Читать книгу The Tiny Wife - Andrew Kaufman, Serafima Gettys - Страница 7

Chapter 2

he first manifestation began six hours later for Timothy Blaker, who’d stood seventh in line, four behind my wife. He was twenty-seven years old and worked as a bus driver. The object he had given the thief was an engagement ring, one he happened to have been eager to get rid of. He’d been carrying the ring for seventeen months, since the night Nancy Templeman, his girlfriend of two and a half years, had refused to accept it.

Timothy had not seen her or talked with her since the night of his failed proposal, so when he opened the doors two stops east of Shaw on College and she stepped inside, he was surprised to see her. Nancy extended her hand but did not deposit change – instead, she reached into his chest and pulled out his heart. She held it in front of him. He watched it beat. The bus continued to idle as he watched her run back down the steps and into a waiting yellow Ford Mustang.

Nancy stepped on the gas, the back tires producing much sound and smoke. Timothy Blaker gave chase.

The bus did not corner as well as the muscle car, but, having no heart, Timothy drove fearlessly and managed to stay on her tail. The passengers stayed in their seats, watching with fear as all their stops went by. They were underneath the Gardner Expressway, heading east on Lakeshore, when he pulled up beside her. They raced neck and neck. They ran many red lights, but at Lawrence Street cement trucks gridlocked the intersection and they were forced to stop. Many of the passengers stood, alarmed, but their fear remained too great for any of them to venture toward the front of the bus.

Timothy opened the doors. The cement trucks cleared the intersection. The light turned green and he jumped, landing with a metallic thud on the hood of the Mustang.

Timothy looked through the windshield. He could see his heart on the passenger seat. He watched it beat. He saw her jerk the steering wheel to the left and the right. He felt himself get thrown violently around. The tips of his fingers ached, but he held tighter and tighter, and then she slammed on the brakes.

Timothy was thrown from the hood of the car and landed on the asphalt. Three backward somersaults later he came to a stop.

He was bleeding from his elbow. There was a large cut just below his eye. He jumped up and a sickening pain went through his right leg. The Mustang was three hundred feet away and pointed toward him. He looked at Nancy. She looked at him. He heard the engine rev. The back tires squealed.

Timothy did not move. The yellow 1964 Mustang sped forward. It was a hundred meters away, and then it was fifty, and then it was twenty. He did not move or shut his eyes. He stood there, watching it approach. This standing, this not flinching, made him feel strong. The closer the car came, the greater danger he was in, the stronger not flinching made him feel. It came closer and closer. Timothy continued to stand his ground and, with less than ten feet between him and the front bumper of the Mustang, she again hit the brakes. The car stopped with sudden force. His heart was thrown from the passenger seat. It burst through the windshield, leaving a heart-shaped hole in the glass, and flew directly into his chest.