Hit and Run

by Douglas Light

Rory strikes the concrete hard, rolls twice, onto the sidewalk, and ends up on his side, his raincoat twisted about him. The cab doesn't slow, tears off down the street, a hit-and-run.

Maya, his wife, witnesses the whole thing.

It's nine P.M. Williamsburg, Brooklyn. It's sheeting rain, the first solid rain in two months, and the ground, hardened by the summer heat, refuses to absorb it. The run off floods the street, the sidewalk, traveling in wide, swift streams.

Rory's umbrella lies broken in the street, its metal ribs torn from the fabric.

They came from the city, took the L train over to attend an opening for an artist who uses breast milk in her watercolors, paints with brushes made from her own pubic hair.

The gallery was crowded, the paintings poor.

Maya wanted to leave the moment they arrived, but Rory said no. "We're here," he said, looking around at the paintings, the people. The event was catered, food and alcohol. "A drink," he added. People milled tightly about the gallery, their backs to the works on the walls. "Ten minutes, then we'll leave."

They stayed until it closed, Rory chatting with nearly everyone.

"My God," Maya says, kneeling next to him. She is terrified. The cab's gone, already a block, two blocks away. His breath is harsh, with a sour scent of gin and Brie. He labors to breathe, taking shallow, rapid gasps, like his lungs are unable to hold air. "Oh God, baby," she says. She searches for her cell phone, can't find it. "Get up, please get up." People race past, heading from one place to another, trying to stay dry in the midst of the downpour. She yells at them to stop, for someone to call an ambulance. No one does.

Her skirt is soaked and her knees scraped up from the rough concrete. She touches his face, touches the large pinkish scar that runs down his cheek, then presses her lips to his, saying his name over and over again. "Don't," she says, and struggles to help him up. "Don't do this." She tugs at him, his clothing, but can't gain a firm hold on his coat, can't lift him. A desperation, a helplessness pours through her.

The rain continues. Headlights reflect sharply in store windows and off the slick pavement.


Maya and Rory first met six years ago at a loft party for a mutual friend of a friend about to join AA. "My second-to-last drink forever," the friend of a friend said with each new drink, barely able to stand.

Rory's scar was the first thing Maya noticed about him. It was the first thing most people noticed. Seeing him, seeing it, she envisioned him doing something dangerous or heroic, surviving a knife fight, escaping the explosion of a car bomb in some African country, or pushing a toddler clear of a runaway bus, taking the hit himself. The scar frightened and excited her. Initially, that was what he was, a scar. A scar held in place by a man. Nothing more.

"The truth?" he asked when Maya, her courage bolstered by hard cider, approached him about it.

"Yes," she answered.

He'd been water-skiing on Lake Wawasee in Indiana, he told her, gotten mowed down by another boat. "They were kidnappers," he said, looking her in the eyes. "Had the nine-year-old daughter of some guy who owned seven car dealerships and a house on the lake, a real rich guy. Were going to ransom the girl. But when they hit me, I got tangled up in the motor's blades. The boat stalled. It took them five minutes to get it restarted. The police later told me they'd have gotten clean away if it weren't for me. The little girl probably would have been killed." He touched his scar, his fingers lingering. A hot, prickling sensation ran over Maya's skin as she watched. "I've got others," he said. "On my back, other places. Got chopped up pretty bad. In the hospital for nearly three months."

"Christ, how terrible," she said, unable to take her eyes off him, off his scar. She thought about him floating in the water, cut and bleeding, the lake blossoming red as the kidnappers' boat bobbed listlessly some yards away. The little girl gagged and bound. "I can't believe it," she said, wondering if the girl grew up to have emotional problems. "That really happened?"

He rattled the ice in his empty glass. He asked her her name. He smiled, his scar stretching and rising on his face. "Actually," he told her, "no."

Later that night, Maya took his kiss, then took another. They went back to his place, where she repeatedly took his kiss.

A shoe was kicked off, a shirt unbuttoned. Rory offered to make her a drink, though they'd both drunk too much. Maya pinned him to the kitchen counter, her breath hard on his face. They fumbled about the small apartment, awkwardly wrestling their way toward the bedroom. A coffee table was overturned, a potted plant spilled. The CD skipped.

