dmseay

An arm was thrown about twenty feet, and his leg about fourteen. Crushed skull, chest caved in, blood all  over the field.

Eddie  found him.  The tractor had run out of gas in a patch of corn.  He picked up the body and carried it out to the barn. Laid it out on a table they used  to store  things on like photo albums, old bicycle parts, candles, Coleman lanterns. The high school senior knocked all of it off with one swoop of his arm. That’s where Billy rested for a short time. Eventually, mom and the kids  gathered around him to lift his spirit up to the sky.

But William Sr. wasn’t there. The mother tried to track him down. Tell him about his oldest son. But the old man laid in an alley downtown  four sheets to the wind. It wasn’t till Billy was cremated that he found out. Then, the yelling started.

Why didn’t you tell me? He asked mom. You  could’ve told me. There was a bottle of cheap vodka in his hand. Half of it was gone.

I looked everywhere for you. I called all the bars. Tried looking up a few names of women in the phone book but got too nervous. What was I gonna say. I’m the wife of the man you’re screwing? Dad turned around and walked out the door. They never saw him again.

Where’s dad going? John asked.

Off to join the circus, mom said.

What’s he going to be?

A clown. He’s always been a clown.

Will I see him again? The blue-eyed short boy asked.

Hard to say. He likes trapeze artists. She laughed. Hard to say.

A canary yellow pickup truck was parked in the gravel driveway. Motor hummed. Headlights turned off. The radio tuned to a country station. Barbara Mandrell  sang about sleeping single in a double bed. Mistakes made. William Sr. laughed at the lyrics to this song. Thinking over things I wish I’d said, the blonde kept singing through the tinny speaker.  The father of five pulled out a bottle of Wild Turkey from the glove box and opened it. Took a swig. Hummed along some more. Now I’m the one sleeping all alone. He took another swig.

The house light was on. Mosquitoes danced around it along with moths. William staggered his way to the porch and sat on the concrete step. He didn’t think about his children or his wife. Didn’t think about the farm which was unkempt, weeds growing, soybeans dead, cornstalks brown. The farm his father left him was now falling apart. The house, too. Shingles missing. Porch posts knocked sideways. Busted boards. That was just the outside. Inside, his wife tried to keep up with the cleaning, but with five kids, daily tasks had taken a backseat to cooking and correcting unruly children. Diapers changed, and bottles warmed on the stove. She did not breastfeed. William said those were for him. He’d laugh and go out into the night. Leaving her behind to cope.

He laid there on the cool concrete. Watched the insects frolic in the summer’s heat. Laughed out loud, sat up, and leaned his back against the screen door. Calling out her name. Jackie. Come on, girl. Open up. Daddy’s come to see you. Drunken babble was now full-on screaming. Open up this door, woman. I’ll huff. And I’ll puff. And I’ll blow your house down, he laughed. Come on now. Open up.

Shhh. She said. Be quiet now. She giggled. William. Get up off your ass and get in here. She opened the screen door. Two drunk fools holding each other while waltzing into the front room. Breaths smelling like turpentine. Clothes came off, exposing the short redheads curvy body and his slight paunch. 

They didn’t bother to go upstairs to her bedroom. A worn-in couch suited them just fine.

The sun came through the windows shining a light on their naked bodies curled up together like a dog, and it’s owner. William began to get dressed. Noticed the bottle sitting on the coffee table  with a spider left in it. He drank down the half shot and laughed.

Where you going? Jackie asked.

Got to get home.

I’m going out tonight with my girlfriends. She stood and placed her short arms around him. 

You mean going out to get men, William said.

There’s always better prospects.

Mason jars lined up on a shelf. Lids rusty. Cobwebs strewn over them. Dust had settled. 

One by one, he took a jar and  broke it on the concrete floor. Pieces of glass mixed with mouse droppings. Tin lids tossed to the side. 

In autumn she’d can vegetables from the garden. Turnip greens, spinach, corn, tomatoes, rutabaga, and Hungarian peppers placed in jars for winter. The son remembered the taste of each. He thought of coming home from school each day and gathering goods for dinners. Down in the cold basement collecting remnants of summer. Mom yelled from the top of the stairs that she wanted this jar or that. She was always yelling.

The family was large. Three sons and two daughters. Dad had left before all reached into their teen years. Mom said he went off with some trapeze artist from the circus. His uncle later told him it was the bottle he chased.

John was the youngest. And he was left with the house and the land after mom had died. Billy, the oldest, was killed in a farming accident by way of a tractor.  Eddie got married real young and started a family of his own. Loretta took off with a Marine, and Bell was seen on the corner in town supporting her habits. God knows what she was involved with. But, it was John who took over the family farm. And now, as he stood in the basement, breaking glass, he began to laugh.

