Getting out is difficult. The car is a clear and total wreck. The key has snapped in the
ignition, the trunk is locked and your suitcase, now, irretrievable. How did you get here?
She had miraculous hair. She liked to wind her hands around it, put her face into it.
When it interfered, she'd pick it up and push it away like an ill-behaved pet. She'd wash
it every night. Sitting in front of the TV, throwing her head down between her knees,
she'd pull the brush from her neck to the floor. I'm not hard to find, she'd say. Take my
car – the one with fins, denuded dash and bald tires. Before you go, let me draw you a
map. The map is a torn scrap of brown bag. Hand-drawn lines indicate major and minor
roads, lanes and attractions, with delicate arrows blossoming into a corner compass
rose. A large X marks the location of the house. Across fields, shacks scatter, girdled
by the wide sprawl of maples. To the left: corn, a mangled mailbox, a graveled drive. At
the driveway's end: a house with a chimney; an empty porch swing, swinging. You think
it's a pleasing picture and you say so, but softly, and only to yourself. Corn crowds you,
corn that stands taller than the car. Then something as big as a buzzard flaps heavily
down from one of the trees, flapping in front of the car. It shakes itself. It extends its
long neck, turns its head and regards you. Look at him, you think – your hands gripping
the wheel – he’s like a machine. Sounds drift around you. A long-bellied dog licks its
haunches; a cat crouches on a wind-blown bed sheet; a car body hovers on a garagelift.
You hope nothing notices you. You wipe your eyes as you watch a wisp of smoke
curl from the cavity of a tree. In the house, you notice a TV going. A woman is brushing
her hair, watching the screen, and on the screen, stock cars tear around the track. The
announcer speaks in a grave voice. Maybe one of those cars will explode right in front
of us, you think. The vehicles cut tight around the bend. Are you alright? Your view is
obscured by flames reflected. hear the announcer say: finally the body was thrown off
and allowed to roll away. That's disturbing, you think. How horrible to be allowed.

_________
 Joy Williams, “Charity” and “Ack” from Honored Guest, 2004.
Raymond Carver, “Feathers” from Cathedral, 1983.