Ticket To Ride
by Dru Ann Love and Kristopher Zgorski
originally published in
Happiness Is A Warm Gun: Crime Fiction Inspired by the Songs of The Beatles edited by Josh Pachter
October 2023
This story is a finalist for the Agatha Award, and is eligible for the Anthony Award.
NOW
Perhaps Lizzy’s recent doctor’s appointments are weighing on us. Whatever the reason, this morning I feel an overwhelming sense that I am losing her, that she is drifting away, and my usual melancholy descends deeper into sadness.
The ancient television on our chipped Formica kitchen countertop flickers into life. Its black-and-white picture rolls, then comes to rest.
“… a memorial will soon be erected to honor the thirteen individuals who lost their lives on that tragic day in 1993. Later in this special edition, we’ll talk with several experts who will explain how a senseless act of violence changed the city of New York….”
I snap off the set in disgust and shake my head, the only sane response to the naiveté of these clueless newscasters.
I mustn’t let today’s anniversary get to me. Lizzy will know something is wrong, and that’s the last thing she needs in her condition.
Though I know I shouldn’t, I let my mind drift back thirty years….
***
THEN
The Monday-afternoon humidity followed me like a shadow, coating my dark brown skin with a sheen of moisture, like dew on morning leaves. I was on my way to a job interview, and it was hard to tell if the sweat was from nerves or the weather. A teaching job at one of Manhattan’s prestigious high schools would be great—I’d always wanted to make a difference in the lives of young people. At my current school, I was little more than a glorified babysitter.
I darted down the subway stairs, found a token in my pocket, and passed through the turnstile. I felt the breeze of the approaching train and smiled as its sliding doors stopped right in front of me.
A crowd streamed from the train, and I pushed against the flow like a salmon swimming upstream and made it aboard before the doors closed. I found a seat next to a young woman about my age. Her alabaster skin glistened in the dim lighting.
“Do you happen to have the time?” I asked. I almost shook my head at the triteness of the line.
“It’s one twenty-five.”
“Thank you,” I said.
At the next stop, several people got off, leaving the half-full car with some breathing room. A young man stood by the door as if guarding it. I had a weird feeling that something wasn’t right. There were empty seats, so why wasn’t he sitting down?
“A warm day, isn’t it?” I asked, attempting to prolong the conversation with the beautiful woman seated next to me.
Before she could respond, the young man began pacing up and down the aisle, mumbling angrily. I locked eyes with him, and his stare was intense and erratic. The woman beside me wrapped her arms protectively around her black purse. Was it possible that her white skin had become even paler?
I was leaning over to assure her that things would be okay when I heard a pop-pop-pop.
The kid was waving a gun with a randomness that bordered on chaos, and the train exploded with the sounds of more bullets being fired.
“Get down,” I screamed, diving for the floor.
The shooting continued, and the passengers scrambled for cover, screaming for help. Blood splattered on the car’s windows, poles, and floor, and the screams faded into moans, like the drone of a wasp’s nest before a swarm.
When the train finally stopped again, the young man dropped his gun and raced out the automatic doors, running toward the stairs.
There were screams and tears all around me. All I wanted was to escape being trapped for even a moment longer, but I remembered the woman who had told me the time just before the carnage began. Seeing her huddled on the floor, I reached for her hand—and that’s when I noticed the blood darkening her blouse.
***
NOW
The sizzle of bacon beckons Lizzy to the kitchen. I pour cocoa for both of us and set a plate before her.
She smiles. “Lester, it smells so good! How do you make the bacon this crisp?”
“Years of practice, my dear, years of practice.”
She laughs and eats her breakfast, staring off into space, enjoying the new day.
When we finish, I clear the table. While Lizzy gets dressed, I wash the dishes. She considers the simple chores I do to make her life easier the acts of a knight in shining armor, but they’re really just my way of showing her my love. What would she think if she knew how far I’ve taken my devotion?
Once I complete my kitchen tasks, I find Lizzy sitting on the edge of the bed in a blue sweater and a pair of black slacks, looking just as beautiful as the day I married her.
“Are we going to have fun today?” she asks.
I chuckle. “Yes, my love, I thought maybe we’d head to Coney Island and recapture our youth.”
