Odds

“Are you going to ride with me this time, Bob? Face your fears?” Bob’s wife had come over to where he worked, stood behind him, slightly swiveling the desk chair he sat in, causing him to turn away from his computer screen.

He spun his chair fully around and kissed her. Bob had always indulged but never shared in his wife’s love for rollercoasters. Since the cancer, he was even more indulgent, delighted more than ever in her delight. “I have already faced my worst fear. And as your happiness matters to me, I’ll happily wait for you on the ground, as always.”

It wasn’t just a placation, for Bob was truly gratified to simply hold his wife’s hand in line for the ride, to see her anticipation grow until finally she kissed him goodbye and stepped lightly up onto the loading platform, knowing Bob would be watching and waiting until she emerged from her ride exhilarated and triumphant.

“But, my Dear,” he said now, “I must ask you to be patient with me just a little longer.”

“How is that story coming along, Bob?”

“It’s coming along. I just want to organize the photos before we go to the park.”

It wasn’t the level of journalism he aspired to, but it was a paying job and now more than ever they needed that pay. His wife’s health scares had been costly in both time and money. While a lot of magazines were going under, this one continued to print and sell and pay. And, he had to admit, it did give him some measure of satisfaction to know that he still had the skills to provide and perform, to get the stories demanded of him, even if they weren’t the stories he wanted to write, even if he didn’t share the tastes of the editor of the magazine.

Bob was tasked with investigating tragedies from history, unpredicted, unforeseen catastrophes, then presenting these “against the odds” tragedies for renewed public consumption. Bob researched and wrote about the 1919 molasses flood in Boston, various ship wrecks through the ages, devastating tsunamis, and of course, lightning strikes and general freak accidents. Statistics were always incorporated into the articles, serving to both soften and sensationalize these random and rare events, and though the shock and horror of these calamities were mitigated by the passage of time, Bob was bothered by the focus on devastation and death. His initial drafts, sent back by his editor, were slanted with sympathy towards those who’d lost their loved ones, a situation that he’d recently had to consider for himself.

Bob had suggested to his editor that his wife’s story be featured, for hadn’t she overcome all odds despite the grim initial prognosis of the rare and usually devastating form of cancer she was surviving? But his editor didn’t want to publish that kind of story, the kind where fortune is good and the endings happy. No, his editor would always push for narratives that were sensational, even macabre. While that was not Bob’s predilection, the stories sold, so Bob took the assignments, complaining neither to his editor nor to his wife.

At his computer, Bob continued to sort and collate the photos and newspaper accounts he’d collected for this series of articles, many over a hundred years old. Having gleaned and selected the best of them, enlarging and cropping some, he now arranged them in chronological order in preparation for a culminating presentation in the magazine. His wife watched as he squinted closer to the screen then sat up straight.

“What is it, Bob?”

“Come look. See that person in this picture from Boston. Now look here… this guy in the crowd... and there, after a shipwreck in the 1800’s… and in this photo… doesn’t it look like the same person? In all these photos?”

She looked. In all the photos the men, always hatted or hooded or half turned, appeared to be the same age, same build, same coloring.

“Maybe. It’s a little hard to say for sure. But...”

“Look again. Enlarge it.”

“There is a resemblance. What an odd coincidence.”

“Yeah.” Bob shivered. Now he couldn’t unsee the man who seemed to have appeared inadvertently in each scene, at the edge of a crowd of onlookers. He couldn’t dismiss the uncanny resemblance of the men in the photos as easily as his wife had. But she must be right; just a coincidence. He shut his laptop.

“Okay. Let’s go! Rollercoaster for you, fried dough for me.”

“You’re half right, Bob,” and she tossed him the car keys, all smiles. He couldn’t help but smile back. She was stronger every day. He vowed to himself that he would write her story, for surely there was still an audience for unlikely and unforeseen happy endings.

At the park Bob’s dark mood immediately dissipated in the fresh air and sunshine. They made their way straight to the rollercoaster, his wife’s excitement and joy palpable. As always, they kissed before she made her way up the steps. It was early yet, not very crowded, so single riders had a cart to themselves. While the attendant checked seatbelts and latched the safety bar Bob and his wife continued to wave and smile to one another until the carts lurched into forward motion. Then she put both hands on the bar and looked ahead as the roller coaster clattered up the steep rails.

Bob moved away from the platform for a better view. There was a small group of riders’ friends and loved ones, most of whom were taking pictures and videos with their phones. As he started to pull out his own phone, Bob noticed the attendant looking at him from underneath his hoodie as if trying to meet his eye. Bob stared back. Did they know one another? As the carts rattled on the tracks overhead, recognition dawned. The attendant winked at him. Bob glanced anxiously up at the rollercoaster, now hurtling towards a steep bend. When he looked back, the attendant was slipping through the crowd that witnessed the horrific accident through their phones, capturing the tragedy in photos and videos.