Wispy clouds hanging in a sky so blue and crisp, it looked like a painting. Acrylic, the father thought. Pretty sure acrylic paints made all the colors more intense. So deep and bright, he had to squint against the light.
“Dad.”
“What?”
“Throw the ball.”
“I can hardly see you little man. The sun in my eyes.”
“C’mon, throw it,” the boy said and pounded his hand into his glove.
He blocked the glare with the edge of his left hand, wound up for a good throw and let it go. Too much force in that one. A high parabolic arc over his son’s head headed for the street.
The boy turned to run for it. On the edge of the father’s vision, a car coming down fast from the winding road that led down from the cul-de-sac up on the hill, moving too fast for this neighborhood filled with young children and dogs. His mind did a quick calculation: the boy, the ball, and the car would meet at the same spot in the street at the same moment.
The father squeezed the words out. “Stop. Stop. A car.”
The words felt like they were coming from someone else, like an echo at a distance, unconnected to and disembodied from the slowing time and events that were playing themselves out as though scripted and unchangeable, all leading to one nightmarish conclusion.
He ran through the thickness, “No. No.” The words echoed against unseen walls.
The ball rolled into the street. The car and his little boy. Had to make it there first but it was too far, too late, and the script had something else in mind.
Then, the inexplicable. A sudden break in the fabric of time and events. The car stopped like it had hit a wall.
“You don’t run into the street after a ball. You don’t do that. Forget about the damn ball.” He was surprised he could yell. Felt like it was not him at all. Try to act normal. Try not to show the fear. Had to have control. Act like a father.
“It’s okay Dad.”
“No. It’s not okay. Go back there and wait for me.”
The father went over to the passenger side of the car, leaned over and looked in the window. The fat faced man didn’t look at him. He was looking at something else, something maybe only he could see, staring straight ahead.
The father said, “Good you were able to stop in time. Sorry about that. I’ll make sure he doesn’t do that again. Gotta talk to him. But you want to go a bit slower. Too many kids around here. This neighborhood. Too easy for something to happen. Something bad.”
Go easy on this guy, looks like he came close to having a heart attack. The man’s eyes were wide, unfocused, his face drained. And then the father heard what sounded like spinning wheels, a whirring engine. The man shook his head as if he was coming back, back to this world. He looked down and jammed his foot on the brake. The car seemed to sink, just a bit, as though it had been floating in the air, the wheels squealed to a stop as they hit the pavement. But that was impossible and the mind filtered the impossible. Sweat ran down into the man’s eyes but he sat unmoving and stared at nothing.