Jill Williams of Vancouver, British Columbia, formerly of Hartford, Connecticut, has won two literary awards; one for this story and one for, Cigarettes Can Be Hazardous To Your Health. She's published fiction and non-fiction including books on health and beauty secrets, pet photography and note-writing. Her original music graces an RCA album and she's currently a commentator on CBC-Radio. Her 1974 Broadway musical was called, Rainbow Jones.
Jill Williams
CHANCE ENCOUNTER
by
Jill Williams (copyright 1996 All Rights Reserved)
Pam galloped up the stairs two at a time, looking more
like a horse in human drag than a 43-year-old secretary who had
once again overslept. She was long-legged, bony and sported a
mane of chestnut hair that would never behave. 9:27. Shoot. Did
she really need another punctuality lecture from Mrs. C.? She
already knew why she was always late. She hated her job.
"If you wait until after 9:30, you'll save
seventy-five cents," his voice had a trace of an accent.
Russian, maybe?
"Not today, I'm afraid," Pam hurled quarters
impatiently into the ticket machine.
"Are you sure about that?"
The man wore a brown tweed jacket and reminded her of
some old actor in a detective series.
"Positive," grabbing the ticket and loping toward a
second set of stairs, she heard the familiar ding-ding that
meant a train had just arrived. Or was it leaving?
A herd of sleepy commuters descending the escalator
told her she'd missed it. Shoot. Now Mrs. C. would really let
her have it.
The platform was empty. Quiet. It was one of those
murky Vancouver mornings that couldn't make up its mind whether
to be sunny or grungy. Pam looked up at the sky and just knew
she'd get soaked later on. She'd forgotten her umbrella.
She began pacing nervously, inventing excuses for not
getting to work on time. She had to help a sick neighbor. The
SkyTrain broke down again. No, wait. Her apartment building
caught fire and she had to jump into a safety net from the
twentieth floor. That was a good one. If only she could keep a
straight face.
Suddenly she noticed a commotion on the opposite
platform. Two guys were closing in on a third man who kept
backing away from them. He got down on his knees and they took
his arms and dragged him into the elevator.
How come? She wondered. What had the poor guy done?
Maybe nothing. Maybe he was mentally ill and they were trying to
get him back to the psyche ward. Maybe he owed them money. No,
wait. They were all three brothers and he'd been having affairs
with both of their wives.
Pam had to laugh. Her dad used to kid her all the time
about her wild imagination.
"Now, Pamela," he'd say, whenever she came home from
school with another tall tale on her lips, "is that really the
way it happened?"
She'd nod vigorously and then her big sister would get
into the act, "Sure, Pammy," she'd add, "we believe you. Even if
nobody else does."
Well at least her creative writing teacher encouraged
her natural gift for embellishment. This week, the class was
supposed to take an ordinary object--something everyone
uses--and weave it into a murder mystery. Shoot. The assignment
was due tomorrow and she hadn't even begun it.
More people were lining up now. Pam peered along the
train tracks, willing some headlights to come into view. As she
leaned forward, she saw the man in the brown tweed jacket again.
He was looking across at the other platform, frowning. Then he
caught sight of her watching him and slipped back into the
crowd. Quick as a lizard darting under a rock.
Who was he, anyway? And why was he acting so peculiar?
Maybe he was on the wrong platform. Maybe she reminded him of
some girl whose heart he'd broken. No, wait. He was a member of
the Russian Mafia who had hired those other two goons to do some
dirty work and she was the only one who could identify them.
Sure, Pammy. We believe you....
By the time another train arrived, and she'd managed
to find herself a seat, all she could think about was how late
she was going to be. She didn't know which she dreaded the most:
Mrs. C's sermonettes or her halitosis.
Pam had thirty minutes more not to think about it.
Instead, she'd analyze people's features and try to guess which
animal they'd be if they weren't human. Or which vegetable? Or
musical instrument?
