Chopped into triangles by the superstructure of the bridge, the sun strobed as he accelerated across the span. On and off the sun flashed—the sunlight splintered and exploded. The sharp steel cut the sun like a sickle. Something in his mind snapped. The pavement a field of fallen sun. He drove over the harvest.
 
He closed his eyes. The light played upon his lids like a film leader. There was a countdown. The numeral 5 appeared in the center of a circle. A line swept around like a second hand —the circle greying behind the brush. As the radius line reached the 12 O'clock position, the numeral 4 appeared and the second hand swept again. 3. The second hand swept again, 2, 1. The Hudson flowed below. He glanced up at the road.
 
"Maybe you should drive for a little while baby."
 
She was a good driver. He could recognize a good driver immediately. The first time he had seen her slide behind the wheel and insert the key, he knew. She had performed a silent preflight check, located every switch and dial and adjusted the mirrors. On the road, she understood that it was all about anticipating—being aware of how things were unfolding—seeing the highway, not running out of fuel or overheating—knowing that Chrysler up ahead was going to cut across three lanes and exit at the last possible moment.
 
He was having these thoughts with his eyes tightly shut, traveling twice the legal limit. He took a quick peek at the road. The strobing was worse than ever. His pupils were wildly dilated—his car bouncing over a fresh crop of sun, dropped there by the steel scythe.
 
Another countdown: 4, 3, 2, 1. We have ignition. Lift off. A triangular window in the lunar module throwing a sliver of sun onto the astronaut's spacesuit—touching down in The Sea of Tranquility.
 
"Wake up!"
 
She was screaming. Steering with her left, hitting him with her right, eyes on the road. "Slow down a little," she said.
 
Maybe she could steer and he could work the pedals. He eased off a bit and the strobing slowed—this frequency setting him off. They were less than a third of the way across the bridge. There was no stopping.
 
"Set cruise control," she said, as she pressed the buttons in the correct sequence. "Relax, it's clear sailing."
 
He wasn't so sure. The strobing was relentless.
 
"I have seen how this goes, and this is not how it ends," she said. Presumably, she did know how it ended. This girl practiced clairvoyance.
 
"Is there an M?" she would ask, sitting at a little round table—East Village seer, Second Avenue storefront, crystal ball ready.
 
"Is there an M?"
 
"Momma?" mumbles the mark.
 
"Where is your mother? For you to be truly free, you must bring to me her diamond broach. Money is not important, your well being is at stake."
 
Her sister also had the gift. Her uncle ran the show.
 
The strobing flickered like a movie. There was a title card that appeared to be in Romani.
 
She learned to drive taking twice weekly trips to Philadelphia with her uncle. At thirteen she would ride with him for some kind of delivery or pick up. Outside the warehouse, waiting for him to reappear, she would sit behind the wheel—pretending to drive. She located switches for lights, wipers, turn signals, and high beams. She practiced pressing the pedals.
 
There were rolls of fifties and hundreds held by broccoli rubber bands in a gypsy trunk. She never asked any questions—a condition for riding along. But, even as a kid, she knew the storefront operation didn't generate that kind of cash. One day, her uncle emerged from the meeting not right. "You must drive," he said. She was fourteen.
 
The Jersey Turnpike was a terrifying thrill—every driver aggressive all the time. The bench seat pulled close, her uncle's knees at his chin, his head loose on the spine. There was change for the tollbooth mixed up with spent cigarettes in the ashtray—a hook shot into the basket as she had seen him do.
 
She started to drive the route regularly—her uncle giving her pointers and navigating on the way down to Philly—out of it and no help on the way back to New York.
 
When she was fifteen, her uncle died in the car—a bullet in his chest. Her high-speed chase to the hospital, Pennsylvania State troopers in pursuit, made the national news.
 
The film reel ran out and unspooled. They were two thirds of the way across the bridge. The strobing continued. The sun fell like golden wheat.
 
"Hey baby," he said. His eyes tightly closed.
 
"Yes," she said, calmly steering from the passenger seat.
 
"When you see the future," he continued, "What does it look like? I mean, do you watch a little stage play inside the crystal ball? Do you hear voices?"
 
"Every person who steps into shop knows future already," she said. "It is only for me to help them to see it."
 
"When I came to you that day, and you read my fortune," he said, "Did you know we would become lovers?"
 
"Of course," she said, "The cards told me so. Also, I thought you were rich. Turns out I was wrong about that, but you are gentle soul. And you have car in Manhattan."
 
"And what about your uncle? Couldn't you see that coming? Could you affect the future?"
 
"He knew that he would meet a violent end," she answered. "When you live a life such as his, it is only matter of time. He chose not to concern himself with any of those thoughts. Also I took rolls of money. I was a child. There was so much. I thought no one would notice. In...how you say? In retrospect, I may have hastened his demise. I can see future, but timing is most difficult to discern."
 
"What about the end? You said that you have seen how this ends."
 
"The end for you?" she said. "You know that it will be peaceful. You will slip away in your sleep. And I will be by your side."
 
He went into a dream about sleeping and grinding wheat, his snoring the sound of millstones. She studied the lines on his palms. She conjured a little stage play and heard voices.
 
She failed to see the brake lights up ahead. The chaff scattered on the breeze and fell into the river below.
 
 
© Jon Montgomery 2021