinking."

Jovially accepting that good research is needed, Professor Blanton says reservations about his findings define the spirit of the scientific process. He welcomes Professor Riecke's skepticism, though he also provides experimental results that show people can't fake monitored lucid dreaming. "What we're seeing is a level of activity in the frontal areas of the brain that aren't duplicated in regular dreams. These high brainwave frequencies suggest a level of consciousness similar to a fully alert wakefulness."

Both researchers agree that the lack of deep study in the area of lucid dreaming comes from a dearth of understanding about the dream function itself; scientists have long struggled to comprehend its biological purpose. Lacking technical familiarity with the act of dreaming means a conspicuous shortcoming with regards to understanding lucid dreaming...

Yadda yadda yadda. The article interested me predicated on my nightmare, so I skim through the remainder: People can't fake lucid dreaming since either you sleep with increased brain function or you don't; the phenomenon doesn't generate the same brain activity as does full wakefulness; understanding lucid dreaming requires a better understanding of the dream function; obviously more research is needed.

"Aha! Always more research, which is synonymous with more funding. You can't hide the truth from me."

Talking to my computer doesn't elicit impressions of good mental health, so I close the browser. Besides, clearly the world didn't end while I slept. That means I actually have to accomplish something today.

The laptop's clock shows 11:04 AM and the porch's thermometer reads ninety-one degrees. But my body's way ahead of the thermometer. Sweat beads on my forehead and drips down my chest and back. Rivulets tickle their smothering way down my ribs. Salty drops form on the end of my nose before diving toward the ground below. The air hangs thick with the miserable day ahead.

Another vice, the carafe already empty, the thought of coffee incites a chuckle at my misery.

Who sits in the oppressive heat and humidity of a Texas summer while drinking hot coffee? Insane! Time to go inside before I melt into a puddle on the porch floor.

Laptop and charger return to the sunroom where my day began. Then I head to the kitchen and grab a cold bottle of water, which goes with me through the entrance hall to the living room and up the spiral staircase to the gym on the second floor. Workouts happen six days per week, hangover or not, though I usually start my day beneath the irons rather than slinking under them so late in the morning.

Again, my tough daily ritual daunts most, but I survive it.

Having an in-house gym means weather and distance can't purloin my ability to maintain a strict six-days-a-week exercise routine. Consequently the gym features a navigable design crowded with the equipment needed for circuit, cardio and resistance training.

The room has no blinds or curtains on the two walls of glass that make up the second floor's northwest corner, but all of the house's windows can frost or tint electrically, user decides which. An electronic rheostat modifies the level of tint so it can change fluidly between clear and limo black.

Punching the window button clears the darkening. Before noon the sun doesn't hit this corner room. The house's management system will automatically tint them later.

I grab the remote and a towel from the cabinet near the stairs before heading to the stationary bike. Hitting PLAY fills the gym with the quick beats of The Crystal Method's Legion of Boom. "Starting Over" gets me started. How suitable. A quick beat helps set a rhythm whereas slow beats make me feel the fatigue exercise generates. Increasing the volume creates the right ambiance, after which I climb atop the bike, punch in the desired level of effort, and start pedaling like I'm in the Tour de France.

* * * * *

Two hours later with my workout complete, my chest feeling the burn, I shower a second time and don shorts of desert camouflage along with a pair of mahogany-and-beige knocked-around-and-scuffed-to-Hades sneakers. Then my chaotic activities take me back to the downstairs porch to retrieve the carafe and coffee cup. They join the bowl in the kitchen sink.

Though my housekeeper Beatrice Alten has today off so she can visit relatives in Tyler, tomorrow is Saturday and Saturdays are cleaning days when the Widow Alten, Margaret McCreary and Frances Turgenev come by to pick up my messes. Summer means no school, so Margaret will drag along her secretly rambunctious malcontent daughter Helene. The girls can handle the domestic issues of keeping squalor to a minimum. Housekeeping was never my thing.

I swipe a glass and abscond with the pitcher of water from the refrigerator, spoils I carry back to the sunroom. Once they settle on the table by the couch, I plant myself in the corner cushions where so much of my writing takes place. The charger finds its way into the wall and the laptop to prevent the battery from interrupting me. Once it hits a full tank I'll unplug it.

Ensconced on the sofa, an uneasy feeling runs through me. This discomforting day started here. I slept in the same place, experienced the most troubled dream of my life, felt wounded by a piercing reminder of my dead wife, and awoke in mental shambles with a short-lived yet killer hangover to boot.

Looking left toward the woods and right toward the lake, a normal world spreads out before me. The trees surrounding the end of the house stand green and lush, filled with the songs and antics of various birds. The windows shine with light from a sun on its way to the west. No impenetrable darkness and no disembodied eyes of fire surround me. My restive feeling doesn't abate though.

