Nicholas Sparks - A Bend in the Road

I was coming up behind her, the gap between us closing. She was off to the side, on the grass shoulder. I remember she was wearing a white shirt and blue shorts and not going real fast, kind of gliding along in a relaxed sort of way. In this neighborhood, the houses sat on half an acre, and no one was outside. She knew I was coming up behind her-I saw her glance quickly to the side, maybe enough to catch sight of me from the corner of her eye, and she moved another half step farther from the road. Both my hands were on the wheel. I was paying attention to everything I should have and thought I was being careful. And so was she.

Neither of us, however, saw the dog.

Almost as if lying in wait for her, it charged out from a gap in a hedge when she was no more than twenty feet from my car. A big black dog, and even though I was in my car, I could hear its vicious snarl as it charged right at her. It must have caught her off-guard because she suddenly reared back, away from the dog, and took one step too many into the road.

My car, all three thousand pounds of it, smashed into her in that instant.

Sims Addison, at forty, looked something like a rat: a sharp nose, a forehead that sloped backward, and a chin that seemed to have stopped growing before the rest of his body did. He kept his hair slicked back over his head, with the help of a wide-toothed comb he always carried with him.

Sims was also an alcoholic.

He wasn’t, however, the kind of alcoholic who drank every night. Sims was the kind of alcoholic whose hands shook in the morning prior to taking his first drink of the day, which he usually finished long before most people headed for work. Although he was partial to bourbon, he seldom had enough money for anything other than the cheapest wines, which he drank by the gallon. Where he got his money he didn’t like to say, but then, aside from booze and the rent, he didn’t need much.

If Sims had any redeeming feature, it was that he had the knack of making himself invisible and, as a result, had a way of learning things about people. When he drank, he was neither loud nor obnoxious, but his normal expression-eyes half-closed, mouth slack-gave him the appearance of someone who was far drunker than he usually was. Because of that, people said things in his presence. Things they should have kept to themselves.

Sims earned the little money he did by calling in tips to the police. Not all of them, though. Only the ones where he could stay anonymous and still get the money. Only the ones where the police would keep his secret, where he wouldn’t have to testify.

Criminals, he knew, had a way of keeping grudges, and he wasn’t stupid enough to believe that if they knew who’d turned them in, they’d just roll over and forget it.

Sims had spent time in prison: once in his early twenties for petty theft and twice in his thirties for possession of marijuana. The third time behind bars, however, changed him. By then, his alcoholism was full-blown, and he spent the first week suffering from the most severe case of withdrawal imaginable. He shook, he vomited, and when he closed his eyes, he saw monsters. He nearly died, too, though not from withdrawal. After a few days of listening to Sims scream and moan, the other man in the cell beat him until he was unconscious, so he could get some sleep. Sims spent three weeks in the infirmary and was released by a parole board sympathetic to what he’d been through. Instead of finishing the year he still had to serve, he was placed on probation and told to report to a parole officer. He was warned, however, that if he drank or used drugs, his sentence would be reinstated.

The possibility of going through withdrawal, coupled with the beating, left Sims with a deathly fear of going back to jail.

But for Sims it wasn’t possible to face life sober. In the beginning, he was careful to drink only in the privacy of his home. In time, however, he began to resent the impingement on his freedom. He began meeting a few buddies for drinks again while maintaining a low profile. In time, he began taking his luck for granted. He began drinking on his way to see them, his bottle covered with the traditional brown paper bag. Soon enough, he was drunk wherever he went, and though there might have been a little warning signal in his brain, telling him to be careful, he was too blasted out of his mind to listen to it. Still, everything might have been okay, had he not borrowed his mother’s car for a night out. He didn’t have a license, but he nonetheless drove to meet some friends at a dingy bar, located on a gravel road outside the town limits. There, he drank more than he should have and sometime after twoA.M. staggered out to his car. He barely made it out of the parking area without hitting any other cars, but somehow he managed to head in the direction of home. A few miles later, he spotted the flashing red lights behind him.

It was Miles Ryan who stepped out of the car.

“Is that you, Sims?” Miles called out, approaching slowly. Like most of the deputies, he knew Sims on a first-name basis. Nonetheless, he had the flashlight out and was shining it inside the car, scanning quickly for any sign of danger. “Oh, hey, Deputy.” The words came out slurred.

“Have you been drinking?” Miles asked.

“No… no. Not at all.” Sims eyed him unsteadily. “Just visiting with some friends.”

“You sure about that? Not even a beer?”

“No, sir.”

“Maybe a glass of wine with dinner or something?”

“No, sir. Not me.”

“You were swerving all over the road.”

“Just tired.” As if to make his point, he brought one hand to his mouth and yawned. Miles could smell the booze on his breath as he exhaled. “Aw, come on… not even one little drink? All night long?”

“No, sir.”

“I need to see your license and registration.”

“Well… um… I don’t exactly have my license with me. Must have left it at home.”

Miles stepped back from the car, keeping his flashlight pointed at Sims. “I need you to step out of the car.”

Sims looked surprised that Miles didn’t believe him. “For what?”

“Just step out, please.”

“You’re not going to arrest me, are you?”

“C’mon, don’t make this any harder than you have to.” Sims seemed to debate what to do, though even for Sims, he was more drunk than usual. Instead of moving, he stared through the front windshield until Miles finally opened the door.

“C’mon.”

Though Miles held a hand out, Sims simply shook his head, as if trying to tell Miles that he was fine, that he could do this on his own. Getting out, though, proved more difficult than Sims anticipated. Instead of finding himself eye to eye with Miles Ryan, where he could plead for mercy, Sims found himself on the ground and passed out almost immediately.

Sims woke shivering the following morning, completely lost in his surroundings. All he knew was that he was behind bars, and the realization sent his mind spinning with a paralyzing fear. In bits and pieces, parts of the evening came back to him slowly. He remembered heading to the bar and drinking with friends… after that, everything was fairly foggy until he saw images of flashing lights. From the deep recesses of his mind, he also dragged out the fact that Miles Ryan had brought him in.

Sims, though, had more important things on his mind than what had happened the night before, and his thoughts centered primarily on the best way to avoid going back to jail. The very thought brought beads of perspiration to his forehead and upper lip.

He couldn’t go back. No way. He’d die there. He knew it with an absolute certainty.

But he was going back. Fear cleared his mind further, and for the next few minutes, all he could think about were the things he simply couldn’t face again. Jail.