dmseay

He calls her at three in the morning. An ashtray on the card table. Folding chairs. A twin bed with blood stains on it. Windows show a church steeple.  It is raining.

Hello, she says. Hello.

Sylvia. It’s Tom, he tells her.

Tom. It’s three in the morning. Why are you calling me in the middle of the night? She asks. Why are you calling me at all?

Not sure, he says. I wanted to hear your voice. He wraps the phone cord around his hand. Clears his throat. Tastes blood when he coughs. I just wanted to talk.

About what? The ex-wife asks. What’s on your mind?

You, he says. Us, he stutters.

Uh-huh. Listen. I gotta be at work in a couple of hours. Can’t this wait?

He wraps the cord tighter around his hand. There is quiet. He pauses. Do you remember our trip out to California? He asks. Sacramento to see your sister. He lights a cigarette. Drinks cold coffee in a Styrofoam cup.

I remember, she says. I remember. She sits up in bed. You’re calling about that?

Not necessarily that trip. But how that trip became symbolic of our marriage.  He coughs and wipes his mouth on a shirt sleeve. Everything that could go wrong went wrong on that trip, he laughs.

Yep, she looks at the clock radio. The red digits tell her it’s a quarter till four. Go on.

Flat tire in Missouri, he says. Engine overheated in Kansas. Had to wait by the side of the road.

I remember. Get to the point, Tom, she says. What’s this all about?

We never made it to Sacramento, the phone cord unravels. We had to turn around.

Right. She holds the phone between her cheek and shoulder. We slept in that no tell motel. I remember. Had a color TV and a coin-operated massage thing. She laughed.

Yeah. And it didn’t work. He said. Nothing worked back in those days.

Where are you calling from? She asks.

Nowhere. Everywhere. I’m going out west tomorrow. Got a bus ticket for San Francisco.

What’s out there?

Same thing that’s here, he says. Nothing changes. Just the scenery. The backdrop. Painted in different colors.

I see. She tells him. Nothing has changed. Has it?

I guess not. No. It hasn’t. He puts out his cigarette.

Why did you call again?

Not sure. Take care. He hangs up the phone. Lies down in bed. And looks at the church steeple.

It is raining.

It’s never enough, he said. You always want more. Always been that way. More food. More wine. An endless supply of merriment. He laughed. And now. As you lie here. What is it you crave?

A morning train runs through town in darkness. A vagabond was killed the other day when he tried to jump on board. Slip of a foot. A sweaty palm. Legs mangled. A body tossed aside. Soul released.

I remember him, stated the bum. He was a friend of mine. I told him to wait and take the bus across country. Always on the cheap.

He said, no. Said he’d do it the free way. Pay nothing as he had his whole life. Said he’d be in San Francisco by the end of the week. Told me to meet him out there.

Charlie leaves behind an ex-wife, two kids, and a dog named Tex. Carried pictures of them all in his back pocket. He seldom spoke of his past life. A life filled with promise. I was going to be somebody, he said. She had faith in me. I placed mine in the bottle. What I thought was freedom. Was heartbreak.

The man always wanted warmth. Even in summertime, he complained of being cold. Told me his soul was never heated. Just a vacant space. And then he’d pass the wine.

We all took sips. Fast Eddie, Tommy, me, and Charlie, sitting under a bridge at midnight speaking of dreams. Telling each other that soon we’d be gone. Onto the next life. Leaving this one behind. Well, Charlie. Congratulations. You graduated. See you around, pal. Amen.

Water the plants while I’m gone, she said. Make sure the kitchen is clean at night, she continued. Set the mouse traps. I saw one the other day. If there’s one, then there’s two. I want them dead. She zipped her suitcase. Oh yeah. Take the garbage around on Thursday. They come early. Better do it Wednesday night. Got it? The boy nodded his head.

She walked into the bathroom and adjusted her blouse and skirt. She wanted to look nice when she arrived in Dallas. Putting on finishing touches of lipstick, she turned to her son. How do I look? She asked.

Fine. You look fine, he told her.

Just fine? I was hoping for fabulous. She laughed. Sit down, she told the boy. This might be your mom’s last chance, she said.

Last chance at what? He asked.

She snickered. When you’re older, you’ll understand. The mother walked into the kitchen. Poured herself a V8. Added some vodka to it and stirred.

I was wrong, mom. You look beautiful. He sat at the kitchen table. She patted him on top of his head like an obedient dog. The boy smiled. You got everything?

Yeah. I got everything. She downed the bloody Mary. I gotta get going. The taxi will be here any minute. She pulled out her phone. Want to see a picture of him? The boy nodded. She scrolled down the dating page past others she had checked off. Isn’t he handsome?

Yeah. What does he do? The boy asked.

He sells insurance, she said.

Does he have a lot of money? The kid asked.

She nodded. Yeah. He says he does. I told him I was a secretary. He likes redheads. He told me. Said he likes freckles, too. She unbuttoned her blouse a little.

