dmseay

A burnt smell in town. Gray and black ash lying in smoke. Wood smoldering. A bathtub and toilet unscathed.

For years, windows were boarded up. A couple had cracks. No one saw anybody enter or exit the house, but a hanging porchlight burned at night time. An old Ford was parked in the driveway.

Sometimes, you could hear voices coming from inside; an old man and a woman yelling at each other. Saying horrible things at loud decimals. Other times, a loud TV would drown them out.

You know what your problem is? She would ask him. Too much money and no ambition, she told him. Look at the way we live. Like vagabonds. Homeless people staying in a condemned building. She said.

You’re just jealous, he said. Jealous  of my first wife, he remarked. There were pictures of his first wife all over the house. He never took them down. Never replaced them with pictures of the new one. I loved her, he yelled. You, I just tolerate.

Then why did you do it? She asked.

Do what?

Marry me.

We never really got married, he said to the younger wife. Never blessed by the church.

A courthouse is the same thing you old goat, she screamed.

That’s blasphemous. That’s evil talk. I knew what I was doing. He pulled out a cigarette. Nothing is official until God deems it so.

You’re insane.

Yes, ma’am.

The two fought like this for hours. Neighbors would stop on the sidewalk in front and listen. They could hear the meanness in their tones. Their voices screeched. So much that they always sounded hoarse. He’d threaten to kill her. She’d threaten to kill him. But no one ever called the cops. Neighbors just let them be. Just let them be.

The Ford was gone. No one saw them drive away. No bodies were found inside. Just burning embers. The only thing that remained was a picture of his first wife; pearls around her neck, a smile on her face.

Some folks reported the Ford driving up and down Highway 41. Others said it was parked at a McDonald’s or for sale at some used car lot. Always turned out the thing belonged to someone else.

No one knew what became of the two. Speculation was that he burned the house down. The Fire Department said it was electrical.  Others say it was an insurance scheme. No one knows for sure. No one ever will. I guess.

Pillows on a concrete floor. A coat to cover his body.  Small bags of half empty potato chips and Fritos cluttered around the room. Wrappers for chocolate bars.

He sleeps in a half daze. Eyes blink while those around him snore the night away. An old man wets his pants.

Odors of alcohol. Cheap vodka bottles inside coat pockets. Men talking about women from the past. Bragging.

There was a woman in Philly, one says. A blonde with a great big ass on her, he goes on. She was built for speed. He smacks his lips. I fell in love with her. Wasn’t able to hold on. Some things be that way.

Outside on 8th Avenue, men lean on a building as they smoke cigarettes and suck in the night air. Neon signs flash. Liquor, nude girls, open all night, twenty-four hour diners, Chinese laundry, and mini-marts scattered up and down the street of a town that now longs for dignity.

Whores hustling and bums bitching. Mexican men going home for some sleep before their second jobs. A garbage truck passes by.

Anyone got a square? He asks. I’ll give you a dollar. An old man takes his buck in exchange for a Newport. Thanks, he says.

Pleasure doing business with you, the old man laughs. What’s your story?

I’ve lost my mind. He grins. At least, that’s what Bellevue says.

I been there before, the old drunk tells him. Years ago, when I first came to the city. I done thought I lost my mind, too. He shrugs. Gave me a bed to sleep in for a couple of weeks. Three meals and a cot. They both laugh. My shrink was a real pretty woman. Gave me some pills and sent me on my way.

You still on the pills?

He holds up a bottle of gin and says, this is all the medicine I need.

The sun rises. Men start to disperse. Going out to beg, steal, and borrow.

There’s never enough.

The cactus she gave me was dead. Something got into the soil. Leaves just started dropping. It no longer bloomed. Wilted like lettuce, lying on its side. I’ll miss him, I wrote. I’ll miss him.

It was the last thing I packed in the van. Books, clothes, a black and white TV, various ashtrays along with plates and cocktail glasses wrapped in newspaper and boxes were carried across country on I-95 from D.C. to Montpelier, Vermont. I had no schedule. No job to go to. Just a couple of thousand and a full tank.  Everything else was hers.

