dmseay

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.

He followed her. Cross country from one state to the next. Started in the Midwest and went to New York. Then down south. Wound up in Atlanta. Watching her from a far. Not disrupting her life. Just watching her.

Never tried to contact her. He knew better. Her last words were, I can’t help you anymore, she said over the phone when he was jammed up in New England; broken down Dodge, no money, a return to the streets he belonged to. A return to nothing.

He watched her go to the office. Knew what time she got there. Knew when she’d call it a day. He saw her go to her car Monday through Friday at seven o’clock at night. She was always a late worker. Stayed when everybody left. Making final sales calls, getting caught up on paper work, ordering out Chinese.

Weeks would go by when he didn’t see her at all. Figured she was out of town on work. Or, maybe a vacation. Like they used to do. He didn’t know.

And one day he saw it. Truth stared him in the eyes. She was holding hands with a man. A tall, good looking man. He kissed her as he walked her to the office door. That’s when he knew. People move on.

He said he didn’t kill her. Sat right there in that chair and said it over and over again and again; I didn’t kill her.

The detectives had different ideas. They’d teamed up on him. Went over his story good and hard; facts and more facts. The two officers played good cop bad cop. Gave him cigarettes and coffee. He still wouldn’t confess.

The boy was sticking to his story. Some wild tale about being across town all night at his mother’s grave. Said he went there to weep. Said he couldn’t sleep. Went there to pray.

His mom had passed away a couple of days ago. She took care of him. Fed him. Put him to bed. Read stories to him about Santa Claus and wild things in the night. Said he missed her. Said one day when Jesus comes back, he’ll be with her all the time. Now, why would a boy who loved his momma so much go and do a thing like that?

Her body was found on the floor. Head was blue and green. Dried blood formed from her forehead. They showed him pictures. Said they had a bat with his prints on it. Asked why there was no alibi? He didn’t know what that was.

He just kept saying, I didn’t kill her.

He waited for a sign. Man said he’d be back. Said he’d come a second time. Gave the precise date. The very hour. Told him there were signs and symbols as to his arrival. Written on paper. In English.

The old man memorized the signs. He knew what to look for. He sat there on the front porch waiting. But, he never came. Just strong winds out of the west.

Thought he saw clouds forming. Felt like a twister was on its way. Could hear a freight train in the distance. It was getting closer. The book said nothing about a freight train. Or, strong winds.

After awhile the dark clouds parted and the sun came out. He poured another glass of tea and waited. Just waiting. He had nothing better to do.

Pictures. She spent hours looking at pictures; old black and whites drawn from a box with a red ribbon ’round it. One by one the elderly woman went over the pictures in her mind. Going back and remembering the events photographed.

There were photos of her wedding day. She wore a beautiful white dress and veil while he donned a black tuxedo complete with bow tie. Both of them were much thinner then. Not like now. Look at us, she whispered. Look at us, she picked another.

His and her parents were examined. Her father, so stoic. And mom never smiled. Not even on her daughter’s wedding day. His parents had a fake grin produced by alcohol. They both drank to forget. Maybe forget their own marriage. Their philosophy was if they weren’t happy then why should anybody else be. The old lady laughed. She remembered them well.

And she shuffled through the pile of pics. Picked out some on the bottom. Christmas’ of past. Thanksgiving dinners with cousins, aunts and uncles. Her father trimming a turkey. Everyone with a cocktail in hand. The dog sitting in the corner.

But, there were no pictures of children. Just adults drinking. They tried to have kids. It never happened. She wondered if that’s what was wrong. If that would have made everyone happy. She blamed herself.

The pictures were put away. Placed on the top shelf in her bedroom. It was the last time she looked at them. She knew something was missing.