When she tired of this, she recalled favorite
vacations she'd taken. Trouble was, she'd only taken three in
her entire life. So then she fantasized about places she'd like
to visit. Lake Louise...Montreal. No, wait. Paris, France. She'd
fly over on the Concorde and this gorgeous guy sitting next to
her, a count with an art collection worth billions, would fall
hopelessly in love with her and they'd elope and---
Pam's daydream was interrupted when the man in the
brown tweed jacket skittered past her on the train. He was
getting off at Main. But before he did, he looked down at her
and smiled. It was the unfriendliest smile she'd ever seen.
"I know, I know. I'm being totally paranoid," she told
Norma on their way to lunch.
Norma Clark was her only friend from work. Not a close
friend. More like an office ally whose hatred of their militant
supervisor surpassed even her own. They would often brown bag it
over to Stanley Park where their occupational bitching couldn't
be overheard. Today, however, Pam had more urgent things to
discuss.
"Supposing I'm right," she continued, following Norma
to their favorite bench, "don't you think I should notify the
transit authorities?"
"And tell them what?"
"About the man in the brown tweed jacket and those two
thugs on the other platform. I just know there's a connection."
"I wouldn't bother," Norma unwrapped a huge submarine
sandwich.
"But why would he deliberately stall me like that?"
"Because he wasn't doing it deliberately."
"I'm not so sure."
"Well you'd better be," Norma replied, wiping mayo
from her chin, "before you call the cops and they ship you off
to the booby hatch."
Norma let out a jiggle of raucous laughter that
eventually erupted into a full-blown coughing fit.
As Pam waited for the phlegm to clear, a bearded man
sat down beside them. He clung to his briefcase and eyed the
darkening sky.
"Looks like we're in for some rain," he said.
Norma nodded, starting in on a cheese danish. But Pam
glared at the man with open hostility. One chance encounter was
enough, already. After a quick scan of the ships in the harbor,
he took off.
The second he was out of earshot, Norma grabbed at
Pam's bony arm with stubby, ring-studded fingers, "Quick. Call
the police."
"Huh?"
"Didn't you hear what he just said?"
"Something about rain."
"Egg-sactly," Norma leaned closer, "he said it so we'd
leave and he could count the sacks of stolen cocaine in his
briefcase."
"Are you crazy?"
Norma paused, grinning, "No crazier than you and your
Russian hitman in a brown tweed jacket."
"Okay, okay. I get your point."
"Good."
They tossed their empty bags in a trash bin and dashed
up Robson Street, hoping to make it back to the office before
the storm broke. Pam saw their reflections in Starbuck's window.
It made her think of the old Mutt and Jeff cartoons. No, wait.
Trigger and Miss Piggy.
Norma was right, of course. Pam was just being her
usual, melodramatic self. But at least her prediction about
getting soaked had been right on the money. And Norma hadn't
brought her umbrella, either.
The ride home that evening was much more pleasant. Pam
couldn't wait to shed her street clothes, water her plants and
get started on her writing assignment.
Let's see, what everyday object could she use. She
glanced around and saw a plain brown shopping bag at the back of
the car. Under the seat. Someone had forgotten it. She was about
to go over and rummage through it when a woman tapped her on the
shoulder.
"Pardonez-moi," the accent was Quebequois, "How far is
Edmonds?"
"Two stops," Pam answered.
"Merci beaucoup."
Blessedly, the stranger said nothing more and Pam
could continue plotting her murder mystery. But first she had to
find out what was in that shopping bag.
The woman tapped her shoulder again, "Two stops? Or
three," she asked.
Pam held up two fingers, "Deux."
"Merci."
The stranger's smile reminded Pam of the man in the
brown tweed jacket. It made her feel suddenly queasy. Who was
this person? And why did she keep interfering? Maybe she just
wanted company. Maybe she wanted to steal the shopping bag
herself. No, wait. She was a francophone separatist, a political
psycho who had planted a bomb in the bag and didn't want anybody
ruining her big send-off.
"Sure," Pam said aloud, "we believe you. Even if
nobody else does."
But nobody else paid any attention. They had their own
homes to get to, their own street clothes to shed, their own
plants to water. And by the time Pam heard the ominous ticking
inside the brown paper bag, it was too late.
She'd been right, of course. The bomb had been planted
by a group of french separatists, who believed in Quebec's
independence. But unlike Pam, their imaginations had gotten two
hundred innocent people blown to bits.
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