"This isn't what it seems," Maya told him that first night, finally naked. She stood in his bedroom door, her arms raised. The room was dim. Light from the street seeped in.

Rory was standing before his bed. "It never is," he said. He still had his socks on.

"You're taking those off, right?" Maya asked, nodding at his feet.

He took them off.

Maya tackled him, sent him sprawling onto the mattress. Her head caught his mouth, broke his lower lip.

"OK," he said, spitting blood onto the floor. "I got you."

"You all right?" she asked, laughing. She kissed him, then kissed him again, still laughing. A taste of blood filled her mouth, a taste like chewing a nickel.

She pushed him down, then straddled him, her thighs on his chest. Though he had told her a tale about his scar, Maya still liked him. Touching the mark on his face, she said, "Tell me the truth. How'd you get this?"

"Hold up," he said, wiggling out from under her. He went to his closet, searched around on the shelf.

"We're not doing anything weird," she clarified. "What are you looking for?" She remained on her knees, waiting.

He returned, leather gloves on his hands. Winter gloves. He crawled through her legs like he was entering a snow fort. "All right," he said, then put his mouth to her. He began, and as he began, his hands ran up and down her thighs, the gloves' leather smooth and soft.

"What's with the gloves?" she asked him, a warmth building deep within her. "Why the gloves?"

He paused a moment, looked up at her. His scar seemed to glow in the dimness of the room. "My hands are cold."


Now, kneeling over him on the wet pavement, the rain pelting them both, Maya no longer sees him as a scar. She sees only him, as a whole, complete, as her husband.

His lips move like he's tasting the rain, the air. "All right," he says, his voice strange, hollow. After a moment, he stands without help, shakes his coat straight, then hobbles to a nearby bench. Gingerly, he sits down. His hair is dripping wet and he has the look of someone who's walked in on a robbery, shocked and bewildered. "I think you tore my coat," he says absently, then moves his hands over himself, feels his chest, his ribs, his head and face.

Then he starts laughing.

"This is funny?" Maya asks, her concern turning to anger. "You're hurt. We need to go to the hospital."

"I'm all right," he says, smiling strangely. His head hangs oddly, like the vertebrae of his neck are crumbling. "Will be all right. Just need a drink."

"A drink?" she asks, livid. At the opening, his glass never emptied, and every time she looked, it was poised at his lips. "You're fucking kidding me. How many have you had already, four? Tell me it was four and not seven."

"OK." He laughs more. His hand touches hers, the wet fabric of their coats clinging. "All right," he says, leaning in to kiss her, "you win."

She pulls back, not wanting his kiss, not wanting anything to do with him.

He looks at her, wounded. "Come on, it's not like--" He stops. His face twists into a mask of pain and fright.

Maya sees this, the change.

His eyelids sink.

"No," she says, grasping his hand. "No you don't. You're fine, you said you're fine."

He tries to stand, but can't, collapses back onto the bench.

An old woman pauses. Maya yells at her to call 911, to get some help.

"I'm hurt," Rory admits.

Maya holds him, cradling his weight in her long arms. His head rests heavily on her shoulder. It is Thursday night, late July. Both Maya and Rory are thirty-three years old. "Come on, get up," she tells him, her voice breaking. They've been married nearly five years and often eat out. Rory's birthday is in December. "Stand up," she commands him tearfully, unable to lift him, unable to make him stand. "Stand up right now."


On their wedding day, the photographer arrived late and hung over with a coffee stain the size of a cat's head on his shirt. Maya's sister, the maid of honor, had cramps and diarrhea and kept shifting about during the ceremony. A mile from the reception hall, the limo driver stopped and demanded an extra fifty dollars in cash before he would drive on.

Still, the day turned out well. The food was plentiful if forgettable: roast beef, overcooked salmon, chicken, and sides of potatoes and other things. The band played late into the night, the gift table was full, and people seemed pleased.

The next day, married and dazed, they flew to Greece, a nine-hour flight, then took a hydrofoil to the island of Mykonos.

It was mid-October, the end of the season, few tourists around. Most clubs were closed. The island was theirs.

