Nothing to Lose

Nothing to Lose By Mitchell Toews First published on Fiction on the Web, July 2016

The man's arm hung from the window of the bread delivery van. He tapped his wedding band absentmindedly against the Hartplatz Bakery logo painted on the door. Viewed from above, the van carried enough speed down the flat country road to raise a vee-shaped plume of fine white dust, like the wake of a boat.

The dust hung in the heavy midsummer air, settling almost imperceptibly and with clinging persistence on the rose hips and yarrow and fescue and crocus growing alongside the road and down into the ditches. Dry fields lining the road awaited a summer storm; the first large drops would land as heavy as pats of butter.
Inside the van, a residue of Five Roses flour dusted the man's hair and stood out on the peach fuzz on his ears and the sloping nape of his neck.

He shifted down into second gear and eased the clutch back out making the motor race and the rear wheels check on the sandy gravel, adjusting their pace to the new ratio and slowing for the intersection ahead. The geometric roads drew a pale yellowish cross in dark green alfalfa fields.

"ARRET" the sign demanded, in the de Salaberry Rural Municipality, north of the town of Hartplatz. The panel van rolled to a stop and the driver - the owner of the bakery, Hart Zehen - revved the engine once and then turned off the ignition. He sat in the close heat of the vehicle, the radiator ticking rapidly and crickets and frogs keeping time from their hiding places in the grass.

A male Red Wing Blackbird swooped down towards a bulrush with its three-toed feet splayed out to grasp the brown, cigar-shaped spadix. His wings flared open just in time to stall and spill enough speed for landing. Trilling, the bird cocked its head, and then took off as quickly as it had come, leaving the bulrush swaying.

Hart checked his wristwatch again. Still 20 minutes early for the wedding delivery to the Giroux Hall. He knew the manager there and he did not want to spend any extra time with him. The order called for him to bring the buns, 80 dozen zwieback, by 6:30. So 6:30 it would be.

He opened the door and it creaked, piercing the quiet. Swinging his legs out, he pushed off the seat edge to land with both feet, a dusty plop on the road. He looked back at the sky to the northwest, where, impressively, an impasto storm cloud was building. It was dark purple at the bottom and startling white higher up, contrasting with the cerulean prairie sky. The thunderhead hung with menace, gathering bulk as Hart stood far below - an Israelite facing the giant Philistine.

The radio came on loudly when Hart leaned in and gave the key a quarter turn. It carried a baseball game from Minneapolis, the signal skipping in off the cloud cover to the south.

"Killebrew, the young first baseman, leads off this inning," announced the play-by-play man, his flat Midwest accent pinching off the words and sounding foreign to the Manitoba baker, far to the north. "Ball one! A curveball that Harmon left alone. Good eye, it bounced in the dirt in front of home plate."

Imagining, Hart sat on his haunches in the crossroads and flashed a sign for fastball. Deliberately, he adjusted his imaginary mask with his right hand and presented a low target to the pitcher; a single rogue sunflower plant growing in the stony edge of the northbound lane. The tournesol sat atop a thick green stalk, its speckled face staring unblinkingly towards the southwest.

"STEE-rike!" the announcer shouted. Hart gathered four or five smooth hardball size stones and laid them near where he crouched. He picked one and tossed it towards the sunflower, standing tall and attentive in the angled evening sunlight that shone on the two of them.