By Eric Notaro

At the intersection of Radley Road and the state route, Arnold Miller pressed his foot to the brake of his silver Dodge Ram. He came to a complete stop, front fender halted perfectly at the imaginary line beneath the signpost. No one was present to know if the fifty-three-year-old hospital janitor looked both ways in his final moments, checking a second time as dictated in the driving manuals he had read and adhered to as a code of honor. No witness could attest to whether he held down the brake, knowing what would come next, or if chance had intervened to stop him. What would become known was that on that sunlit rural road, shortly after ten a.m. on a Tuesday, in mid-May, Arnold Miller slumped back, the last of his life dissipating in the driver’s seat.

Fortunately for Mrs. Abigail Montoya, a retiree of just over ten years, whatever strength or weight that remained in Arnold Miller in those last moments pressed his foot firmly to the brake pedal, commanding his freshly replaced brake pads to hold the two-and-a-half-ton pickup from rolling across the intersection, across the four square yards of property separating the front door of her home from the road, and colliding with the living room of her tiny two-bedroom ranch. Arnold Miller’s large body did not land squarely on the center of the wheel, so it caused no long, droning note of the horn to sound a mournful call of his passing. Instead, indifferent to his plans for that morning, the spring birds, still energized by the returning warmth and light, filled the otherwise quiet stretch of road with their chattering song.

Arnold Miller’s final day on Earth was full of plans. First, he would take a trip to the hardware store to finish getting what he needed for the work on the old shed in his backyard. It had been dilapidated before his children had moved out, even before his wife had left him. It looked as though it would collapse if a bird landed on it the wrong way. He had gone back and forth for years whether to just knock down the whole thing or to try to repair it. He didn’t really need the storage space but feared, if he tore it down completely, it would leave an empty space in the yard. He didn’t like the thought of all that emptiness where something had been. If he had made it to the hardware store, Arnold Miller would have picked up a few cuts of lumber and some paint and made his way back home to finish securing the structure. Instead, the foot of his lifeless body pressed down miraculously on the brake across the street from an unaware Mrs. Montoya. The shed, though better reinforced, sat unfinished in his back yard.

***

Mrs. Montoya, glued to the morning network news broadcast, hushed her two Pomeranians, Zephyr and Moxie, as they let out their high-pitched barks at the idling truck across the narrow road. Moxie was the instigator of these sorts of incidents—quicker to excite by the rumble of an engine or the hum of the wheels rolling along the pavement so close to the house. Zephyr, less interested in the passing traffic, nevertheless joined in the chorus when prompted by what Mrs. Montoya referred as “her troublemaking brother.” The dogs were unrelated to each other aside from the manner in which long, snaking pedigree branches connect all purebreds.

Mrs. Montoya scolded and coaxed the two back down to their usual locations. Zephyr settled into her plush tan dog bed next to Mrs. Montoya’s reclining chair. Moxie returned to his large-scale plastic dollhouse once purchased for Mrs. Montoya’s rarely seen and now far too old granddaughter.  The dog had taken a liking to the neglected toy, nestling himself in the open-faced living room, gnawing diligently at the doorway of the kitchen as though sensing its approximation to the idea of food. It was a fight Mrs. Montoya had long given up on—much in the same way she had given up on seeing her granddaughter, her son, or her daughter-in-law. The three lived down south—free from the winters with their wind, their salted roads, and the endless clearing of snow.

When Mrs. Montoya had imagined her retirement, she had envisioned herself moving south to those warmer climes. Snowbirds—that was what people called them. She would imagine herself on a sunlit beach, umbrella drinks and palm trees. She had pictured walking along the boardwalk with her husband, Carlos, gone just shy of seven years the day Arnold Miller came to a complete stop at the intersection. Instead of cerulean tropical waves, Abigail Montoya watched the morning hosts in some New York City studio gab and laugh as a handsome internationally renowned chef demonstrated a recipe involving a near acrobatic use of a skillet over a gas flame on a soundstage.

No one came to the intersection in the hour that passed after Arnold Miller died. Only a few houses along the road could see the idle truck in the intersection. A spectator could likely see through the windshield that the driver reclined back, but the other residents had commuted several towns away. Mrs. Montoya was not hard of hearing, but she enjoyed keeping her television loud to drown out the silence of her tiny home. If she had listened carefully, caring about the outside world, she might have heard the engine idling. Instead, she scolded Zephyr and Moxie down from the windowsill.

