Trial by Fire
By Andy Hughes
“And you can forget about getting married. Nothing is going to make this any better, or change the fact that we’re not
ready.”
I keep my foot on the gas pedal and try not to sigh again. I think my left hand is trembling, so I keep it on the lower
part of the wheel where she might not see it.
It’s a quarter past midnight and we’re heading back home to our place in Oneonta in my cramped Corolla. Rain
streams down, and the cracked potholes have built up into tiny ponds all over the road. Sherry is sitting next to me
and giving me reason after reason why just having the baby is a bad idea. She’s wearing a wrinkled brown skirt and
a red top, and is almost about to get hysterical again.
“I can’t believe you thought I wanted this. We’ve talked about it so many times. You don’t have a job, and I barely
make enough money to support the both of us as it is.” She sighs. “I don’t know how I didn’t notice.”
I don’t know either. She had been off birth control for over two weeks, but she had also been distracted somehow,
too focused on the sweat and the pleasure and the movement of our lovemaking. And me? I’d just listened to Lou
Reed’s “Beginning of a Great Adventure.” I wasn’t thinking about our one bedroom, our closet-sized kitchen, the
yellow-brown blotches on the ceiling or the wispy centipedes crawling over our shoes at night. I was busy seeing the
future. A higher purpose.
Now she’s rubbing her forehead and looking at her lap. “I can’t believe you wanted this. Neither of us are ready, you
especially.” That hurts, even though it’s probably true.
“We can make it work,” is all I say.
Lightning is all around us, stuttering white flashes in the distance, but also blue and purple bolts, arcing through the
sky in quick bursts. We head up a hill and then bank a hard right. She isn’t saying anything. I’m afraid she’s going to
start crying, quietly, and I won’t be able to tell.
“I have to get rid of it,” she says. “That’s it. And you know it.”
Lightning hits the telephone pole on our right, about 10 feet away. White and orange sparks explode out of the
transformer like flower petals thrown to the ground. Sherry is screaming. I swing the wheel to the left as the fire falls,
to the left and then back around to the right. It only takes a moment. We jerk into our lane and the sky flashes white,
but the rain has suddenly stopped.
She doesn’t say anything for the rest of the ride. My body is shaking even harder, but I keep driving. We turn onto
our street, and when I park she puts her hand on top of mine on the gearshift.
I turn and look at her face. I can still find her eyes in the darkness. The light glints off of her round, wet cheeks and I
touch them. My hands stop shaking. I feel her skin slowly twitch upwards into a smile. She’s feeling better about us,
she’s willing to reach towards the life I’ve asked her for.
But now I’m not sure that I want it.
By Andy Hughes
“And you can forget about getting married. Nothing is going to make this any better, or change the fact that we’re not
ready.”
I keep my foot on the gas pedal and try not to sigh again. I think my left hand is trembling, so I keep it on the lower
part of the wheel where she might not see it.
It’s a quarter past midnight and we’re heading back home to our place in Oneonta in my cramped Corolla. Rain
streams down, and the cracked potholes have built up into tiny ponds all over the road. Sherry is sitting next to me
and giving me reason after reason why just having the baby is a bad idea. She’s wearing a wrinkled brown skirt and
a red top, and is almost about to get hysterical again.
“I can’t believe you thought I wanted this. We’ve talked about it so many times. You don’t have a job, and I barely
make enough money to support the both of us as it is.” She sighs. “I don’t know how I didn’t notice.”
I don’t know either. She had been off birth control for over two weeks, but she had also been distracted somehow,
too focused on the sweat and the pleasure and the movement of our lovemaking. And me? I’d just listened to Lou
Reed’s “Beginning of a Great Adventure.” I wasn’t thinking about our one bedroom, our closet-sized kitchen, the
yellow-brown blotches on the ceiling or the wispy centipedes crawling over our shoes at night. I was busy seeing the
future. A higher purpose.
Now she’s rubbing her forehead and looking at her lap. “I can’t believe you wanted this. Neither of us are ready, you
especially.” That hurts, even though it’s probably true.
“We can make it work,” is all I say.
Lightning is all around us, stuttering white flashes in the distance, but also blue and purple bolts, arcing through the
sky in quick bursts. We head up a hill and then bank a hard right. She isn’t saying anything. I’m afraid she’s going to
start crying, quietly, and I won’t be able to tell.
“I have to get rid of it,” she says. “That’s it. And you know it.”
Lightning hits the telephone pole on our right, about 10 feet away. White and orange sparks explode out of the
transformer like flower petals thrown to the ground. Sherry is screaming. I swing the wheel to the left as the fire falls,
to the left and then back around to the right. It only takes a moment. We jerk into our lane and the sky flashes white,
but the rain has suddenly stopped.
She doesn’t say anything for the rest of the ride. My body is shaking even harder, but I keep driving. We turn onto
our street, and when I park she puts her hand on top of mine on the gearshift.
I turn and look at her face. I can still find her eyes in the darkness. The light glints off of her round, wet cheeks and I
touch them. My hands stop shaking. I feel her skin slowly twitch upwards into a smile. She’s feeling better about us,
she’s willing to reach towards the life I’ve asked her for.
But now I’m not sure that I want it.
New Hampshire Writers Flash Fiction
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| Andy Hughes Trial by Fire |