(Page 1 of 4) The Last Road by Gerald Jennings
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SUMMARY: A man driving home at night from a business trip has a supernatural encounter--or does he?Gerald A. Jennings
304 East Main Street
Gilboa, Ohio 45875 one time rights
c. 1991 G. Jennings
(419) 456 - 3283
THE LAST ROAD
by
Gerald A. Jennings
The backglow of the headlights mixed with the pleasant luminosity of the dashboard to produce a lethargic, semi-aware state in the mind of the tired driver. Had anyone been present to observe, the same sources of light would have served to reveal the driver's face in low contrast—a moderately handsome face; a man in his early forties wearing the tight, self-dependent mask of cynicism-in-repose characteristic of the successful businessman. In further silent testimony, the well-cut but conservative suit would bring this offhand analysis nearly to the point of conviction. At present, the face reflected only weariness, or perhaps preoccupation.
Ahead, the narrow pavement of the country road seemed to extend to eternity, retreating endlessly from the voracious headlights. Occasionally Jim Owens, the driver, was marginally aware of trees or fences on the roadsides. The continual monotony of wire fencing stretched between wooden fenceposts was relieved at intervals by the intrusion of all-wooden rail fences, which obscured the somehow obscenely flat and fertile farmlands through which the car was droning. Only once had Owens been lifted from his trance; shortly after dark, his headlights had revealed the gory broken body of a raccoon in the lighter middle of the blacktop—a victim of some earlier driver's haste, inattention, or malicious caprice. Oddly, this small tragedy had fastened onto his thoughts with curious tenacity. He was vaguely but definitely disturbed by the trivial incident; it filled him with a strangely persistent disquiet.
The narrow ribbon of road seemed to stretch on forever, even though logic told Owens he was now less than twenty miles from home, his long journey nearly at an end. Be it ever so humble, he mused. He massaged the back of his neck with his free hand in a futile attempt to physically disperse his nebulous unease; in some random way, his thoughts wandered to the beach murder scene in Camus' L'Etranger. The description therein of the overpowering effects of the light and heat of the sandscape, for some unknown reason, seemed analogous in his mind to the dark endlessness of the road ahead of him and its dimly-seen greenery. The effect was a sort of distorting expectancy.
Once again, his hand reflexively sought the back of his neck in an attempt to reduce the sourceless tension. He was getting a headache. He shut his eyes momentarily but forcefully in an effort to rid himself of the depression. He deliberately tried to turn his thoughts to mundane concerns; bills, the plant, his mother's recent illness, and Louise—Louise and her incessant demands for more and more expensive things. He knew she had been ‘seeing' (his lips twisted involuntarily into a ghost of a smile at the irony of that polite euphemism) Walt Archer lately, and previously he had suspected everyone from his own boss to the paper boy - probably with justification, in most instances.
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