***

A passing car on the state route saw the pickup truck stopped at the intersection long before it passed. Having right of way, and approaching at fifty miles an hour, the driver did not think anything of the truck and did not get a good look at Arnold Miller’s body slumped back in the driver’s seat. The whirl and vibration of the passing car did not shift the weight of Arnold Miller’s foot, held fast on the brake.

In the years since his wife had left, Arnold Miller spent each morning looking out into his yard. Sometimes, he would see the old shed, knowing it had to be replaced or destroyed. Some days, he could ignore it completely. Other days, he thought about what circumstances needed to be met for him to get around to it. He would have to put aside the cash for the supplies. He would need a few days and decent weather to work on it. The last time he had thought it over, it was March. A late winter storm had buried the yard, including the shed, in a mound of snow. A heat wave followed next week. The white gave way rapidly to the brown and dull world beneath it. The rotted wood of the shed practically glistened, calling for him to fix it. That morning it was far too early both in hour and in season to be doing work outside, but he resolved that he would get to it when the weather warmed up.

In time. All in time.

The car passed the body of Arnold Miller, unaware.

***

With the first morning talk shows ended, Mrs. Montoya let Zephyr and Moxie out into the yard. The backyard was fenced off, reinforced in places where she feared the dogs might burrow or try to squeeze through. In truth, the two Pomeranians were not especially bold or willful. The generous slices of American cheese she fed them while preparing lunch were more enticing than the thrill of the hunt. She did not remain outside long. The cold mornings were unpleasant to her, but she liked to feel the sun on her face. Moxie and Zephyr sniffed around the yard. They whiffed the trace of engine exhaust, too faint for Mrs. Montoya to notice, blended with the hints of the passing field mice, squirrels, and ground birds that had passed through the prior evening and predawn hours. Moxie barked as though to remind her of the disturbance just on the other side of the house. She shushed him again and the dog sniffed at the grass instead.

The cell phone rumbled on the kitchen counter as Mrs. Montoya corralled the dogs back into the house. She secured the door and picked up the phone. The screen displayed the name and number of Alphonso Montoya. She hesitated in disbelief before deciding to answer.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Mom, it’s Al.”

She waited for further explanation but none came. She hesitated until the silence on the other end of the line became unbearable.

“Hi,” she said.

“I know it’s been a while.”

“Is something wrong?”

“No, it’s just been a long time since I talked to you. I figured I should check in.”

Al’s calls always had a reason. Sometimes the reason was to provide major news about his life—his marriage, the birth of his daughter, their move down to Florida. More often, he called because he needed something. That something was always money—money for a wedding, money for the medical bills for the birth of her granddaughter, or money to get started in a brand-new state. She lived on a survivor’s pension and Social Security, but the factory that Carlos had worked in all those years had given him stocks, which he sold shortly after he retired. The money had sat as an emergency fund in the years since. She dipped into it to help her son but otherwise left it alone. Back before most of her friends had moved south, died, or drifted away, she used to call it “the Al Fund.”

When she financed the move to Florida, she had hoped that he would finally have landed on his feet. After all, he was her son. She didn’t want to see him on the street, but she had grown tired of his excuses. Once he had told her that he suspected his boss accused him of stealing because his last name was “Montoya.” She balked. Carlos had dealt with worse at the factory. Back in those days they called him every name imaginable to his face, they denied him promotions because his accent was too thick. What did he do? He worked hard. He proved them wrong. That was the America she knew. Nowadays, if anyone got called a name or thought life was unfair, they made a fuss about it. She still loved her son, but she was tired of the routine.

“I’m fine,” she said. “It’s still too cold out in the morning. It doesn’t feel like May.”

“You should try coming down here,” Al said. “It’s been in the hundreds all week.”

“No thanks. I hate winter, but I can’t stand that kind of heat. It’s why your father and I didn’t move down that way when he retired.”

After a pause, Al continued. “How are the dogs?” he asked.

“Moxie is a loudmouth like always, but he’s getting older. He’s not as bad as he used to be. Maybe his sister is teaching him how to behave.”

