SAMARITAN
Michael P. McManus

As he came around the curve in the road, he saw the overturned car. It lay off to his right and its wheels were still spinning, providing for him in an eerie way, a chance to gauge how little time had passed since the accident had happened. From the area of the radiator, pencil thin wisps of white smoke drifted up into the evening sky. The car’s black undercarriage served to magnify his surreal discovery. As he slowed down, his long, thin fingers gripped the steering wheel in much the same way anxiety gripped his body. He wanted to keep on going because he did not want to get involved. It would be easier to drive the few remaining miles to his simple mountain home. From there he could call the police. He would be involved then, and in those first few moments of uncertainty, this is what he had planned to do.

But he suddenly stopped without thinking about it. He did not know why this inclination towards courage had taken over him, but in several seconds he had stopped his red Jeep, got out and walked to the other side of it. He stopped there to look around. He saw the long, curving skid marks and the dug-up ruts where the car had left the road before sliding down the embankment and overturning. The setting sun had given the sky a crimson tint and this made everything seem more remarkable, much more intense and alive, though he now believed that someone had died. He felt it when looking at the car and the pine tree that it had hit and skinned the bark from before coming to rest on its roof.

He started down the steep embankment. Before he had gone a few feet he lost his footing and began to slide through the grass. He steadied himself by placing his right hand on the ground behind him. And so he hopped and slid to the bottom where the car lay and the wheels no longer turned, but the smoke still rose and now and then he heard a popping, hissing sound. For a moment he wondered what would happen to him if the car blew up. He shook his head. He knew he was allowing his imagination to control him. That was not good. He needed to act and get everything out of the way. He paused, surprised that some birds were singing as if nothing had happened. On the other side of the road, the green mountain had started growing darker. It rose up against the sky, where the top of the sun would remain for only a few more minutes.

He could not see into the driver’s side window of the gray Lexus. The impact had crushed the front and side pillars so that the roof was nearly even with the beginning of the top of the door. He stood there a moment more, studying the scene, wondering what he should do next. He wanted this to be over with. He did not like being out here with darkness coming up fast. No one needed to speed here, he thought. People with fast cars needed to learn to drive responsibly in places they knew nothing about.

On the other side he knelt in the knee-high grass. He looked inside, hoping that the airbags had done their job. He shook his head and he wanted to leave. He wanted to make it all go away. The driver lay there with his head resting on the white roof. His eyes were closed, but if they had been opened in life, they would have seen another set of eyes staring in.

Wilson Collins fell back. He sat there with the weight of his body on his heels, his head held between his hands. He sobbed, not knowing what he should do next, terrified that it was growing dark.

He reached inside the window, placing his fingers on the neck to check for a pulse. The skin there felt odd to him. It made him believe he was fingering a mannequin. Wilson kept his fingers there for nearly a minute, hoping he would find some trace of life.

As he crawled in through the window, he began to pray out loud. “Our Father who art in heaven, our Father who art in heaven, our Father who art in heaven.”

Wilson gripped the body’s shoulders and began to pull. The body resisted as if alive. Wilson pulled harder and harder until the body began to move, its head lolling about like a man who had gone on a three-day drunk. When he had the shoulders out of the window, Wilson used his own weight as leverage and the body followed until it lay on its back on the ground. The wind blew and the dead man’s hair kept time with the swaying grasses.

Wilson stood up. He paced in tiny circles, running his fingers through his hair. The sun had gone behind the mountain. Little light remained for him to see everything clearly. Wilson stopped pacing. He wanted more clarity. He wanted some type of resolve. He looked down on the face of man in his middle-thirties. He saw dark hair cut in the way of a businessman. The dead man had on a black suit and a white shirt without a tie. The shirt’s top two buttons were unbuttoned. One of the man’s black leather shoes was missing.

Wilson knelt on one knee. He moved closer, surprised that he no longer felt afraid. It had happened and now it was finished. He could not have changed anything. He pushed back the man’s hair and wondered who he had been in life.

He noted the thin, delicate lips, the dimpled chin, and the high cheekbones that had started to take on the color of flour. Wilson picked up the man’s left hand. He cradled it between his like he was saying goodbye to a close friend or family member. own hands

When he saw the Rolex watch, Wilson wondered how much something like that had cost. He ran his fingertips over the face of it, feeling the inlaid diamonds, contemplating the cruel irony of this moment as the watch continued keeping time. Wilson slid the watch from the wrist, and out over the spread hand. For a few moments he held the watch up in front of his face. Then he put it on his own wrist. It fit him well. It made him feel better about everything that had happened.

It had grown dark, but Wilson was no longer afraid of it. He turned the man on his side so he could remove his snakeskin wallet. From it he took several credit cards and one hundred and fifty three dollars in cash. Then without thinking, Wilson reached down into the man’s right front pocket. He smiled as he pulled back his hand. In it he held a thick, folded wad of one hundred dollar bills. They were pressed together by the largest golden money clip Wilson had ever seen.

He stood back up. He looked up into the sky. The stars had started appearing there and they made him believe in the after life. He started back up towards his Jeep. He knew he needed to go back into town, find a pay phone, and report an accident.

© Michael P. McManus 2004

Michael P. McManus (mmcmanus2@jam.rr.com) has seen his poems and short stories appear on the east coast, the west coast and in Canada. He has received two of those mysterious Pushcart prize nominations and, oddly enough, has been the recipient of an Artist Fellowship Award from the Louisiana Division of the Arts.

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