dmseay

It rained sideways. Some rain comes down in a straight pour; not this one.

There were threats all afternoon. Storm warnings. Tornado watches. Possible large pieces of hail. Stay tuned for more information as we get it. Now, we return to our regularly scheduled programming. 

The electricity went out. Candles lit inside. Their trailer took on the ambiance of a holy place. Water dripped from the kitchen faucet.

They sat quietly, waiting for the storm to pass. Earlier that day, they had taken their vows at the court house. No best man. No maid of honor. Just the two of them with a baby inside her. One hand in his, the other on her bump as they said I do.

Sitting in a tavern afterward, the groom had a whiskey while she drank red wine. He swirled brown liquor in his glass and told the bartender, We just tied the knot. A handshake between two men. A salute to the young bride.

These are on me, the barkeep said. Would you care for another round? The boy nodded his head. As he poured, congratulations were wished upon them. Drink up, he told them. A round of applause came from the three other patrons. The fat man sipping his beer wished them well. An elderly lady watching Jeopardy lifted her glass. And the old man waved. Goodnight and God bless.

Candles flickered. The ping from rain hitting aluminum siding sang. Gutters over-filled. Not a word between them as they sat on the couch hand in hand. Just two kids waiting for the storm to end.

He believed in magic. His kind of magic. Thoughts of disappearing were always on his mind, thinking one day he’d just be gone.

She saw it coming. At night, this lover would hold onto her. Hands under blankets around her waist. His gut pressed against her back.

This made her feel whole. Made her feel wanted. Until one night, he stopped. She slept on her side of the bed, and he slept on his. They lay there in silence. Not a word between them for hours. Dreaming throughout the night, what it would be like to just let go.

And one day, they did. He took off out East to roam around where he found he could not run anymore. He had no future. A forgotten past. She no longer entered his mind. Gone. She had disappeared.

Books on a shelf. A twin bed with Navajo blankets. Candles on a window ledge. The radio blasts Monk playing ‘Round Midnight. He sits naked at a card table on a metal folding chair. It is four in the morning.

A cigarette is lit. Cup of coffee is poured. Creamers he stole from the diner are poured into his drink. The edge of the cup is hot. The old man blows and sips a little at a time. A train runs through the Bronx. Zipping into Manhattan. People come and go.

He gets dressed and turns off the radio; locks the rented room’s door and heads down to the street where it is quiet. No drunks. No pushers. No junkies. Just quiet. He marvels at how peaceful the Bronx can be. He feels safe.

The Rainbow Restaurant around the corner is open as always. Twenty-four hours of eggs and sausage, sides of toast. Bowls of chili with a touch of cinnamon. Liver and onions. Glasses of tomato juice.

The old man opens the door and sees familiar faces. Nighthawks congregating as highlights from last night’s Mets game is on the news. He sits in a swivel chair, moves his legs a bit, and picks up The Post. Sinatra died is the headline. A picture shown of old blue eyes holding a mic and holding court. He was 82. His last words were, “I’m losing.”

Tulips on the kitchen table. Yellow and blue. Napkins folded nicely with polished silverware tucked inside. A wine and water glass at each place setting. Candles burn on the countertops made of marble.

A Greenleaf salad is made with a vinaigrette. Tiny orange slices adorn the top. Bread in a basket.

The salmon is plated under the warmer with caramelized carrots cut in small pieces with butter and honey drizzling down. A touch of parsley awaits.

It is seven in the evening, and there is no sign of him. No calls. No messages. No one has come through the front door. She tries calling him again.

This is Frank Webster of Webster and Howell. Please leave a message.

What to do? She thinks. I’ve left two, maybe three voice-mails as it is. She holds the phone to her cheek. Wipes her right hand on the apron she’s wearing and hangs up.

I’ve got it all planned, he says. I’ll put the money in a trust for the kids. Leave her a little. And that will be that.

Are you sure you want to do this? his accountant asks. You’re taking a big step. Risky.

Yeah. Just do it.

Peggy, it’s me. I’m calling from far away. I’m sorry I left you and the kids. I hope you have a good life. John will present you with the papers. I had to go. I had to go.

She listens to his voice. Throws the  cellphone across the room. This is done.

She used to do that, he said.

What’s that? the waitress responded.

Pour my coffee in the morning.  Bring me breakfast at the table while I read the paper.

Your wife?

Yeah. She did a lot of things. He stirred in cream and sugar.

Like what?

Sorry.

I said, like what. She sat down across from him in the booth. Tape covered tears.

