The Underworld Circus

The Underworld Circus: Chapter 2

The next morning was Monday, and she had class early, so she was already gone by the time he shuffled out of bed and padded to the kitchen for coffee. Brutus followed close behind, hoping for a dropped morsel or a loving pat. Either one would be voraciously consumed by the gentle beast. He drank his coffee the way his mother did (black) and made himself some toast.

After the coffee perked him up, Charlie took Brutus down to the dog area to do his business. The sun was shining, the sky was faded denim with gentle white rips of clouds. It felt like a good day to accept that life might actually have meaning after all.

Once the dog was finished, and Charlie had disposed of the mess like a good neighbor, they returned home. Brutus attacked his favorite chew toy while Charlie fired up the computer in the second bedroom, which Ramona referred to as his office, even though six months in and he still hadn't managed to produce a manuscript he felt was worth submitting to anyone. Charlie felt until he managed to do that, it was not an office as much as a hobbyist's den.

Charlie sat at the desk and stared at the blinking cursor. Sometimes, that cursor mocked him. Today it just seemed playful, and he managed to slide into the throes of composition with very little turbulence. He was up to 35,000 words, which was roughly half a novel. So, he was getting somewhere, though "where" exactly that was, he wasn't certain.

It was going on noon when his cell rang. It was Ramona's mother. That wasn't entirely out of the ordinary, but it wasn't a common thing either. He answered cautiously, "Hello?"

"Charles?" Not Ramona's mother, but her father.

"Yes?"

"It's Steven," he said. "You have to come to the hospital, quick. Ramona's been in an accident."

Charlie's stomach dropped through the floor. "What kind of accident?"

"Car accident," he said, and his voice was strained. "They're taking her in for emergency surgery right now."

Charlie didn't remember ending the conversation or getting to his feet, but suddenly he was hurrying down the stairwell, car keys clutched in his hand, heart hammering in his chest like something wild in a cage.

He did not speed recklessly, but he did not come to a full stop at any point unless it was at a controlled light. He chain-smoked the entire way, and by the time he got there, he wasn't sure if he was more hopped up on anxiety or nicotine.

Charlie parked and ran across the lot, through the foyer, and up to the second floor. He knew from his reaping duties that the long-term cares were on the third floor, and the second floor was the ICU patients. The smell of death was stronger than it had been before. Did that mean anything, or was fear twisting his senses? He honestly couldn't tell.

The nurses at the station were busy on the phones and talking to patients, but one nearby must have recognized the depth of the emergency by the look on his face. She asked, "Can I help you find someone?"

"Ramona Engel."

"Her family is down in 212," said the nurse. He didn't like that she didn't even have to look it up. That couldn't be a good sign, could it?

Charlie rushed down the hallway and into room 212, nearly running into Ramona's father. He was a tall man with Ramona's reddish brown hair, though his full beard was his own. Steven had the kind of stature as well as presence that made him seem about fifteen feet tall. Or, usually he did. Right now he seemed diminished, broken, clutching to his much shorter wife, who was sobbing into his chest.

Steven looked at him, unshed tears glistening. His eyes were a darker hazel than Ramona's, but still very similar.

Charlie didn't need them to say it. In fact, when Steven opened his mouth, Charlie put his hand up and waved the words away, saying, "No. No."