The Reconstructionist Read online

  Ellis said OK. He leaned on the rail and looked over the traffic. On the edge of the highway away to the right something snagged his attention, a tall figure. Ellis knew as soon as he focused on it that it was Boggs – Boggs bending to look at the ground, Boggs striding along a few paces, Boggs bending to the ground again. Ellis’s breath caught, and Heather said, ‘What?’

  ‘He’s here.’

  ‘John?’

  Boggs straightened, turned his face to the sky and raised his arms outward. Ellis still held the phone to his ear but had forgotten it when Heather clicked off. He was watching Boggs, and he didn’t see her until she was already running across the lanes of the highway.

  The traffic gapped and she crossed quickly. Boggs didn’t appear surprised to see her. She stopped maybe ten feet from him, her mouth moving. Boggs lifted a foot and looked down at it. His lips hardly moved as he spoke. Heather advanced, and she shouted.

  Ellis crashed through the room, downstairs, past the reception desk, around the building. By the time he reached the side of the highway, Heather and Boggs seemed calmed. They were talking. Ellis rushed through a break in the traffic. ‘Hey!’ he called from the median. It looked almost like a conspiracy, and as he waited for an opening to cross the remaining two lanes, he burned. And at the same time he was aware that he stood in the same ditch where a man had barely ducked a semi.

  When traffic opened and he could move forward his frustration grew confused. Heather stood downcast. Boggs studied the sky. He looked well tanned, rested and sad, like a man in the midst of a disappointing vacation. Heather didn’t look at Ellis, but instead toward the golf course, perhaps at a rattling flag there, perhaps at nothing.

  ‘You’re all right?’ Ellis said. But having said it, he was unsure who he meant or what all right could possibly indicate.

  ‘Say something,’ Boggs said. He seemed to be ignoring Ellis’s question, to be talking to Heather. She didn’t move or respond. The three of them stood in silence. This wasn’t what Ellis had expected; his strongest temptation was to run down the roadside, away from it.

  Boggs said, ‘OK then.’ He smiled at Ellis. ‘We were just rehashing some history.’ He glanced at Heather, but she stood silent. Ellis circled in order to see her face – but she wasn’t looking at anything: her eyes were shut. She seemed pale, and when Ellis touched her she was trembling.

  ‘Did you hit her?’ he asked Boggs, furiously.

  Boggs set his hands in his pockets. ‘Of course not.’ He started away, into the golf course.

  Ellis took a step after him, but stopped and went back to Heather. ‘What did he do?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Let’s go back to the motel,’ he said.

  ‘Are you going to go after him?’ she asked.

  ‘Do you want me to?’

  ‘Don’t ask me that!’

  He stared at her. ‘I couldn’t see as I came down from the room –’

  ‘You didn’t miss anything.’

  ‘Then what –’

  ‘Go,’ she said. ‘He’s going to kill himself, isn’t he?’ She motioned as if she would shove him, but she did not touch him.

  Boggs now was at the far end of the seventh fairway. Ellis looked from him to Heather. ‘Are you sending me away?’

  ‘No,’ she said.

  Ellis cursed. He studied her gaze a second, but she was now steady and opaque. He turned, ran.

  Boggs had nearly reached the golf course parking lot. Ellis sprinted through the rough along the seventh. He remembered that Heather had been married to Boggs for years; in comparison he hardly knew her.

  By the time he reached the parking lot, Boggs, in his convertible, was pulling away. Ellis ran behind, with little hope.

  Boggs, however, had to pause for an SUV backing into a parking space, and then as he came to the street entrance, the traffic there was heavy and seeping. Ellis thought he might actually catch up. And then – what? Vault into the passenger seat?

  Boggs approached the street at speed and made a screeching turn into traffic that terrified Ellis – vehicles from both directions braked loudly, swerved, blew horns. But Boggs, with apparent calm, had locked himself into the crawling traffic. Ellis, running hard, managed to come up beside him. He could hear Boggs’s car stereo. It sounded like Notes from the Underground – a favourite of Boggs’s, though Ellis had found it unreadable. He yelled, ‘Boggs!’

  ‘You all right?’ Boggs asked, slowing a little.

