dmseay

It is morning. And, you are not here, she whispered. Strange. Your presence is no longer felt, she sat up in bed. Long time. It’s been a long time since I felt free, the old woman said. Why didn’t you leave earlier? she looked at a picture of him on her night stand, then turned it face down. She wiped her emerald eyes with her wrinkled hand. Looked at the clock. She had slept throughout the night. No dreams.

Walking down the hall, she carried his picture with her. She placed the photo on the kitchen counter. Made coffee and watched as hummingbirds flew to the feeder by the window. They were free. Free to do as they wish, she thought. I wonder where they’ll go next, she mumbled. Do hummingbirds fly south for the winter? she asked herself. Maybe I should.

She finished her coffee and slapped her brittle thigh. I’m going to do it, she said aloud. I’m following the birds, she laughed, got her car keys and started the old Dodge. It runs, she rejoiced. It runs, the old woman couldn’t believe it.

And, in her robe and slippers she flew with the birds. Followed them down highways and back roads. Laughing the whole time. I’m free, she said. I’m free.

Before midnight. Half of America asleep. Some work third shift jobs; drive diesels down highways, cook omelets, drink heavily, make love. And many sit in the dark thinking of what might have been had they towed the line. Just followed the rules; a lot of folks like that.

The clock on the stove read 11:47. The microwave blinked 12:00 in a repeating rhythm. His watch said 11:17; he had options.

He sat in his chair and lit a cigarette. Blew the gray smoke into the dark. Listened to the radiators hiss. The old man had heard that sound all his life. Conjured up memories; his past. A life of nothingness. Alone throughout it. Never went anywhere. Never traveled. No schooling. Just alone in an old house. Burn marks on the floor.

Everyday he went to two places; the liquor store and Kentucky Fried Chicken. Drank the same beer, Old Style, and ate the same meal, a three piece with a thigh, wing, and drumstick. Mashed potatoes and Cole slaw came with. Along with a stale biscuit. Walked the same route everyday too. West on Baker to Broadway then up north to Main Street. It was his daily ritual. Talking to himself silently the whole time. His thin lips moved.

What was he saying to himself? Just chatter. Mindless chatter to God. Always asking for forgiveness. Knowing that he, like all of us, were sinners. He had this fear of dying. Scared of eternal suffering. Never thought he was good enough for heaven. When he was younger he was told that. Stuck with him. Never did the church teach him forgiveness. Or, the sacrifice of Christ. He was taught that God will punish us. So much for salvation.

Alone he sat in the dark eating chicken and drinking beer. Scared to go out at night. Knowing the apocalypse could come any day. These were fears that kept him awake. He never knew what time it was. He just knew light and dark.

When you give something up, it’s gone. Never see it again. Habits, liquor, people, things in life you thought were important; thought you needed. They just vanish. Maybe for better? Maybe not?

She’d been gone a long time. He gave her up back in ’86. That’s when they both decided to let go. There was no forgiveness. No wishes of goodwill. The judge put an end to it and that was that. All the fighting, all the arguing, had ended. They were two separate people walking out of a court house. They didn’t even say goodbye.

And now he sits in his trailer. Listening to trucks roll up and down 41 throughout the night. No pictures on walls. No paintings. Just cheap furniture and a coffeemaker. A stack of paper plates stood on the counter.

The old man stayed up all night eating Pop Tarts and drinking coffee. Sitting in silence. Watching the clock. Sometimes he thought of her. Wondered if she’d remarried. Was she alone like him? Semis shook the walls.

He couldn’t remember what she looked like. Was her hair red, or, blonde? Did she have green eyes? Thought she was fat. Bet the years whittled that away. Maybe now she was thin, he thought. Thin as a rail like me, the old man whispered. The heat came on.

These things in our past. Things we give up on, he mumbled. We let go of them, but, they don’t let go of us, he poured another cup. Grabbed a Nutty Buddy out of the cabinet.

I wish she’d let go, he said. Maybe it’s her ghost? he opened the candy bar and took a bite. I’ve done my part, he laughed. I’ve done my part, he closed his brown eyes. Ran frail fingers through gray hair. Lit a cigarette. Listened to trucks fly down 41.

The house was dark. Couldn’t see his hand in front of him. Stumbled to the refrigerator and grabbed a beer. Kept the door open. A mouse scurried across the kitchen floor. He did not scream, or laugh. Did not eek. Just opened his Old Style and downed it. Grabbed another. Found some cheese in the corner. Sprinkled bits under the counter. Lit a cigarette. Smiled.

