Spring stood motionless in the clinic parking lot. Her keys still lay on the pavement where she’d dropped them
Have a nice fucking day. Spencer’s voice echoed in her ears.
When she finally moved, it was with caution. She bent slowly over to retrieve the keys and drifted toward the car, as if any gesture could cause some sort of explosion. She’d never, ever has someone speak to her that way. People snickered behind her back, rolled their eyes as she spoke, or even ignored her, but no one had ever yelled at her. She wasn’t sure how to feel about it.
Spring was suddenly aware of Judy Garland’s “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” playing from across the lot. She looked toward the clinic at the blind, homeless man sitting on a bundle of clothes and blankets and leaning his head against the wall. As if he sensed her stare, the man lifted his head and tapped a small, copper bowl sitting next to him.
Spring approached the man, digging her hands in the bottom crevices of her purse for any loose change. Producing a handful of mostly nickels, Spring dropped them in the bowl with several satisfying metallic sounds.
“True, it is not your fate to fall at my hands!” the man belted as the change clanged against the sides of the bowl.
“Excuse me?” Spring said, her voice still shaky from Spencer’s outburst.
“Not your fate to fall at my hands!” the man repeated.
Spring stared. “What does that mean?” she said.
“Riddles! All you can say are riddles! Murk and darkness...” the man said and began coughing violently.
Spring stood, for the second time that night, rooted to one spot. The man regained composure after a minute and retired back to his position leaning his head against the wall.
* * *
Arriving back in her driveway at 126 Willow Lane, Spring couldn’t shake Spencer’s and the blind man’s words from her head. Have a nice fucking day. Not your fate to fall at my hands. All you can say are riddles. What was she doing? She didn’t know.
“Well, you’re late,” Spring’s sister, Trish, said sharply when she walked in.
“Um...yeah, car trouble,” Spring said with little feeling.
She walked past Trish sitting in the lazy boy with Caleb, without even kissing Caleb on the head.
Spring always kissed Caleb.
“Well, I need you to clean the kitchen,” Trish said.
“Why didn’t Peter do it?” Spring asked, pausing in the hallway.
Trish gave a dramatic sigh. “You know, Spring, we all work around here, and Peter was really tired, so he went to bed. And I’m feeding Caleb,” Trish said. “Seeing as we let you live in our house, the least you could do is just clean the kitchen, Spring.”
“Sure thing.”
She never argued with her sister.
Spring’s arms soaked to the elbow in dishwater, the words entered her thoughts again. It is not your fate to fall at my hands.
What was she doing? She was 27. She lived in her controlling sister’s house. She worked at a roller skating rink. The only thing she cared about was Caleb.
Caleb. That beautiful baby boy. That baby. Spring wanted a baby. She sighed.
“Fuck this,” Spring whispered.
She never cursed.
She shook her arms off and, without bothering to dry them, grabbed her purse and keys.
“Where are you going?” Trish demanded as Spring marched toward the door. She didn’t answer.
She drove. She wasn’t sure where she was going. But the words. Those words wouldn’t go away. Have a nice fucking day. Spring stopped, and her tires protested with a screech. Without thinking, she pulled out her phone and pressed redial.
The phone rang. And rang. Then a beep sounded, followed by a deep, cheery voice. It was clearly Spencer’s, but it sounded like a different person’s, from a different life. “Hey, it’s Spencer Daey.” As he said his name, a swell of noise grew in the background, what sounded like the voices of several young men.
“The Switch.”
“Ayyy, the SWITCH!”
“Whoooo, the Switch, Daey!”
Spencer’s voice gave an embarrassed laugh. “Um, yeah, it’s Spencer. I’m not available right now, but just leave me a message, and I’ll get right back to you.”
A final, collective “Whoop!” sounded, and a beep signaled Spring’s turn.
“Hey, Spencer,” she said. Her voice was different, even to her. Her cheery squeak was gone, replaced by a quiet, deeper tone. “I just wanted to say thanks for working on my car. And I’m sorry if I did something wrong, or even if I didn’t.”
She paused. What was she trying to say?
“You seem...like you’re dealing with something. And I don’t know what it is. And it’s none of my business. But...If you ever want to vent...you know.” She had no idea what she was saying. She sighed. “I hate this town.”
Spring hung up. She didn’t care that that message didn’t make any sense or that she’d just made a fool of herself. Or that she’d just left her house and had nowhere to go. She didn’t care. She leaned her head back on the scratching headrest, mimicking the blind man behind the clinic.
True, it is not your fate to fall at my hands.
