The Final Curve

Atlanta, Georgia

January 1990

Henry Perkins was desperate to clear his name. As he drove down the highway, blinding sheets of rain sliced down so hard he could barely see one foot in front of him. His quick breaths formed a steamy fog across his windshield. The bourbon he’d consumed didn’t help matters, and he struggled to hold on to what was left of his concentration and his sanity.

How had it come to this? And only a few years away from retirement. He had worked hard for the state of Georgia, taken all kinds of humiliation and abuse. And for what – to be framed by some upstart kid who wanted his job? His wife, Martha, was devastated. He thought she might have a stroke. She had battled hypertension for years, and this kind of stress wasn’t good for her health. What would they do now? His job and his pension were gone. Not that he had much, but he treasured what little he did have. It was everything to him and his family. Besides disgracing Martha and his granddaughter, he had only one other real regret.

Hot tears of anger blurred his vision. He was almost blinded by the glare of oncoming headlights and struggled to keep the car from veering into another lane.

Everything started when Marcus was hired as his assistant. He had groomed Marcus like a son – taught him everything he knew. And in the end, it was Marcus who betrayed him for a low-level position as mail services director. If it hadn’t been so sad, he would have laughed out loud.

Not one of his co-workers believed his side of the story! That’s what hurt the most. After all his years of dedication, the people he had gone out of his way to serve chose to believe Marcus. The one person who did believe him was powerless to help because he had no real proof that Henry was framed. And the one person who knew the truth was a coward who chose to remain silent. Some pal Jesse Higgins turned out to be.

Henry was not a man who would intentionally wish bad luck on anyone, not even Marcus. But still he knew that Marcus would eventually be forced to pay for his deceit. Henry would not be around to see it, but he knew in his heart it would happen. And although Marcus had maliciously twisted the knife in his back, the thought still made Henry sad. No one escaped justice, and Marcus’ day would surely come.

Henry tried his best to remember a poem by one of his favorite writers, Langston Hughes. The poem was entitled “Final Curve.” It was a short poem: something about turning a corner and running into yourself and not having any corners left to turn. Yes, one day Marcus would hit that final curve. He would turn that final corner and face himself and all that he had done.

That was Henry’s last thought as he hydroplaned and lost control of the car, plunging over the guard rail and into the dark, unforgiving ditch below.