For instance, he smiled. We took the family on this cross-country trip one year to The Grand Canyon. He laughed. Kids were rowdy the whole time. Excited. From Chicago to Arizona, they couldn’t be still. Even when I drove in the darkness of West Texas into New Mexico, they were still jabbering away.

Sounds nice, she told him.

Yeah. Looking back on it. It was nice. He looked down at his plate of fried eggs and bacon. Dipped wheat toast into the yolks. She had this crazy idea about saving money on food for the trip.

Yeah?

She took a pot roast and wrapped it in foil, then put it next to the engine. The old man shook his head. There were vegetables wrapped up, too.

I see. The waitress poured more coffee.

Thank you. She said that by the time we got to Joplin, it’d be done. Nice and tender, she said.

Oh no.

Yeah. We got to Joplin, and I opened up the hood. A terrible smell of burnt food and oil permeated the whole roast, it seemed. We both laughed. Got the boy and the girl McDonald’s that night. They were happy.

That’s a nice memory, she said. I wish I could go on a trip with a man. Maybe some kids.

Well. The truck is parked outside. He laughed.

What happened to your family? She asked. If you don’t mind telling me.

My daughter is in Denver. She’s a dancer. Got a kid. I’m going to see them one day. He took a sip of coffee. And the boy is out there wondering around. Trying to find himself, he says. I send him money sometimes.

I see.

My wife passed away a few years back. Cancer. She died in the woods next to our house. Died in my arms. I spread her ashes out there. She wanted that.

Sorry.

He nodded. It’s OK. I’ve come to terms with it. They looked at each other, the young woman and the old man. Looked into each other’s eyes. Hers brown. His gray. They just looked. She poured him more coffee.

Bobbers attached to strings floated on the river. Cane poles stuck in the ground. Salami on hooks.

Two men sat under an oak, eyes half shut, waiting and dreaming at the same time.

Maybe it was heat dreams they were having. Legs stretched out, arms resting in their laps, leaning back in folding chairs, one eye open while the other blinked. Straw hats pulled down, covering their foreheads.

In-between the two old men was a Styrofoam cooler holding ice, Old Style beer, plastic wrapped sandwiches, and a package of Oscar Mayer salami. Little by little the salami was eaten, the two leaving pieces to tear bits off for bait. Their poles never bent.

They just ain’t biting today, Gus said.

Seems like they never do, Jerry responded. Sure is hot.

Yes, it is, Gus wiped his broad forehead with a red handkerchief.  It’s always hot in Arkansas. Hell, it could be December, and it would still be hot.

I don’t know about that, Jerry laughed. This is autumn. Indian summer. Nighttime, it’ll be cooler, Jerry grabbed a slice of salami, folded it, and took a bite. Supposed to be a blood moon tonight, Jerry said with a mouthful.

That a fact. Didn’t know that, Gus said. What time?

After midnight. Early in the morning, around four. About the time I get up, Jerry told him. Put the coffee on and just look at it from my back porch.

Huh. I’ll probably do the same. Now that Ingrid is gone, I find myself getting up earlier and earlier, Gus said. She was really something. A real hell cat, he laughed. Got to the point I couldn’t keep up with her no more. Gus checked the lines. That’s when she left me. Took off with some insurance salesman. Younger than both of us.

Did you try to keep her?

I figured why bother. She would have found a reason to leave one way or another, Gus smiled.

They always do, Jerry said. Mine has spent her whole life with me, but she checked out years ago. Now we just watch TV, eat, and sleep.

Yeah. I’ve heard that from others. Heard their women just existed these days. I guess Ingrid wanted more, Gus stretched his arms to heaven.

They popped open a couple of beers and clanked them together. They looked at each other and took a sip. 

Bobbers floated on the river.

There was a magic between them. Chemistry. They were placed in a beaker, mixed up, and came out as one.

I used to watch them at the diner. Sitting across from each other. Holding outstretched hands. Looking, focused on one another. They could care less about the coffee.

Then, one day, I think about five years ago now, he died. His liver gave out on him. Said he drank too much. Strange. He always acted sober.

The funeral was a small gathering of family and close friends. I went by to pay my respects. Told her I watched them in the diner every day. Explained I was a great admirer of their love. The gray-haired lady pulled me aside and said, don’t believe everything you see.

Brenda was her name, she said. And there was a Linda and a Marie as well. She looked back at the casket and laughed. He had women all over town. He was always bringing me flowers. His way of asking for forgiveness.

And you did?

Every time, she said. And, the flowers were nice. I had roses in the living room, tulips in the dining room, and a mixed bouquet in the kitchen. All at the same time. I never placed them in the bedroom, she sighed. Hurt too much.

