The Epicure

  The snowbrush snapped in Toby’s grip. He was halfway through clearing the windshield of his old Suzuki, and already his fingers and knees ached with the cold.

“Terrific,” he hissed.

The parking lot lights buzzed to life as he tossed away the useless tool. Cupping his gloved hands, he threw heavy handfuls of the late-spring snow to the ground. A nagging cramp gnawed at his chest, and his toes were numb in his cracked loafers, he cursed himself for missing the weather report that morning.

In the distance, he could hear the sputtering of snow blowers struggling to clear the sidewalks and driveways nearby. With 30 miles between himself and home, it was bound to be a long evening. Worse yet, there’d probably be a three-feet of snowpack dumped by the plows at the end of his driveway by the time he got home.

“Stop that,” Toby scolded himself, pushing the snow from the hood of his car. “Borrowing from the future again.”

It was something this therapist had told him when Toby’s son had died of SIDS.

“You’re borrowing from tomorrow,” he had said. “Tomorrow’s problems will come, but you need to deal with those then. Focus on now.”

So he did.

When the windows and lights were cleared, Toby settled into the driver’s seat, more winded than he had any right to be, and slipped the car into drive.

He paused at the stop sign where the lot emptied onto East Main Street. The snow continued to drift in the twin ruts carved by travelers hours earlier.

Toby tapped the accelerator and immediately there was a thump against the hood, and he slammed on the brakes. A student in a tattered hoodie and sweat pants staggered back from the front of his car. Toby hadn’t even seen him. He jammed the car into park and flung himself outside, his heart thudding against his ribcage.

“Are you OK?” Toby blurted.

“Fine,” the young man exhaled. “I’m fine.”

“You sure? I can call—”

“Really, Professor Brookman. I’m fine.”

The sound of his surname shook something loose inside of Toby. This student knew him. He might have even had him in class. Toby tried to get a good look at him, but couldn’t really make out the young man’s face beneath the hood.

Toby gave a shuddering breath. “I’m sorry. I didn’t see you.”

“It happens.”

“It shouldn’t,” Toby muttered to himself as he peered around at the sidewalks. Like the parking lot behind him, they too were well buried and drifted over with snow, leaving only the shallow ghosts of footprints that appeared hours old.

“Where’re you headed?”

“Oh,” the young man waved one hand vaguely toward the interstate. “You know. Just up there.”

Toby surveyed the deep snow around them. It’d be hard going for him if he had to make it up to the highway.

“Need a lift? It’s the least I could do.”

The young man flashed a familiar grin. “Sure, that’d be great.”

Without hesitating, the young man climbed into the passenger seat. Toby slipped behind the wheel and eased the car onto the street.

“Have we met?” Toby asked. “I feel like I must have had you in class before.”

“Yeah, we’ve met,” the young man said, pressing the palms of his hands against the heating vent. “Not in class, though.”
“Right,” Toby said, feeling more confused. “My memory isn’t what it used to be. What was your name again?”

“Just call me Al,” the young man said.

Al? Toby wondered what that was short for. Allan? Albert? Alexander? He considered asking, but thought better of it.

The car passed through the snow-clogged streets of Bartry, Wisconsin. The street lamps were on, but the windows of the shops were black voids. The stoplights of the abandoned streets were flashing amber. What time was it? Toby glanced at the dashboard clock, but the numbers of the old, pixelated display had given out a year before, leaving the time illegible.

“So, where am I taking you?” Toby asked.

“Outside Knapp,” Al said. “Don’t worry, it’s on your way. Next exit headed west.”

Al tugged at the mechanism and reclined the passenger seat, pulled his hood down over his eyes to block out the yellow glow of the street lamps, and folded his arms across his chest.

“So, what brings you out in this kind of weather?”

“Family.”

Toby’s brow furrowed.

“You know how it is,” Al said, his hood still covering his eyes, a smile teasing the corners of his mouth. “When your parents get old and you realize there’s not much time left.”

“Someone sick?”

Al sighed. “I don’t think my dad will be around much longer.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“Me too,” Al said, turning toward the window. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I want to see him and all, but I just expected that there’d be more time, you know? And what do you say when you know it may be the last time you ever talk?”

“Yeah,” Toby sighed. “That’s a tough one. How long does he have?”

Al shrugged and tugged at the mechanism that raised his seatback once again. His hood was still covering his eyes. There was more to that shrug than uncertainty alone.

“There’s nothing that can be done?” Toby asked.

“Not really,” Al said. “He neglected his health for years, ignored every warning sign, and devil knows that there were plenty of those. He’s in denial, though.”

Toby wasn’t what he could say to that, and he was reluctant to pry any further into the young man’s business. Still, he couldn’t help thinking of his own father’s passing, and that of his son. In both cases, Toby felt cheated. He always thought there should have been more time.

“He’s not gone yet,” Toby sighed. “You just need to make the best of what’s left.”

Al’s dropped his gaze to his lap and bobbed his head.

