Bill
2021 is going to be writing heavy, so I should post this piece of creative non-fiction written in 2020 before it gets lost in the notes piling up on my desk (and desktop).
The story of Bill is my recollection of an incident that occurred in September 1994. Mark and I had been married for 3 months. I was never able to get details of Bill’s true identity, understandable but regrettable. This piece is about my reaction to the events that disrupted a quiet Sunday. It is about shock, action, and our shared humanity. I wrote it because the events moved me, causing me to reassess our connection to others, even strangers. I was trying to convey this connection and its impact in the retelling.
The information detailed is from memory. Nothing has been added for effect. Where I was unsure of anything, it was omitted.
Bill
My phone vibrated on the bedside table, I turned to reach for it when a thunderous crack echoed through the house. I shook Mark, yelling at him to wake up. "Did you hear that?" He grumbled that he was sleeping and pushed me away, too affected by last night's wine to get up and investigate.
I climbed over Mark and pulled back the curtain, expecting rain and fire and destruction. I saw nothing. The windows were frosted from the chill, the sky was blue, the world seemed at peace. Mark's complaints grew louder as he started thrashing in a bid to push me off. I tossed a pillow at him before moving to the other window. Mark continued moaning and kicked his legs in a bid for freedom. I pulled back the curtain, stunned into silence by the scene that lay before me.
A car had hit the power pole outside our house. The bonnet caved into a V around the pole. The timber was shattered, and the pole angled towards the roof of the car. The cables now tensioned and crackling strained against the weight of the pole. The Chrysler Valiant covered the width of the lane and jutted onto the other side of the road. The windscreen was cracked, glass was strewn across the bonnet. The driver's door was open. Then I saw him through the shattered glass.
"Oh my God."
I grabbed my crumpled jeans and jumper that I'd tossed on the floor last night. Feet shoved into boots. Mark was awake now.
"What? What is it?"
I couldn't answer. I grabbed the house keys and my phone and dialled 000. I ran outside to see what I could do. There had to be something I could do.
I ran the short distance from my front door to the Valiant. I could hear the electricity buzzing and crackling as the wires rubbed against each other. As I passed the tree in the front yard, I saw him clearly, sitting in the driver's seat, the door was fully open.
The recording seemed to take forever. "You have dialled emergency Triple Zero. Your call is being connected." And then she was there
"Police, fire or ambulance?"
"Police," I said then shook my head “Ambulance no Police. There's been an accident, a car's hit a pole, and he's dead, I think the driver is dead."
"Take a breath, can you tell me where you are?"
I'd lived here for three months, but I checked the signs anyway just to make sure. "The corner of Victoria and Napperby St West Brunswick Victoria."
"And you think the driver is not breathing?"
My hand moved to touch the pallid skin of his neck. I felt for his carotid artery. Nothing. As if his eyes, frozen open and the greying of an already pale face weren't enough of a sign. "Yes."
She asked for my details, which seemed irrelevant, but I answered, because it was expected, because it helped bring me back from the shock.
"Police and Ambulance are on their way, do you want me to stay on the phone with you until they arrive?"
"No, thank you, I'm OK." I hung up. This was a private moment. Not for me, but for Bill. I didn't know his name, but I needed to call him something - to recognise his humanity.
Mark rushed out of the house "Fuck! Are you OK? Fuck!" His hand on my shoulder was the closest I could get to comfort for a while. The corner was at the convergence of two slopes, and a car was travelling towards us in Bill's lane. Mark ran to direct the car and watch for oncoming traffic. The driver pulled over and talked to Mark. There was more swearing, and whispers of their conversation reached me as the world started to fade, until there was just Bill and me. No-one should be left alone when they've died. You don't turn your back on the dead.
He sat, seat belt on, eyes wide open, lips parted as if to allow his last breath out, as if that's how his soul had escaped. His skin continued to grey before my eyes, the blood draining from his face because he was still upright. Tears quietly flowed from my eyes. His right hand sat oddly on his lap, it had slightly more colour and warmth than his face, maybe the blood was pooling there. The last remnants of his life gathered in his hands.
A newspaper on the passenger seat and a loaf of Tip Top bread in the footwell confirmed Bill had just been to the shops. There was no blood. None. He was devoid of colour, and there was no blood in the car, only the red of the bread bag stark against the cream carpet in the footwell. Bill hadn't died on impact.
I looked across the car and saw Mark and the stranger directing traffic. Protecting Bill from further harm. The drivers slowed to almost a standstill as they passed us. Not out of deference for the suffering of another human being, but to witness the spectacle. That's all Bill's death was to them, a spectacle. I wanted to scream at them to stop gaping, to shout that this man deserved respect and privacy, but all that came was a strangled cry as the tears continued to flow.
Sirens blared, and lights flashed over the hill, a police car from the right and an ambulance from the left. I looked at Bill and silently said goodbye. I stepped back onto the footpath. One police officer radioed for backup whilst the other stretched disposable blue gloves over her hand. She touched Bill's neck, checking for a pulse, nothing. She checked again, there was compassion and sadness in her eyes as she turned to her partner and the paramedics that had just arrived, shook her head and said "Deceased". One paramedic checked for vitals, and it was confirmed.
"He's been dead for a while. Looks like he had a heart attack at the top of the hill before he started the car". They all looked up the hill. There were no skid marks, no broken glass along the road. The angle of the slope had led him to this spot. They muttered their agreeance before returning to the job ahead of them.
I let out a breath I didn't know I had been holding.
Some part of me had hoped that I was wrong, that Bill had a faint pulse and could be saved. That I had judged his death wrongly. I moved back to sit on the brick wall of our raised garden bed, Bill in front of me. I stared at the scene before me, watching it as if I were underwater. Noises blurred. Everything faded into the background - everything except Bill.
One police officer moved into the street, directing traffic. He asked Mark to stay until another patrol car arrived. The stranger said goodbye to Mark, they shook hands and briefly hugged before thanking each other and wishing each other well. It may have seemed odd to anyone watching, but it made sense to us. They had been through something, together. The stranger waved to me as he walked to his car. A sad little wave, an acknowledgement. I waved back, a silent thank you forming on my lips. He had not only protected Bill, he had kept me safe too.
The female officer came to me and took details as the paramedics took a stretcher from the Ambulance. I remember the gentleness with which they removed Bill from the car, the care they showed, the sensitivity and respect they offered him. The sheet being pulled over his face as they strapped his body to the stretcher. The police officer spoke to the paramedics once the doors were closed. Another police car arrived followed by a tow truck, as the Ambulance pulled out.
The police officers thanked us. We turned to go inside, to continue with our day, although we weren't sure how to do that. I headed straight for the shower. My hands braced against the wall as scorching water mingled with the tears that would not stop. Is there a Mrs Bill? Waiting at home for him to return with the paper and bread so she could make breakfast? What if Bill lived alone, would anyone notice he had died? I reached for my towel, imagining two police officers knocking on a door, dreading the conversation they were about to have.
And somehow, life went on without him…
The New York Chronicles 8.8
Central Park
New York NY USA
November 2015