dmseay

He told him so. The old man said if you marry that girl you’ll regret it. Said, she’s not one of us. Told the boy that over and over again. But, he went off and did it. They took off to the court house and became husband and wife. Passed the blood test, got the marriage certificate, the whole bit. Even had a girl there to throw rice at em on the courthouse lawn as they came down the steps. Drove off in a ’67 Dodge Dart. Green colored. A four door. Bought it off some Catholic priest for $500. Took off for Chicago. More than a honeymoon, that’s where they decided to live. Moved to some part of town called Canaryville. Out by the truck stop and the stockyards. White trash neighborhood. He told him so.

Boy never listened to the old man. He’d laugh at him. The old man would sit there in his Lazy-Boy yelling about the Clintons. What a mess they made of this country. He hated the whole family. The mother, brother, Hillary, even their daughter. The dad said he could tell she was up to no good. Said we hadn’t had a good man in office since Nixon. Look what they did to him, the old man said. They crucified him. Burned him at the stake. Stripped him of his dignity, he said. You’d think they’d have a little respect, the dad said, then go on mumbling about something else on the news. Price of gas, food, beer. The old man commented on it all. Boy just sat there and laughed.

The old man told him not to marry her. Said, if your mom was alive. She’d have a heart attack. You’d be the cause of your own momma’s death. Not too sure that you weren’t, he said to him. All that screwing around you did in high school. And now you go off and marry some colored girl, dad said. And a baby on top of it, he shook his head.

Well, best of luck to you, father laughed. But, don’t come back here for nothing. Don’t come back here when those Polacks and Irish start making fun of you and your family. Don’t blame me. I told you so.

Heat kicked on in April. Another cold day. The walls inside the house were blank; no pictures. Just bare walls. Folding chairs were set up for imaginary friends to sit in. The old man spent days talking to himself. Talking about the weather, politics, things he’d seen on TV. He’d been that way for a long time. Ever since his wife died. Didn’t go out. Always inside that big house talking to himself. Talking to ghosts.

He took down all the pictures and paintings after she’d passed on. Said he never liked them anyway. Photos of when he was in the Navy. Wearing a uniform. Kissing her on the mouth. Holding her as if they were dancing. Pictures of dogs that had come and gone. An Irish Wolfe Hound named Norman. A German Shepard named Fritz. Colored photos of nieces and nephews playing on a swing set in someone’s backyard. He couldn’t remember. They were all put away in boxes. Piled up in the closet. The old man figured his time was coming up anyway. Thought he’d make it easy for whoever came in to cean up the place after he was gone.

There was one picture he kept in his top desk drawer. She was this blonde he’d met years ago in Virginia. Back when he was criss-crossing the country. Before he settled down. She rode horses and took photos of them for the local newspaper. If there was a riding event she’d be there with her camera. Shooting up film of horses jumping over things; horizantal poles, water holes, making a bee-line to the finish. She’d catch them winning by just a nose. They fell in love for six months. Ended in a terrible fight. She was very passionate. Passion would turn violent. He had to move on.

But, he kept that picture of her forever. Until he could no longer remember who she was. Now she was just some pretty blonde that he looked at once in awhile. It’s scary what we forget.

Heat kicked on in April. Another cold day.

Trains. Three in the morning and trains ran through town. Loud. Made that sound. A train whistle. A horn. It prevented him from sleeping. He never got used to it. Lived here all his life and never slept through the sound of trains coming through town.

He got out of bed. Stumbled to the kitchen. The refrigerator was nearly empty. Some old lettuce, salami, bologna, mustard, and a few beers. Quickly he opened cabinet doors looking for bread. A heel was found. A piece of old wheat bread. He made a sandwich, popped open a beer; Miller High Life. The champagne of beers. Another train was coming.