Their hotel, Ziorzi's, was hidden deep in the heart of the town of Mykonos, cradled in the narrow labyrinth of stone-paved alleys. They had reservations, had planned everything well in advance. Ziorzi, the hotel owner, met them at the door. He was dressed in painter's scrubs and a powder-blue ascot, smoking a Virginia Slims cigarette. His eyebrows were tweezed into perfect arches. "What?" he asked, by way of welcome.

Maya and Rory were exhausted from travel, wanted to take a shower then a nap. Maya told him their name, that they had booked a room, placed a deposit.

Ziorzi waved at them like he was dispersing fumes and said blusterously, "You've missed the dick and pussy crowd. Season's over. I'm all closed up for renovations."

Rory started to protest, then Maya stepped in. "Closed?" she asked, incensed. She'd confirmed their reservation less than two weeks earlier with Ziorzi directly. "You're not serious." Rage took over. She moved toward him, forced her body against his. Rory watched in disbelief, never having seen her so angry. "Tell me you're serious," she told Ziorzi. His face paled and the cigarette fell from his hand. He took half a step back, but then held his ground. She pushed forward, pressing hard against his stomach and stepping on his toes. "I mean," she whispered, "if you're telling us to go." Her voice projected menace, possible violence. Close enough to kiss him, her eyes held his, challenging him. "Tell me to go."

Ziorzi shuffled back, lowered his head, and coughed violently into his fist. He glanced at Rory, who'd turned his scarred cheek toward Ziorzi and struck an intimidating pose, then back at Maya. "No," he answered cautiously. "The season might not be over."

He gave them the best room, with a balcony and a view of the bay.

The next day, they rented a car, covered the entire island in less than two hours. Paradise Beach. Super Paradise Beach. All the beaches were empty, save two or five people, the sand coarse, nearly pebbles. The autumn sun was warm, inviting.

"Now what?" Rory asked, pulling to a stop at the end of a rocky road. The glinting sea spread out before them.

They had sex on a warm stone outcrop, the waters lapping below. Seagulls circled, crying to each other. Rory left his sandals on, complaining his feet were tender. "But you're not on your feet," Maya said, lying below him. He was her husband now.

"Still," he told her, fully erect, "the rocks hurt."

After, Maya dove naked into the cool, clear waters.

Rory followed. "Can I tell you something?" he asked, struggling to swim alongside her. She was a good swimmer, powerful, had swum all through high school and college.

She playfully spit a mouthful of salty water into his face, then paddled away. "Tell me," she called, her pale feet churning water. "Tell me you love me."

"I want to tell you-" he said, but she didn't hear the rest. Her head dipped underwater. She dove deep, her long arms digging toward the water's bottom, pulling her to where other things lived.

Below, everything was silent, stinging, blue.


The first time she met Rory's parents, she asked them about his scar. It was Thanksgiving, and they had driven in from New Jersey to take Maya and Rory to Jean George's for dinner.

Maya and Rory had been a couple for three months. When his father had gotten out of the car, he had hugged her. His mother had shaken her hand briskly and said, "I feel I already know you."

They were seated toward the back of the restaurant. The room was warm. The windows were steamed. Maya wanted the straight story from his parents, the truth. She'd heard so many different versions of how Rory had gotten his scar she didn't know what to believe.

"Ror was ten or so," the father said, tapping the earpiece of his glasses against his lower teeth. It was a habit he had when he spoke.

"Six," his wife said. She was already deep into her second glass of white wine, drinking it with a wedge of lime.

Rory sat silent, listening, a slight smile on his lips.

"It was a Tuesday afternoon, early summer. I remember perfectly," Rory's father said. "He was playing in the garage. Somehow, he fell, caught the edge of my car's license plate. I was in the living room and heard him. He kept calling for me, 'Daddy, Daddy.' The blood was everywhere. Truly awful. I ended up carrying him to the hospital myself."

The image of Rory as a child playing in the garage filled Maya's mind. She could see it all, the cut, him crying, his father racing to the rescue, carrying him through the emergency room doorway at the hospital. The thought caused a flutter in her chest, a pleasant melancholy.

"What are you talking about?" Rory's mother said. She signaled the waiter, ordered another glass of wine, a small plate of cut limes. "First off, it was dead winter. A Friday, not a Tuesday. And you carried him to the hospital? Right. You weren't even around. You were at work. And anyway, the hospital's ten miles from our house."

