dmseay

They sat in the coffee shop holding hands as his eyes undressed younger women. She was aware of this, always had been. Look, but, don’t touch was her motto.

The grandmother knew she could no-longer turn heads. Particularly her husband’s. Her once thick, long, brunette waves had now become gray and stringy, thin on top. And her cheeks did not set high; nothing did. But, she had his hand to hold. She was most proud of that.

These two had been married for fifty years. They had just celebrated with the kids and grandchildren. Capped it off by going to Paris for a week. Walking around the city, his eyes were filled with attractive women. She just giggled. Saying to herself, some things never change.

Walks in the parks, art museums, fine restaurants, and always hand in hand. It would be that way till the day he died. He took very good care of her. Told her he loved her ‘fore slumber each night. She missed that.

The old man had been gone a month before she had the strength to go through his things. Old clothes he never wore, hats of various kinds, and a desk filled with unpaid bills, receipts, and letters. Written letters to him without a return address. Stamps and coins in a copper bowl.

These letters reeked of perfume. She didn’t know why she’d never smelled them before. It was Chanele, her favorite. His too. Some were written on stationary while others were written on plain white paper in black ink. They were love letters. Dated up to a week before he died. Sweet messages of an affair that had gone on for years. Her name was Lilly.

At first she cried, felt betrayed. Tremendously betrayed. Anger was in her. She called all his friends to ask if they knew of this Lilly woman. They all played innocent. And there were pictures of her. A tall woman with ginger hair and obvious work done to her. A tightening here, an adjustment there. She was thin. She was thin.

The mother of two and grandmother of six, placed the letters and pictures in an old coffee can outside one night and watched them burn. But, she never forgot of their marriage, their trips, their walks hand in hand. She just whispered, you think you know somebody.

He sat in darkness drinking wine. Placing the glass to his lips, he took large gulps. Swigged it down like it was the last bottle he’d ever have. It was a sweet Reisling. Tasted like syrup, sugar from the cane. He always had a bottle on hand. One to replace the next one.

The long stemmed glass he drank from had their initials on it. She picked them out. Had em hand engraved. Etched in by a master craftsman. Or, some kid at the mall.

The old man would sit and listen to jazz for hours while drinking bottle after bottle. A big toe was cut off; diabetes will do that. He knew it was a matter of time before blindness would set in. Never to be able to see again. He’d miss looking at pictures.

Every night he took out albums of old photographs and looked through them. The retired insurance salesman would cry over pictures of his wife, kids, grand kids, the family dog. Pictures of Paris, Berlin, New York, kissing in San Fransisco, they all made him shiver. These people were gone now. These places had changed. There was no going back. All of it was different now; wife passed away, kids living their own lives, the old house was falling apart.

Memories, that’s all he had. Too sit and drink while remembering the old days; a tear always came to his eye.

He finished the bottle of Reisling. Took his medications and never woke up. He dreamed forever.

He sat on the edge of the bed. Waiting. On the nightstand was a Gideon’s Bible. That along with some change and a gold watch his wife had got him for Christmas. He put the Bible in the drawer. Placed his wallet on the bed and opened it; pulling out hundred dollar bills, a Starbucks card, and a Visa. The picture of his wife and son remained. He didn’t want to look at it.

The phone call was made an hour ago. She answered. He said he’d like to meet her. Told the woman what hotel he was at. Gave out his room number. Said he’d take care of her. They did not exchange names.

She asked if he was a cop? Nervously he said no. Said he was from out of town. Told the lady he was from Buffalo. She laughed. I don’t get too many from Buffalo, she said. I think you’re the first. He assured her that he was from out of town and was not a cop. She said she’d be right over.

What am I doing? he asked the blank wall, looking for the face of Jesus in it. Forgive me of these sins Father. Forgive me, the man pleaded. There was a knock on the door. He decided not to answer. Turned off the lights. There was another knock. And, another.

Go away, he said. Just go away. He looked through the peep hole. She was skinny, blonde hair a mess, makeup like a circus clown. She knocked again. I said go away, he began to sweat.

Open the mother fucking door, she said in a quiet scream. Open it. He did not. I’ll get my boy after you, she yelled while walking away. You’ll see.

He sat on the edge of the bed. Waiting.