  ‘Yes.’ Ellis had to fight for breath.

  ‘Are you sure? I mean, in a bigger sense?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘You don’t have to follow me, you know.’

  ‘Let me help you!’

  Boggs shrugged. His jaw had set hard, and he studied the windshield. Traffic opened before him, and he accelerated a bit. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘To talk!’ Ellis shouted.

  ‘Just say it!’

  ‘What?!’

  ‘What you have to say!’

  ‘Let’s sit somewhere!’ Ellis gasped; he couldn’t run like this much longer.

  ‘What?!’

  ‘This is stupid!’

  ‘What is?!’

  Ellis cried hoarsely, ‘This isn’t a joke!’

  ‘No joke!’

  ‘No!’

  ‘OK!’ Boggs was accelerating. ‘Havalek thirty twelve!’ he called, then pulled ahead.

  Soon he had vanished. Ellis stopped and gasped for a minute with his hands on his knees. Then he turned and walked back along the road and through the golf course. He dodged across the highway lanes. When he reached the motel parking lot, Heather’s car was gone. This made him feel guilty. Then, aggrieved. He didn’t bother to go up to the room. He climbed into the minivan, started it and turned it onto the road. Every job had been filed under a designation based on the last name of the job’s client – like Jim Havalek, a plaintiff’s attorney – followed by a sequential number. Ellis recalled Havalek 3012 pretty clearly: a single-vehicle accident that had occurred about two hundred miles away. He pulled into the flow of traffic and phoned Heather. She said she was driving home. ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘Go on. You’re doing the right thing.’ Her voice sounded mechanical, maybe even rehearsed. ‘You know,’ she said, fading, ‘you –’ She began again. ‘You know why I called him John, not Boggs, don’t you? Because he hates it.’

  ‘Sure,’ he said. He was surprised by the sympathy he felt for Boggs.

  9.

  THE SUN HAD begun to set when he turned onto a road that followed along the edge of a lush ravine. A stream of water ran at its bottom and it turned and oxbowed and from out of it rose cottonwoods, willows and brush. Ellis drove slowly. He remembered that the place he was looking for came just after the road curved a long left then sharply right. The driver of the accident vehicle, travelling at 60 despite the 45 mph speed limit, had felt the back end break free in the transition between curves, began to swerve, fishtailed with increasing violence and launched into the ravine.

  But as the road curved back and forth, back and forth, and the trees and brush of the ravine all looked much the same, Ellis began to doubt whether he could identify the right curve.

  But then it was easy. A white-painted cross stood beside the road.

  He parked. He had driven here as hard and fast as he dared, hoping that he might have a chance to arrive before Boggs – unless the way Boggs had pulled into traffic from the golf course indicated a recklessness that he could not match. He stood looking around. What had happened here? An idiot had killed his best friend. Was that the reason that Boggs had chosen it?

  A photo of a smiling young man clung to the centre of the cross while at its foot lay a scatter of sun-faded plastic flowers. A beaded plastic necklace. Some broken crockery. A Yankees baseball cap slowly interring into the roadside.

  A single-vehicle accident involving two occupants, young men, not yet old enough to vote, friends since kindergarten. During the driver’s deposition,
an attorney asked how far the steering wheel was turned when the car went off the road.

  ‘I had let go.’

  The attorney said, ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘I let go of the wheel. And I closed my eyes.’

  The car, a little Dodge Neon, helixed into space over the ravine, smashed into the rocky stream bed, overturned and came to rest on the wheels. The driver said he kept his eyes closed – waiting, waiting, waiting, to be sure that the car had stopped and he was alive. Then he opened his eyes and turned to the passenger seat, and it was empty.

  The passenger-side window had smashed open.

  His friend stood a few feet away.

  The two looked at each other. The one standing in the water said, ‘I don’t feel good.’ He sat.

  The driver dragged him over to the bank. When the ambulance arrived the EMTs put his friend onto a board and hauled him up to the road. He had no exposed wounds, but he had suffered a laceration of the liver, and twelve hours later, during surgery, he died.