The waiter brought her wine, the limes. She squeezed a wedge, then hung the rind off the rim of the glass. The pulp and juice clouded the wine.

They ordered their meals.

"Dear," the father said, once the waiter had left. "I distinctly recall—"

"Truth be told," the mother interrupted, lifting her glass to her lips, "it was that Simmy boy from next door. You remember him, don't you?" she asked Rory.

He raised his chin, indicating he did.

"It was that little—" She stopped herself, pressed her lips together tightly, and shook her head. "It was him, Simmy. He was, what, five years older than you? Anyway, he was bigger. A fat, nasty thing. Swedish, I think. He ambushed my baby, attacked him with snowballs. But not just snowballs. Iceballs," she said loudly, rapping her finger on the table. "That little fuck—"

She pulled up short, startled by her own vitriol. People at two different tables looked over scornfully.

The mother ran her hand lightly over her hair, like it comforted her. "Iceballs," she repeated, in a controlled tone, "filled with gravel. I sowed up my baby's cut myself with needle and thread from my sewing kit." She reached across the table and touched Rory's cheek, touched his scar. "Didn't do the best of jobs, I guess."

The mother fell silent. Everyone was quiet, an awkward tension filling the air. Maya looked at Rory, then at his mother and father. She felt she'd accidentally reopened a family wound, a wound that cut across the family, dividing them.

The salads were served. Fresh pepper was cracked.

They ate for a while without words.

The mother finished her third glass of wine and beckoned to the waiter.

"Perhaps," the father said, forcefully forking his greens. He looked neither at nor away from his wife, but gazed at the middle space between them. "Perhaps you should just order a bottle and get it over with."

"Right," she replied coldly. She held her wine glass tightly. "That's just what we need," she said, intently watching the waiter striding toward her. "A bottle."


Maya finds she's showered, dressed, ready to go to work, has automatically done her morning routine. The apartment is silent, the normal sounds of morning, the sounds of her husband, his voice, not there. Sitting on the couch, she can't think. She's anxious, enraged, her eyes burning and her mouth salty and foul.

She's going nowhere.

Her parents have called twice, are flying up from Florida in the afternoon. Her in-laws were with her at the hospital the entire night, went home only after there was nothing left to do.

The funeral is Monday.

An account of the accident appears on page B3 of the Times. Hit-and-run. Rory, her husband, dead. The taxi driver is yet to be found.

The story appears on page eight of the Post. There's a photo of his broken umbrella in the rain-wet street, people standing in the background. Maya is quoted as saying, "Rory was so fun-loving, made people laugh. He fit in with any crowd." The quote appalls her. She can't recall saying that, can't even figure out why she'd say such a thing. I've summed his life up in fourteen words, she thinks. Yes, he made people laugh, but it was such a small part of him, a fragment of something much more complex. To state only that he made people laugh, that he fit in with any crowd, was misleading. It's what she despises about the papers, the way people come off sounding, the falseness of it all. The spoken turned to print, the inflection and subtlety lost.

He was more.

She passes the morning in murky detachment, making movements without thought. It isn't so much grief that fills her as astonishment, confusion. Her parents-in-law call to say they're coming over. She asks for some time alone. "This afternoon," she says, "but please, not now."

Lying on the couch, she feels like she's just woken from an operation. Her mind is dull and muzzy, her body sore, like something has been torn from inside her. He isn't supposed to die, she says to herself. Not at age thirty-three. Not before me.

She's thought about this all before, thought about it on restless nights while Rory lay quietly next to her, his body performing the silent task of sleep. She decided that she wasn't to be alive when he died, was to die before he did, preferably of old age. Or, even better, they'd die together, instantly, in an airplane crash or an earthquake or a drive-by shooting in Paris.

They were to die together.


The man identifies himself as a colleague of Rory's, a good friend of his from work. It's ten P.M. Rory's been dead twenty-four hours. All day, the calls have been coming in, close friends, distant family, and people she hasn't heard from in years. They've seen the papers and are deeply sorry. He'll be greatly missed, they all say. If she needs anything, anything at all. A great loss of a great man.

Even the sincerest condolence rings hollow. You didn't even know him, she thinks bitterly after each call. Know nothing of him.