Up front in the seat beside me was my prized processions. A couple of  crates filled with over two hundred jazz albums. Everything from Charlie Parker to John Coltrane. Bill Evans and McCoy Tyner. Miles Davis and Chet Baker. And a few Johnny Hartman records were along for the ride. Good company to have.

She often laughed at my selections of music. Jazz is dead, she told me. You’re the only person who listens to that stuff. My ex said. So depressing. Bill Evans. So sad. And they were all a bunch of junkies. What the hell? I brushed off her statements as a person with no soul.

So, I drove into the night. A six-pack of beer between my feet on the floor. I kept the heat off so they would stay cold. One by one, they were polished off by the time I got to Philly. I decided to drive around town. Go get some steak sandwiches at Pat’s and Gino’s across the street. Compare the two delicacies and then look for a hotel. I was tired, drunk, and my body ached. I bought another six-pack before checking in, tuned in the public radio station, and listened to Ornette Coleman. This was the shape of jazz to come. A tear ran down my face. Dead music? I whispered. Should’ve known the relationship was over when she told me that, I said. Just like the time I took her to Central Park in New York, and she said, I don’t see the big deal. Who would want to be involved with a mind like that? But she was beautiful, I cried. She was beautiful. 

The next morning, I awoke and got ready for another day’s journey. I looked inside the van while unlocking it and noticed the jazz collection was gone. The passenger door was unlocked. The albums were gone. And so was my soul. Some things wear down and die. Others are killed by man’s unkindness.

I sent her a letter. It said, someone stole my soul . Records, too. The cactus is dead. No more blooms. But like you said, maybe this is for the best. Maybe?

Goodnight, nurse.

Bread. Stale bread. No butter for salvation. No jam nor jelly. Can’t even scrape up a cup of coffee. Saul looks around the room. A mouse scurries across a carpeted floor.

Water, John says. We’re stuck with water. It’s not even pure. There’s a rust color to it. Diseased water. He sticks his head under the faucet and opens his mouth, filled with decaying teeth. The water is slurped. A loud sound as he sucks it upside down. He cups his hands and splashes his face.

Do you remember when we had everything at our fingertips? Saul asks. Plenty of whatever we desired. Birds gather in the backyard. A rooster crows. Saul takes the loaf of bread from the table. Someone will get use of this. He says. Saul begins to walk out the backdoor and is stopped by John.

Where are you going? John asks.

Get out of my way, Saul tells him. John lodges his body between the door and Saul. Arms spread. Legs wide. I’m not going to tell you again. Now move, Saul demands. Flies are stuck to a strip hanging from the ceiling. There are holes in the walls exposing insulation.

John grabs at the bread. Let go, he yells. The rooster crows. I said, let go.

Saul carries the loaf of wheat like a football and attempts to run over John. John tackles him, and both men wrestle to the floor. Hair is pulled. Both men bite each other. They kick and punch. Saul throws the bread across the floor and holds onto John’s neck; choking him. The mouse dashes behind the refrigerator. Both men lie there, side by side. John is blue in the face. Saul is scratched up. His body bleeds.

On his hands and knees, John goes over to the loaf of bread and tears off a piece. He catches his breath. You ain’t taking this bread nowhere, he says. This is now all mine. None for you. And none for those stupid birds.

The rooster crows again. Birds chirp. The sun is coming out past clouds. Both men stare at each other. John  bites into the bread. He can barely chew it. His gums bleed. He throws it at Saul.

Do what you want with it, John tells his friend. Throw it out to the birds for God’s sake. I don’t care anymore. Just get rid of it.

Saul nods. He grabs the stale food and walks to the door. He tears off pieces and throws them out into the yard.

The rooster crows.

There’s nothing. Not a thing comes to mind. A vast space. Blank canvas. Stale white toast on a plate.

At one time, he had ideas. Sleepless nights in his study, drawing pictures of  furniture. Tables, chairs, cedar chests, bookcases, a day bed for his wife to lay on and eat grapes, drawn up and perfectly designed. A craft well attended, thought out, each picture carefully drafted. Lead pencils in a coffee can.