  Half of a year passed before Ellis and Boggs were hired and arrived to inspect the vehicle – a dozen energy-drink cans rolling in the rear-seat footwells, worn tyres, no load markings on the seat belts – and then came here to inspect the scene, plodding through the water to find and document bits of broken glass among the rocks, clambering up and down the slope to identify broken branches in the brush, using a machete to hack open view planes for their surveying equipment. Later they built an analytical simulation of the motion of the Dodge as it fishtailed, its subsequent leap, its initial impact with the ground, its crashing rollover. Painstakingly, they accounted for each dent in the sheet metal and the vehicle-to-ground contacts that had deposited window glass as well as the passenger-seat occupant, which allowed them to calculate forces to pass along to biomechanics experts so that those experts could say whether the vehicle’s seat-belt design was likely responsible for the damage to the liver of the passenger seat occupant.

  Whose name Ellis would not have remembered except that it was printed on a sticker affixed to the cross:

  Rick Elwin

  1987–2005

  We love you, Foxy!!

  A photo showed Rick Elwin with big teeth, a droopy right eyelid, not much chin, and it was not obvious in what sense he might be considered foxy. He smiled but looked a little desolate, as if something in him already anticipated how the photo would be used.

  Ellis picked up the baseball cap and beat the dirt off and set it atop the cross. He looked at the road for tracks or markings, but there were only the faint tyre marks his minivan had made in the dirt. He peered into the brush, wondering if Boggs had been down there. He didn’t want to go down. It was muddy and the water was cold, he remembered.

  He walked the road, through the S-curve where the driver had lost control. The road had been dry, the tyres worn but not bald, the vehicle otherwise in fine condition. Drug test negative. Just dumb. Not that anyone could say that in court. One could say, too much speed and an inexperienced driver. Possibly the two friends had been screwing around, but if so the driver never let it slip, and he seemed to have been honest otherwise, stricken and bewildered by the death of his friend. And as Ellis walked the curves suddenly, briefly, James Dell’s horrible broken body lay on the ground in front of him.

  He turned from it and watched as a Honda went by; it took the turns without difficulty. He crossed the road and stood under high old pines on a broad floor of needles and listened to the trees creak. The sky was darkening. He returned to the cross, and then, cursing, plunged down the side of the ravine to the water’s edge. He took off his shoes, rolled his pants. The water was as cold as he remembered. He lurched through the water until he stood at approximately the location where the Dodge had come to rest.

  In the mud was a shoeprint.

  Ellis compared it to the size of his own shoe – the print was a bit larger, as Boggs’s would be. He examined the tread, but he could not remember looking closely at Boggs’s shoes recently. He moved upstream and down, looking for more prints, without success. He worked up the ravine slope above the print, but saw nothing, and he went back down and crossed the water and looked along the opposite bank. A heavy gloom gathered. He ended standing in the water where the Dodge had been, his feet numb with cold.

  He closed his eyes and tried to think. If Boggs had been here and left, what now? Where next? Was it possible that this was a ploy to pull him away from Heather?

  A wind stirred the cottonwood leaves into faint slapping noises.

  The driver of the Dodge, too, had been here, with eyes closed. Ellis imagined the terrifying crash and the jarring halt. Eyes closed. No motion. No noise except a gurgle of water around the car. Waiting. Wishing it could all be reversed. Hoping to find it was OK. Then, opening his eyes, looking to his right, and there his friend stood in the water like an apparition.

  Ellis opened his eyes and looked to his right: mud and rocks and weeds.

  Except, of course, he was the one standing in the water. Like a man standing and breathing though already killed, already killed but not yet dead, an apparition.

  The water chuckled. A tree creaked. A car approached on the road above – cars had passed there periodically, but this one slowed. Right above him, it halted.

  Then it honked.

  Ellis scrambled up the slope as quickly as he could, but as he came out of the brush, the car had already accelerated away. He heard its tyres shrieking a little around a curve.

  He ran to the minivan. The road wound beside the stream for five miles before it came to an intersection, a four-way stop, and in the distance, left, right and ahead, he saw no one. A honk! It must have been Boggs. He hit the steering wheel.

  Then his phone rang. From it Boggs said, ‘Right.’ And hung up.

  ‘Fuck you!’ Ellis shouted. But with a sensation of internal flailing, he turned right and drove as fast as he could.