I can see her delighted reaction to the idea of fun and frolic, but I worry that, somewhere deep in her mind, she is remembering the neurologist’s most recent report.
Her repetitive questions, increasing confusion, and general anxiety are warnings that her condition is worsening, but most concerning of late have been the memory lapses.
Sure enough, she almost instantly forgets my suggestion of an excursion to Coney Island and drifts off to that magical place where she has no concerns. I hate to disturb her, but the doctor has told us that mental stimulation and exercise will be good for her—and the process of getting out the door takes time.
“Honey, let’s go,” I say, and immediately see the tics that begin when she realizes we’ll be leaving our building. “It’s safe out there, remember? I’ll never let anyone hurt you again.”
I felt the same way thirty years ago, when I first walked into her hospital room….
***
THEN
I held the woman’s damaged body until the paramedics arrived. I could feel her energy level dropping. Her face was swollen where she’d slammed against the metal seat on her way down, and the bullet wound wouldn’t stop bleeding. Thankfully, I heard her whisper her name to the EMTs as they wheeled the gurney away. They wouldn’t let me ride with them, of course, but at least they told me where they were taking her.
The chairs in the hospital’s waiting room were calming shades of blue and green, but I was unable to control my nerves enough to sit. Instead, I paced the floor like an expectant father. I knew there was no way the ER staff would give me any information, much less allow me to visit a woman I’d met only a few hours earlier. Yet something compelled me to stay as close to her side as I could.
Sometime in the middle of the night, a nurse tapped my shoulder, waking me from a fitful nap. “Miss Lizzy is asking for you,” she said.
I followed her down antiseptic halls, past beeping machines and their whispering operators. Behind an ugly green curtain, I found Lizzy in bed, bandaged and bruised. Despite the ordeal she had undergone, she was still beautiful.
When the nurse left us alone, Lizzy gave her best effort at a smile. “The nurse told me someone was in the waiting room. I knew it had to be you.”
I approached her bedside. “How did you convince them to let me see you?”
Her cheeks flushed. “I might have told them you were my fiancé,” she said, unable to disguise the giggle behind the words.
“You did not! Well, in that case, I’d better introduce myself. I’m Lester Evans.”
“I’m glad you’re here, Lester Evans,” she said. “I don’t have anyone else.”
“You have me,” I said, taking her hand. “You’ll always have me.”
I didn’t know at the time how prophetic those words would become.
***
NOW
A taxi blares its horn to alert some slowpoke to its presence, and Lizzy hunches over and covers her ears at the sound. I stroke her hand reassuringly.
These moments of comfort are what have sustained us for three decades. Our life today bears little resemblance to what we envisioned. After we got married, Lizzy decided she couldn’t bear to bring a child into a world so dominated by gun violence. There were periods when she felt that living with me was bringing her down—seeing me was a constant reminder of that tragic morning on the subway. But we endured, and now at last we are happy.
From the vestibule of our building, flashing headlights alert us to the arrival of our Uber. I carefully navigate Lizzy outside, open the door for her, and make sure she is settled before circling the car to get in on the other side.
I put on my seat belt before turning to help Lizzy with hers. To my surprise, I see her mimic my movements, proudly buckling herself in without assistance.
It may seem silly to consider such a simple act as an accomplishment, but survivors of traumatic events are much more likely to develop early-onset dementia. Now that my wife is headed in that direction, I relish those moments when the old Lizzy, the independent Lizzy, re-emerges from the gathering fog.
I will go to my grave blaming that subway gunman for what he did to her, what he took from her, from us.
Just thinking about it makes what I did all the more understandable….
***
THEN
It was happenstance, the day I saw him again, twenty-five years after his rampage. I had walked to our neighborhood convenience store to pick up a few items, and there in line before me was that face, a face I could never forget. Like me, he had aged—but his cold eyes had not changed.
My first instinct was to call the cops, but something stopped me. Justice is served less and less often, these days—some legal loophole or lawyerly b.s. gets in the way. So I followed him instead, as if I was Easy Rawlins deep into an investigation.
To my dismay, I learned that, after the psychiatrists had judged him rehabilitated and released him from his long confinement to a mental institution, he had rented a place just two blocks from our apartment. That was almost certainly a coincidence, but its nature didn’t alter its impact.
