Too Late

He knew he was running late, but he had no idea what he was late for.

It wasn't work, he still had a little over a week of "vacation" left.

He doubted it was lunch with his wife, or any of the social functions she dragged him to every time she got a chance. He could hear her in the bathroom through the closed door, and there was no way she would have let him sleep when she wanted him to be doing something else.

The same would go for any plans he would have made with their son. They barely tolerated his broken promises and empty chairs when he was stuck at work; there was no way he could beg off without even that refuge.

Maybe the persistent urge to be rushing off somewhere - anywhere - was nothing more than habit or nerves. Free time and idleness had become foreign concepts to him, momentum required that he constantly be on the move.

With that thought, he shrugged and got up to see what his wife was up to. His rhythmic gait that brought him through the doorway missed a beat when he saw her chosen ensemble for the day - a tailored black pantsuit. A bit somber compared to her usual frivolous, brightly colored dresses, skirts, and blouses, but it didn't lessen her beauty a bit, he noticed. He marveled for a moment that she seemed even more beautiful than the day they met 20 years ago. Some things seemed to only get better with age, she was obviously one of them. He, with the swollen midsection his tailor fought to hide, prematurely graying hair, and hounddog face, obviously was not.

He relished the sight of her in the mirror for a moment with pride before insinuating himself between his wife and the mirror.

"Hey cutie... whatcha all dressed up for?"

The only look he got was a momentary look of distraction and a shiver, which wasn't really an acknowledgement at all. She looked right through him, finished applying her make up, then headed for the bathroom door.

"Honey," he called "Is something wrong?"

She paused for a moment, head half turned, hand on the doorknob, but then shook her head, opened the door, and walked out.

He sat there, perplexed, as he listened to her herd their son out the door with admonitions of being late then slamming and locking the door.

As he heard the car start, the feeling that he should be somewhere rose again. He thought to check his day planner, but his wife demanded that he leave it at work during the vacation. Of course, he thought, she'd never know if he called his secretary and asked her to take a look at it for him.

He skimmed through the previous day's newspaper while he waited for his secretary to answer the line. Instead her voice mail picked up.

"The offices of McBride, Johansen, and Schmidt are closed today for mourning. We will reopen for business tomorrow. You are welcome to call back in the morning or leave a message and we will return your call as soon as possible.

If you are calling regarding the funeral, it will be held in Windy Lawn Funeral Home at 10AM.

Thank you for calling"

He hung up the line. Funeral? What funeral? Four days out of the office and already he'd been cut out of the loop.

He flipped through the newspaper to the obituaries on the off chance there may be something there. That's when it hit him and he remembered.

The rainy drive home, speeding to meet his wife after yet another day working too late.

The light he ran after it turned red.

The driver of the 18-wheeler blowing his big airhorn.

The squeal of his breaks and those of the truck.

The skidding and the horror as he saw the truck jacknife and the trailer come sliding around towards him.

Now he knew where he was supposed to be.

He was late to his own funeral.