Outside the taxi honked. Rain fell, and she grabbed a smiley face umbrella. Well. This is it. She kissed her son on the cheek. Wish me luck.

Call when you get there. Call me from the road, he said.

There’s a two hour layover in Nashville. I’ll call you then. Greyhound frowns on you using your phone. Have to talk in a whisper. She opened the door and turned around midway to the cab. She waved and mouthed, goodbye.

He closed the door.

The sky is closed. Business hours are over. Tired souls on the bus heading west over mountains of red clay on a four lane highway through West Texas going into New Mexico. Some look out windows and point while others sit in silence; thinking of wives left behind, children abandoned, mistakes made.

He sits alone as dawn approaches. Chicago is a thousand miles away. Muddy Waters sings inside his head. A flask is lifted to his lips. A quick drink and a cough. Prayers are never heard.

I want to see the ocean, he told her. That’s the one thing I want before I die: he coughed and sputtered. Spits out clear liquid into a red handkerchief.

What’s wrong with Lake Michigan? She asked. We could walk on the sand and wade in the water together. The wife grabs his arms. Don’t do this. She pleaded. Don’t go.

He holds up a Greyhound ticket. One way to Los Angeles. The old man smiles at her. It’s time. He said. We had a good run.

Calling from a phone booth in Albuquerque, he tells the operator to make it collect. She accepts the charges.

Frank, she cries. Frank. Where are you?

Albuquerque,  he says as Mexicans and Indians walk by. He coughs into his soaked rag. A little brown girl stares at him. We have a layover here, he tells her. Couple of hours.

Turn around Frank, she says. Come home.

I’m not going into some God damned hospice. I want to walk out into the Pacific. Feel something for a change. More phlegm comes up from his thin chest. He bends over and coughs more. The phone slips through his hand. He falls on the tile floor. Coughing and shaking. Sweat pours from his forehead.

Frank, she says. Frank. Answer me, Frank. She yells from a thousand miles away. Frank. Frank.

The phone dangles. His body is carted away in a silent ambulance. The little brown girl grabs the phone. She hears crying and a woman’s voice. Frank, the wife sobs. Frank.

Hi, the little girl says. Why are you crying?

Is Frank there? His wife asks.

I don’t know Frank. But I think he’s gone, ma’am. I think he went away. The kid’s parents’ motion for her to hang up the phone and come to them. I have to go  now, she says. The girl reaches high and hangs up the phone.

Ceiling fan rotates. Room is dark. A streetlight cast a shadow on a white wall. Porchlight glows. 

She sits on a couch. Cushions sink. Torn. Ripped. Burn marks on a wooden floor. A book in her hands.

The Brothers Karamazov by Dostoyevsky. Pages yellowed. Lines marked in orange. She’s on page 457. Places it on the coffee table. Why can’t I ever finish this book? She asks herself. Why?

In the kitchen, a tea pot whistles. A cup is poured. Earl Grey. She adds milk and honey. Rummages through cabinets and finds no food. Nothing. Sips her drink. A piece of wheat bread hiding. It expires the next day. If only there was butter, she says. Laughing, she nibbles at the piece.

Radio is turned on. Public radio station playing jazz. She is alone. No one down the hall. Not a soul in the bedroom. Just her. By herself. She sips tea again. Chews on bread. Stares off into space while lady sings the blues.

It is dawn. Her head lies on folded arms. The L screeches to a halt. Wilson, the voice says. This is Wilson

Train doors open and close. She hears the conductors voice saying Addison. Addison is next. Next stop, Addison.

She stretches, yawns, and starts her day. There is nothing new. Same old same old.

There’s dew on trash cans. Grass is soaked. Crickets sing in the coolness of a summer morn. It is still.

I sit on the back porch, drinking coffee and waiting for her to wake. A hundred miles away. Sleeping in a bed that was once ours. A cat lies in her arms. 

This is not a movie; not a song. It is life in action. We find ourselves afraid at times. Scared to say what we really feel. What we really want. No lines rehearsed. Straight from the soul. That’ll get you every time.

And so I wait. Listening to crickets this August dawn. Telling myself to call her. Just call her.

The soul knows what’s best.

I wonder, he said. I wonder what you’d think of me if I was younger? She blushed. If my skin wasn’t wrinkled and my long gray hair black and styled.

He looked up at the television. Red Sox were winning 3-2 over the Yankees. September is a cruel month, he told her. She sipped her gin and tonic. Summer is ending, he said. A new year gets closer. And I, my dear. Well, anyway. He drank from a mug. Salt on a napkin. I just get older. He laughed.

You have any regrets? He asked the blonde. Any mistakes you wish weren’t made? She nodded and smiled. That’s not true, he said. You’re too young. Your record is clean. Only minor infractions, he told her. You broke some hearts. Mislead lovers. No, he looked at her. These are trivial matters.

I once had a wife, he confessed. No children. Just me and her. We were wild. Never got enough of each other. We’d  wake up intertwined. Holding one another.

What happened to her? She asked.

