James Hynes - Next

Is it the heat that’s making Kevin breathless? Or is he having a heart attack right now, just like his dad? He steadies himself on the railing, which is warm to the touch, on the other side of the bridge from Kelly, facing west. Directly before him is the Lamar Avenue Bridge, a gray, weather-stained, WPA-era span that springs wearily across the river on five low arches. Kevin can hear the clack of tires over expansion joints as cars charge too fast onto the bridge, and then the squeal of tires as one impatient SUV lurches to a stop where the snake of traffic has kinked up at the light at the south end of the bridge. Beyond it tiny, glittering cars flash along a highway bridge over a distant bend in the river, and on the hills beyond that the mansions Kevin saw from Congress Avenue rise more clearly now, cream-walled and red-roofed.

He glances sideways. The Amazon runner has stopped to stretch, folding herself in two and grabbing her ankles from behind, a sight that is alternately painful and thrilling to see. Nearer to Kevin, a portly young guy with an unkempt black beard and a distended black T-shirt sits on a bench smoking, while a plump, liver and white springer spaniel pants at his feet, the two of them connected by a long, red canvas leash that winds around the fat guy’s wrist. Kevin turns a little more, and there’s Kelly still gazing east up the river where the plane is still weaving a weary figure eight over the skyline, still unsuccessfully trying to make that stupid banner unfurl. An old, rust-red railroad trestle supported by cement pylons comes out of the treetops of one bank and disappears into the treetops on the other, and over each pylon graffiti writers have left a fat-lettered slogan like a tangle of yellow pythons, completely unreadable, except for one, SCOPE LORIC, whatever that means, right in the middle of the trestle, in bold white letters. Beyond the trestle, more bridges, with cars shuttling silently back and forth, and on the north bank the coppery pyramids and pale deco skyscrapers and the thicket of cranes. The ice-blue tower of Barad-dûr rises out of the sunlit haze, improbably tall and narrow. Meanwhile another jet climbs steeply over Austin’s skyline, baring its long neck. Kevin can hear its hollow roar trailing behind it, a bass note to the annoying treble buzz of the little plane, and he wonders, which one is Snoopy and which the Red Baron? Is it wise these days to let either plane fly so close to a city skyline? Thinks Kevin, am I the only one who worries about stuff like this? Or does everybody, these days?

Kelly steps back from the railing, and pushes her hair back with both hands, arching her back. Kevin flinches and looks over his side of the bridge at a moiré of ripples on the water below. Closer to the shore, five startlingly white swans, two big ones and three baby ones, paddle idly among the reeds along the bank. On the jogging trail above them a single file of jogging mothers push fabulously engineered strollers like little Formula One racers, and when the mother in the lead turns and starts galloping sideways, her legs scissoring, all the other mothers do the same. Out of the deep bucket seat of the last stroller flies a petulantly flung stuffed animal, which rolls in the dust, and the last mother stops and stoops to retrieve the toy. Some of the jogging mothers are a bit broad in the beam yet, still losing their baby weight, but as the last woman returns the stuffed animal to her invisible little tyrant in the stroller, Kevin admires the long, lean line of her leg as she bends over. She’s a MILF, thinks Kevin, an acronym he never knew until he heard it on The Daily Show, which he watches in bed with Stella. Oh God, he thinks, is Stella already a Mother I’d Like to Fuck? A year from now, is that going to be Stella, in Gallup Park or the Arb, pushing her expensive, high-tech jogging stroller along the river with her child? With my child?

Now Kevin’s heart is racing. He’s feeling breathless again. Maybe he is having a heart attack. Or at least heatstroke. He grips the warm railing with both hands and takes a couple of deep breaths, but the air is so hot he can’t draw it deeply enough. It’s like drowning in warm water, and he squeezes the railing to steady himself. There’s a bench nearby, and he wonders if it’s better to hang onto the railing before his dizziness passes, or risk the few paces and have a seat. The fat guy with the hefty spaniel is standing and stubbing his cigarette out on the side of a planter, and his dog is on its feet, too, looking up at its master with a goofy, gummy grin, his long tongue draped sideways over his teeth like a big pink necktie. Beyond him the Amazon runner stands with her legs apart and her hands clasped under her ponytail, elbows in the air, and she’s bending slowly from side to side. Kevin starts slowly toward the bench; he’s feeling a little less lightheaded, but he trails one hand along the railing. From the Lamar Avenue Bridge he hears another squeal of brakes and the sharp blare of a horn. The fat guy looks up and loosens his grip on the leash, which unloops from his fat wrist, and the goofy spaniel trots toward Kevin. Nearly to the bench now, Kevin sees that Kelly has turned away from the railing on her side of the bridge and she’s looking at him, as if trying to remember where she’s seen him. Kevin’s not sure where to look. The wet nose of the spaniel brushes his left hand, and Kevin hears the fat guy say, “It’s cool, he’s friendly.” But Kevin ignores the dog, which circles round him to the railing, trailing the slack leash. Instead Kevin looks past Kelly, past the railing, past the railroad trestle to see the single-engined plane climbing like mad, whining like an angry lawnmower. The orange banner has at last snapped straight behind the plane. HOOTERS, it says.

In spite of himself, in spite of the heat, in spite of his racing heart, Kevin starts to laugh. In spite of his lightheadedness, in spite of his fear of incipient fatherhood, in spite of the prospect of Kelly recognizing him, in spite of the prospect of her not recognizing him, he laughs. Kelly’s expression turns quizzical. Their eyes have met, it’s too late to turn back now, so he just grins like the sad, middle-aged loser that he is, and points at the banner in the sky. She turns to see what he is pointing at. The dog is nuzzling Kevin’s leg; the fat guy is saying, “Barney, not your party, buddy, not your party, ” and reeling in the leash. Then just as another long squeal of brakes peals from the traffic bridge, Kelly sees the banner and her spine stiffens. A horn blares, the squeal of tires goes on and on, Kelly turns back toward Kevin, and before their eyes even meet, he can see the withering, soul-shriveling look of disdain on her lovely face. Oh boy, thinks Kevin, but still, he laughs.

And then — the squeal of brakes ends in a loud, metallic bang. Kelly starts at the sound. The spaniel flinches and darts between Kevin and the railing. And the leash tightens around Kevin’s calves and jerks him off his feet.

Kevin knows he’s falling, but at the same time he knows there’s nothing he can do about it. Events seem to slow and to become more inevitable all at once. It’s a moment of perfect, blissful contradiction: it feels like it could last forever, as if Kevin falling is something that has always happened and always will, but he also knows it’s only an instant, and will be over almost before it’s started. A moment like this is the closest Kevin has ever come or ever will come to a spiritual experience, when he is perfectly aware of everything around him even as he loses all control. He’s thrilled by the vastness and infinite complexity of the world, even as he’s aware of its utter indifference to him. And so he’s calm, in spite of the pain he knows is coming and doesn’t have time to brace for, and yet it’s not as if he’s watching someone else. He’s fully present in himself and in the moment, and yet he, too, feels a sublime indifference, because the outcome is inevitable, so why worry about it? There’s nothing you can do, so just enjoy this vivid clarity, this glimpse of eternity, this momentary lifting of the veil. He wonders, is this what my father felt — bending over, falling into darkness — did he feel this peeling back of the senses, this simultaneous stillness and tumult of sound and light? As the ground rushes up to meet him, Kevin wonders, is this what it’s like to die?