dmseay

I don’t think you understand, he said. These beliefs. Simple.

Right. The boy told the minister.

He took down a Bible from his bookshelf. He turned the pages. Mathew, Mark, Luke, and John. The preacher had verses marked in yellow and orange highlights. He closed it and held the holy book in his right hand.

Thousands of years, the reverend said. Thousands. He got up from behind his desk. Wars over its truth. People misinterpreted the book. Religions started. False religions, he told the teen. Folks calling themselves Christians who aren’t really Christian. You follow? The youngster sat in silence. He did not move a muscle. Just sat in the red velvet chair that swiveled. The boy began to move his legs a bit from side to side. Nervously.

Do I have your attention? The minister asked. Do you grasp what I’m saying?

The kid shook his head. No, he said. No, I do not.

Presidents place their right hands on this book and take an oath. It is holy. It means something. Christ is trying to save your soul through me and the Bible. He is speaking to you right now. Do you accept him as your lord and savior?

The boy looked at him. Looked at the man hovering above him. Can I think about it? Does this decision have to be made today? In this instant? Because I can’t do that.

Why not?

Blind faith. I believe what I see. Not what I hear or read. Could be fiction. Stories written by men. Old Testament. New Testament. The Koran. Who’s to say?

God. The preacher man said with his hands trembling. God says.

The boy swiveled around in his chair and faced the minister. God left the building a long time ago.

The house is falling apart, he said. Gutters need replaced. Cracks in the windows. A kitchen sink that doesn’t drain. Carpet smells like  cat piss.

A smoke cloud rose above him. The old man sat in a red velvet recliner puffing on a pipe filled with Prince Albert. Lawrence Welk was leading the band on television. Bobby and Sissy danced in colorful costumes. He smiled and pointed at the screen.

I was a dancer, he said out loud. We used to dance all night long, he laughed. Then I would walk you home and kiss you goodnight. Remember?

The Lawrence Welk singers were now performing Cry Me A River. All of them on stage singing. He hummed along.

Remember this one? He asked. His thin lips mouthed the words. The old man looked over at the couch and saw no one there.

Where’d you go? No one responded.  Are you in the kitchen baking a pie? My favorite? Rhubarb?

He picked up the empty tin Prince Albert can to his left and knocked his pipe on the inside of it. He then picked up the half-full can on his right and refilled the old pipe that he’d had for years. Bought it when he quit smoking KOOL cigarettes. A cough and a sputter always came after the first puff.

Maddie? Maddie? Where did you go? Come on now. Don’t be shy. He walked down the hallway and knocked on a closed door with a flowered wreath on it.

Come on now, the old man knocked harder, turning the door knob. I’m coming in. I’m coming to get you. On the count of three. One, two, three.

An empty rocking chair in the corner. A queen sized bed with quilts on it. Black and white photos on the chest of drawers. Pictures of him in his Navy uniform. She with a rose in her hair. A closet filled with clothes. Cobwebs. 

I could’ve swore she was here, he said. Could’ve swore. 

Dead deer lie on the shoulder. Buffalo penned in. Hawks swirl up above. Sky is purple. Sun will come up soon, looking like a yolk broke all over God’s land. A bridge over a river.

He keeps it at sixty. The truck shakes a little. Bad bearings. He tosses a cigarette out the window and watches it bounce. Lit tip blown out by a northern wind. The radio is playing Night Moves through a tinny speaker. Seat is torn.

A shotgun hangs on a rack behind him. Bullets in the glove box along with license and registration, a couple of twenties, and a pack of Wrigley’s.

Heading to Chicago. Back to a town, he won’t recognize. It’s been twenty years since he lived there. Humboldt Park. Wicker Park. Roger’s Park. Lakeview. He moved around Chi-town like a scurrying rat being chased by Animal Control. He never wanted to be caged.

So he left. Quit everything and just left one night; leaving a woman and a kid behind. Told her he was going out for cigarettes, filled up the tank instead, and just kept driving west through Illinois, Iowa, Nebraska, all the way out to Colorado. He’d always heard it was nice.

What makes a man return to a place he left years ago. Guilt? Curiosity? Wanting to see how it all turned out? He wanted to tell her he was sorry. Wanted to tell the boy he was sorry as well. He had no idea where they were, just hoping they were still in town on the Northside. Hoping they were still alive. 