What a jacked up experience that was. It still bothers me.

It was a first, so the novelty of the experience explains why it's sticking with me.

Sure, Dave. Keep telling yourself that.

Sloughing off unease with a simple headshaking, my focus centers on the notebook. Double-clicking the document of my current effort brings the word processor to life and hastily displays the manuscript for Compassion in Annihilation's Caress.

My nearly complete novel, book fourteen for those keeping a David A. Crichton library.

Now where am I? Ah yes...

William, the reluctant antihero of the tale, finds himself amidst humankind's greatest discovery, yet he feels increasingly anxious about it. He sees threats in what holds promise for so many others—the arrival of an alien race that explains spirituality as a product of evolution. After death, they say, your energy continues, though thinking in terms of heaven and hell is just plain silly. No, they assure William's world, only through ascension can humans survive death. "And we've come to help!" they promise.

But my nonhero William begins to fathom some of what awaits his world. This frightens him, for he's discovered the generous and peaceful aliens who promise so much intend to take a great deal more than they deliver. Their advanced medicines cure many ailments but silently introduce sterility to reduce the human population, thereby making it easier to subjugate people. Their insistence on transitioning to advanced technologies in order to do away with pollution and primitive ways serves to move Earth from its own industries and trades toward an agrarian society. The much anticipated ascension they offer comes at the price of freedom. "Give us your allegiance and service and we will help you become something greater." And suspiciously, those who sacrifice for ascension go missing, never seen or heard from afterward.

William learns why. It disgusts him. It terrifies him. It makes him livid and rebellious. He kills his wife, believing her a conspirator supporting an alien invasion. His children leave him, both for the murder of their mother and because they think the aliens are pretty damn cool. And William hates what he's become since he's changed so much—little for the better—based on piecemeal truth he's ascertained, a truth no one else seems to know.

He doesn't yet fully understand the mingling plots, though he knows his government supports a friendly invasion while the aliens help people vanish. Their enlightenment equates to disappearance. And these mysterious unreal visitors are converting Earth into a giant supermarket where humans do the reaping and sowing while aliens do the consuming—of our harvests and our population.

In every sense William feels wounded from all sides and desperately contends with the desire to end it for himself and let the world be damned.

* * * * *

Before William has a chance to move to the next level of his adventure, my mind races to the place left behind earlier this morning, sitting in this same spot where Beth's voice echoed on the edge of another voice. The nightmare comes back unbidden.

My dreams range from unworthy of note to not worth remembering, bantam trips down Imagination Lane: falling, flying, running, speaking, walking, sitting, and a host of other verbs, but nothing with substance or meaning.

Visionary. Untouched. Dreamdarkers. A man's voice cloaked in Beth's voice. Light that comes from nowhere yet falls everywhere. Impossible creatures shaped from darkness. Crimson eyes of fire telling me they're predators and I'm prey. A nameless unspeakable thing lurking under bombastic speech. A coin flipped ad nauseam.

Incredulous of gods and religions, I'm convinced of death's finality. Ghosts are nothing more than fodder for my books when the mood strikes. Beth won't come back; she'll not walk through the door in a few days with surprising tales of a laughable yet grim error on her death certificate and she'll not manifest as an apparition to share secrets from beyond the grave. She died. That's that.

No, I didn't see her body, not for identification purposes or otherwise. The medical examiner assured me that nothing distinguishable remained aside from the few personal effects later returned to me: a charred wedding band, her cell phone melted into a clump of plastic and silicon, a few pages from her address book blown from the car with only their edges singed. He found sufficient proof of identity without my help, including dental records and the wedding band's tiny engraving.

"These things show conclusively that she was in the car," he explained, "and that shows conclusively that she died in the car."

I've never questioned that finding. She died. She won't return.

In a twist of cosmic fate, Beth preferred cremation, so with gallows humor the cosmos provided that. I saw an urn containing her ashes when finally the call came to retrieve her remains and personal effects from the Dallas County Morgue. Upon arrival, standing in that cold sterile space dimly lit with fluorescent lights, a steel-and-tile room supercilious to the tragedies and horrors it inflicts on others, the urn rested in my sweaty palms and I imagined the mangled, burned, unrecognizable husk of the woman I loved and how she'd been reduced to this.

Then I cried openly and without regard for who watched. I stood clutching death's calling card, a small and unadorned vessel bearing the dust of a human being, and I spoke to her, kissed the clammy lid of the container, wept openly but without affectation.

What hid in that frosty porcelain receptacle under harsh lights, that thing I imagined smelled of burned flesh and singed hair, that shell containing ashes stored the whole of Elizabeth Crichton. Everything else had vanished. The synaptic spark that defined her essence, animated the flesh and made it her had become extinct, crushed and burned and killed in a horrible car accident. Her life had ended. Period.

