Chanson

The road opened into a meadow that seemed as though it couldn’t end. Chanson now saw only grass and little bushes going and going and going, lush and green. A house here, fenced pasture there, a few trees—but even this road was rather rocky. The two started up a song again.

What people don’t tend to keep in their minds is that any moment can end in fear or with comforts turning foul. Even such moments as this one, with the car zooming through the countryside, the wind dancing through the grass, and the blithesome faces beaming inside the car.

An endearing sight.

Nothing should have ever wanted to pound upon it.

Nothing should have ever thought up the notion of ending that wondrous sight of mother and son making a merry memory together. Humanity should be companions with love, purity, and joy—combining the six emotions. Humanity never does well when panic strikes with a hard roll.

Oh, but such a sudden moment happened up in that high meadow. In the blink of an eye, in such a short blink, there was a lamb pouncing across the road. Veering the car left, Lys held the clutch in the middle and slammed her foot on the brake. But the car was a terribly old Ford Model T from the early 1920s, needing repairs all the time. You must understand that these cars could go very fast but were tricky to stop at high speeds, and as the reader may recall, Aunt Perle had said to be careful on the brakes. The brake went straight to the floor, along with the confidence of Lys’s heart. The feeling she felt on the pedal was not right. But oh, quick thoughts ensued—the car drove, zoomed, raced down the grassy hill, over rocks and dirt. Racing, Lys saw the speedometer turn higher and higher. She glanced at her son, whose eyes were the widest she’d ever seen them go. His skin was white; her hair probably was graying. The car still zoomed as she pounded her foot upon the brake again and again, pressing all the way down in low gear, knowing it might kill the engine, but the brake was still jammed into the floor.

Farther down the hill, they saw a train track sitting in tranquility as their hearts in turn boomed like an engine’s horn. Lys turned her head right and then left and saw a train coming at the speed it chose for normality. The mother’s eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. She began pushing her seven-year-old son toward his door. “Chanson! We must jump out!” The steering had seemed to stop working also. “Oh God. Please help us!”

The child’s heart pounded him, beating him, pumping up to his throat. Pulling the latch on his door, Chanson tumbled out of the car when his mother pushed him with all her might. Slamming against the side of the car, he was tossed, and he landed in the grass with the hardest pound his body had ever felt.

Lys’s eyes saw the train coming at a speed similar to that of the car. The last thing she could try was the hand brake, but she knew that could make the car tumble down the mountain instead of stopping it abruptly. She opened the latch on her door. Her veins popped out, and her heart screamed, praying her child hadn’t been hurt in his jump. Pulling the hand brake as hard as she could, Lys felt a buffooning jolt.

Swallowing the panic she’d been undergoing, she looked around but couldn’t hear anything, as though a blanket had been thrown over her ears with a harmful pressure; she could not know what was going on. Another whipping jolt and another, exceeding virtue in the beautiful mountain range. Every pound, every thump, every jolt meant a life was threatened. The walls and floor of the car shook, decoded seconds apart. It was as though a ram were hitting his brother. France hitting France. The mountain kicking its feet. Each pound meant another step gained in throwing away an ardor France once had held for its flowers. Chanson’s wooden airplane flew for a moment, hit the dashboard, flew again, hit the bench, and then flew once more.

As the rolling car flew with rhythm, dazing from one particle of dust to another, it blighted an atom who, for the entirety of its life, had been filled with love and happiness for its family and for the people of Europe. A heart beating quickly and even quicker began beating softer—slower. Her legs became nimble. Her eyes saw a murky haze she could not decipher clearly. Beating and beating. Thumping and then more thumping. Pounding and then a cry from a heart. Each motion was fatal. Thump, thump, boom from the car. The dear woman was petrified as the car rolled—and then stopped.

Her hands trembled. Her feet lay still.

Chanson had seen what had happened. The train slammed into the back end of the car, making it plunge into a bowling roll down the hill. “Maman!” the child screamed from the depths of his being. The car’s bumper flew at him, smashing his left arm and pulling him back onto the grass. He could not hear his mother’s scream, as the train’s brakes were too excruciating in their shrill. Chanson begged his body to stand up again, but his arm’s pain was as penetrating as the train’s squeal. He must get to his mother, he thought, no matter how much pain he was feeling. He must reach her side.