Soon, Toby’s car approached the on ramp for I-94. As far as he could see on the highway, there were no headlights or tail lights—no sign of any other cars anywhere. Street lamps illuminated the intersection with an eerie glow, but the highway stretched into endless night.

The aching muscle under Toby’s arm cramped again. There was a sharp, involuntary breath that followed. Toby realized then that he was still out of breath. He had never fully caught it after clearing the snow from his car. The neck and back of his shirt were wet with sweat. He waited there for a moment, staring at the vacant highway.

“What’s the holdup?” Al asked.

Toby winced. “Cramp. It’s been nagging me—all day.”

He waited for the ache to ease for a moment, then turned onto the highway. Toby did his best to position his car’s wheels into the lone set of tire tracks that were there.

“Hope whoever made these knew where they were going,” he sighed.

“So, how is your wife doing?” Al asked.

Curious, Toby glanced at Al before answering, “Alright.”

“This time of year has to be tough,” Al said. “Does it get easier?”

“Does what get easier?”

The cramp reasserted itself under his arm. In fact, it seemed to spread, radiating down the side of his chest.

“The anniversary,” Al said.

A fog engulfed Toby’s mind. Things weren’t making sense. Anniversary? Their anniversary wasn’t until August and not much ever happened in the spring. Except, that is, his son. Without warning, his mind was occupied fully by the memory. A whisper of warning swelled inside him. Toby’s heart pounded.

“I suppose a parent never gets over something like that,” Al said.

Toby felt himself slipping back in time. He could feel the limp body, the impossible weight of the infant in his arms. A tiny cold hand that always gripped his finger—it gripped him no longer. And then there was the image of his son’s blue-black lips. Toby’s pulse pounded in his ears and he swallowed hard.

Almost as if he had been reading Toby’s mind, Al continued with a lilt of levity in his voice. “Of course, neither does the kid.”

“Enough!”

Something snapped inside Toby. Perhaps it was the cold sweat, or Al’s calloused tone which sent him spiraling back in time, to the worst memory of his life. Toby pulled his eyes from the road, placed them squarely on his passenger. Al leaned toward Toby and glowered back.

“True, though,” Al said. “Think it was easy for me?”

Toby stomped on the brakes. The Suzuki fishtailed and slid to a stop on the side of the highway. Toby turned and gripped the front of Al’s hoody, ignoring the ache that was gathering in his arm and the numbness in the tips of his fingers.

“You think this is a joke?” Toby asked.

“Not at all,” Al said.

“Don’t go there. Just don’t,” Toby said. “That day—it killed me and I—”

“No, Dad,” Al cut in. “It killed me.”

Toby raised his hand as though he meant to backhand the young man in his passenger seat, but he stopped himself.

“This conversation is over,” Toby said, prodding the air between them with a finger. “One more word, and you’re walking.”

Al gave a knowing smile, then raised his hands in surrender.

Toby eased the car back onto the road. As the car rumbled on, Al breathed on his window. It fogged, and he dragged a finger-tip surreptitiously through the condensation. Before Toby could look closer at what he was doing, there was a blast of headlights in the opposite lane of traffic. A tractor trailer barreled down the eastbound lanes, throwing up a blizzard as it went. On this section of highway, the east and westbound lanes were separated by a narrow median with a rusted cable guardrail.

The lights blinded Toby as the truck failed to right itself as it careened across the median. There was a bang followed by the scream of steel-on-steel as the truck broke through the cables and plowed into his lane.

Toby pulled hard to the right and into the deep snow on the shoulder. The all-wheel drive was still locked in and the surefooted car responded nimbly. The rig jackknifed as thundered toward them and the cab tipped onto its side. His car squeaked past. In his rearview, Toby watched the truck come to a stop right where his car had been moments before.

The car crossed the rumble strips and came to a stop. Toby rifled through his pockets.

“What are you doing?” Al asked, still tracing something on his window as though nothing had happened.

“We have to call 9-1-1,” Toby said, searching for his cell phone. It wasn’t there.

“Come on, Dad, someone else will do that,” Al said. “We have someplace more important to be.”

Toby looked up. A moment before, his heart was pounding. He felt cold and clammy, and the muscle cramps stole his breath from him. The first time Al called him “Dad,” it had made him angry. This time, experienced a calm curiosity. His heart wasn’t pounding anymore and the feeling of cold sweat was gone from his back. The cramping that had burdened him since he got to his car were gone completely.

“Why do you keep calling me Dad?”

“Don’t you know?” Al asked. “You don’t recognize me?”

Toby clicked on the dome light and looked into Al’s familiar eyes. They were the same shade of hazel as Toby’s daughter. The same browns, blues, and greens competed to capture the dim light. Al grinned, showing a snaggle tooth. It was identical to the one that Toby saw in the bathroom mirror every morning. Al’s nose was his wife’s nose. In fact, sitting in that car, Al reminded him vaguely of his brother-in-law—when he was younger. Finally, Toby thought about his son, the one he had lost all those years ago. Lex. No—Alexi.

His expression softened, first into recognition, then into comprehension.

“Alexi?” Toby asked.

Al nodded.

