A Chance Encounter
© Alan Davidson

“…and that’s just the stuff needing done now—“

“We’ll deal with it after the Christmas bills,” she said.

Connor let out a long sigh. “We’ve dropped into a giant pit.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s the house. It leaves us with no money. That means we’ve got no freedom...and no choice. But there is a way to deal with it,” he said, looking at her hopefully.

“I’m not getting rid of this place. No friggin’ way!” Jessica’s exit was punctuated by her stomping feet. She slammed the door for emphasis. They were about to go to bed when their conversation had turned to the repairs needed for their heritage house.

Connor had been reminding her about the repairs that were needed on their Victorian monstrosity: the 22 year old roof, the 38 year old furnace and the driveway repaving. The most recent issue involved the immigration of vermin. The mice and bats, he suspected, gained access through one of the many holes in the house’s ornate soffits. He suspected that they were comfortably breeding in its warm, dark recesses.

Jessica didn’t seem to—or didn’t want to—understand the concept of a budget. Each time he broached the subject of selling the house she went into a snit. Her sales position, and his management job at a window and door supplier, barely covered the bills.

They had met nearly 13 years ago; a chance encounter at a charity fundraiser. Months later their speedy courtship led to marriage. Connor suggested starting a family immediately, but Jessica wanted to wait until financial stability. Now, in their late thirties, Connor felt time had escaped them. Their goals and dreams had eluded them.

Connor turned off the living room lamps and lay on the lumpy couch in an attempt to fall asleep. The curtains were open and the outside street lamp cast a pallid glow on the cracked plaster walls.

He grabbed a throw blanket and wrapped himself in a cocoon of warmth. Connor stared at the ceiling for a long time; the flat wooden accents that criss-crossed the ceiling formed a web-like pattern. A shadowy movement caught his eye. It appeared again. A whispering noise intruded on the room’s silence. Whap! Whap! Whap!

Connor leapt from the couch and switched on the table lamp. A small, brown bat flew the length of the living room, curved the ten foot width and flew back, finishing its cycle. It seemed a harmless creature, yet Connor’s heart thudded within his chest. He held his blanket at arms length and corralled the bat into the hall. He slid the pocket doors closed, trapping it in the area. He was amazed that it could negotiate flight in such a cramped environment. Connor opened the front door wide and eventually the bat flew low enough to escape through the portal into the cold night.

Carrying his blanket to the couch, his heart nearing a regular rhythm, he again tried to fall asleep. He stared at the patterned ceiling.

He pushed the button on his digital watch and the light illuminated his face. It was 4:45am. Connor could not recall having slept at all. This was the worst night this could have happened. His staff expected him at 6:00am, for a breakfast meeting, to discuss this morning’s presentation.

Connor rolled from the couch to his knees on the rug. From this prone position he arched his back, stretching his arms out in front of himself. He got to his feet and shuffled into the kitchen. The usual kitchen smells were overpowered by the stench of decay. He sniffed about until he isolated its source beneath the sink. He opened the cabinet and stuck his head into the tiny space. A dead mouse lay in a trap he had set last week. Its back was broken and it leaked bodily fluids onto the lining paper. Connor gingerly picked up the trap and remains, sealed them in a plastic bag and threw them in the garbage.

In the bathroom he washed and carefully shaved, yet still managed to cut the tender skin of his throat. A drop of blood hit the white porcelain sink, mingled with the water and meandered to the drain.

Connor pulled his suit from the hall closet and dressed in the dimly lit passage. He struggled with the top button of his tight fitting collar but eventually managed to fasten it. He normally had Jessica do his tie, but there was no way he was going to wake her. He tied and untied it several times until he deemed it acceptable.

There had been a dusting of snow last night and a gentle breeze emphasized the coolness of the morning. Connor hurried to his car, started it up and cranked the heat to full. He drove south towards the highway on the city’s near-empty streets. All the major intersections he approached teased him with green lights, only to halt him with reds. He tapped his foot and drummed his fingers. At one point he flirted with going through a red but decided against it as they could ill-afford a ticket.

As he proceeded across the 401 overpass, he noticed a colourful light far in the distance. It was pale green and bright, like a floodlight, and sat low on the horizon. He continued south towards his office; his headlights lit the snow covered fields that stretched for miles on both sides of the single-lane highway. In a few months, most of these fields will be thick with corn and peas. A few will lie fallow.

The dark countryside continued for miles and still the pale light hung in the distance like a lighthouse beacon. As he got closer, Connor noticed that there was not only a green light, but several smaller white and red lights on either side.

Connor pulled to the shoulder of the road to study the lights. He sat directly in front of a tall, steel skeleton that supported the power lines. The object was just above and beyond the hanging cables. He rolled down the window, allowing the warm air to escape his small capsule. The hairs in his nostrils were tickled as breathed in the cold, organic air that mixed with exhaust fumes from his idling car.

The smaller lights were blinking faster now, in no apparent pattern; the large green light still held steady. It was too dark to make out the shape of the hovering object. Connor now heard a faint hum and wondered if it was from the object, or from the overhead power lines.

To his left lay the narrow, gravel road that wound its way to the heart of the agricultural region. It would take him very close to the foreign object. In front of him, lit by the car’s headlights, lay the well travelled highway. Connor licked his lips and brushed away loose hair that had fallen into his eyes. His pale face was illuminated as he checked the time. 5:40am. If he hurried he could make it to work in twenty minutes. Connor rolled up his window and loosened off his tie. He cranked the steering wheel left and started down the gravel road, east toward the object and the looming break of day.





Alan Davidson works as a structural steel draftsman. He lives, with his wife and son, on the continent’s edge in the old city of St. John’s. He is a member of the Writer’s Alliance of Newfoundland and Labrador and is taking baby steps towards writing his first novel.