* * * * *

The day she died seared into my memory with the clarity that drives sane men to do insane things. Photographic memory notwithstanding, that seemingly mundane yet fateful time branded itself into the hide of my soul. We shared a perfect life, so destined. Shattering it abruptly jarred the world and shook the foundation of being. Despite the severity of the loss and the acute nature of the pain, however, I couldn't let it ruin my life. She would've scoffed at the idea just as I would. Still, it definitely left scars.

Subsequent to her death some acquaintances and friends offered trivial platitudes and tired clichés. "Time heals all wounds." "You'll learn not to reopen old wounds." So it went, but I didn't want or need such drivel. To use yet another trite expression, people saying those things rubbed salt in an open wound. They couldn't understand my pain or deprivation. Equally they couldn't understand how I accepted it as part of life, the closing of an era. As I've said and as I believe, time eventually takes everything. We can either suffocate beneath that heartless truth or we can push it aside. Personally, I push it aside. I keep going.

Don't misunderstand me. I'm not cold and emotionless. I felt the pain then; I feel the pain now. I can't change it though, so why dwell on it? Death is as much a part of life as is birth.

When chimpanzees grow ill or infirm—when mortality nears—they quietly slink into the jungle to die alone. Meanwhile their troop recognizes the absence, wonders for about five minutes what happened, then goes on living. Such a beautiful compromise between the needs of the many and the needs of the one. Selfish comfort plays no part in it, not for the victim and not for the survivors.

Beth's demise affects me from time to time, the loss felt anew, but people die, they change, they move on in one way or another. Forever is a lie, most notably in relationships of any kind, friends and family and lovers included. That truth doesn't negate the sorrow, though. I feel it when anyone dies, more so when death takes someone I love. But life continues and my attention must return there—on living.

It seemed presumptuous for anyone to think they could offer advice about how to handle her passing. I hated them for it, and I loved them for trying to provide emotional balm despite their inelegant ways.

Now sitting here trying to make believable the personal loss of William's wife—albeit at his own hands—and having the memory of my dream fresh in mind, real and personal loss vividly replays in my mental theater. Through the amoral and persistent mechanism called remembering, I face that day again.

* * * * *

Spring in Texas brings unpredictable weather, often fierce and always unprincipled. Forecasts for the day Beth died included the likelihood of afternoon and evening thunderstorms, yet the morning started with sixty-degree weather and an uninterrupted blue sky.

While enjoying coffee on the deck, that the azure canopy overhead and comfortable temperature against my skin might give way to nature's violence struck me as farfetched. But I'd lived in Texas my whole life. I knew how radically and suddenly the weather could change. Nevertheless, a cool breeze and warm sunshine foretold a pleasant start to the day.

Four years my senior when we met, Beth already enjoyed a successful career as a technology consultant. Her continued success during our marriage placed increasing demands on her time and skills. Around the DFW Metroplex and around the globe, she traveled often, worked long hours, and brought home an abundance of bacon.

A hectic meeting schedule starting prior to noon had her leaving the house by ten in the morning. My time and effort remained dutifully and feverishly concentrated on my twelfth novel, something untitled at that moment but later named Are You Taking Desperation's Call?, and I sat in the home office pounding out pages on the laptop.

Our careers had grown into enviable successes by then. I produced a popular novel every year or so, I had lucrative movie deals, and I wrote short stories and articles and novellas on a regular basis. Her technology expertise allowed her to command premium rates and to select her clientèle from amongst those clamoring for help. Therefore such days characterized normalcy; she did her thing and I did mine, and together we enjoyed the combined fruits of our labors.

We lived on White Rock Lake's eastern shore in "the Peninsula" neighborhood of Little Forest Hills. This granted ample opportunities to appreciate a beautiful view of the man-made reservoir from my office. I could easily rest my eyes by looking out the window and across the lake where downtown Dallas huddled quietly in the distance.

A plethora of wildlife filled the park and sailboats often meandered across the water when weather permitted. And if—no, not if—and when boredom plagued me, visiting the deck offered a relaxing vista and opportunity to soak up the relaxing environment.

Thunderstorms began forming to the west around three o'clock that afternoon. I first noticed them during a quick jaunt outside for some fresh air and a quick stretch. Cumulonimbi swelled into billowing towers of darkness trying to fill the horizon. They'd arrive on their own schedule, that I knew, and with any luck we'd enjoy a good rain. Drought had relentlessly assaulted Texas for a few years, meaning no one complained about precipitation, inclement or otherwise. Besides, I love storms—loved them then and love them now—and the state can produce some exciting examples of meteorological fury.

After watching the distant tempests for a few minutes, I returned to the office and continued working. My biggest response to the development came when darkening skies forced me to turn on the desk lamp. Otherwise I didn't give it another thought.