“But—that’s impossible.”

“Yet, here we are,” Al sighed

“But you were—just a baby.”

“True, but the interesting thing about being dead,” Al said, “you can be however you want to be.”

Toby stared at the young man. He took in his every feature, tried to imagine how his son might look now, if he had survived. Toby saw pieces of himself—pieces of his family—in his passenger. There was a part of him that wanted to believe this. He wanted to be talking to his son after all these years. Still, something was wrong. This entire experience, it just didn’t sit right.

“This isn’t real,” Toby said. “It can’t be.”

“Do you remember the songs?” Al asked.

Toby looked back at the wrecked semi behind them.

“Dad? I need you to focus on the songs?”

He glanced back. “What songs?

“The lullabies,” Al said. “Could you sing one?”

“Why?”

“It’s important,” Al said. Then he added, “So, we move forward together. On to what comes next.”

Al raised a hand. One-by-one, the tall lights along the highway switched on, illuminating the westbound lanes. Unlike the road behind them, the lit lanes were clear and dry.

“What’s next?”

“You’ll know,” Al said, smiling. “When you sing.”

Toby hesitated. Then he sang, “Some people say a man is made of mud. A Poor man’s made out of muscle and blood.”

Al smiled.

The lights intensified, and the glare obscured the view of the truck in the snow bank behind them. Toby was drawn by the light like iron filings to a magnet. Warmth radiated out from the crook of his clavicle. As he continued singing, he could feel the warmth bleeding out of him, bleeding from his throat.

“Muscle and blood and skin and bone, a mind that’s. . .weak?”

Toby paused. The lights of the highway flickered and dimmed almost immediately.

“Sing!” Al said, but his voice was all sand and gravel then.

Toby looked in the seat beside him. Al’s eyes were no longer that familial shade that they had been. The brown-green of Al’s iris was running down his distorted cheeks, like muddy tears. His nose was swollen and Toby’s blood trickled down his chin.

“What are you?”

“You know me. Don’t you, Dad?”

The illusion was gone. Al was not family. He didn’t even appear to be human.

Toby reached for the door handle and his wrist was seized by a pale, long-fingered hand. “Dad, it would be so much easier for you if you sang,” Al’s gruff voice came.

Toby jerked his arm, but he couldn’t break the long-fingered grip. With his free hand, he swung hard, but his fist passed straight through Al, as if he wasn’t even there.

“What are you?”

“The Epicurean,” Al said simply. “The one who savored your son. The one who will have you.”

Another pale hand seized Toby by the throat, where he had felt the warmth leaving him. The face grinned as it continued to melt away. That snaggle tooth Toby had seen was stretched. A bead of venom formed at its tip.

“Sing,” the voice growled. “We are not barbarians. You won’t suffer if you sing.”

A jolt. Pain.

Toby felt as if he had been kicked in the chest. The pale hand at his throat released him. What was left of Al’s face bent into something like surprise, if surprise had been an expression invented by Pablo Picasso.

“No!” it said.

Another jolt in Toby’s chest and the driver’s side windows of the car shattered. A splash of cold tempered glass cascaded over him like a bucket of cold water. The pain in his chest lingered, his eyes snapped open.

“I’ve got a pulse!”

It was a woman’s voice. Toby blinked, bleary-eyed, at the world around him. There were several people there with him now. It was no longer just him, the highway, and his passenger. There was a pressure in his chest and the muscle cramp that had bothered him on his drive was back.

“Welcome back, Mr. Brookman,” the woman’s voice continued when his eyes found a blurry-faced blonde. “My name is Shannon. I’m with the Bartry EMTs. You were in an accident, but we’re going to get you to the hospital. They’re going to fix you right up.”

Toby tried to speak again, but couldn’t. A cervical collar gripped his neck. It felt like it was choking him.

“Just relax, Mr. Brookman,” Shannon said. “I’m right here with you.”

Toby looked around him. He was lying on a backboard in the snow with what felt like the weight of a full-grown man sitting on his chest. An oxygen mask was fitted over his nose and mouth, and Toby blinked until his eyes cleared and he saw his crumpled car. The driver’s-side was smashed where the semi had clipped him.

“1-2-3, lift!”

Toby felt his body levitate as the EMTs carried him around the front of his car toward the highway. As they carried him up the embankment to the waiting ambulance, where Toby got a clear view of the passenger side window for the first time. It was thick with condensation that had frosted at its edge. Something was written on the window there. Toby squinted at it. A spotlight that shone over the scene from a firetruck parked on the shoulder of the highway.

“Next time. ~ Al.”

Toby wretched and the EMTs tilted the backboard, letting his sick fall away. The straps were dug into him as they took his weight.

When he finished, they loaded him into the ambulance. Toby closed his eyes and tried to breathe.

“That’s it,” Shannon said. “Try to relax. Maybe we could sing a song together?”

His eyes snapped open, and they shot to the blonde beside him. She grinned at him and exposed a familiar tooth.

Shannon leaned in and spoke to him in a near whisper. “Music is the best medicine. Wouldn’t you agree?”