He sits on his porch now during the night watching rain fall, cars driving by, neon signs blinking, mosquitoes dancing; an ashtray by his side. Fly traps hung from the ceiling. The swing goes back and forth. His feet barely touch the concrete floor. He bends just a bit.

Some say the mind goes first. Forgetting our past. Others say it’s the body. A temple that now sags. His eyes twitched. Yawned. His once tanned skin is gray. Inside his head, a blank slate.

Streetlights no longer shine. The night is done. Head tilted back, eyes closed. Birds sing the old man to sleep. I should have been there for him.

Fans turning overhead. A window unit blows cold air. Lights are off.

He sits on the couch, contemplating his next move. Whether asleep or awake, minds shift in the middle of the night.

She’s in bed with that cat named Ted. She dreams of when she was young; nights out drinking, old friends, curfew, and boys up in her room. The cat purrs.

Quiet in the house. Only raindrops hitting a metal roof. His stomach growls. A loud truck goes down the street. No muffler, he whispers.

There was a time when they slept together; he laid on his side, and she on her stomach. No noises back then. Just two people in a peaceful slumber. Lights are on across the street.

He talks to himself. Asking questions and answering. Waiting for morning to break. Wanting her to wake up. That first cup of coffee and cigarette. He clears his throat and tastes blood.

The doctor said his final days were coming. Soon this will be over. It’s too late for precautions.

What could he have done differently, he asks himself. Nothing, he answers. Nothing. He hears her snoring down the hallway.

No regrets.

I never cared for it, he said. Just let the place fall apart. Gutters needed cleaning. Wood floors rotting. Holes in the drywall. Didn’t even attempt to cover them with pictures. The holes seemed to grow bigger and bigger each day. Rips in the walls. You could see the insulation. Had fiberglass in it. Always cut my hands.

The stove was never cleaned. She used to clean it every night after supper. When she left, it just became too big of a task. Spaghetti stains, dried up bits of onions, cheese sauce, all caked on it. It looked like a pop art painting. Or maybe an alternative way of looking at things.

She would vacuum, too. This old rug was clean. When we were younger, we would roll around on it. Funny how things stop when you get older, he told me. Just like that. It’s over.

I looked around the property. Tall grass and wildly grown shrubs covered the windows. A tree in the front yard was missing a few limbs.

You’re looking at that oak, I see, he said. Tornado tore into it. If you look real close, you’ll see a carving. Linda and Jimmy carved out inside a heart. He traced over it with his fingers. So, he said. What do you think?

It’s going to take a lot of work, I said. But, the price seems right. I’ll just tear down the house and build a new one.

Why? He asked. Why would you do that?

I don’t know.

Let me think about it, he told me. Lots of memories. Maybe I should just die here.

You’ll make forty grand off the deal.

Forty grand, huh? That would be enough. She always wanted to go to Las Vegas. See the lights. Gamble a little. Look at Caesars Palace.

The old man walked ahead of me. I could tell he was thinking. He was silent. We sat on the front porch, all covered in moss and vines, poison ivy, wildflowers.

Alright,  he said. Looks like I’m going to Las Vegas. I’ll take her with me.

Oh, I said. Her ashes?

No, her. I’ll take her with me. In my mind. He looked around the yard and at the house. Nodded. Honey, he said. We’re going to take a trip.

I signed the check.

 

A blanket on a footstool.  Some quilt made by an Amish woman. Mason jars on shelves. A few with handpicked daisies in them. Two wooden benches under the dinner table, father made years ago. Exposed brick walls and a toilet with a pullstring above. Copper pipes.

Spring came and went. One day, it was thirty-five, and the next eighty-two. A couple of tornadoes passed over. All stayed in place. We kept in the storm cellar, listening as the winds stirred and grumbled. Dad said it was God showing his anger for our sins. Mother kept quiet.

At the dinner table, dad said grace. He prayed for a nation to heal. Prayed for the Lord’s return. We all said amen.

Sundays were for church. Mom and dad wore their best while I dressed in slacks and button-down shirts from the Goodwill store. There wasn’t money to waste, dad said. One must save.