“That’s good.”

“But I think, yeah right, this is Moxie. You know what they say about old dogs and tricks.”

Al laughed. She hadn’t heard his laugh in a long time. It was so different from his father’s. Carlos rarely laughed, but when he did it was deep and sincere. Al chuckled as though a laugh were a reply on its own. Her son was so nervous. That must be it, she thought. Maybe that was his problem. 

“So how’s the family?” she asked. The other side of the line became quiet again.

“About that,” Al said, “I have some things to tell you.”

The way Al told the story to his mother, the troubles first began after he was let go from his job. He had struggled to find work. His wife could carry the family only so far, and he had little luck in getting an interview. For all the talk of plentiful jobs in the area, there were few that could pay the bills. He cobbled together part-time gigs, but it was not enough to cover their debts.

Mrs. Montoya listened to his story. She felt some sympathy, and couldn’t help but think of her tiny granddaughter. The girl was much bigger now than she was in Mrs. Montoya’s memories, but she had no other reference to go by. Al did not send pictures. She suspected if she ever saw her granddaughter in person, she would not recognize her. She still thought of that little girl for whom she had bought the dollhouse. Moxie splayed out in the tiny living room. His fur and dander littered the tiny, colorful home.

Mrs. Montoya stopped Al mid-sentence. “How much do you need?” Her voice registered as more resigned than she intended, but she did not feel any guilt.

If Al noticed, he did not say. He told her the amount that would help his family through the month. Mrs. Montoya didn’t calculate the number or think about the practicalities of delivering it to him. Instead, she thought of Al as a young boy needing to be lifted out of his troubles. The more she thought about it, the more it enraged her. She tuned out his words of gratitude and relief. She wanted to confront him: Why didn’t you save more? What did you do that would get you fired? Aren’t you supposed to be the one to look after your family? Why couldn’t he, after all these years, be the one to look after her? This last thought stung the most. She looked at the sleeping Pomeranians and the quiet house. If she couldn’t have the sunlit beach with Carlos, couldn’t she at least have the dutiful son who called other than to beg for money and pity? Why couldn’t she see her granddaughter grow up? The world had so slowly become something she didn’t want. Each day she had accepted one little change after another until one day she no longer recognized it.

“You have no idea how much this means to me,” Al said, continuing to fawn over her generosity.

Then Mrs. Montoya had a thought she hadn’t considered before. She hadn’t yet told him yes. Her assistance was only implied—assumed as the good nature of a mother. She could tell him no. Maybe it would be the kick in the pants Al needed. Maybe all this time her nest was so ruffled because she had failed to kick the hatchling from it. Maybe he needed to learn to fly on his own.

Inside the dollhouse, Moxie shifted his weight and began to lick himself. Zephyr sighed in her dog bed. As her son continued to speak excitedly—praising her for aid she had not yet granted—she weighed her options. This time she would tell him no.

***

It was a passing cyclist who first saw Arnold Miller’s plight for what it was. He had ridden up Radley Road from his home two miles back. He stopped behind the idling truck, expecting it to turn onto the road. No blinkers, no rev of the engine. The cyclist assumed that the driver was stopping to let him pass. The cyclist looked up into the driver’s side window. The sight of Arnold Miller slumped back in the driver’s seat alarmed him. He knocked at the window and called out, hoping that the man had merely dozed off. With no reply, he tried to open the door, finding it locked. As he ran for his cell phone stowed away on his bike, the cyclist looked around the area in the hopes that someone else would be there to help him, maybe console the dread he felt in that moment of stumbling into the idling dead. As the phone rang, and the operator asked him about his emergency, he found no one nearby. The house across the street, despite the car in the driveway, appeared empty. The only answer to the looming truck housing the dead man was a pair of small Pomeranians leaping and yipping at the window.

***

Mrs. Montoya placed the phone to her heart as she shushed the dogs. They clamored to the window, yipping in chorus at something in front of the house. Focused on answering her son, she dismissed the disturbance as a passing ground bird or jogger that had caught their attention. She still had not given her son a real answer, though he carried on still as though she had already agreed to help him.

“One day I’ll make it up to you, Mom,” he said. “I promise.”

