Casualties of Truth

“My humanity is bound up in yours, for we can
only be human together.”
–Desmond Tutu
*

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 Washington, D.C., 2018

Swollen nuggets of ice fell from the August sky as if to announce summer’s refusal to be predictable. A streetlamp flickered through the hail-battered windshield of their car as Prudence’s husband, Davis, slowed and turned with the road, hugging the edge of the curb.

They were late for dinner. Their sitter, Alice, had arrived thirty minutes after the agreed-upon time, and before leaving, Prudence had needed to make sure Alice recalled all the steps for putting Roland to bed: the music to be played, the position of his pillow, the way his curtains were to be drawn and pinned. After, Prudence and Davis had argued about which of the cars to take into the District. Given the forecast, Prudence thought it best to drive the minivan, but Davis insisted on the Porsche.

It was a 1959 Porsche Carrera Speedster. Cherry red. An exact replica of the car in the poster Prudence had taped beside her childhood bed, beneath the Off the Wall cover shot of Michael Jackson. She had long dreamt of this car, and when they first began discussing it, Davis admitted he had never considered such a luxury. He had been easily persuaded, however, when he spied the creamy leather seats with barely a crease. They paid the previous owner with a personal check and the seller threw in an elegant pair of women’s driving gloves, one of which Prudence now flipped inside out, using the fleece to gently wipe condensation from the windshield, as Davis reduced his speed.

“Damn, I can’t believe how big this hail is,” Davis whispered. “It’s going to cost thousands to get these dents fixed.”

“We should let the restaurant know we’re going to be late,” she said.

They were meeting the new “IT genius” Davis’s firm had recently hired. Davis had been tasked with helping him onboard, with making him feel welcome, since he had recently moved from Sweden for the position. Davis seemed now to have forgotten all about the man, as the tail of the car began tarrying, the back left tire spinning like a pinball. He veered hard to the right, stopping forcefully alongside the curb. The car settled into itself, the engine at a low purr.

“Shit. Did you see that?”

Prudence rolled down her window, wiped the side mirror with the glove. In it, she saw the shadowy figure of something lumbering onto the sidewalk.

“Is it a child? Or a dog? I think maybe it’s a fox.” Davis turned off the engine. They were parked beneath a cherry tree with a thick canopy that deepened the darkness of that already-dark night. He switched on his cell phone light.

“What are you doing?” she said.

“I’m going to check on it.”

“Then what? Perform CPR on a fox?”

“Pru, you don’t leave a thing to bleed out.”

Davis wrenched the door handle and rushed to the rear of the car. The streetlight flickered, illuminating broken tree limbs that dangled precariously over the hood. Prudence’s annoyance was evolving, changing rapidly into anger as she considered Davis’s impetuousness, his lack of forethought, as if he couldn’t imagine what harm could come to a Black couple on a dark road.

Now, she heard the animal howling, the sound muffled yet urgent. She imagined its sallow eyes and hanging head, imagined the staggering profundity of its fear. A sickening feeling swept over her and she slapped her hands against her ears trying not to hear its cry, trying not to be reminded of all her own dead.

Davis returned. “A dog. So much blood.” He was breathing heavily, attempting to switch off the phone’s flashlight but his hands trembled.

“Do you have blood on your shoes?”

“What?” Davis said this as though suddenly waking. He wiped droplets of rain from his face.

“Blood.” Prudence reached for his phone, turned off the light. “Do you want me to drive?”

As the streetlight flickered again, Davis started the car and Prudence made the call to report the injured dog.

“Does it look like someone’s pet?” The woman’s voice boomed through Prudence’s phone.

“No,” Prudence answered.

“Yes, yes, it does,” Davis said.

Annoyed, Prudence began to push the phone toward Davis, when they heard a new, unusual sound.

“Hello?” the woman on the phone said.

There was a low, thick growl beneath the rumble of the Porsche’s engine. Prudence peeped through the side mirror, thinking the dog had staggered to its feet, but she saw nothing before the streetlight went out again. The growl, however, blanketed them.

“Hello? Is everything okay?” the woman said.

The streetlamp flickered back on and flooded the road with a soft, creamy light, only to reveal a man at the front of the car. His reddened eyes seemed to rattle in his head until his sight settled on Prudence. Her breath suspended in her chest, the sound of it like a shovel scraping a large rock. Davis reached for her hand and together they watched the man. The wool of his coat lay flat and matted; the mud stains on his left cheek and across the backs of his large hands were caked and crusty.

“If you’re still there, we’ll send someone out as soon as possible,” the woman said.

Prudence tried not to move, hoping this would deter the man from moving too. But he inched forward. She thought to tell Davis to pull off, but before she could get the words out, the man placed his hands on the hood of the car, leaning over at the waist, while the growling—his growling—grew all the more menacing.

Davis nodded, faintly, as if giving himself a pep talk before shifting the car into drive. Prudence felt the clunk-clunk of the transmission as the man’s growl deepened into a roar. She could see into the dark and empty tunnel of his mouth as he climbed atop the hood, gathering himself on all fours, crawling toward them until he pressed his wet and liquored face into the windshield. Prudence thought she could hear his breaths through the glass, ragged and phlegmy. She wanted to leave, but if they drove off now, the man could be hurt. Davis made a sound, a sound she had never heard him utter—a small, sad grunt. He pressed the lock button for the doors.

“I really hope it isn’t someone’s pet,” the woman on the phone said, as if an afterthought.

The wind blew hard, and the collar of the man’s coat perked up beneath his menacing face, which now appeared exaggerated as he launched himself up into the damp air and back down onto the hood. He was stronger than his reediness suggested, and the car sank into the roadway over and over again as if refusing to resist him.

“Not everything is worth saving.” The woman ended the call.

Terrified, Prudence reached for the steering wheel that Davis now gripped. She slammed her palm into the horn. It was a long and dull and desperate sound. A vehicle in the oncoming lane slowed. The man on the hood ceased his jumping to stare at the driver, as though to warn him that he could be next. The other car began to roll away, even as Prudence continued plunging her hand into the horn, even as Davis tightened his grip on the wheel.

A single piece of glass separated them from the man as he threw the first fist into the windshield. He pounded that wet glass with such fury that his hands brightened into a blood orange and water pooled at the corner of the man’s eyes. Prudence’s heart pumped and she threw herself back against the leather seat, as the man seemed to be punching only at the portion of glass in a direct line with her face, as though angry with her alone.

“I’m sorry!” she screamed. “I’m fucking sorry!”

When the man stopped pounding and his terrible face disappeared from view, Davis turned to her, confused. Then the streetlight failed once more and darkness overwhelmed Prudence and Davis until they felt the car rise as the man climbed off the hood.

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From Casualties of Truth © 2025 by Lauren Francis-Sharma. Reprinted with the permission of the publisher, Atlantic Monthly Press, an imprint of Grove Atlantic, Inc. All rights reserved.