It's Friday night; the streets are crowded with people who've passed over or under a river to get to Manhattan. Maya hates Friday nights, hates going out. It's too much, the restaurants packed, the people rude, drunk.

Her parents arrived that afternoon, spent the evening with her and her in-laws, and are now at a hotel for the night. Maya tried to insist her parents stay with her. They refused. She's glad they refused. The apartment is small. Her anguish is enough. Theirs would only irritate her.

"I'm sure you've heard my name," Rory's colleague says. "Your husband must have spoken about me." Calling from a cell phone, he sounds like he's racing to catch a train or jogging on a treadmill at a crowded gym. His voice keeps jarring and his breath is short. "We used to do lunches. Every few days. Or rather, every few weeks. Once a month or so. Really solid guy. Tears me up to hear what happened."

She asks the man his name again. "You know my husband?"

"Knew him, yes," he says, huffing for air. "Worked together." In the background, she hears a cacophony of barking dogs, like the man is running through the middle of a pack of hounds on a foxhunt.

"Where are you?" she asks.

His voice is severed. The connection breaks, then returns. "…there last night," she hears him say. "Williamsburg, I mean. Having dinner. A client. I'm sure Rory told you about it. The project we're—he's—working on. Was working on."

"Thank you for you thoughts," she says. She has no idea who he is. "It's late. I really must—"

"I was there," he shouts. "My cab drove right past. Drove down that street. Five minutes. Two minutes. A minute before." She can hear him breathing heavily. "I was right there. In a cab. Might've helped. Had I known. Had it already happened." He calls her by her first name, says it twice. "It's terrible. We're all saddened," he says, then, after a pause, adds, "I feel awful having to ask. I need your help." There is a long silence, then the connection sounds like a radio tuned between stations.

"Hello?" she asks, thinking she's lost him.

"…Rory's work laptop." His voice cuts back in. "He took it home."

Near the front door, in a black leather case, is her husband's computer. He brought it home every night, every weekend, though she never once saw him turn it on, never even saw him take it out of the case.

"He was preparing a presentation," the colleague says. "Had the only copy of it."

He wants the presentation, Maya thinks, wants the computer. "What do you want?" she asks aloud, insulted by his callousness. Already, people are moving on, plugging the gap and continuing their lives. Already, they're forgetting about him.

"It was his show," the man says, still panting. "But we were close, he and I. I know it's awkward, but he'd want me to back him up, to step in—"

"You mean like his final wish?" Maya asks. Her hand tightens around the phone. "For his good friend, right? Well, hold on here." She opens a cabinet door, slams it shut. "Oh, yes, you're right. It's right here, in his will. 'I bequeath my work presentation to this close friend.' Those were his dying words, in fact. He whispered them to me in the ambulance. 'Give what's-his-name the presentation.'"

The connection crackles, fades.

"Just who the fuck are you?" she asks. "My husband's dead. Do you understand that? Rory's dead."

For a moment, there's no sound, like the call's been terminated. Then the man's voice comes through clearly, direct. "…been kinder," he says. "Thank you for understanding. I'm on my way. Be there before midnight." He rings off before she can respond.


Maya goes through the files on Rory's computer, opening each document. Flow charts, spreadsheets, PowerPoint presentations, most of which she doesn't understand.

Her fingers move over the keyboard, touching keys her husband once touched. The computer glows brightly, words and numbers and charts crowding the screen.

There is nothing there, though she feels there must be something hidden among all the reports, e-mails, and conference briefs. Something of him.

It starts to rain again. Wetness runs down the windows.

After some time, she comes across a folder named after her. It is filled with images, digital photos he's saved. She clicks on the first one and the screen fills with a picture of her standing waist-deep in brilliant blue waters, her hand raised in a wave, a scraggy rock shooting up behind her. She's smiling, squinting from the glare of the sun.

Mykonos. Their honeymoon.

Five years have passed, but she recalls it all vividly, her joy at being married, at being in love, her life ahead. Everything pointed toward the future.

She even recalls the man at the Sunset Café. It was there, on their honeymoon, that she saw him. Fifty, fifty-five years old. Why she remembers him, she can't say. But she remembers him distinctly, remembers him as much as any other part of the trip.