One hundred miles to Chicago. He pulled over in a rest area and decided he wasn’t ready to face her or him. Took a stick of Spearmint and tossed the wrapper out the window. And turned around.

Jackson Brown plays on the radio.

Half and Half spilled on a table. Sugar packets piled up. Coffee stains on a napkin. Two men sit in a booth and wait.

He said he’d be here? Paddy asked.

Yes. Yes, he did. Said so yesterday when I spoke to him, Smitty said.

Yesterday?

Maybe the day before, Smitty said. Or the day before that. Too much. Too many things on my mind. 

The two went back to silence. Both stirring coffee. A waitress comes over with a pad and pen.

We’re just having coffee, Paddy told her.

Just coffee, said Smitty. We’re waiting on someone.

A friend? The waitress asked.

Something like that, Paddy winked.

So you’re waiting for him to get here before you order?

We’ll let you know, Paddy pointed while Smitty slurped his drink.

Could we get water? Smitty asked with a smile. With lemons. It tastes better with lemons. Right?

I suppose so, the waitress walked away.

Paddy looked at his watch. Where is he?

You told him the right place?

Yes.

The right time?

Stop. Paddy said. Just stop. Of course I did. I told him everything.  All information was revealed. 

And he said what? Smitty drank more coffee. What did he say?Smitty asked in between gulps.

What?

What was his reply?

The two looked at each other. Paddy pulled out a pen and grabbed a napkin. He made a mark. A straight up and down line. Then another.

What are you doing? Smitty asked.

Marking down how often you annoy me, Paddy said. I predict I’ll have a hundred marks on this by the time he gets here.

Smitty sat in silence. Elevator music played in the background. The two looked at each other.

Nothing to say? Paddy asked.

Smitty shook his head.

They continued waiting.

Pictures. Paintings of windmills hung on white walls. Tiny Italian lights shine down from the ceiling beams. Broken lava lamps. A cat scratching post. Smell of banana bread baking in the oven. Cutting it before it’s cooled. Crumbles on the linoleum floor. She lies in bed asleep.

This world at four o’clock in the morning. Cars and semis drive through the night. Truck stops open. Selling live bait and windshield washing fluid. Hot coffee and fried pies. A box of donuts. The sun will be here soon.

I hear a storm coming. Thunder and wind gusts. The old house shakes a little. Sitting in a recliner, I hear the shuffle of Ted’s feet. His paws dancing down the hallway. He asks for food. We all ask for food. A can of tuna is opened, and water drips onto the dry mix. Sandwiches are made with mayo and a dill pickle on the side. Placed in the refrigerator for later. Still, she lies asleep.

Morning comes too soon. Day begins like any other day. On the news, there are stories of murder and mayhem in the streets. Officials lying about evidence. Saying we are not at fault. Telling us to remain calm. And she still sleeps.

She might never wake up.

Standing on the corner crashing cymbals and calling out for alms, the Salvation Army soldier lights a cigarette and loosens the beat. Used to be, he kept it tight. Hitting the instruments with precision while calling out to the crowds, walking up and down Eighth Avenue past adult bookstores, souvenir shops, suit and clothing stores that won’t be there tomorrow; they packed up and left over night with tourists cash, money from the Midwest.

I look down on Eighth Avenue and see all of humanity. The salesman, on his way to a lunch meeting, lawyers going God knows where, hotdog vendors and halal meats with rice sold under my nose, the runaways getting off the busses at The Port Authority, kids from strange places in America, like Idaho and Vermont, Indiana and Nebraska.They walk around in a daze, confused yet rejoicing, and scared, not knowing where they’ll sleep tonight or even if they will sleep.

People scurry to go underground where trains will take them to Columbus Circle, Central Park, 52nd Street, where devils dance to the Hell’s Kitchen beat. Trains going north to The Bronx or south to Brooklyn, some know not where they’re going, the mental misfits sleeping in seats covered in newspapers with slices of pizza at their feet; an offering for the poor.

I watch this city. I watch and I watch. Rents are getting higher. Food cost. Soon, everyone will be eating in soup kitchens. I watch this city. This Manhattan. And I am scared. Mickey Mouse will control us all.

Laundry hangs in the backyard. Blown in a heavy breeze. Shirts and sheets waved like American flags. It will be coming soon, she said.