Two hundred acres. He thought. Two hundred acres are enough for a nice housing addition and a good amount of cash. I can leave all this behind, he said. Leave it all behind. His mom’s unhappiness. Daddy’s leaving. Billy dying. The rest taking off. He smiled. Why not? Everybody else was doing it. Dolan’s farm had been sold. Smitty’s, too. Now, I guess it was my turn. This, he said. This is what we leave behind.

Old mail on a tabletop. Bills, bank statements, last notices, and letters laid on the wood, some opened, and many still sealed.

A warm beer sat beside a letter in a white envelope addressed to him with no other name on it. A zip code in the left corner was un-familiar to him. Maybe from Indio, California, or Taos, New Mexico. It felt like a Western letter. A stamp with Gene Autry stuck on the right.

He took a swig of Budweiser and opened the envelope dated 2010. Inside was lined white paper with black ink on it. A few holes from where the writer made punctuation marks.

Dear Sam. The letter starts. I hope this letter finds you. You moved so much across this country, I knew I was taking a chance.

So many things I want to know about you now. How’s your knees? Are you still slightly bo-legged? Has your hair turned gray? Is it still a little on the long side? What color is the truck? You were always putting house paint on it. I remember it was green and then red. Gray and black. Maybe you drive a station wagon now with a litter of grandkids in the back. Life is funny.

I’m out here in California.  Up in the mountains. I live by myself  and hear the coyotes howl at night. They always wake me up around five in the morning. I guess you could say they’re my alarm clock.

Truth is, I was thinking of you. I think of you a lot. How we drove and drove throughout this country, listening to classic rock and roll and gospel on Sundays. Remember that time in Memphis when we stood outside Al Green’s church? That was really something. You could hear them singing out in the streets. Like heaven was on earth.

He took another drink of beer and opened a sleeve of Saltine crackers there on the table under newspaper.

I just wanted to say hello, the letter continued. I don’t think I have much more time. I’ve been really sick as of late. Coughing a lot. Losing weight. I’m not as pretty as I used to be. I guess we all change.

You take care of yourself. I never stopped loving you.

God bless,

Debra.

He took another drink of room temperature Bud and put the letter back in the envelope. He placed it in an overflowing ashtray and lit it from a matchbook that said, Meet Me at Henry’s. 

The old man watched it burn.

A mouse scurried across the linoleum floor. Moldy bread on the counter. A coffee cup hangs from a cabinet above the coffeemaker. Rusty water drips from the faucet.

He sat in the living room. A worn-out chair with tears in it, foam sneaking through holes. Brown stains.

The radio played The Texas Dough Boys. He hummed along. Honky tonk music. A Texas two-step. He got up and glided on his feet. Dancing with a ghost from long ago, a pretty blonde girl he picked up in Albuquerque. They drove to Dallas in the middle of the night. Sang songs of heartache and despair. Something about  women always leaving. Like she did once they reached Big D during the state fair. They rode the ferris wheel, and then she dwindled off in the crowd. He called for her. Hey. Hey girl. Come back here. Didn’t even know her name.

He still thinks about her from time to time. She was his one true love.

They stood in the alley. Pissing on a brick wall with the Dutch Boy Paints logo on it. That strange demented boy with the weird haircut stared down upon them as a garbage truck went by. Bums rattled through garbage. Crazies slept behind dumpsters. The circus was in town.

You finished? He asked, looking straight ahead at the building.

No. Still pissing on history. He stumbled forward a bit, then stepped back, unbalanced, drunk.

I’m going back in. Cold out here, the drunk said; a wet spot on his jeans.

Wait. Just give me a second.

There’s a beer in there with my name on it. A shot, too.

Such a hurry. You act like you never had money before. Burning through your pocket.

Been a while, he said. It’s been a while. He lit up a Lucky Strike. My dad used to drink in this bar. His dad, too. A whole family lineage of drunks has passed through and passed out in this joint. My old man told me that my great great grandpa died here. Right where we’re pissing. He was shot by some husband. Said he made his way around town. Screwed everything in sight. He smiled. Sound familiar? They both laughed.

That was a long time ago. Back when this thing was more than a rope between my legs.

Sorry about that.

Fucking cancer.

Are you done?

Takes a while these days. Used to piss hard and fast. Could hit a quarter on the floor.

He laughed. Why would you piss on money?

It’s a figure of speech.

Oh.

He zipped up. Stepped away from the wall and spit on the ground. 

You got the next round?

I always do.

A trailer with missing steps on the front porch. Mosquito strips hang from the light fixture. Gravel and dirt make up a driveway. Folding chairs with a ripped card table and rusty legs. The three of them sit around it with a twenty-four case of Old Style sweating in the night heat.

I called you boys over for a reason tonight, Bobby said. We need to get down to business. Need to be honest with each other. Don’t talk over one another. Listen to what the other guy is saying. They all nodded. Teddy. Jimmy. We’ve known each other a long time. Been through a lot. I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m not cut out for this anymore. Just don’t have the strength, he told them. I gotta step down as the ring leader. How do you two feel about that?

