dmseay

Dark. It was always dark. No stars in the sky. The moon did not shine. Just pitch black night. Like every night. He could not see in front of him. He never could.

The old man had walked down this highway several times in his life. As a boy he used to run on its asphalt, slapping the green leaves of trees that hanged over the shoulder. He used to pretend the limbs were hands of fans giving him high-fives as he streaked to the finish line. Those same trees were there, but, winter’s coldness had left them naked. Just brown sticks awaiting spring.

As a young man, he took this road out of town. Leaving behind family, a mom and a dad, a small town future. He wanted to explore. Go out into the world and try his luck.

He went everywhere; Chicago, New York, Philadelphia. Headed out west to Phoenix, Indigo, Los Angeles. He never struck it rich. Barely made enough to get by. Freedom is expensive.

Never met a girl. Never settled down. Just traveled the country. In search of nothing, but, himself. Always looking in. Always.

And now he wanted to travel down the road again. Relive youth. Maybe pick up on some cues he never saw before. Maybe just stir up old memories, old ghosts. He wasn’t sure. He just walked.

Dark. It was always dark.

She looked his way. No one had done that in years. The older man sat at the bar and stirred his drink, looked in the mirror, then back at her. The dirty blonde kept looking at him. Alone, in her booth, she kept staring.

Probably remind her of her dad, the gentleman said, He took another drink, turned around once more, and she was gone. Vanished. Maybe it was an illusion. She never existed.

He finished his whiskey and ordered another. Looking in the mirror, he could see she was back. And now standing right behind him. He remained still. His hands trembled a bit. Turning in his chair, the two caught eyes. Locked in just for a second. She ordered a Manhattan. Then went right back to looking at his outline. The way his shoulders bulged a bit, his suede jacket with the patches on the elbows, the sweater covering the back of his neck. She leaned in to get her drink.

Her breasts brushed against his arm as she picked up her cocktail. Oh, sorry, he said. She smiled. She paused. The young woman carried herself well, the old man thought. She didn’t leave. Continued standing behind him. He began to question himself. Do you have the guts? he asked himself. Do you still have it? he slowly turned in his seat until he was facing her.

Would you care to sit down? Have a chair? he asked her. She said no, but motioned over to her booth. I would love to, he told her. Love to.

And there the two sat, side by side in silence. She placed her petite hand on his thigh. He smiled, you’ve still got it old boy. You’ve still got it.

I’ll bet you have a story to be told, she whispered. He said, no. I’m just an old chunk of coal, they laughed.

That’s too bad. I was hoping for a bedtime story, she moved her lips to his cheek.

Oh, I’ve got a story for you, he finished his drink. It’s a good one. About a man who fell in love. Years ago, he fell in love with a beautiful woman. And smart too. She was like Katherine Hepburn. Some kind of movie star, the young lady smiled. He loved her very much. They went on trips together. Paris, London, New York, they went everywhere. Until one day, she was gone. Left him in the middle of the night. She had fallen out of love with him.

So, he said. At that moment he decided to never fall in love again. He would not do that to himself.

The two kissed. I won’t break your heart, she said. He nodded his head. Said, you can’t. It’s already been broken.

There were a few items in the refrigerator. Two cans of beer, an opened package of bologna, slices of bread were on the top shelf. Some oranges and apples were down below.

The television set was on. Dr. Phil lecturing a family of four. Talking about drugs and depression. Says the boy is bipolar. Who knows?

Down the hall, bedrooms were cleaned out. No beds, or, dressers. No chairs. Just a baby’s crib in one of em. The mattress was soiled.

They wanted something to take. Something for the effort. Wasn’t much of an effort. Place was unlocked. Just a turn of the knob.

And they ate bologna sandwiches and drank the beers. Took some oranges for the road. Spray painted graffiti on the walls in blue; DEATH TO UPPER CLASS. Made stick figure drawings of people bent over. People behind them. Drew crowns and wrote, KINGS OF THE UNDERCLASS.

They left as silent as they went in. Nobody knew they were there.

They sat on the couch. She read a book while he watched television. The book was a romance, complete with the muscular male holding onto the bosom bulging woman in some Western gear. He was watching Columbo with Peter Falk. That week’s guest star was Jackie Cooper. He laughed out loud as she salivated through pages.

The older couple sat at opposite ends. A lamp was on, the room was dim. He said it made it easier to watch. These sacrifices she made for him. Decaf coffee was served.

These two used to sit closer in the evening. Used to hold hands. He’d put his arm around her. She would kiss him on the cheek. Place her hand on his knee. Now it seemed they were miles apart. She slept in the bedroom, he in the recliner. The older woman would throw a blanket on him each night as soon as she heard him snoring. Every night the same. There were no surprises.

Mornings, the smell of eggs and bacon would wake him. A pot of coffee, buttered toast, and the sound of the all news station on the A.M. dial. They did not talk. He read the morning paper and she listened to the weather report.

The announcer said it was going to be cloudy with rain all day. A high of 47. Good day to stay inside, she thought. Why should anything change?

In the dark he could see outlines of buildings, houses, a red traffic light blinked on and off. These early morning hours. He’d spend them alone. Coffee brewed, cats played, she slept down the hallway. There was a peace.

The street lights would glow a blue hue. The silver moon shined down on earth. Enough to make your way home. He walked outside on the deck. Looked at clouds forming as the sun came up. Grey clouds. Snow carrying clouds. He took a sip of joe and lit a cigarette. Gave thanks.

He prayed while the Marlboro danced on his lips. Mumbling about the season, the Christ child, his family, his love. The man was truly thankful.

And the dark was no longer dark. A sky of orange and purple. Snow starting to stick. The winter season had begun. Happy Solstice.

This is not true. It’s made up. A lie. Maybe so,but, she treated it like truth.