Watching crows eat potato chips

Thrown on the ground

Tossed out

They peck at them

Pieces of stale wheat bread too

They’d eat that in Africa

Roof tops shine in the sun

Winter’s frost is here

Why rush the seasons?

The crows are certainly not

They’d spend hours talking on the phone. Started in the evening and quit when the sun came up. Talked of past and present. Marriages, divorces, life in California-where she lived- life in Chicago where he did. The two of em would talk about high school. And the first time they kissed. He kept a picture of her on his nightstand. She kept a picture of him in her mind.

She told him she’d lost her virginity to some movie actor out in Hollywood. A member of a famous family. Said they carried on for awhile. Till he got bored with her. The woman spoke of all the different life experiences she’d had. So did he. Talking about drug use and wild parties thrown in Chi-town. Models he’d dated, actresses as well. It made them jealous, this talk of lovers. It made them long for each other more.

And he told her about traveling all over the states. Living in New York. Dollar slices of pizza. Homeless shelters. Spending time in Bellevue. Telling her the truth. She was sympathetic. She listened.

These days were different for him. The insanity of youth had stopped. They talked of him moving out there to be with her. They talked.

One night she stopped calling him. And he would call, leave messages,but, it was only a voice on a machine. Left some wild rambling statements.

He tried everything to track her down. She’d disappeared. Left without a trace. He gave up. Chicago gets cold in the winter.

The table was empty. No one sat there. There had not been a sit down dinner in years for the family of four. They all sat in the living room and watched television during their meals. The kids would want to watch cartoons whereas mom and dad longed for a night of news. Often, the kids won out.

There was never a time when the old oak table-handed down from her grandad-was used. The two never hosted holidays, nor dinner parties. It just didn’t interest them. They both had busy lives. Professional lives. Dinner was often take out or Blue Aprin. Depending on whether or not she could find time to fill out a menu.

This old table gave her memories. It was where the adults sat at Thanksgiving and Christmas. It’s where grandad offered grace. Hands folded, elbows on table, as old pop would pray to God. She remembered them well.

It’s also where she would eat breakfast when visiting the grandparents. Grandmother would give her a bowl of cereal which would turn into mush due to her refusal to eat it. And, at lunch, where that same soggy bowl would appear again. They’re starving in China, Grandmother said. So finish it, the little girl would cry and cry until it was taken away.

The table was also the place where Dad would place his head and fall asleep at night. Reeking of booze, the old man would lay there in a pool of drool only to be awakened by mother’s nagging.

She hated seeing her father this way. Hated it also the night he didn’t wake up. Lying dead at the table. His head turned sideways. Staring at a picture of a girl in pink.

And-as often the case-the family sat on the couches and watched television while eating Chinese food. While the table lay bare. She would hand it down to her daughter.

They sat around the campfire till moonlight. Tents were placed down the hill upon dried out pine needles and dirt. Greenery of summer had gone. Now it was browning leaves that crackled when stepped on.

A weekend away from wives, children, responsibilities. Just beer and deer. The men came to hunt. To go after the elusive buck. They’d take a doe if they had to.

Men wearing camouflage and bright orange hats. Half grown beards chisled on their faces . Smelling of burnt wood, alcohol, and weed.

John had brought a dime bag with him for the trip. The others did not mind. It’d been years since they’d gotten high. Two of them, Nick and Gary fell asleep with smiles on their faces while John and Tom stayed up all night philosophizing about politics, women, the war in Iraq, pulling out of Afghanistan, and the best way to strip clean a buck. These talks usually ended with both saying, Yeah man. And, I love you man. A real sense of brotherhood.

As the sun came up Nick and Gary loaded their guns. Checked little things like a full flask, cigarettes, a knife, and a flashlight. They also made sure their cellphones were fully charged. In case of emergency.

The two looked over at John and Tom and decided to wake them up by pissing as close to their heads as possible. A yellow stream ran down the hill and past the two on the ground. The two hunters decided to let them sleep, figuring that sooner or later the bright light in the sky would wake them.

John took off to the north while Tom stayed south. They used binoculars to survey the land. No deer. They walked further. This time east and west. Still, nothing. Then they heard a gun go off. A shot from a distance. Sounded like it came from behind. There was a quiet. Just silence. They did not move. They knew a deer must be close. The two began retracing their steps. And, more shots were heard. The hunters picked up their pace.