She left me, he said. God took her. As he always does. The girl nodded. She was gone in September, he salted his beer. The lager fizzed. Cancer, he said. She was Forty-five.

They both looked at the TV screen. Final score from Fenway, 5-4. Yankees win.  Another long winter for Red Sox Nation.

Yeah, he said. September is a cruel month.

Flat top road. Yellow line separates traffic coming from both directions. Auburn trees, dropping leaves, some leaning to the side. A hitchhiker walks backward.

A pack of dogs runs in the woods. They come from different homes. Runaways, unwanted animals looking for food. Bathing in a fountain. Will they ever find peace?

Truckers carrying logs. Long stretches of lumber with red flags attached to them. Cars follow with caution.

Honey, hand me that thermos between your feet. He tells her.

Do you want me to pour you a cup? She asks.

Sure. Shake it first. All that sugar on the bottom. Mix it well. He looks at her and then back on the road.

Here, she gives him the cup. Her hand shakes a little. Can I have some? The girl asks. He drinks and passes the coffee to her. She takes a sip and fumbles through her backpack for a cigarette and lighter.

Where are you going again? The driver asks. She stares out the side window. I asked, where are you going?

Where are you heading? She asks.

I gotta drop this load in Pittsburgh,  he tells the kid.

That’s as good a place as any, the blonde girl replies.

Why are you leaving Morgantown? The truck driver enquires. West Virgina is really pretty this time of year. You must be running from something or someone, he says. Was it really that bad?

What? She inhales smoke and blows it out of her mouth and nose.

You look like a dragon. He laughs. All that smoke. Where’s the fire?

What? She’s getting angry.

Fire, he says. Dragons breathe fire. Anyway. Is it really that bad?

She continues looking out her window. Mister, she says. I’ll ask again. What are you talking about?

The thing you’re running from.

I’m just running, she says. The girl rolls up her flannel sleeves, revealing a hospital wristband.

They traveled a while. Drove through mountains and onto highways. They both remained quiet. Not a word said. Just silence.

The driver turns on the radio. Karen Carpenter is singing a song. He hums along. The kid remains speechless.

This song is called Superstar. About a groupie. I fell in love with you….before the second show….He sings to her. She sure could sing. Shame what happened to her. Sad. Wouldn’t want to see that happen to you, he said. Here, screw this back on the thermos.  Tight now. Thanks.

Could we not listen to the radio? The teen asks.

Sure. He turns it off.

They go back to silence. Neither revealing much about themselves. Just driving quietly in the cool night air.

Do you go downtown? She asks.

I can. He tells her. Any particular place?

Just downtown. She says.

I’ll drop you off by the hospital, he tells her. Maybe they can get a straight answer from you, he says.

I doubt it. She looks at him. I seriously doubt it.

Back to silence.

You don’t believe me. Do you? He asked. I can tell by looking at you. You’re saying this man’s a liar. And, you could be right. He took a drag from his cigarette. I’ve seen your type before, he added. Always questioning. Always a doubt. The short man said to her. What is it about me that looks suspicious? He drank from his coffee cup. What is it? His fist slammed down on the table. She sat quietly.  Looking at him. Right, he said. You can’t name it. The waitress brought over their plates.

You know what gets me? He asked. The point of it all, he continued. All this digging in the trenches. And for what? She took a bite of her omelet. Look at me, he told her. I said, look at me. He grabbed the fork from her hand. I’m making a statement here. Saying something important. Now, look at me when I speak. He demanded. The empty man touched the face of a younger woman. Just look at me.

Is everything alright here? The waitress asked. The two of them nodded. How’s your breakfast? They smiled. The tall server wrote out a check and turned it upside down on the table; sliding it towards him. I’ll take it when you’re ready. She said. No rush.

As she walked away, the gray-haired man watched her. They both looked at the way she walked. Admired her long red hair. Smiled when she turned around.

Your food is getting cold, the girl said. You should eat.

When I was young, my mother made me eat everything on the plate. She said they were starving in China and Africa. Spoke of famine and disease. All this over bits of uneaten food. She laughed.

Well, he said. I hated her, too.

There’s nothing there. No one. Not a man or woman. No children laughing on swingsets. It’s all very quiet. No cars going by nor trains rolling on tracks. Just silence.

I walk throughout this city in hours before dawn. People are dreaming. Some in love hold onto each other while many sleep apart; opposite sides of a bed that peaks and falls. These are the lucky ones. They know the truth. Battle scars on their souls from lovers of past and spouses of present.

Neon signs blinking over closed liquor stores and bars along Division Street. Soon, the Polish will open their doors just as the sun is rising. A shot and a beer before pouring concrete, building driveways, stacking bricks, bumbling through another day of  life. A Nelson Algren nightmare.

Me? I’m going nowhere. Simply walking to where life takes me. Body filled with chemicals. A growling stomach. Breath hollow. A rat runs down an alley.

But still, no sounds. Just silence as streetlights flicker, reds and greens gleam into morn.

Upton Sinclair died for our sins. Need I say more.