She held it in her arms. Rocked it back and forth. Said, shhhh, if she heard it yelling. She’d often hear it yell.

And, sometimes the young woman would sit it down on the floor and just look at it. Feed the child when it was hungry with her left breast. Then sit her back down on her stomach. Pat her on the back. Try to get a burp out of her. They’d both laugh.

In the middle of the night she’d hear it crying. Bellowing out into the dark. The girl would pick up her child and dance with it. Holding baby girl close to her chest. Protected by her skinny arms. Then, after an hour or so, she’d lay it back down in a crib.

There was a mobile above the crib that she’d spin around and watch her child smile, laugh, and coo. The young mom would play with her for an hour. The child seemed fascinated with it. She’d reach up for it and kick. Mom loved to see her play. It made her happy.

This is not true. It’s made up. A lie. Maybe so, but, she treated it like truth.

The room was white. Red and blue graffiti spelled out letters oblong; THE END IS SOON, on all four walls. A light from a dangling bulb casted shadows.

There were two bodies lying on the shag carpet floor. Some color of shit brown. It was a man and a woman, middle aged, naked. They were beside one another. Looked like his hand was reaching out to her. The lady’s legs were spread apart.

Gunshots, bullets leaving a gash on both victims were in the back of the head. Looked like execution style. Their clothes were wadded up in the corner. Traces of blood appeared on them. Specks of blood were all over the room. Looked like a sawed off shotgun did the trick. The blood was dried on the back of the necks and all over. A real mess.

The coroner guessed the shootings took place a week ago by the way the bodies were smelling, changes of color. An educated guess. There was a fly that kept landing on her nose. Outside you could hear hawks circling the house.

As the officials cars came on the scene, a group of pedestrians tried to get a look inside. It was a small ranch style home next to another ranch style home. Everything was in tact. No busted windows, the locks were not broken. Someone opened the door for the shooter. Maybe a family member, a friend, someone they knew. Probably never saw it coming. Phone lines were cut.

Not many homicides took place in this small town. Never was there a shooting let alone a double. The cops tried to piece it together. Didn’t appear to be anything stolen. A room that was bare with spray painted walls saying , THE END IS SOON. Police didn’t know what to make of it.

Neighbors said they kept to themselves. Real quiet people. Never left the house. Both on disability. There was a ramp on the back door. No, the neighbor fellow said. They just kept to themselves, he lit a cigarette. Hope that helps, he told them. It didn’t.

Weeks passed then months. There was no solving the case. Maybe it was a door to door Bible salesman. Maybe a vagabond. The cops didn’t know. THE END IS SOON. Yes it is.

She was kept. Locked away. Stored for safe keeping like money in a vault. Only he had the combination.

There were many attempts to get out. Seemed as though every time he turned around she was up to something. Pills, blades, bullets, they all crossed her mind. Some kind of relief. She begged him and begged him and begged him for the code. He just sat there. Watching Johnnny Carson. Laughing at Charo and her thick Spanish accent. He paid no attention to her.

One night she decided she’d run away. Leave him. Leave…this. She walked out the door. Onto the cool wet grass in her bare feet. She kept walking. Passed the drug store, bars, churches where people sought salvation. Walked out to the edge of town where the two rivers meet. And, she did not stop. She did not stop.

She heard something. Outside of city limits there’s all kinds of noises at night. Mad dogs barking. Coyotes howling. Heavy equipment doing early morning sweeps through cornfields. And, every seventeen years, the cicadas singing into the night. Like a Biblical plague. She heard something.

Voices echo out here. You can hear a whisper for miles. There are no secrets. A small child crying over a mess they made. Parents scolding a kid. Lovers arguing on front porches under a shady moon. But, this noise was different. This noise she heard. Came from down the road. It was a beat, a thug, over and over again. Like some Indian hitting a drum. There was a rhythm to it.

Ghosts run rampant out here. They walk down roads. Dance in fields. Sometimes sit at the dinner table. Maybe it’s a ghost, she thought. Calling out for help, the girl mumbled. Always calling out for help. Wish God would make up his mind on where to send em, she turned on the truck and followed the beat.

There was a light coming from the woods. A supernatural light. A glow. It was a small boy shining in the dark. Beating a drum. They looked at each other. Neither smiled. Just looked at one another. Then, he was gone. In a flash. Gone. And, so was the sound.

Maybe he was calling out for something. Somebody, she said the next morning to her mother. I don’t know what he wanted, the teen washed out her glass. Could’ve just got here. Just arrived. One more noise I gotta put up with, she said. One more ghost.

The train kicked and crawled through town. You could hear it. You could feel it. Vehicles lined up at the tracks. Red lights blinking. Arms down.

In a minivan a few cars back a family of three sat waiting. Dad cursed the train. Mom patted him on the thigh. The little boy counted as the train slowly went by. He read off names on the train; Union Pacific, Great Northern. Saw graffiti too. Drawings of stick figures. Kilroy was here.

Dad turned on the radio. A song called Main Street was playing. He thought of a stripper doing a floor dance to the Seger classic. He used to go tip her fives and tens when he got paid till the money ran out. He’d walk out with his head down. Back to his minivan.

Mom just looked out the window. The obese woman sat there looking. Looking at nothing in particular. Just looking. Wondering, has he always been faithful to me? There was a time when she knew he was. That time had passed.

Suddenly the train stopped. Wasn’t going no where. Stalled. You could hear the brakes. A man climbed up and over to the other side of the tracks. Dad said, look at that nigger. Look at that crazy nigger. Just can’t wait can he? Mom lit a cigarette. Opened the window. A cool autumn breeze blew.

And the train began to kick and crawl through town again. The arms went up. The red lights stopped flashing. People drove over the tracks.The little boy kept looking back. Just looking back.