Walking at Dusk

by Terry Sanville


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​   Spencer left his Prius in the parking lot next to the lake and began walking. He crossed a six-lane boulevard, barely making it before the light turned red. Those damn signals are never timed for seniors, he thought. His feet hurt like hell, the toe joints swollen with arthritis. But he kept moving at a deliberate pace, his mind adrift with the events of the past week: his grandson’s joyous return from
Afghanistan; a respected publisher acquiring a collection of his wife’s poetry;
the retiring Humanities Department Dean telling him that he was one of the finalists for the position.

    On that last score, Spencer knew better than to get his hopes up. He’d been passed over twice. But maybe third time’s the charm. With all of this swirling in his brain, he was surprised to find himself on a path that bordered a creek, some distance from his car. A dense stand of eucalyptus bordered the stream. Looking upward, he watched great blue herons tending their nests in the swaying treetops.

    His body hurt all over. He found a bench dappled in sunlight next to the flowing brook and sat, taking the weight off his aching joints. But the pain continued and got worse. The wind picked up and became bitter cold. Spencer cursed himself for forgetting his jacket in the car. The herons croaked in the late afternoon and the blue gum eucalyptus leaves rattled together, sounding almost like applause. Time blinked, like a computer image freezing on the screen and pixelating. Everything stopped – the cold, the wind, the pain, the fragrance of trees and water.​

    What in God’s green earth was that? The herons continued their croaking. But the sun wasn’t right. It shined from the east, warming his body. Spencer closed his eyes and enjoyed the feeling, felt a sense of peace, his muscles relaxed yet eager for movement. After brushing blade-shaped leaves from his lap, he stood and continued walking down the path. He glanced backward.

    A figure lay on the bench, slumped over, hands dangling. The man wore the same type of shirt that Spencer wore. He wanted to investigate. But his body kept moving forward around a sweeping curve in the creek. Each footfall sounded like hard leather soles on one of the University’s long terrazzo corridors.

    In the near distance a brilliant cloud of whiteness occupied a bench. With a sharp crack red blossomed from the white. Spencer hurried forward, reached the bench and found a young woman’s body with her head tilted back, a hand still grasping a mean-looking pistol. He searched for a pulse but found that his hands couldn’t touch her – passed into her flesh without resistance.

    What the living hell is going on? He wanted to call out for help, but to whom? Spencer glanced ahead. A woman dressed in a full wedding gown complete with veil walked away from him.

    He yelled, “Hey, miss, wait up, please.”

    She turned and gazed at him, open-mouthed. Spencer caught up to her and they stood staring at each other for long moments until she spoke.
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    “I feel so much better, don’t you?”

    “Better?”

    “Better than before.”

     He thought for a moment. “Yes...yes. I haven’t been pain-free for over fifty years.”
 
     The woman smiled. “I was in pain for only a short while. Lucky I guess.”

     “I’m Spencer. What’s your name?”

     “Violet. It’s an old-fashioned name but my mother loved violets, grew at least a dozen varieties.”​

     “Violet, what...what happened back there?”

      She smiled. “You sound intelligent. What do you think?”

      “So why did you kill yourself?”

      “Empty wedding alters cause a pain worse than anything I could live with.”

      “I’m sorry, the guy must have been a real jerk, because you’re beautiful and speak well and...”

      “And I can sometimes be a real bitch. I’m sure he had reasons. What about you?”

      “I don’t understand any of this. I parked my car at the lake and—”

      “What lake? What the hell are you talking about? I was getting married in Denver. It was snowing, the church crowded. I waited for hours until I couldn’t stand it anymore.”

      “For me it was...was easy. I was resting on a bench, things stopped and then I began walking again.”

      “Didn’t you notice your body?”

      “Yes, but I guess I wasn’t ready to admit my ultimate demise.”

      “Ultimate demise? What were you, some kind of professor?”

      “Yes, some kind, taught at the University. What about you?”

      “I owned a small downtown clothing store. We catered to the 18 to 24-year-olds.”

      “Ah, so we both had young people around us all the time.”

      “Hey, mister, I’m still young. Twenty-six is still...was still...”

      Violet bowed her head, shoulders shaking. Spencer fumbled in his shirt pocket for the handkerchief. His mother had taught him to always carry one, in case of nosebleeds or crying damsels in distress. He had a drawer full of them back at the house. The house? The cats? And his wife?

      He stepped forward and offered the handkerchief to Violet. She looked up at him, her eyes spilling tears, her makeup running. She clutched him in a bear hug and sobbed, both of their bodies shaking in unison. Time seemed too slow.

      Finally, Violet pulled away. “Come on, let’s see what happens.”

      “Right, Right.”

      They continued walking along the path. The sun burned hot in a black sky that displayed the cosmos: trillions of galaxies with stars blinking on and off. In the shadowed light, they moved without effort, as if their bodies held no mass.

      Spence glanced at Violet and smiled. “Do you feel it?”

      “Yes, isn’t it wonderful.”

      Slowly, the very cells of their organs, muscles, tendons, bones, and blood released their energy into the heavens, joining with that mysterious dark energy that pushes the universe outward into the unknown.


Terry Sanville's fiction has appeared in Folio, Shenandoah, and other journals.