“When is that going to be?” she asked. She tensed up. She had never asked him that so bluntly before.

His side of the phone went quiet. She could hear his breath falter but through the phone could not detect if he was choking back tears or rage. “I wish I knew. As soon as I can.”

It was the answer he gave with each act of charity, with each bailout she offered. If she did not press him on it before, it was for the sake of her granddaughter. Now, alone in the house with the two dogs, she questioned if that was a good enough reason.

As though sensing her conflict, Al continued, his voice faltering. “Mom, I swear. As soon as things are better, I can pay you back.”

She did not respond, because the more she thought about it, the more she wanted to take back her charity. How might her life had turned out if she had made that decision sooner? What would it mean if she made it now of all times? She did not know what she would say next. She would let whatever thought bubbled up to the surface decide what she did. If it was a rejection, she would stick by it. If she consoled him, she would allow it only one last time.

Sirens wailed outside. The dogs yapped, futilely attempting to be heard over the commotion. She looked out the window and saw the grill of a large pickup truck looming outside. Inside it, a middle-aged man was slumped back in the driver’s seat. A cyclist stood by the open driver’s side door, anxiously waving his arms at the approaching emergency vehicles.

Al must have heard the sirens as well. “Mom?” he asked. “What’s that sound?”

Overwhelmed by the sight and the sound, she did not want to cede an answer. Too much was happening outside of her reach.

Al’s voice faintly called up from the phone as the first of the emergency vehicles arrived, its flashing lights exciting the Pomeranians even more. The blare of the sirens and the renewed vigor of the dogs made the air shudder with sound. Luminous red-blue, red-blue and the sudden rush of medics tending to the driver overwhelmed her. Yet even in the swirl of the earth around her she could hear faintly a voice on the other end of the phone.

“Mom?” Al asked. “Are you okay?”

***

By the time the EMTs arrived on the scene, Arnold Miller had been dead for hours. It was only when they attempted to pull him from the driver’s seat that they discovered the vehicle still in drive, his foot still firmly on the brake. An EMT acted quickly to place the vehicle in park before the truck could roll. Only then was the driver relieved of his position. After checking for life signs and examining the body, the EMT reassured the cyclist that there was nothing he could have done. The man had passed long before he arrived. Just as they pulled him from the vehicle, Mrs. Abigail Montoya, the resident of the house across from the intersection, emerged to see what had happened. They explained the situation—the dead man in the truck. When she expressed shock that the vehicle had been sitting there the entire time, a responder tried to calm her.

“There’s not much you could have done,” one of them said. “He went pretty quick.”

Later, as they drove back to the station, a medic remarked on the case.

“That old lady had a guardian angel looking out for her,” he said.

Another scoffed. “If you believe in that sort of thing,”

“You don’t?”

“No, but I think the old guy in the truck went out like a hero.”

Afterwards, they rode along in silence, awaiting the next dispatch. They would tell the story at parties, or to new hires fresh from their training and adjusting to the daily morbidities that come in their work. Each telling would emphasize a different aspect of the scene—the quiet of the road, Mrs. Montoya’s shock at having a dead man idling for hours a few car-lengths from her front door, the frantic bounce of the Pomeranians in the window. In all these versions, the unifying image that connected them all remained. Opening the truck door, the form of Arnold Miller remained slumped backward, yet the weight of his body kept the whole scene in place—precarious, tentative. The simple kindness of a foot gently pressing the brake as if to say, “Here, and no further.”

***

The shed in what was once Arnold Miller’s backyard remained unfinished. Though the new owners did not have much need for it, the effort to tear it down was more than the small square of empty space in the yard was worth. On cold winter mornings, after the bluster of a snowstorm, the high snow piled in the backyard. A plain while field, chest-high, sometimes overtaking the back porch, blanketed the property. Everything in the yard was buried and featureless beneath the glimmering white, save for a small jutting structure. Despite its age, the shed still held during those winters. Its intact form sat under the snow as reminder of the solid world beneath, still hidden, waiting to return.

~~~

Eric Notaro has appeared, or is forthcoming, in Sequestrum, Pleiades, Zone 3, and other publications. He has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net and was a longlist finalist for the 2023 Electric Book Award by Alternating Currents Press. He currently lives in New Hampshire.