like an acid bath and he was finding it hard to breathe. His nose and mouth were full of blood. Each inhalation labored against crushed ribs and a punctured lung.
Alvin’s pained smile turned to surprise when he recognized the boy looking down at him as the one he’d just tried to kill. How could he have lived? he wondered blackly. But even as he thought it, the spell over him broke, his hatred suddenly remedied by the true kindness of his own gentle soul. “My name is Alvin,” he said. He was actually glad when the boy smiled back at him.
Suddenly Alvin wasn’t sure if his eyes were still open. Reality moved into darkness, bringing with it Alvin’s fear of impending death. He could sense several onlookers moving closer, the circle of their bodies drawing tight, making it harder to breath.
“My name is Archer,” the boy said.
“That’s a funny name,” Alvin replied, his face inquisitive against the pain. “Even funnier and me having met a lad of that name just a night ago.”
Alvin was glad he could see the boy’s smile grow as he realized who lay before him. “Alvin! My God, Alvin, it’s me. It’s me, Archer. You met me last night.” By the time Archer finished gushing out the words, he’d begun to cry. His lips grew taut.
“Well it is you, Archer, in’t it?” said Alvin, squeezing Archer’s fingers harder. “Thanks be to God you’ve lived.”
“I’m fine, Alvin. Don’t worry about me. Help is on the way.” Archer looked frantically up at the crowd and was reminded of the one-dimensional faces gathered in pews at church.
“How’s my truck?” Alvin coughed.
“It could use a polish.”
Alvin tried to laugh in response, but only succeeded in covering his chin in bloody sputum. “I don’ know what happened.” His smashed face looked as serious as he could make it. “One minute I was resting in my cab, and the next I was trying to kill you.”
“It was an accident,” replied Archer. “Just hold on. Try not to talk. The paramedics will sort it all out.” Archer’s mind hadn’t begun to try to comprehend what had actually happened.
Just then, Alvin opened the fingers of his other hand and lifted something to his face. It was the picture of Tatiana, torn from the keychain. Tears rolled from his eyes, diluting the blood on his cheeks.
“She’s beautiful,” Archer said.
For a long second, neither of them spoke.
“Come closer,” Alvin whispered, trying to lift his head.
Archer leaned in so close their faces almost touched. He could hear Alvin’s chest gurgling.
“Is it really true your twin brother’s an Indian?”
Archer was surprised by the question but nodded affirmation.
“Archer! I can’t be sure. I can only think of one thing that makes any sense at all. I think that black man had something to do with all this. I’ve been having terrible dreams and he’s been in every one of them. I felt him in me life, in me living day. Every night they come, the Indians in their paint, to drag me from my bed, to murder me…” Archer strained to hear Alvin’s words, fast growing softer than a whisper.
Archer well remembered their conversation about Indians and their depressed moods, but he’d let the alcohol temper its importance. He’d spent this morning drinking lots of water, eating lots of pasta, and reaffirming his belief that his nightmares and sullen mood were due to his own unique circumstances.
Archer thought it remarkable that blood no longer pumped out of the hole beneath his hands. Several seconds clicked past, Archer expecting the next word from Alvin, almost desperate to hear it. His mind raced with questions.
“Alvin?” But even as he whispered the name, he realized the gurgling sound had rumbled to nothing. Tears streamed with renewed force as Alvin bowed his head and squeezed Archer’s fingers for the last time. The picture of Tatiana beneath his left hand rested over his heart.
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