Kids huddled against walls in the hallway. Television shows maps and announces a tornado warning in effect for the following counties: Lake….Newton….and Jasper. Seek shelter now. Once again. The National Weather Service…..

Mom looks out the kitchen window. She’d been through hundreds of these warnings. Usually, they go over. Hit the next county. Or destroy a trailer home park down the road a bit. But never has one hit her home or damaged her property.

The baby child, Honey, begins to cry. The mother of four picks her up and rocks the kid back and forth in her arms. I, used to do this task. I’d give her a bottle and watch out the opened front door. A screen separating the family from reality. 

I’ve been gone a long time. Passed away ten years ago. Baby child Honey was unexpected. She was conceived on a lonely night with a stranger in town who was on his way to Los Angeles. She didn’t know his name. What kind of car he drove. Where he was from. He might have had a family somewhere else. People do that sort of thing.

Shhh Honey. Momma is here to take care of you. She kissed her on the forehead. The kids stayed crouched down, hands over ears, head against the wall.

The television said a tornado had touched down in Newton County. This is not a watch. This is a warning.  Take cover now.

Mom wished she’d taken cover a long time ago. As the tornado approached, I swear I could hear her say, take me away, oh Lord. Take me away.

It is not for me to say. He told him. I don’t get involved in other people’s problems. It’s best I keep quiet. He shuffled some papers on his desk. Took a drink of coffee. You know what your problem is? His co-worker shook his head. You want everyone’s perspective. Answers. Answers to your problems. He stood up and looked out the window down below. Cars passing. Cabs honking. Busses picking up old ladies and teen hoodlums at stops. Cop cars cruising. An ambulance or two. You want attention. That’s really what this is about. Right? There was silence. Neither man said a word. 

I’ll go back to my desk now, the salesman said. I’ll figure it out.

You better, the boss told him. You haven’t sold dick this week. I’m not happy. He sat down. Magazine subscriptions. That’s all they are. And you let your personal life get in the way. Get out of here. Go sell something. Anything. Six months. A year’s worth.  Just sell.

The associate walked out and closed the door behind him. He held his head high as he walked past other salespeople. All talking on phones. Some softly. Others loudly. He got to his desk and opened the bottom drawer where a hand gun was stored. He placed it to his head.

Blankets cover windows. Cacti are dying. Old blooms lie on the floor. Dirt is stiff and hard. Water no longer runs. Faucets have been dry for a year or two. No tea. No coffee. Nothing. A hundred packs of Kool-aid wasted.

The bath tub is filled with dirty pots and pans. Cat shit on the floors. No toilet paper. Tiny bits of soap on the sink. He spits in his hands and rubs the small pieces in between them. A dirty towel is used to wipe his hands; his ass.

Outside, the grass is taller than corn stalks. Wild flowers growing in the sun. Summer in Vermont. He sits outside and takes in the coolness of the morning air. It is bright. Wind blows. Lips chapped.

Sometimes, he sleeps outside. It is quiet in Montpelier. No noise after midnight. The town has fallen into a trance. Lights are out. Peace.

His old Pinto sits on concrete blocks in the front yard. Wheels removed. He remembers driving it to Cambridge for weekends with his lover. They walked around Harvard Square and smoked joints the size of an ink pen. Laughing. Sitting in an Irish bar called The Plough and Stars. Reciting Joyce to one another. Reading in silence over a pint. Holding hands.

He now spends his days dreaming of old times. Years gone by. He doesn’t wish for the past. Nor the future. Looking out over Montpelier. He just wishes it would end.

The fan overhead is dusty. Hasn’t been cleaned in years. There is mold in the refrigerator. No food. Just black mold. The recliner is torn. Ashes in the fireplace. A Bible atop the mantle.

Coffee is on the stove. The kind cowboys used to make. Grounds between his brown teeth; some chipped and broken. He drinks and says, good.

A breeze comes in through the window. He stands there and lets the wind hit his wrinkled face. It is a warm breeze on a spring day. Easter will be here soon. Christ rose from the dead. A stone removed.

The old man remembers this story from his childhood. He smiles. Cups his hands together and gives thanks. Prays for forgiveness, though no sins have been committed. Crosses himself and says, Amen.

The meek shall inherit the earth.