The TV was still on. No sound. Just pictures. Black and white. Jimmy Stewart in The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance. The old man was snoring. Held onto the remote loosely. Foot rest was up on the Lazy-Boy. An invisible sign that said, Do Not Disturb, hung around his neck. Boy quietly ate his food. Kept looking over at the old man. Chewing.

Dad was talking in his sleep. About some woman named Charlene. He was telling her to be still. To be quiet. Said, they’ll hear us. Then he’d snore some more. Boy listened. He knew the old man had women on the side. That was years ago. Up until mom died. Then he stopped. Felt guilty. Felt ashamed.

Boy drank more of his beer and laughed at the old man. Looked around in the dark. Wood panel walls. A sliding window. A deluxe trailer. Double wide. Dated. Linoleum was coming up off the floors. Carpet was brown. Worn down. Hadn’t been vacuumed in months. Maybe a year. He finished his sandwich. Stretched his arms up to the ceiling. Put a blanket on the old man. And walked out the door.

Poison ivy spread throughout the backyard. Over rocks and flower pots. Onto bricks that were laid to make a patio. Between cracks in the walking path from the back door to the garage. He took some kind of toxin to kill it. Make it turn brown and weather away.

The old man spent hours in the backyard. Everyday he’d be out there playing in the dirt. Planting hibiscus in pots. Pulling weeds from the garden. Building a fence to keep it all enclosed. He didn’t want to share its beauty with anyone. Especially his neighbors on either side. Young people. Thinking they know about gardening. Not having the sense to kill poison ivy. They thought it looked pretty. They wanted it to climb on their home’s brick exterior. They itched all the time and wondered why?

He was a loner. Had been most of his life. Never married. No kids. Not any family. Brothers and sisters had passed on years ago. Now it was just him and his backyard. He watched it grow in the summer and die during winter. The old man watched the sun come up on it. Saw the moon glow down on the leaves at night. He’d be out there all hours. Tending to it. His great love. His backyard.

In the winter time his basement would be filled with plants and short trees. Under a special light the painting grew. Lemon trees, wildflowers, hydrangeas, elephant ears, greens, yellows, pinks, red, all preparing for summer. Tended by his worn leather hands. Lines ran across his palms. The gypsies told him he’d have a long life. He believed them.

And one year came when he could no longer tend to the backyard. Age had caught up with him. The old man looked on from inside his house at weeds and poison ivy taking over. Green then brown. The backyard was his painting. Now, that painting was gone.

Dedicated to Floyd Shock

Blinds were closed. Sun shined through through cracks. It cast a light on a table his parents gave him. Willed it to him. They died ’bout four years ago. Almost two months apart. She went before him. The old man always said she’d leave him.

He was so resentful towards God when she died. Momma had a long enough life. But, the old man was thinking they’d never die. Thought they’d live up until the rapture. Then be taken away into the heavens. Forever living with Jesus. That’s what they were hoping for.

The old man had dreams about her after she passed on. Scary dreams. Nightmares during the day while he slept in the Lazy-Boy. Would have visions of her in Hell. Burning there for her sins. On fire for crimes they committed. Crimes against God. Crimes against man. Borrowing money and never paying it back to loan companies. Filing for bankruptcy. Unable to hold down a job. Drinking. Gluttony. They both cheated on one another. Said they were still in love.

Preacher told him those sins were forgiven. Said the blood of the lamb covered them. They were saved. The old man wasn’t so sure. Didn’t know if he wanted to go to heaven or not. He chose not to.

A piece of rope was down in the basement. It was long. Long enough to throw over the pipes and tie it off. He made a double knot. Real tight. Pulled and pulled on it to test it out. Lit a cigarette and thought about it. Sat there and just thought about her. If heaven wouldn’t take her, then I didn’t want to go, he whispered. He placed the noose ’round his leathered neck. Took a final drag and stood on the chair. And without a word, he kicked it out from under him. He was Hell bound. Soon he’d be with her, he thought. Burning in the fire. Surrounded by a billion souls screaming out. He’d be home.

