FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN

                    Days in the hospital bed listening to his own breathing.

                    His right leg was fractured, his neck was in some sort of brace, and but
                    for a few minor cuts and bruises and a dull pain that slept and stirred
                    in his body, he was alright. Judy Weiner was not so lucky. She's
                    suffered a concussion. Her condition was considered stable, they told
                    him. She kept fading in and out of consciousness, asking each time,
                    What happened! She couldn't remember anything about the accident. 

                    Two police officers came to see him. One stood at the foot of his bed
                    watching, while the other, soft spoken and more polite, did the
                    talking. 

                    Radix had little to say. The car, the man in the back seat, the
                    intersection  ̶  it all happened so quickly. He wanted to talk about the
                    gurgling sound he'd heard but they weren't interested in that. They
                    stood by his bedside in grey suits and black coats. They stared at him,
                    bandaged up and braced, as if they weren't sure how helpful he could 
                    be. 

                    They asked his name, age, occupation; they asked where he came
                    from; they wanted to know what he and Judy Weiner were doing out in
                    the streets if they were HS teachers. A funeral? A church? Okay, what
                    church? Third Avenue? They knew Third Avenue from end to end. A
                    church on which block? They didn't think there was a church on that
                    block. Hey Rocco, is there a church on that block? In any case that was
                    way across from the accident site, on the other side of the Bronx.
                    What were they doing all the way over there?

                    And Rocco, quiet, watchful, with a surly, sad beefy face, looked around
                    the room, then back at Radix; then around the room, as if that was
                    part of his job, this suspicion of everyone and everything. Radix could
                    tell he too had questions of his own: like, What the fuck were you
                    really doing at that intersection? at that hour of the day? with a white
                    woman? 

                    After awhile Radix grimaced and stopped answering; the nurse came in
                    to do nurse chores. They must have sensed his reluctance to continue,
                    his Fuck you too! which was meant for the quiet Rocco. "We'll let you
                    rest, but we'll be back to talk to you." 

                    So many people in and out the room. Everyone with questions  ̶  the
                    police, nurses, doctors studying charts; a news reporter who was
                    barred from entering and peered at him room the door. 

                    And here were Aschelle, Amarelle and Sammy D. who looked down at
                    him with worried puzzled faces, not asking questions, just wanting
                    between friends to know what happened. 

                    Sammy D. couldn't resist telling a story, meant to cheer him up, about
                    the time he broke his arm playing soccer; and the cast he had to wear
                    which all his soccer friends signed; which he still had up to this day.

                    Aschelle grumbled about conditions at the hospital she couldn't help
                    noticing   ̶ "They do things differently here." She wondered if he
                    couldn't be transferred to the hospital in Manhattan where she
                    worked. 

                    Amarelle sat on the edge of the bed and looked at him; she caressed
                    his forehead once, then not again. She considered staying all night but
                    the others persuaded her to leave. 

                    The next day she showed up alone, her face narrow with worry. She 
                    had gone back to the house in the Bronx, letting herself in. She
                    reported the glass panel on the front door was cracked; fellows were
                    still "congregating" on the stoop. They must have heard what had
                    happened, but so far  his stuff and things were intact. Maybe he should
                    consider moving to her sister's place in Peekskill to recuperate.

                    Mahmood Sharif came to see him the following day. Classrooms were
                    buzzing with excitement. They'd heard the news from Dr. Balleret
                    through the p.a.system. Unbelievable! Some teachers had seen it on
                    the six o'clock news  ̶  the car so crumpled, it seemed a miracle anyone
                    had walked away alive. They'd reported one person dead and serious
                    injury suffered by two Bronx teachers. The intersection was known for
                    drug and gang activity. Unbelievable? What were you guys doing out
                    there? 

                    Radix kept asking about Judy Wiener. Had her condition been upgraded
                    from stable?  The doctors assured him she would pull through but they 
                    didn't confide much else. 

                    Through the oblong window in his room he could see clouds and blue
                    sky, nothing but clouds and blue sky; no buildings, no metal fire
                    escapes; he could hear the distant grind of Bronx traffic; police sirens;
                    noises as in a forest.

                        (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!", a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)

                    He didn't notice the lights had turned green. No cars waited behind him
                    otherwise he might have been alerted by someone leaning on the horn,
                    wondering what the fuck was wrong with him holding up traffic. He
                    rolled down his windows, there was not much air in the afternoon sky,
                    and he was about to suggest that Judy Wiener do the same on her side.

                    He heard the car door behind her open as someone jumped in. He saw
                    a face  ̶  youngish, Hispanic, damp with the sweat of desperation. A
                    narrow, handsome face whose twisted mouth screamed, Drive this
                    fucking car. Drive. Now. The sound more terrifying than the face. 

                    There was the scent of cologne, as if the man had stepped fresh out
                    the bathroom into his clothes and onto the streets, then into their car.
                    He heard Judy Wiener gasp as her heart leapt up to her throat. 

                    His first thought was, How did he get inside? I didn't leave the back
                    door unlocked. How did he get in? 

                    Then he saw the gun in the man's hand, the first real gun he'd ever
                    seen in someone's hand. 

                    What happened next happened fast but he remembered it slowly: the
                    distorted face; the words like detonations in the car; the gun in the
                    man's hand. And then the blood, lots of blood on the man's shirt, some
                    sort of beige golf shirt, but drenched in red stuff that had to be the
                    man's blood. 

