He had an image of what life would be like on the outside: warm sunshine, crisp
nights, a feeling of renewal in the air. But the September afternoon was overcast and
humid, the kind of day John Newlin had grown to hate in the last three years. There was
something about the leaden sky that sparked a feeling of sadness from deep within him.
It was probably just as well, he thought as he made his way across the rutted ground
toward the grave. Fair weather wouldn't make a place like this any more appealing.
The cemetery was on a highway in a small upstate town, the name of which he
never uttered. He had attended his first two years of college here. Far to the left was the
lake he and his friends sometimes visited on Friday nights, beer bottles in hand and radios
blasting. Off to the left were the mountains, scenic and unchanging, a reminder to any
tourist that time stood still in this comer of the world, that lives flowed easily and
honestly without interruption. As an eighteen-year-old urban transplant, John hadn't
known back then that such places even existed. But he had fallen into the rhythm of that
simplicity, never imagining it could be shattered in a single moment.
He looked up as he walked, scanning the endless rows of stones. He saw concrete
angels and saintly statues, chiseled crosses and stained-glass mausoleums. The pathway
ended where the grassy pasture began. He followed the carpet of green, pausing to study
the lifelike sculpture of Christ surrounded by a garden of roses. They swayed in the
passing breeze, releasing their sweet scent. John inhaled it, fully aware of that minor
privilege. He would have remained in this very spot until nightfall were it possible. He
didn't want to continue beyond this comforting little alcove to face the harsh reality that
lay not ten paces ahead. But it was there, that personal grave, all gray marble and
manicured, redolent with fresh wreaths.
He approached it slowly, then squatted down. The inscription jutted out at him.
It read: PETER FERGUS, 1974-1999, BELOVED SON AND BROTHER, ALWAYS IN
OUR HEARTS. An image of the archangel Michael had been painted on to the bottom
half, feathery wings parted in mid-flight. A nearby weeping willow tree shadowed it at
an angle, darkening the upper right corner. The stone was a calming sight, obviously
well-visited. This last thought, while reassuring, only heightened John's grief. He
reached out and ran a hand over the cold surface, letting his fingers dip into the crevices
where the name had been etched.
"Oh God," he whispered. "Peter... God... I'm so sorry it happened to you." The
gusting wind swept his words away. He shivered. And yet, he wasn't cold. A lone tear
trickled down his cheek.
This was the first time John had visited the grave. He had driven up here from the
city for that sole intention. Three years - long, tedious, consuming years - had passed
since that fateful night when one innocent life met with tragedy. Throughout that time,
John had thought of Peter repeatedly while locked in his own seclusion. He had spent
countless hours staring down at the grainy newspaper photo of the dead young man,
studying his curly red hair, his bright, hopeful eyes and the subtle indentations in his
smile. They had been students together at the local college. They had probably shared
the same dreams and fears. Although neither one of them could have possibly imagined
the fatal turns their lives would take.
Even with everything that happened, what still frightened John most was the
simple, yet much-ignored, definition of one moment. A split second. A blink of an eye.
That was all it took to change the course of existence, to completely alter the meaning of
destiny. He felt the anxiety of that jarring truth now. If anything, Peter's death had
taught him about mortality.
Wanting to avert his sorrow, John looked up at the sky. He made a pretense of
studying the bloated clouds, but in their gloom he saw a metaphoric composite of
himself: misshapen, angry, waiting to erupt with a downpour of rainy tears. He let out an
anguished sob and hung his head down. He shut his eyes. At once, the unforgettable
images returned. He saw himself standing on the side of the narrow two-lane road that
night three years ago, watching in a trance as firefighters and police swarmed over
Peter's demolished car. He saw the clumps of metal engulfed in a ring of smoke, the
windshield cracked as intricately as a spider's web. He saw, too, the shocked expression
on the first cop's face when Peter's body was at last pulled free. Steeled from years of
experience, the cop had walked back to his cruiser with watery eyes and slammed shut
the door. John had remained rooted to the spot, dazed and blinking as the medical
examiner's wagon slowed to a stop on the shoulder of the road. He heard the dispatchers
talking in code, throwing out phrases like closed skull fractures and blunt trauma and
multiple lacerations and pronounced at the scene. Spectators gathered from all over
town. College students screamed out Peter's name in disbelief. Even as he was led
away, John couldn't take his eyes off the dented cans of beer sprawled on the tarmac - tin
scraps of guilt that had spilled from the other car at the moment of impact.
The next morning, the town newspaper printed Peter's picture on the front page
beneath the shocking headline: LOCAL COLLEGE STUDENT KILLED BY DRUNK
DRIVER. In the weeks and months that followed, John found himself reiterating
sections of the article verbatim. He whispered the words in the shower. He cried them
out in his sleep. They had become a sort of song, the morbid tune spinning like a top in
his mind. Alcohol involvement remains the leading factor in motor vehicle deaths. It is
estimated that 2.5 million drunk driving crashes each year victimize four million innocent
people. In 1993, one in ten drivers had a blood-alcohol level of. 10 or higher. Only later
did he realize that he too was a part of those statistics. And only later did he ask himself
the damning questions that would go forever unanswered: How could I have changed that
moment? How could I have changed Peter's life, or maybe even saved it? Why did an
innocent kid like him have to die? Pointless soul-searching, those questions. John had
come to the realization long ago that no matter his triumphs in life, he would always be
standing in that spot on the highway, staring dumb-struck with fear as red sirens pulsed
against the black visage of the sky. He would always see Peter before him, ghostly and
mute in the netherworld of crime. He would never see himself without hating the
reflection.
John lowered into a sitting position beside the grave. The wind had picked up.
Drizzle fell. He looked again at the name and wondered if Peter could hear him. He'd
spoken to Peter a lot these last three years, his words echoing on the cold cement walls
and threading into that one golden hour of freedom when John wrote letters in the library
or talked with the other men. Peter, I'm sorry. Peter, I didn 't mean to do it. Peter, you
got killed but I wish it had been me instead. Now he hung his head down and allowed the
tears to flow freely from his stinging eyes. He wept against the cold marble stone. He
said simply, "Please, forgive me." But of course, there came no reply. No absolution. It
didn't matter that he had served his time and lived out his punishment. No maximum
sentence could ever truly assuage his culpability. This side of guilt was a haunting
reality - much like the can of beer John had been holding that night as he steered his car
along the dark country road, swerving carelessly, not bothering to brake as his eyes
caught the glare of oncoming headlights.
He had an image of what life would be like on the outside, away from the prison
walls. This wasn't it. There was no sunshine, no crisp nights, no feeling of renewal in
the air. There never would be. He was as sure of that as he was of his guilt. And of his
victim's innocence, crying onto him from the ground.
Copyright 2000 by Antonio Pagliarulo
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