He followed her down 8th Avenue. Past Circus World, the haunted museum, Port Authority, Pakistani porno shops, he walked in the crowd. She was about a half a block ahead of him. He kept his eyes on her red cap and long brunette hair. Did not let her out of his sight. He was locked in on her.

She walked for blocks. Blocks became miles. She walked through Hell’s Kitchen where black and brown men gave her cat calls. The young lady walked on past Lincoln Center where white men coming towards her turned their heads as they passed. He kept on following. She lead him to Columbus Circle and into Central Park where she sat down on a bench; waiting for him.

I knew you were behind me, she said. Could tell your presence. I felt you, she smiled. He watched people pass by as she spoke. What is it that you want? she asked. He shrugged his shoulders. Looked at the concrete below his torn up tennis shoes. Then looked back at her.

Same as always, she told him. You’ll never change. I married you thinking I could’ve changed you. Look how that turned out, she took off her cap and ran her fingers through her thick hair. Can you even hold down a job? He just sat there. Staring at her. Looking at her now. Thinking of what he used to look like with her; thin. In shape. Ready to take on the world.

I’ve got a twenty on me, she rummaged through her bag. Handed it to him. Get yourself something to eat, she shook the bill at him and placed it in his hand. He nodded. And you have to quit following me around Manhattan. Just forget I’m here. Because, I can’t do this anymore, she cried. I just can’t, he got up off the bench and looked at her. Waved his hand to say goodbye. He never said a word.

A bowl of melting ice cream sat on the kitchen counter. Chocolate with marshmallows and nuts. Some kind of rocky road all swirled into a gooey mess. The old man took a spoon and played with it for awhile. Lifting the mess into the air and then watching it fall from the spoon. It was four in the morning. He could not sleep. Dad never slept. He was awake his whole life; an insomniac. Maybe it was all the coffee he drank. Two pots a day. Perhaps his diet; no vegetables. Nothing healthy. Just ice cream and coffee. Never any meat. No proteins. Thin as a rail. You’d think he’d have a cheeseburger sometimes, or, a steak. Maybe a chicken leg. But, no. Just ice cream and coffee.

The boy was a drinker. Kept a case of beer in the fridge at all times. Momma would sneak one or two, help herself to his vodka in the freezer. She never confessed to this. You could smell it on her. Her face was red, nose had blue veins running in it. A pot belly was always covered by a black and red Dixie tee-shirt. They had a confederate flag in the front yard. Boy would come home drunk and piss on the pole it flew from. Neighbors turned their heads.

You’re not gonna eat that? he asked the old man. Just play with it huh? The old man continued swirling the collapsed rocky road. Boy went to the refrigerator and grabbed an Old Style. Sat down at the kitchen table. The television was on in the next room. Mom was watching soap operas. Days Of Our Lives, or, General Hospital. The dad and his boy could hear her talking to the TV. Calling men sons of bitches and women harlots. The two of em would laugh at her. Never to her face. Always from a distance.

Have another beer momma, boy said. How ’bout a shot. She looked at him. Shook her head. Said she never drank. It was the devil’s poison. The old man just smiled. Stirred the liquid in his bowl some more.

I remember when I was a kid, boy told dad. I’d go off to the grand parents in Arkansas. Your folks, looked at the old man. And in the mornings grandma would set a bowl of cereal out for me, he began to laugh. I’d refuse to eat it. Said I wanted ice cream, looked at the bowl in front of the old man. She’d make me sit there. All this soggy cereal. I never ate it. She’d put it in the refrigerator and come lunch time she’d pull it out again, both of the men laughed. I cried and cried. She’d yell at me. Said they were starving in China, the boy grinned. I always thought, what’s China got to do with anything?

Snow in April. Tornados in March. Seemed like everything was backwards. Coyotes circled garbage cans. Knocked em over. Rummaged through trash. Half eaten food, beer bottles, old cans of Crisco, moldy white bread, plastic bags ripped open. A few black banana peels laid on the street next to the rusted out Charger parked in front of the trailer. Winds blew cold.