He was alone, dressed in casual attire, but arranged in the manner of someone unaccustomed to casual dress. His crisp yellow oxford was unbuttoned to his sternum, the sleeves rolled up. He wore no socks and his boat shoes were brand-new, the canvas sharp white.

Flush against the sea wall, his table faced the waning autumn sun. There were no other customers at the café, just this man and Maya and Rory. The waves slapped against the retaining wall, misting a scent of salt, fish, and rot. Four empty water bottles and a torn red flip-flop floated a few feet from shore, held there by the pull and sway of the water. The distant sun, still warm, moved sideways across the edge of the sky.

Maya and Rory ordered two beers and a plate of saganaki—fried cheese—to share. "He seems rather pleased by something," Maya said to Rory, studying the man. He was exuberant, repeatedly rubbing his hands together as he worked through a plate of the overpriced lobster linguini. Ordering glass after glass of retsina, the man clapped and nodded each time the wine was served. He wore no wedding ring. He would laugh loudly as he ran a piece of bread along the side of his plate, soaking up the cream sauce. Then he'd pause, gazing at the sea, a hard smile rising to his face. He was oblivious to everything but the moment. His moment.

The whole scene—the way the light struck the man full and clean, his cheeks in high color from sun and wine, the table filled with food, the sparkling waves, his joy—reminded Maya of an American Express commercial.

Studying him closely, she felt she knew who he was, knew his life. He was alone, unmarried—divorced perhaps—no children, owned a house with little furniture on a street named Foxhaven Lane, or Willowbranch Court, or Riversbend Drive, a street that could only exist in the suburbs. He loved to listen to early Bob Dylan, but had never been to a concert. Never been to any concert. He had a job he found difficult to describe to others outside the industry, and his few friends were work friends.

And this was his moment, Maya realized, the vacation of his dreams, something he'd been planning and saving for for years.

It saddened her in some distant way, like remembering a favorite childhood teacher who was now dead. He's never been happier, she said to herself.

He'll never be happier, she realizes now, looking at the picture of herself on the computer screen.


The lights in the apartment are off. The frail streetlight shines in, casting an orange glow through the room. The rain patters against the window in a slow, calming way. It's midnight, after midnight.

Maya is exhausted but can't sleep, has no desire for sleep. Rory's colleague has yet to arrive. He's not getting the laptop. She's not giving it up. When he arrives, she tells herself, if he arrives, I won't answer the door. I won't let him in.

Tomorrow, Maya's to have breakfast with her parents. She's to meet with the funeral director.

A pair of Rory's jeans lies crumpled on the floor. He'd been planning to wear them to the art opening last night, then changed his mind, took them off, and tossed them where they now lie. "You're picking those up, right?" Maya asked.

"Yeah," he answered, pulling on a pair of black pants, "I'll get them." He never did.

Staring at the jeans, she thinks about her husband, the weight of his body on her. Yesterday's mail remains unopened. The apartment needs cleaning. She touches her cheek, her soft skin, and thinks of his scarred face.

"It was a shaving accident," Rory once claimed of the scar. He'd joined her in the shower, had scrubbed her back, lathered her front. She'd taken hold of him as one takes hold of something fragile.

Then she'd let him go.

Preparing coffee later that morning, she asked him again. "Really, how did it happen? How'd you get the scar?" She ran tap water, filling the pot. Her back was to him.

Rory sat at the table, reading the morning paper. They'd been a couple for nine months, had formed a language of their own, a language of glances and phrases built on mutual experiences. A language that grew each day.

"A faulty electric can opener," he told her. "Was opening a can of tuna and the lid shot right at me."

Maya laughed, then stopped laughing. "Come on," she said. She knew she loved him, knew he was the one. "Since when do you eat tuna?"

"How about," he said, "I got caught by a hook while fishing?"

"What I want," she said, "is the truth." She dried her hands. "Just the truth."

"And if I don't tell you?" he asked. "What if I refuse?"

She turned to him. The morning light shone through the window, caught Rory from behind. She couldn't see his features; silhouetted, his face was dark, shadowed and obscured. "Then," Maya told him, squinting, "we end here. I'm serious, I'll leave."

Rory sat silent for nearly a minute. "OK," he finally said. "I'll tell you."

© 2011 Night Train and respective authors/email support AT nighttrainmagazine.com