By five o'clock when storms rolled across the lake, I suspected Beth had finished her day and might already have started home, assuming her last meeting ended on schedule. In spite of the confluence of storms and her commute, I didn't worry about her safety even as torrential rain pummeled the city.

Lightning pierced the sky and speared the ground. Thunder continually rumbled and growled; it even banged hard enough from time to time to startle me from my seat. Yet the squall lasted perhaps thirty minutes, no more.

That's normal, I thought as heavy clouds scudded overhead and pushed eastward. We lived in Tornado Alley, after all, so severe weather popping up unexpectedly and blowing away quickly elicited no surprise.

I contemplated a quick call to mention the weather, as though she wouldn't have noticed it already regardless of her location. I'd add a loving "be careful" or something equally juvenile. But as I stood with phone in hand, I chastised myself for being silly. We didn't fill our relationship with nosiness and worry, so I couldn't understand where the sudden need to check up on her came from.

Apprehension gurgled inside me for inexplicable reasons; a real anxiety roiled beneath the surface of my casual demeanor. But the foolishness of it made me set it aside as an off moment. In addition to out of the ordinary and patronizing, her cell phone ringing could be just the inopportune distraction to cause a problem. Driving around Texans requires requires one's complete attention; driving around Texans in the middle of a downpour requires a tank.

As soon as the rain blew on, skies began clearing to the west and a bit of sunshine poked into the gloom. Crepuscular rays extended under the passing clouds, shafts of light penetrating with brilliance and holding the sky aloft as they warmed the earth below. Such a beautiful sight demanded attention and dragged me to the deck.

The rain lasted long enough to make the roads treacherous but not long enough to help with the drought, I thought at the time. Irrespective of the unusual anxiety I felt, that pithy mental announcement represented my entire reflection on the storm.

Rain hastening over the lake provided a momentary diversion from work, and the new vision of sunshine skirting the storm's trailing edge made for a better diversion, but none of it deserved more than a few minutes. I stepped back into the house and returned to the office desk, sat down, and began typing.

Lost in William's story, treating the keyboard like Liberace treated a piano, maybe an hour passed before the first phone call ripped me from my work.

Police reports and witness statements that came much later gave me the hindsight that called into question my carefree attitude and reprimanded me for not listening to that inner voice that kept insisting danger was afoot.

Beth had reached the intersection of Garland Road and Buckner Boulevard, no doubt happy with less than a mile to travel before reaching the safety of home. Driving eastward she waited to veer north on Buckner. The rain had ended. We both watched it at the same time, her in her car and me in my office.

Perpetually the cautious driver, when it came to Beth's ability to navigate perilous roads she engendered no worry. She served as copilot when I drove, and she had no qualms expressing constant dissatisfaction with my flyboy maneuvering. For me, cars were made for driving—really driving. For her, they were made to get us safely from one point to another. The difference never fully registered until that day, though the premise remained foremost in her mind as she awaited an opportunity to safely continue.

Witnesses described the collision in detail, which police reports and investigating officers shared with me. Beth paused at the intersection while a red light stopped opposing traffic. When a green arrow signaled she had the right of way, she proceeded. Knowing her, she delayed long enough with the green arrow until certain no oncoming hazard approached.

She began the turn. Her usual caution meant her eyes watched westbound traffic on Garland Road that had just come to a standstill. She and the drivers around her wouldn't have thought twice about a large box truck moving north on Buckner, a large steel battering ram with a driver who would fail to see the red light until the last minute, who would be unable to stop on the slick roads, and who would slide through the other paused traffic.

The truck barreled into the intersection and hit three turning cars. Due to the slight hill and the large vehicle's locked wheels sliding on wet blacktop, the metal behemoth spun enough to broadside the automobiles. The most traumatic part of the collision occurred because the angle of the slipping truck allowed its fuel tank to strike my wife's car. As the metal step atop the gas container shattered her passenger window, her passenger-side mirror pierced the tank and fuel napalmed into the car.

No one identified the precise ignition source, although everyone assured me any spark easily could have given flaming life to fumes created by the spillage. They told me the compression and heat of the explosion inside her car killed her instantly. That would provide no consolation even if I believed it.

Her death led to my relocation from Dallas to Nowhere, Texas, otherwise called King's Hope. I couldn't remain where our life together had started, grown, and ended with such brutal finality. I couldn't stay in a large city that constantly pressed me with obligations. I no longer cared for high society; parties became immaterial. Dealing with the obtuse drivers found in many Texas cities proved problematic; I never felt safe on the roads with heavy traffic and never could stop seeing Beth's mishap in every surprise movement.

Unwilling to shed our house, I similarly didn't want to live in it. Filling my free time with constructing a new home that would be mine and free of remembered loss seemed a worthy diversion. Familiar with King's Hope since my parents already lived in the diminutive East Texas hamlet, it seemed the best place to start a new life.