The television was on in the front room. An ice storm was coming to the region. State trucks spread salt all over Highway 10 going east and west. The old man heard em off in the distance. When he was younger he’d go out there in Kroger’s parking lot and spin out at three in the morning. Now he just sat and watched em talk about weather. The trailer shook from the wind.

He listened and watched the pretty girl tell him that all hell was coming. Freezing temperatures moving up into the 30’s then a cold steady rain. Ice formed on windshields. He heard the frozen pellets hitting the tin roof. Kept on watching the weather girl. He wondered why there wasn’t any black weather girls. They were all white. And young. Mostly blondes. A few brunettes, but, pretty much blonde. He didn’t complain.

On the coffee table was a bottle of Miller High Life half empty with a cigarette floating in it. Boy came through the door. Said, it’s bad out there. Told the old man he’d best stay in for the day. Boy went over to the refrigerator and grabbed a cold one. Twisted the cap off and took a long drink. Put some Skoal between his cheek and gums. Spat into the half filled bottle. Beer turned black. Can we watch something else? he asked the old man. He nodded his head, yes, and tossed him the remote. Boy flipped through the five stations they had. Most of em talked about the weather. All these women talking about the storm, Boy said. The old man nodded again. How come I never see them ’round town? he walked back to the fridge. They don’t go to the same places I go, he declared. Nope. You only see em on TV, he twisted the cap and threw it on the floor.

The old man looked at him. A little respect will ya? he asked. Look at this place. Filled with crap and bottle caps on the floor. All ’cause of you, the father said. Boy looked back at him. Leaned over and picked up the bottle top. Looked at it. Then tossed it on the coffee table.

You expecting company? Boy asked. I mean, you wanna keep a tidy ship all the sudden?

Don’t start that with me. Just asking for a little respect. That’s all. Would it kill ya? the old man looked at the pack of cigarettes on the table. You know, ever since your mom died things have gone down hill, dad said. She’d keep a clean place for us. I just don’t have the strength, he stretched. One day this’ll belong to ya. Take care of it will ya?

Boy shook his head. Who are you? Ben Cartwright? You think this is the Ponderosa or something, the wind blew harder. The walls shook. No thanks, he said. I’ll get my own place.

You ain’t capable.

I am too. I’m capable. You’ll see, he told him. I’ll do all kinds of things ‘fore I die, the door blew open. Puddles of water formed on the kitchen floor. Sleet fell harder. He slammed the door shut. Went back to watching the weather report. I like her, Boy stated. One day I’m gonna marry her. Yep. One day. I’ll get my own place and marry her.

You’re delusional.

Fuck you old man. You ain’t gotta crush my dreams. That’s all you ever done. All my life has been can’ts. Can’t do this. Can’t do that. I’ll show you, he got up. I’ll show you, he walked out the door. The old man could hear the engine on the old Charger starting. Heard him take off. He laughed. Lit another smoke. And continued watching the weather girl.

Ash trees and oaks. Hickory. Old dogwoods. Pines bright green. The forest covered in leftovers; dead leaves, trash left behind. A giant slurpee cup lies there, stepped on, the red straw still inside.

A dead deer had been picked apart by wild pigs.Birds had swooped down and tasted the flesh. A gold cased buckshot sat in the ribcage. It’d only been dead for two days. That’s when he was reported missing. An old man who hunted on this land. Missed dinner. Wasn’t like him.

His wife called it in. Said he went out early that morning. Told her he’d be back ’round noon. She waited. Fixed a mess of fish he had caught the day before. The table was made.

She waited till the sun went down to worry. The old man lived by a set schedule; breakfast at five followed by hunting till noon. Fishing in the evening. Evenings were capped off with a beer and television. He’d hold onto the remote as if it were a gun; pointing it at the screen and flying through channels. Watched the day’s events in brief thirty second sound bites. The old man would be in bed by nine. Wake up at midnight and eat a bowl of Grape Nuts. Always tossed a spoon of sugar on em.