They then stumbled across a body laying in the weeds. He was bleeding; incoherent. Looked like the bullet hit him square in the back. He could not move. Blood began to pour from his mouth. His eyes wide open.

Tom called 911. It took awhile, but, paramedics showed up on the scene to call it. A life over. Dead. You know this is private property don’t ya? the medic asked. They nodded their heads. The police will want to ask questions, he told them. Yes, they responded.

It was reported as an accident. And no one ever fessed to it. A week later the four meet at a bar for drinks and Ohio State football. John and Tom stayed quiet for the most part. While Nick and Gary would celebrate touchdowns by saying, I love you man.

She lay asleep down the hall. He looked at the moon with binoculars. A half moon. Rarely did he catch it full, in all it’s glory. It was always a half or a quarter. He’d check the calendar and then sleep right through. Maybe the whole moon did that to him. Maybe it was just bad luck.

He went to bed early every night. Way before she did. Then woke up a lot of times ’round midnight. The old man would place earplugs in his large ears and listen to Coltrane, Miles, Chet Baker, whatever mood had hit him. Then, he’d just stare at the moon. Bill Evans would play Gloria’s Step, and he would adjust his lenses. Looking at it. High in a dark sky. Wanting so desperately to go. To leave and have the moon follow him. A silver shimmer chase him. To be caught by it’s majestic light.

And one night, he did. He knew the wife would sleep. She never rolled over. The old man took a long look at the moon that night. Got in his old pickup. And drove down the highway with a full moon following him. Cigarettes were tossed out the window. The burnt butts of an orange glow skipped along the road. Miles played Kind Of Blue. And for the first time in a long time, he smiled.

The old man parked the truck down by the river. He looked at the ball shining down on water. He took a picture in his mind. Wanted to remember this night. The night he was chased by a full moon. And captured by it’s magic.

Boxes. He looked in boxes for a book, The Catcher in the Rye. His hero Holden Caufield was hiding; didn’t want to be found. Just like Salinger. Hiding.

The old man went through box after box. Kerouac, Melville, Malmud, Mamet, Shepard, a book of poetry by Dylan, but, no Catcher. He had a lot of books at one time. At least three hundred. Had a lot of jazz albums too. All of it was sold after the divorce. He just drove around America with a few clothes and a copy of Leaves Of Grass. Whitman got him through.

The last time he read Salinger was in college. Got hooked on Ten Stories by J.D. Read the book over and over again. Made him think; ponder. For a year he carried it with him everywhere. Read it in the park, down by the lake, in coffee shops, in his basement. It’s what led him to Holden.

And now he was just an old man trying to experience youth one more time. Where are you Holden Caufield? Where are you?

There was two empty egg cartons on the table along with other debris. Empty beer bottles, a Juicy Fruit wrapper, papers with numbers on them, recipes, reading glasses, and a Romper Room clown head on a stick. To the side was an empty box that read, Del Monte Gold.

Jackets, coats, and clothes were thrown over chairs. A ripped Bulls’ tee-shirt with the logo on it laid on the counter along with empty milk jugs, orange juice bottles, banana peels. A broken cookie jar shaped like an old butter churn was there too. Yesterday’s newspapers laid loosely.

The place looked like it had been abandoned. Doors had shit streaks on them. Old wooden floors were warped. Windows were broken. People came and went throughout the night. Staying inside all day until dark again. The sun melted them.

A sign on the door said, condemned. Junkies and crackheads paid no attention. Neither did people in the neighborhood. Mrs. Johnson sat across the street eyeing the place with binoculars. Kids would ride bicycles past and pick up pace just a bit. Old men sat at the corner bar and watched Vanna spin the wheel. Never did they discuss the community’s eye sore.

It’s just how things went on Chicago’s southwest side. Away from Bridgeport. Miles from Canaryville. And, a drive from Hyde Park, on the southwest side, people had given up. The murder rate escalated. Drug dealers on every corner. Homes in disrepair. The cost of human life was cheap.

The six o’clock news would report stories of homicides, car jacking, a cop shot on duty. That would take up five minutes of their broadcasts. Then it was onto weather and sports, advertisements. But, hope was not for sale.