                    He heard popping sounds, like pellets hitting his car, only he didn't
                    think at the time they were bullets. He heard Judy Wiener say, "Oh, my
                    God". 

                    The man slumped on the back seat. He managed to lift his torso, he
                    pointed the gun at Radix, shouting again, Drive. This time Radix looked
                    straight in his eyes. They were pleading for help, the face damp with
                    perspiration, the shirt messy red. And the hand that held the gun
                    shaking. 

                    All so fast. The man seemed to sag back in the seat, the arm going limp
                    for a moment, as if his gesture of intimidation had sucked the last
                    breath out of him. Only then did Radix, his mouth now dry, a fierce
                    pain in his stomach, snap into action. 

                    He stepped on the gas pedal, shooting forward; and at this point he
                    couldn't recall clearly what happened next.

                    They told him he'd run straight into the path of a van. The van hit him
                    broadside and sent him in a spin. The car hit a wall that divided traffic
                    going into and coming out of a tunnel, then it came to a stop. 

                    Radix felt the jarring contact right through to his bones. There was a
                    howling in his ears as of tortured winds; then stillness, as the silence
                    closed in. And through that silence he distinctly heard what sounded
                    like a baby's gurgle, then a long sigh. 

                    He kept returning to that sound long after they'd extricated him from
                    the vehicle wreck. They told him it could have been the man in the
                    back seat grasping at life, releasing the last scraps of air in his lungs as
                    he expired. That must have been what he heard.

                      (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!", a novel by N.D. Williams, 2001)

                    When it seemed Judy Wiener was taking an extraordinarily long time
                    in the bathroom Radix knock on the door. She didn't answer. "Are you
                    alright in there?"

                    He heard a soft "Yes, I'm alright" so he waited for her in the living
                    room. Eventually she came out and stepped boldly in front of him.
                    "How do I look?" she asked. 

                    Taken aback by her new perky manner he didn't know what to say. Her
                    dress looked rumpled, though he didn't think anyone would notice. "You
                    look presentable to the world, " he said, getting up to go. 

                    Just before they stepped out the door, she paused, searching in her
                    bag. He turned to her; she looked in his face, and leaned against the
                    wall. "What's the matter? Lost something?" he asked. "It's nothing," she
                    answered. 

                    He put his arms around her, and once again felt her body trembling
                    close to him; her breath on his ear. "We've got to get back," he told
                    her. 

                    The afternoon light filled their eyes as they stepped outside. The street
                    was empty of the hangabouts. Cars went by. Those shiny bulging plastic
                    bags of garbage hadn't been picked up. The usual lounging faces were
                    nowhere to be seen.

                    Where was Carlos? He was supposed to be at his new job, outside the   
                    bodega, some sort of Security job. There had been an attempted
                    robbery, men in ski masks waving pistols and demanding money. The
                    bodega owner had fired his gun, killing one of the men. Since that
                    incident he'd hired Carlos to sit on the dumpster and confront any
                    suspicious people before they came in. 

                    Carlos was now a holoperos. His job was to nab the holope, or dash
                    inside and lock the door. Right at that moment Carlos was nowhere
                    near his post. 

                    No one took notice of them except a middle-aged man from across the
                    street who sat at the third floor window with the guard rail, smoking
                    and looking down. Not once had he ever made a friendly gesture, a
                    wave or a smile, when he saw Radix. Just his face looking out, half in
                    shadow, minding its own business. 

                    There was no real need to hurry back since it was near the school
                    dismissal hour. With classes still in session kids were probably
                    preparing to stream out the exits into the afternoon streets.

                    On an impulse he decided to take the route through the local streets,
                    staying off the highway which would be dense with traffic heading for
                    the bridge. If he took the local streets, then the Expressway for a few 
                    miles, then back to local streets, they'd get there in half an hour. 
 
                    "Michael." He heard the soft questioning tone in the voice and shrank a
                     little from it. "All of this…" 

                    "All of what?"

                    "What happened today. All that happened, wouldn't have happened, if
                     Xavier hadn't  died, and there was no funeral to attend." He hadn't
                     anticipated words so contorted. "What do you think it means? Aren't
                     you a little curious about what it means?"

                     "I don't know what it means. Do we have to attach meaning to
                     everything?"

                     "This morning everything started so, you know…. unrehearsed. First
                      we couldn't find the funeral home. Next, we're together looking into
                      the coffin. One moment we were back there, and now we are here.
                      It's as if we weren't in control of anything that happened."

                      "I thought you said there was nothing to worry about."

                      "It's not about the school. How can we do this? Move from one thing to
                       the next like this, and not be worried about, you know, how it adds
                       up." 
 
                      They were waiting for the traffic lights to change, on a slight incline
                       in the roadway, so that Radix kept his foot on the gas pedal. They
                       were at a crowded intersection, with bodegas at the corners, a
                       shopping strip with a string of stores on either side, all with weather-
                       beaten awnings; cars taking up every inch of space near the curb.

                       He glanced at her, wondering what had come over her. Maybe he
                       should have given her more time to compose herself  ̶  not just rush
                       away from the building back to school. Their intimacy, so frantic
                       with relief, wasn't likely to repeat itself  ̶  not under the same 
                       circumstances. Like a dropped anchor the day's chain of events was
                       pulling itself out of the water. But now was definitely not the time
                       and the place for this conversation.

                          (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!, a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)