Dan Simmons - Darwin's Blade

“That’s right,” said Henry Goldsmith. The man’s voice was soft and sad. “I knew Bud for—Jesus—almost thirty years, and he was always Bud.”

“Did you see the accident, Mr. Goldsmith?”

“Henry,” said the older man. “Call me Henry. And yeah…I was the only one that saw it. Hell, I probably caused it.” Henry’s voice had thickened so that the last few words were barely audible. “Let’s go find an empty table,” he added. “I’ll tell you all about it.”

They sat at the farthest table. Dar identified himself again, explained who he worked for and where the information would be going, and asked Henry if he was willing to give a recorded statement. “You don’t have to talk to me if you don’t want to,” said Dar. “I’m just gathering information for the adjuster who reports to the owner’s attorney.”

“Sure I want to talk to you,” said Henry, waving his hand and waiving all his legal rights. “Tell you just what happened.”

Dar nodded and turned on the recorder. The microphone was directional and highly sensitive.

The first ten minutes or so was unnecessary background. Henry and his wife lived across the street from Bud and his wife in the park, and had since before the trailer park had reopened as a senior-citizen community. The families had known each other in Chicago, and when all the kids were gone, they moved to California together.

“Bud, he had a stroke about two years ago,” said Henry. “No…no, it was three years ago. Just after those goddamned Atlanta Braves won the World Series.”

“David Justice hit the home run,” Dar said automatically. He was interested in no sport except baseball. Unless one considered chess a sport. Dar did not.

“Whatever,” said Henry. “That’s when Bud had his stroke. Just after that.”

“That’s why Mr. Treehorn had to use the electric cart to get around?”

“Pard,” said Henry.

“Pardon me?”

“Them carts, they’re made by a company named Pard and that’s what Bud called the cart—his pard. You know, like his buddy.”

Dar knew the make. They were small and three-wheeled, almost like an oversized electric tricycle; a regular battery drove a small electric motor which powered the rear wheels. The little carts could be ordered with regular accelerator and brake pedals like a golf cart, or with brake and throttle controls on the handlebars for people without the use of their legs.

“After the stroke, Bud’s left side didn’t work at all,” Henry was saying. “Left leg just dragged. Left arm…well, Bud used to cradle it in his lap. The left side of his face looked all dragged down and he had trouble talking.”

“Could he communicate?” Dar asked softly. “Make his wishes known?”

“Oh, hell, yeah,” said Henry, smiling as if bragging about a grandchild. “The stroke didn’t make him stupid. His speech was…well, it was hard to understand him…but Rose and Verna and I could always make out what he was saying.”

“Rose is Mr. Treehorn’s…Bud’s…wife?” said Dar.

“Only for fifty-two years,” said Henry. “Verna, she’s my third wife. Been married twenty-two years this coming January.”

“The night of the accident…,” prompted Dar.

Henry frowned, knowing that he was being put back on track. “You asked if he could make his wishes known, young man. I’m tellin’ you he could…but mostly it was Rose and Verna and me who understood him and sorta…you know…translated to others.”

“Yes, sir,” said Dar, accepting the rebuke.

“Well, the night of the accident…four nights ago…Bud and I came over to the clubhouse as usual to play pinochle.”

“He could still play cards,” said Dar. Strokes were strange and frightening things to him.

“Hell, yes, he could still play cards,” said Henry, voice rising again but smiling this time. “Won more often than not, too. Told you, stroke messed up the left side of his body and made it hard for him to…you know…form words. Didn’t hurt his mind though. Nope, Bud was as sharp as a tack.”

“Was there anything different on the night of the accident?” said Dar.

“Not with Bud there wasn’t,” said Henry, his jaw setting firmly. “Picked him up at quarter till nine, just like every Friday night. Bud grunted some things, but Rose and me knew that he was saying that he was going to clean us out that night. Win big. Nothing different about Bud that night at all.”

“No,” said Dar, “I meant, was there anything different about the clubhouse or the street or the—”

“Oh, hell, yes,” said Henry. “That’s the reason it all happened. Those chowderheads who came to repave the street had parked their asphalt rolling machine in front of the handicapped ramp.”

“The handicapped ramp out front,” said Dar. “The one in front of the main entrance?”

“Yep,” said Henry. “Only entrance open after eight P.M. We like to start our games at nine…generally run to midnight or later. But Bud always leaves so as to be home by eleven because he wants to be there before Rose goes to sleep. She don’t sleep well without Bud next to her and…” Henry paused and a cloud moved across his clear blue eyes, as if he had just remembered.

“But Friday night, the asphalt rolling machine had been left in front of the only handicapped access ramp,” said Dar.

Henry’s eyes seemed to refocus from some distant place. “What? Yeah. That’s what I said. Come on, I’ll show you.”

The two men walked out into the heat. The access ramp was clear now, the asphalt new on the street beyond. Henry gestured at it. “The damn asphalt truck blocked the whole ramp and Bud’s Pard couldn’t make it up the curb.” They walked together the twenty feet to the curb.

Dar noted that it was a standard street curb, angled at about seventy-eight degrees to be easier on car tires. But it had been too steep for Bud’s little electric cart.

“No problem,” said Henry. “I went in and got Herb, Wally, Don, a couple of the other boys, and we lifted Bud and his Pard up onto the walk as smooth as you please. Then he drove himself into the card game.”

“And you played until about eleven P.M.,” said Dar. He was holding the tiny recorder at waist level, but the mike was aimed at Henry.

“Yes, that’s right,” said Henry, his voice slower now as he pictured the end of the evening in detail. “Bud, he grunted and made some noises. The other boys didn’t understand him, but I knew he was saying that he had to get home ’cause Rose hates to go to sleep without him. So he took his winnings and him and me left the game and came outside.”

“Just the two of you?”

“Well, yeah. Wally and Herb and Don were still playing…they go way past midnight most Friday nights…and some of the other boys, the older ones, y’know, they’d gone home early. So it was just Bud and me going home at eleven.”

“But there was still the paving machine in the way,” said Dar.

“Of course there was,” said Henry, sounding impatient now at Dar’s slowness. “Think one of them construction knuckleheads had come by at ten P.M. and moved it for us? So Bud drove his Pard to the curb where we’d lifted him up, but it seemed…you know…too steep.”

“So then what did you do?” Dar could picture what happened next.

Henry rubbed his cheek and mouth. “Well, I said, ‘Let’s go down to the corner there…it’s only about thirty feet…’ because I thought the curb’s not so high there. And Bud, he agrees. So he scoots his Pard down past the useless ramp to the corner…come on, I’ll show you.”

Dar accompanied Henry to the corner beyond the handicapped access ramp. Dar noted that one of the low-pressure sodium vapor lamps was right next to the crosswalk there. There was no curb cut. Dar stood on the sidewalk while Henry stepped out into the street, his voice becoming more animated, his gnarled hands moving and gesturing as he spoke.