He sat down in his favorite chair. Stared into dark space. Looked outside. Streetlights were out again. They’d been flickering the past few nights. Diesels ran up and down 30. Semis carrying heavy loads. He heard them racing, but, could not see them. They were loud. Some applied air brakes. Others just rolled through the dark intersection. Passing up a stop sign. Ignoring it. Or, just couldn’t see it. He turned the television on.

Sound was turned down low. The late show was on. Some local station that played movies at midnight. Some Like It Hot was on. Tony Curtis and Jack Lemon were wearing dresses. Marilyn Monroe played a small guitar. She fell for Curtis. Lemon got stuck with an old man. Well, nobody’s perfect.

Infomercials played after that. The old man grabbed another beer. And, another one. He watched a man cutting meat with incredibly sharp knives. Then he cut through a soda can. Finally he cut through an empty can of corn. Only $19.99 if you act now, the man said. Plus they were throwing in a cutting board. Absolutely free. He snored. Couldn’t keep his eyes open.

Had dreams about her. The one that got away. Thoughts of her walking towards him. Wearing a blue dress. Her blonde hair was long and curly. Blue eyes that looked into his soul. She didn’t talk in these dreams. Just looked at him. And, he looked at her. They stood there with a brilliant light shining on them. They were about to embrace when the sound of a truck woke him. A warm beer was on the table beside him. A full ashtray had cigarette butts with a little bit of tobacco left. He lit a bent one. Swigged down the beer. And just sat there. Thinking. He was alone. He was truly alone. Always had been.

Morning news came on. The weather girl was wearing a blue dress. The old man smiled.

*Well, nobody’s perfect. Is the last line in Some Like It Hot.

There was something wrong with the way she walked. A limp. And sort of a march. She’d raise the right leg mid-level and drag the left with her foot turned sideways. Her shoes were always untied.

She walked up and down Broadway wearing aqua colored spandex and a tight tube top. Even in winter she wore the same outfit. Makeup made her face look like a clown. Too much lipstick and rouge. Eye liner put on heavy and black. Her brunette hair came down to her shoulders. The young woman carried a small purse of turquoise with a small sign on it that said, Feed Me. Some did.

Sitting in Times Square with her hands out as people walked by in the night, or morning; she was always there; begging for money or maybe salvation. You could barely hear prayers from her mouth in Spanish; crossing herself and kissing a wooden cross around her neck. This woman had faith.

And there were times when sacrifices were made at the alter. Slices of pizza and McDonald’s laid at her feet. Food didn’t sit there too long; Mary would eat it right away; scared that someone would steal it. Always a fear that she would never have enough. I guess everyone has that fear. Kids across America stuffing themselves. Fighting over the last roll at the dinner table. I wonder if she ever fought with brothers and sisters over food. Or, had she always been alone. What was her story? No-one knew. She was just the crazy woman in Times Square begging for money, food, something. Maybe comfort? I don’t think she ever got that; not from me.

Is there anything you’d like? he asked. Maybe some tea. It’d help you feel better, the old man told her. She shook her head. How about a hot whiskey? she smiled. Told him no. You can’t go on like this forever. All curled up here on the couch. Why don’t you climb into bed and stay there till you feel better? she grabbed more of the blanket with her frail hands. I’ll make you some tea. The good kind with the Tang and lemonade in it. LIke your mom used to make you, he walked into the kitchen. Opened a beer from the ice box. Calmed his nerves. He was sure of it this time. She was dying.

The boy is coming up from Kentucky to see you, her wrinkled face was glowing. She smiled for a moment. Then winced in pain. Said he wanted to see you, he said. Asked all about you, he mixed the tea in her favorite mug. She got it from DollyWood when they went there on vacation some years ago. She was a big Dolly Parton fan. The old woman used to hum Jolene all the time. While she cooked meals, washed dishes, made beds, ‘fore she went to sleep. Always humming Jolene. The old man had the Playboy with her on the cover. He kept it hidden from his wife. He kept a lot of things hidden.

He carried the mug over with both hands. Placed it on the table beside her along with tissues, cough medicine, pills, and Tylenol. She had a constant fever. It wouldn’t break. You’re going to be alright, her husband said to her. You’re going to be alright, his hand felt her forehead. Yeah. The boy should be here any day now, he said. Took time off work just to be with you. Think he’s going to stay awhile. Think so. You wanna watch some TV? she shook her head. What about with the sound down. Just pictures. You can look at the pictures, she nodded yes. Well alright then, he said as he picked up the remote. Wheel Of Fortune was on. The old woman was a big fan of Pat Sajak. She liked Vanna too. She’d solve the puzzles in seconds. The phone rang.