All the women in church eyeballed  him. Tall and handsome. A deacon who tipped his straw hat to the married as well as the single. Mother walked behind him. I held her hand.

I remember hearing about it. She was young and with child. Father didn’t say much about her. Mother said the poor girl had made a mistake. Mom said we all do. Dad would just look at her and say pass the biscuits. He made us quite aware of what acceptable dinner conversation was. Father preferred if we broke bread in silence. He hated gossip. Said it was the devil’s language. We would continue eating in silence.

Sundays passed. Summer turned to fall. Halloween was upon us. Candy and caramel apples for kids. Hay rides on a dirt road. Mazes in cornfields. Dad turned his eyes away while mom took me trick or treating. I dressed as a ghost every year. A white sheet over me with holes cut out. I carried a basket she had woven together with a handle on it. We would knock on doors till it was filled. Laughing the whole time. Your father doesn’t know what he’s missing, she said. Don’t tell him. Don’t talk about it. He’ll just get mad, she told me. Hide your candy in your room. When he’s gone, I’ll help you eat it. She giggled as we walked home.

The goods didn’t last long. Candy was gone before the middle of November. And so was dad.

Mom said he was in the hospital. Said he’d be in there a long time, she cried. The pickup was gone. So were his clothes and tools. The straw hat was left behind.

Some said that pregnant girl had gone with him. Said she tempted him long ago. A sixteen year old with eyes that make men weak. I didn’t pay attention. Dad always said gossip was the devil’s language.

Blinds open. A light on across the street. Dead quiet. He sits in his living room on a Shibumi beach chair in a pile of sand. A large umbrella is raised overhead.  It blocks out the light directly above. He turns it on when it’s cloudy outside.

He listens to The Beach Boys, Jan and Dean, Dick Dale, Mungo Jerry, and The Drifters on a turntable with speakers giving way to crackles, scratches, and pops. A six-pack of Corona sits in a bucket of ice by his side. He squeezes limes into the bottles of cerveza and drinks them down one at a time. Fruit flies and gnats hover around a garbage can in the corner.

The old man wears the same boxers every day, and a button-up shirt with flowers on it opened just a bit to expose the gray hair on his chest. His body reeks of tanning oil; hair disheveled, Wayfarers pushed up on his nose. 

It’s five o’clock in the morning. Soon, the sun will rise, and it will be another perfect day at the beach.

He and his wife used to go to North Avenue every day in the summertime. They’d pack a lunch, carry their chairs, and drag an old umbrella alongside. Soda pop in a cooler.

They’d sit at the beach all day long and into the evening with a portable radio tuned to an oldies station. Metal antenna reaching as high as it could go.

The two held hands and would walk into Lake Michigan. Sometimes, he’d carry her like Burt Lancaster carried Deborah Kerr in From Here To Eternity. He placed his wife in the sand and kissed her passionately as darkness fell over Lake Shore Drive. Forty-five years of marriage always seemed new.

And now he sits by himself, alone in a studio apartment on Clark Street waiting to see her again. He raises a bottle and says, til we meet again.

She lives across the hall. Every night, there’s noises coming from her room. The sound of a television drowning out a male’s voice. An R&B song she sings to. Full on conversations at times with herself.  Banging on walls at three in the morning. A door slamming.

I lie in bed listening. Sometimes, a pot of coffee is made. Cigarettes smoked. She screams out, but the words are mumbled. Ranting incoherently. 

It is cold. I know. She is complaining about it. Loudly. I want so badly to tell her to pipe down. Say to her, I know it’s cold. I know the heat doesn’t work. We’re all getting screwed on this deal. But what’s the point. She will continue to babble.

Yesterday, she left her room. I heard her door shut and watched as she limped downstairs one foot at a time. She is middle-aged, black, and skinny. Her hair is spray painted blonde.

I went to my window to see her meet a man on the sidewalk. Kisses were exchanged, and he followed back inside. He started to talk, and she said shhhh. Quiet now.

I’m not sure what took place in her room, but Otis Redding was singing as the record player popped and scratched. Glasses clanked. And he said, here’s to us. Happy anniversary.