Cul-de-sac: Part 1

Roland Davis died sometime last night.

I awoke with a strobe of blue and red resting on my eyelids. Rain pattered and dragged like heavy boots down a cracked window, water collecting in a long oval along the sill. My dog shuffled his hind legs at the foot of my bed. A nervous ring of morning circled the brown of his eyes.

There was a nervous synergy in Roland's driveway. His wife stood in a purple bathrobe, hair bunched and pulled to one side. There were officers peeking over her shoulder, handing her clipboards. She'd occasionally nod or shake her head. Neighbors pushed their children in strollers on the opposing sidewalk. Some stopped at the nose of the ambulance, gawking. I noticed a child clap her hands then rub the base of her feet.

The mechanical groan of a garage door opening coupled itself with steady rain. I adjusted myself and walked towards the window. Two EMTs sandwiched a blanketed gurney. They moved like sentinels: rigid, empty, with a long gate. More neighbors clustered near the ambulance.

Winds churned. My TV timer clicked on. I moved to the bathroom and returned to the window with a strand of floss. A strong gust blew the cover off of Roland's body. His widow gave chase. Two children followed in suit, running across the grass with wet noodle arms, hoping the sheet would come to rest near the bird feeder.

I had only seen two dead bodies in my life. Both were pushing 80. Their caskets were long, smooth. Shaped like fancy appliances. Inside, the bodies looked glazed, almost wet. The dignity had deflated behind their chests. Roland was different, though. He looked like he was floating on a thin layer of sleep. 10 minute nap, maybe. He couldn't have been dead for more than three or four hours. His skin still had a pink sheen to it.

I looked out at the crowd. Nobody was talking. The two children returned to the open doors with the sheet and the driver quickly placed it over Roland, tucking one end under his feet and the other under the back of his head. The driver lifted both arms slowly from his side over his head and mouthed "Up." The EMTs propped up the wheeled legs and rolled the gurney into the ambulance.

The widow pressed her palm against her forehead and climbed in back. Doors clicked shut. The crowd thinned out into the streets. One child hung his arms across a mailbox and watched the ambulance hum slowly up the street with its sirens and lights off. The hollow look and silence made me think about the three, four times I awoke startled the night before.