Rush hour is starting for the people trying to get onto the highways and get back to their homes like the ones here. But that's somewhere out there, beyond the windy narrow streets lined with big houses and bigger yards. The men and women that have had a good or bad, tough or easy day, are in their small cars and SUVs, all glad the work day is over, and they are trying to return to this place where a different life awaits them.
But they aren't here yet. And so with about an hour left of sun on this early autumn day, the streets remain quiet, the driveways remain empty, and the children are quietly enjoying their homework or TV inside the houses until their parents return. One lady is walking her dog. She works at home, but she wants to take a break from sitting in front of the computer. Besides, walking a dog is a mandatory task. Her long auburn hair with bright blond highlights resemble the red and orange leaves found on and off the trees that greet her and her dog as they stroll slowly down the sidewalk. This isn't her neighborhood, too posh for her. But she enjoys the silence that the rich demands from their neighborhood after all the craziness of work that allows them to remain rich. She likes being here especially when there are no rich people. This is a neighborhood where the parents usually both work to maintain their lifestyles and give in to their ambitions. It's not her lifestyle, but the quietness and solitude at this hour in this place attract her.
She is wearing a light blue sweatshirt and gray sweatpants. On the sweatshirt is the name of her alma mater. It's been a long time since she had visited it. It was just that one time since graduation. Her sweatpants are also from some distant memory. They belonged to a man whose relationship with her is distant enough of a memory that she can wear them without even associating them with him. Her walking sneakers are light and comfortable, a little worn out but clean. She takes care of it like she does with everything else, the little that she owns in her life, but she takes care of her dog more than anything else, except maybe her heart.
There's a lot of leaves on the street. It's out of character with this place that is kept so nicely. During the midday sometime during the week you can hear hired hands either mowing or blowing tree leaves. But last night it was windy. She was kept up for a good hour by the howling sound of the wind. She is a deep sleeper. Her neighborhood is full of noises, with people driving by blasting their favorite loud music that vibrates their cars, and there are the colic babies that need constant attention from parents, mostly single mothers, who have to work three jobs. And of course, those that aren't single parents had the luxury of constantly fighting and yelling at the floors above and below hers. But she had gotten used to all this noise. She never had problem sleeping because of them. It's the noises of the heart that usually keep her awake. And last night it was, strangely, the howling wind that woke her up and kept her awake.
Not really. It woke her up, perhaps, but its sound, and when the winds shook the flimsy windows in her bedroom, somehow made her awake mind wander. She thought about the red truck. When she was walking her dog that day, about the same time when rush hour of the busy world started, she was crossing the street, where there weren't many leaves yet. A red pickup truck stopped at the same intersection. It was normal since there was a stop sign and she was a pedestrian with right of way. So she started to cross with her dog, but then just as she was in front of the truck, the truck's tire screeched and it was about leap ahead, right in front of them. She screamed out loud and ran with her dog, escaping narrowly the death that wouldn't have allowed her to think about it this windy night. She let out a loud yell of a train of very bad words. She was shaken. She couldn't understand what happened. She didn't even notice her dog was equally shaken by the whole situation that lasted only a second or two. The peace of this upper-class neighborhood was broken for a moment.
The truck suddenly stops with its tires screeching again. She was still shaking, but she also started to worry because she couldn't imagine what the driver was trying to do and now what he might do having stopped just about in the middle of the intersection. He sees a man's head sticking out. He is in his late forties, graying hair, glasses. He looked at her, he himself seemed bewildered, and not angry or mean as she had anticipated from someone attempting to kill her and her dog. He asked, "What happened?" Her heart started to settle back to its normal pace while her bewilderment deepened. She calmly walked over to the man. His blue eyes are wet and red. His face revealed a lot of fatigue.
"You tried to kill us, that's what happened!" she said, trying to control her shaking.
"I did? I mean. I didn't even see you," he said, then looking down, "Or your dog."
"You didn't see us?" she asked in a very slow manner, not sarcastic. It is her way of talking when she wants to be understood and show understanding. Her eyes are deeply entrenched in her high eyebrows. They are so deep that you can almost not notice them. Kids in school used to make fun of her eyes, wondering where they were. They are now looking at the man, who is starting to understand what happened and remorse is multiplying.
"You mean, you were crossing the street?" he asked.
"Right when you were gunning the truck," she said, slowly.
"I saw the Stop sign, but. But not you guys," he muttered. He is not looking at her, but the golden horizon where the sun will claim its bed in less than an hour. It's where the rich people are mostly coming back from, the Western part of the state closest to New York City. He shook his head and said, "I am really sorry. I. I don't know what else to say."
And he started sobbing. He was a man wearing a flannel jacket, medium built. She couldn't guess what his profession was. The red truck had no company sign on it. Maybe he was one of the people working on the houses here. He isn't mean looking, nothing tough in his face. But his truck is a bit of a mess. Coffee cups, cigarette buds, takeout bags, and a whiff of leftover fast food could be discerned. He shook his head again and said, "I am sorry. My. My wife died two days ago in an accident. I... I am just cutting through here to the other side of town.... I...." He still couldn't look at her, just staring at the golden horizon and the glittering houses below it.
"What was her name?" she asked, very gently.
"Patty...." he said, after a pause.
She said no more until a good minute later when he said, "Damn, I miss her." She steps in front of him and offered a consoling smile. For him, her smile came from the glittering sky and he closed his eyes and nodded. Then he looked at her and smiled too, and said, "I am glad I didn't run you over."
"Well, me too, I guess," she said, still smiling. The honking started. They both looked and saw about three cars on the street they are blocking.
"I am Dillon," he shook her hand. "Angela," she smiled.
After the red truck disappeared, she just walked home, still a little shaken by the whole event. Two outsiders, meeting in this place of perfect societal harmony. That was what she was thinking as the wind was blowing by. And when she crosses that very intersection now, she thinks about Dillon. She is saddened by him as she crosses the street, and she doesn't even notice that she has crossed the street, or that an SUV had stopped to let her cross. Her mind is somewhere else on this early autumn day.