The wife told the sheriff of his schedule. Said he stuck to it. Asked if he’d send some boys out to Turner’s property where he hunted. The official said he’d check on it. Give it till morning, he said. I’ll send men out there. And it’ll be light. Easier to see. Assurances were not given.

But, that was the sheriff. A man of plain talk. Never sugar coated anything. Told it like it was. He eased off on telling her what he thought though. He knew the family. Had been over for Sunday dinner. And often fished off their pier. He feared the worst.

Deputies trekked through the woods. Dogs tried to get a scent. They covered a lot of ground. Saw the deer rotting there. Wondered who’d leave a buck behind? Looked up in the trees. Saw nothing. Went to the stream where water ran over rocks. Nothing. The sheriff was sure there was no body out there. The old man had just disappeared. No sign of him. His red pickup was no where to be found. It was getting dark. They’d look again in the morning.

Highway 55 runs through St. Louis on down to Arkansas. It’s a clear shot. BBQ shacks and billboards along the way. Small towns till you hit Memphis.Then you cross the Mississippi again. Seeing that river twice in a matter of hours makes one think. How big is that dude? Then folks would think of Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer. Old gambling boats going up and down the brown water. The imagination can run wild. The old man’s did.

He never told her where he was going. Never said he was leaving. He just left. She’d have enough money to get by he thought. Their boy would look after her. The old man just had to go. Had to move on. Voices told him to. The old man couldn’t shake em. It’d been that way for some time. Just left everything behind; a wife, a son, and a buck out in the woods.

They never found him. Chalked it up as an unsolved case. That was years ago. He was gone.

A lava lamp sat on the counter. Blues and yellows moved in a dance sequence. He picked up the lamp and examined it. Turned it upside down then upright again. A blot of red entered the lamp. It came from the bottom and worked its way towards the top before separating, glowing in two different directions. The young man marveled at this. He placed his one hand on the glass while holding onto a Heineken with the other. He was truly infatuated. Or, was he just drunk.

She came out of the bedroom wearing a plaid skirt and white blouse with black patent leather shoes. The young lady was going for a sexy Catholic school girl look. His focus was on her; he approved.

They had been dating for years. She always tried to make things interesting; clothes she wore, music she introduced to him, restaurants they went to. She wanted everything to be an adventure. He went along with it. He was in love with her; followed directions very well.

Do you think you’re whipped? she asked him as she placed her long arms around his neck. He looked at her, puzzled. I mean, do you do whatever I say to please me? Do it without any regard for yourself? Would you make a fool out of yourself for me? she laughed. He just looked at her and smiled. He knew the truth; he would.

The two of them went out that night to meet friends. A couple they had known for awhile. And like him, he was whipped too. The two boys had beers while the ladies sipped on cocktails. One, with a wedge of lime and the other a floating cherry making its way to the bottom of the glass. They all noticed the couple at the table next to them. The older man with a loud voice. And his young girlfriend looking shell-shocked. They were arguing over nothing. Nothing at all. Arguing for the sake of arguing. His voice got louder; wanting to be heard. She did a lot of head nodding. It was clear that this was the end.

Toxic masculinity, the Catholic school girl said. It’s toxic masculinity. I feel sorry for her, she continued. Women shouldn’t take that, she pleaded. Another example of white men getting what they want. To be powerful, she rambled. They’re only happy when they’re making lives miserable, her friend toasted her statement.

And then she confessed to cheating on the older man. Said he forced her to do it. Lead her down that path. Said she was continuing the affair. She was no longer in love with him. Said she was sorry. The older man kissed the blonde on the cheek and said goodbye.

The two younger men watched as he marched out of the bar. What was that? the lava lamp lover asked. The two women looked at him with smiles. And didn’t say a word.