Teddy lifted his empty can and threw it out in the yard. Jimmy sat in silence.  That’s how I feel, Teddy said. You’re quitting when we need you most. Those teenagers are going to take over now. They’ll see we’re weak. Teddy raised his voice.

Shhhh. Not so loud, Bobby commanded.  You’re not listening. I’m done. Done with worrying about the cops. Tired of worrying about somebody lying there dead on my front doorstep. Jimmy remained quiet.

So, I guess it’s over. Teddy said.

You boys can sell if you want to. But, I’m done, Bobby lit a cigarette.

You moving out of the park?

Bobby pointed at the station wagon. Gonna take that across country. See America. Maybe settle down in Indio.

I see. Ted cracked open a cold one. Jimmy just sat there. Staring out into space.

I’ll need you to take care of him, Ted pointed at Jimmy.

Why me?

He’s got nowhere to go. He’s retarded for Christ sake. All this time, it’s been me.

You mean me, Bobby shouted.

Bring your voice down. Bobby took out a gun from his pants. He pointed it at Teddy. I said settle down.

You’d shoot your own cousin? Teddy asked.

Without hesitation. The two stared at each other. Jimmy rocked back and forth.

Go on then. Do it. You pull a gun on me. You better use it. I ain’t gonna watch him. He ain’t my responsibility. You Hear me?

I say what goes, Bobby said.

I’m done with this. Teddy stood up.

Where you going?

Leaving.

We ain’t done.

I say we are. Have fun. Send me a postcard.

Bobby cocked his gun. Shot it two times. Once in the air and once in Teddy’s back. He dropped to his knees and then landed on his bearded face. Arms outstretched. He lay there in the tall weeds. Jimmy remained silent.

Did you find her? He asked.

No. No, I did not. Looked everywhere. Old dives we used to go to. Diners where we all had pie at two in the morning. Washington Square Park, where we always went to buy joints from that one guy.

Nothing?

Nope. When was the last time you saw her?

Couple, maybe three months ago.

It’s been longer than that.

Maybe. I can’t keep up with time anymore. It goes quickly or not at all. Just stays on the same month sometimes.  Can’t tell a difference until the seasons change, he told me.

Leaves.

Yes. I noticed tonight while I was walking over here. Went past Union Square. All those damn people selling organic vegetables. I can’t afford organic vegetables, he said.

No one can. They keep up with the Jones’. Dinner parties in empty lofts. Saying minimalism is chic. Brick walls covered in black and white photos. House poor. But, they have their parsnips, I laughed.

Yeah. He took another drink. No sign of her, huh? 

Afraid not.

Hope nothing happened to her, he said.

Yeah. Hope not.

I’m out of here.

See you around, I said.

Not if I see you first.

Hands over eyes. Rubbing sleep out of them. The morning stretch and cough simultaneously. He grabs a beer from the mini fridge. Pops the tab. Foam spews on his wrinkled hand. He wipes it on his mouth. 

The room smells like cigarettes and cheap gin. No matter how impoverished, a good martini is always in order.

Dial is set on WKCR. They’re playing Coltrane for the next twenty-four hours. He sits on his bed and listens to Central Park West. Thinks of the upper Westside. Women walking dogs. Horse-drawn carriages. A couple kissing on a bench. He takes another swig.

A Love Supreme is now playing. He hums along. It is still dark outside. Snow flakes fall on 24th Street. Maybe they’re blessings coming down. He opens his window and tastes the air.

Happy New Year,  he says to himself. Happy New Year.

Nothing works, he said. No TV or radio. No electricity. The gas has been cut off for a month now. Can’t even make a pot of coffee. He spit on the linoleum floor. What I wouldn’t do for a cup of joe. I’d even settle for herbal tea. Although I prefer Earl Grey.  Any kind of hot drink would do. He looked out the kitchen window. Leaves are piling up. Soon, it’ll be nothing but white out there. That’s my guess. Farmer’s Almanac says differently. Says it’s going to be mild. Who knows? Could be a cold, wet winter. I place my bets on nothing. Can’t trust Mother Nature. She’s got a burr up her ass. Always out to prove me wrong. He spit his tobacco on the floor again. Every woman is. He lit a candle. This is supposed to smell like autumn. That’s what it says on the jar. Autumn Spice.

How much did it cost you? She asked.

Don’t worry about it. You know there’s no money anymore. Spent it all at the casino. 

Luck is not on our side. She said. Never has been. Always a struggle.  

I said, don’t worry about it.

You stole it, didn’t you?

I wanted you to have it. Wanted you to have something nice. His face glowed in the dark.

I don’t want it.

You don’t?

Nope.

Well, it’s too late for that. Just hang on a while longer. Our check will be here in a few days.

Right. And then it’s gone. She told him.

Everything always is.