  A couple of dozen miles passed with no sight of Boggs. He called Boggs and listened to it ring several times. Then, to his surprise, it clicked and he heard Boggs say, ‘This jerk in front of me keeps tapping his brakes. Going uphill for God’s sake.’

  ‘Uphill?’

  ‘It’s a little hill.’

  ‘Are you tailgating?

  ‘I am now, because he keeps tapping the brakes.’

  ‘I guess anyone who wants to gets to be a jerk.’

  ‘That’s right. It’s an equal-opportunity society.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Just drive and drive and maybe I’ll hit something.’

  ‘You’re crazy. You’ll kill someone.’

  ‘People out here know the risks,’ Boggs said. ‘If you’ve put yourself out on the road, then by implication you’ve accepted the associated risks.’

  ‘I doubt that most people think of it that way.’

  ‘People do all kinds of shit without thinking.’

  ‘You’re not an asshole. Stop it.’

  ‘The problem,’ Boggs said, ‘is that you still want to think that we’re friends. Look at what’s happened. Look at where we are. What does friendship mean? This isn’t it.’

  ‘We don’t have to be friends. We don’t have to be anything. If you’ll just get some help. Just go home.’

  ‘You don’t really want me to go home and inject myself into Heather’s life again, go in and stir things and make a mess of the situation you’ve got.’

  ‘Whatever you need to do to work it all out.’

  ‘It would be a mess. I’m just thinking of your interests, Ellis.’

  ‘Sarcasm is the lowest form of humour.’

  ‘No, really you have to agree that puns are lower. I’ll take bad sarcasm over a good pun any day.’

  ‘If you have your humour, Boggs, then life’s OK, don’t you think?’

  ‘Not really. What’s the one got to do with the other?’

  Ellis said, ‘You said right, right? But where are you going?’

  ‘Right, wrong. Left, right.’
/>   ‘What?’

  ‘With a W.’

  ‘Oh. Oh.’ Jacob Wright had been one of their clients. Ellis pulled to the shoulder and stopped the car.

  ‘Now we’re getting somewhere, huh? Get it? We’re driving, getting somewhere. It’s a pun, pretty low.’

  ‘We’re not getting anywhere.’ He wasn’t. He was stopped on the shoulder.

  ‘Now, that’s what makes it funny, because it’s sarcasm, too.’

  ‘Boggs,’ Ellis said.

  ‘Boggs. Boggs, Boggs, Boggs. Boggs, can I have a job? Boggs, can I have your wife? Boggs, can I have your sympathy? Boggs, can I save your life? Boggs, can I feel good about myself?’

  ‘I’m –’

  ‘Boggs, will you accept my apology?’

  ‘Shut up, Boggs.’

  ‘Am I bothering you?’

  ‘You can talk a circle right around me. Good for you.’

  ‘OK. Talk to the Dostoevsky.’ Ellis heard an audiobook playing. ‘That I should cast a dark cloud over your serene, untroubled happiness; that by my bitter reproaches I should cause distress to your heart, should poison it with secret remorse and should force it to throb with anguish at the moment of bliss. Oh, never, never!’

  Then the silence of the dead phone line.

  Jacob Wright had been a major defence client, a fat, affable attorney representing a manufacturer. Including everything, including even the jobs on which he and Boggs had only spent a few hours before everyone concluded that the case looked bad and should be settled, they must have worked for Wright on more than a dozen different jobs. Maybe twenty. Maybe more.

  Ellis took out the map. The nearest Wright job that he could recollect lay – like a confirmation – 180 degrees off his current course.

  He turned around.

  Night had now taken the world completely. He passed an array of towering antennas with blinking red and white lights. An enormous solitary ghostly lit church. Fields where large numbers of fireflies were lighting, pale green sparks in great numbers all across the landscape – they glowed only as they flew upward so that they appeared to be always rising. Some rose over the road, and the ones that struck the windshield flashed brightly into green smears of phosphorescence that slowly, slowly faded. They began to mass in swarms that pelted the minivan – three, four on the glass before him, startling him with every impact, dead and luminous and beautiful. Then the fields ended with an eruption of residential housing developments; the fireflies vanished.