The subway gunman hadn’t a care in the world, while just a few corners away Lizzy’s deteriorating cognitive health was a constant challenge. Unsure what to do, I returned home, but soon found myself lingering outside his building night after night.
I had become a stalker, and at last I decided to approach him directly, to tell him I was there that day he destroyed so many lives, including my wife’s.
When I did, he threw back his head and laughed.
My blood boiled, the anger that lurked behind the veil of our life together burst loose, and before I knew what I was doing my hands were around his neck. I strangled him without a second thought, and when I was sure his life was over a sense of calm settled over me.
We were only a few steps from the Gowanus Canal, and I felt confident it would be virtually impossible to discover a body there.
***
NOW
“I love this stretch of road,” I say as we turn onto Ocean Parkway, using landmarks as a distraction from the doctor’s diagnosis. Deterioration is progressing faster than we would like. We knew for some time that this was inevitable, but hearing it said so matter-of-factly still came as a shock.
I lean closer to Lizzy. “We’re approaching the curve that gives you a view of the Aquarium, sweetie.” I watch her face light up at the sight of the building.
“And there she is,” I say, a moment later, “the Cyclone, standing tall for ninety-five years. Isn’t she majestic?”
“I’m going to ride her today, Lester,” Lizzy says.
“I’m not sure that’s such a great idea, darling. You’ve always been afraid of heights.”
The car pulls up to the Luna Park entrance, and Lizzy’s grin tells me I made the right choice for our day out.
She barely waits for the car to come to a full stop before unbuckling her belt and throwing open the door with youthful abandon.
I take her arm, and we head for the stairs that will lead us to the boardwalk. The sounds of happiness float on the air as some people whoop and holler on the rides while others play carnival games along the midway.
As we climb the steps, I reflect on the strange trajectory of our lives. That one act of violence, all those years ago, still echoes.
When we reach the top, the sight of the Atlantic Ocean stops us in our tracks. It is moments like this that make our journey worthwhile, our lives worth living.
We walk hand in hand along the boardwalk, past Deno’s Wonder Wheel and Nathan’s Famous. Just seven miles to the north lies the Gowanus Canal, where I pushed the shooter’s body into the water five years ago. In many ways, that night feels like ancient history, an eon away from where we are today.
We begin to retrace our steps, and suddenly I feel compelled to confess my crime. “You know how I’m always telling you the shooter can never hurt you again?” I take a deep breath. “Well, Lizzy, I did something….”
She shrieks, but not from shock. We have reached the legendary B&B Carousell, and Lizzy’s excitement tells me this will be the perfect ride for her. I let my confession fade with the wind and say, “Look, dear. You can pretend you’re riding high, soaring through the air on the back of a stallion!”
I encourage her to approach the booth alone and hear her ask the attendant, “Can I get a ticket, please? A ticket to ride your horses?”
He hands her the ticket, and I take care of the payment.
With fifty hand-carved wooden horses and two majestic chariots to choose from, I am unsurprised by Lizzy’s choice of the most brightly painted steed. I worry that she will struggle to hoist herself into the saddle, but she makes it look easy, like someone half her age.
As the music begins, the carousel starts to turn. I lose sight of Lizzy for a few moments as her painted horse reaches the back of the ride, but then she appears again, a brilliant smile on her face, galloping around to the front of the circle, the horses rising and falling in time to the music.
Eventually, the carousel slows to a stop, and Lizzy dismounts, noticeably wobbly. As she comes through the exit gate, I take her arm.
She looks up at me, confusion and fear on her face.
“Do I know you?” she says, and my heart breaks into a million pieces.
I know the spell will pass in a matter of moments, but one of these days Lizzy will permanently forget who I am, who she is. Her mind will fly off to some faraway place where I won’t be able to reach her.
She will forget the life we have built together. But she will also forget at last that horrible day on the subway, the day we met.
I take a deep breath and guide Lizzy to a nearby bench, where we sit and watch the birds glide on the wind and the sun begin its slow descent.
You can purchase the anthology here: downandoutbooks.com/bookstore/pachter-happiness-warm-gun/