Hello. Yes. How are you? he walked back to the other room. What do you mean you can’t come up? he hushed his voice. I’m telling you she’s dying. This could be the last time you see her, he said. The last time. You think work is more important than family? his voice raised. You should be ashamed of yourself. Down right ashamed, he told his son. You better hope she pulls out of this. But, I don’t see how. Yeah. Alright, the old man hung up.

That was work, he told her. She knew he was lying. She knew she wasn’t going to see her boy. And, she also knew he didn’t want to see her. They hadn’t talked in years. Arguments over money. She said he owed them and he said he didn’t and so on and so on. It’s always about money.

She laid there watching Wheel Of Fortune. A contestant hit bankrupt. She let out a snicker. Ain’t that something, she whispered. Ain’t that something.

I watched her in the garden; picking radishes. Singing songs. Her voice was like a bell. Ringing out. Definitely an alto. Could’ve swore she was an alto. She sang old songs. Old pop songs; Carole KIng, Carly Simon, even some Joan Baez. Her wisdom was past her age. She was an old soul. Maybe her second or third life.

Watching from the kitchen window, I was amazed by her beauty. Long brown hair and dark skin. I couldn’t make out her eyes. They were a mystery. She was a mystery. I knocked on the window to wave hello to her and there was no response. The tall woman just kept bending over, pulling radishes, singing.

God I wanted to touch her. Imagined it would feel like magic. But, it was clear that she did not want that. She did not want any interference from her time in the garden. She just kept singing, moved over to the grape vines where she pulled on the white fruit, washed by the morning’s rain, and placed it in her mouth. Singing and laughing with a mouth full of grapes. Her white dress flowed in the wind.

Turning to watch the sky, I noticed a cloud dancing to her voice. It seemed happy. Happy to be with her. I turned again to look at her. She was walking to the heavens. Step by step. Ascending a golden staircase. Maybe this was her time.

Wasn’t going to listen anymore. His ears had grown deaf to her voice. Her shrieks and hollering was too much. It would begin in the morning with yelling at high decibels. Nothing was ever good enough. She blamed him for her downfall. My parents raised me better than this, she screamed. I deserve better, she told him. He’d light a cigarette and cover his ears. He knew she was telling the truth.

He’d leave her in the morning. Sometimes in mid-sentence. Most days he’d just fill his Thermos with coffee and head on out the door. Didn’t used to be that way. There was a time when they couldn’t keep their hands off of each other. The young man would walk up behind her as she washed dishes and swat her behind. He’d grab her with both arms and kiss the back of her neck. She fell back against him and let him catch her. They’d make love right there in the kitchen. Shades open, lights on, up against counters and the kitchen table. Early in the marriage that came to a stop. So did a lot of things.

The first miscarriage happened one night when he came home drunk and an argument took place. Arguing turned into fists flying. She threw the first punch. And, the second. Accused him of cheating on her. She was always kind of paranoid about that. He swore he never did. She wasn’t buying it. He got a couple of hits in as well. Struck her across her freckled face, pulled on her blonde hair, and swung hard into her belly. They told the doctor she fell.

Her second miscarriage came in a car wreck. The two of them were yelling about who was at fault for her pregnancy. He blamed her and she blamed him. Screams became blows. She pushed him and he pushed her. He did not see that the light was red. Never saw the truck in front of him. They both bounced off the dashboard. Cuts and scrapes on him. Broken ribs in her. Another child lost.

And now they didn’t talk. She yells and he watches TV. At night it’s silent. He sleeps on the couch. She cries in the bedroom. He knew she deserved better than this.

He slept for a few hours. Mattress on the floor. A bed roll for cover. He looked up at the ceiling. Dark. Little light coming from a bathroom’s cracked door. Kept looking at the fan. It used to work, he whispered. Used to, he lit a cigarette from a pack sitting on a folding chair beside his bed along with eye- glasses and a cheap lighter. Shadows were cast on walls. He made a pair of bunny ears with two of his fingers. Here comes Peter Cottontail. Hopping down the bunny trail, he sang in a hushed tone. The house was quiet.

The folding chair was used to pull himself off his bed. His fat body struggled to get to his feet. He stood unbalanced. Always thought his weight would tip him over. Inhaled smoke and blew it out quickly. Felt dizzy in the head. Remembered when his dad died. Said he was feeling dizzy. And then fell to the floor. The man paused. Began walking to the kitchen. Walking in darkness.

Light from the refrigerator revealed some items he’d bought awhile ago. Out of date sliced turkey. A jar of vinegar that once had pickles in it. A day old pot of pasta. Four beers; Pabst Blue Ribbon. He opened one. Took a long drink. Crispness of the liquid tickled the back of his throat. Took another drag from his cigarette and opened the shades. A harvest moon lit the sky. He smiled. It was no longer dark.