Tongue-tied, I told her I never would have known it. You both looked so in love.

People passed us as we spoke. Expressed their condolences. Women were crying. Men told her he was a hell of a man, Geraldine. A hell of a man. She smiled and graciously agreed. Saying, thank you for coming, and God bless.

We sat in a pew when all had left. We just sat there. Quiet. She extended her hand. I held it. I noticed there was no ring. She was ready to move on.

Workers were sawing at six o’clock in the morning. Hammers swinging, too. Old men on rooftops tossing shingles. Boys below picking up scraps.

The noise stops for a minute or two. Coffee is poured from a thermos into plastic cups. There is discussion amongst men. Speaking in some kind of foreign languages. Spanish, Esperanto, Pennsylvania Dutch, a mixture of different dialects. Different sounds.

Climbing on ladders, old men never look up or down, just straight ahead at the white wooden siding. They carry a load of roofing tiles slung over their shoulders; Mexicans on one side of the house, and the Amish on the other. Sweat pours out of them. The mid-day sun melts their spirits.

The work is done by evening.Vans and trucks pull up to take the laborers one way, and the roofers another. Jokes are told in both. The Dutch have their stories, and the Mexicans have theirs.

Most of the jokes are about the other workers, opposite of them. The Mexicans laugh about the Amish square, which is basically a thumb and pointer finger in the shape of an L. And the Amish laugh about siesta at lunchtime. Both talk of who is the better worker. But, both know they rely on each other.

They will come the next day in vans and rusted trucks with hammers and saws to white suburbia to build another home for those who have it easier. School buses filled with kids will look on as they sweat. Housewives will look, too. Watching as they drive by in BMWs, a Lexus or two, Broncos and Land Rovers. Talking on their cellphones. The Dutch call them English. Mexicans simply shake their heads, and they both keep working.

The end of another day and an Amish elder with a stone face says, soon this job will be over. He packs his tools and scratches his beard. Yes, soon this will be over.

He sat up on one side of the bed and she the other. Feet on a cold hardwood floor. Both naked. Chilled to the bone. A small Navajo blanket barely covered them, loosely hanging on their shoulders. They’d picked it up when they were out west, driving the Dodge around in the desert and small towns; a back seat floor covered in empty gin and vodka bottles. Now they sit, not saying a word in the early morning hours.

She turns and stares at his back. Hair in some spots. A mole or two. Black hair touching his shoulders. She starts to speak, say something, anything, but she’s afraid of it sounding forced, formulaic. She turns back and looks at the brick wall, lowers her head, and places her hands on her wobbly legs, which have grown from stems to trunks over the years. Sunlight comes through the window.

He rises and stretches his arms to the ceiling, almost lets out a noise, then walks over to the chair with a shirt hanging from the back of it, boxers on the wicker seat, and pants wrapped around skinny wooden legs. He pulls the wool shirt over his head and steps into his underwear. He notices a snowflake or two. The windows sweat.

She gets up and puts on a long tee-shirt with a kitty on the front, dropping below her thick waist. The woman stands by the window looking outside as he walks over to the microwave and places a cup filled with water into it. She sees he has tea bags in his hand. He always uses two. She finds this wasteful.

There are still no words between them. Quiet. The bell on the microwave goes off. He dunks tea into the cup in an up and down motion. Two strings wrapped around his pointer finger. Honey is grabbed from the top shelf.

Do you want to start? She asks. He shakes his head slowly. Good, she says. Rather not talk? He nods and drinks his tea. At a card table, they sit in the morning’s silence. 

We walked upon the river banks. Muddy, soft, from water that had crested before. Weeds high. Dead catfish lay upon earth. Water moccasins slither. A frog croaks.

I carry a rope in one hand, a pistol in the other. He follows behind, tripping over his bare feet, hands in shackles, clothes torn, muttering the words, I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.

He was a member of my flock. Another sinner like the rest of them. Some sins can’t be forgiven. They just float downstream with the one that is evil. He trips and falls.

Get up, I say. Get on up. I tug on the rope a little tighter. The noose chokes him till he turns blue. Are you sorry? Truly sorry for your sin? I ask. He nods and shakes. What are you sorry for? He cries. I pull tighter. Say it.

I’m sorry for adultery with your wife. His head lowers. But, I’ll pay for those sins, he states. Just forgive her, he pleads.

Fair enough. And with that, the gun was placed to his head. Sweating, mumbling, crying to me to please forgive him. I stand cold. Stiff hand. And shoot. One man. One bullet.

I untie him and send his body down river and his soul to God. May he have mercy.