dmseay

He would go looking for her in the strangest of places; bars, Baptist churches, grocery stores, woods behind his house, a truck stop out west of town. Never could find her.

She left him one afternoon in the summer. The air conditioner hummed, dog barked. His old lady lay in bed with both eyes closed. Whispering to him as he held her hand. Come with me, she said. Come with me, she held tighter.

Can’t do it, he told her. Just can’t, he tilted her head to take a sip of wine.

What good is this life here anyway?, she asked. We’ll be apart from each other. We won’t see one another till the great rapture. Don’t you wanna walk up to the gates with me?, he nodded his head.

I’ll meet you there, he whispered, and then closed her eyes again. This time they stayed closed.

He went out looking for her at night time. Figured that’s when you see ghosts. Never found her. Never did. Came to the conclusion he’d have to wait for the great rapture. Just like she said. That’s when they’d meet again.

So, he’d sit there at the table each night with a glass of wine and wait. Wait for her and Jesus. The radio was tuned to a gospel station. Clouds would form in the sky. The cicadas sang that year. And, he knew they’d be there soon.

There was never enough. He took on as many jobs as he could; grocery stores, a greeter at Wal-Mart, security guard, even tried washing cars; nothing ever panned out.

And, she would threaten to leave him when rent was due, or, an electric bill would come in the mail. At times he wished she would leave. Just make things easier.

But, she never did leave. She worked at a laundry mat out on 30 next to the IGA. All day long she’d wash clothes for people. Dirty clothes, stained clothes. She got paid by the load. And a little extra if she cleaned the toilets.

He would sit at home and wait on her. All day he’d be in that chair watching The Price Is Right, Let’s Make A Deal, afternoon news, then fall asleep with the remote dangling from his hand. He’d talk in his sleep about being a captain of industry, a famous actor, some politician. Then the old man would go to the cabinets to look for his bottle of whiskey which she would move and hide from him on a daily basis.

Come out, come out. Where ever you are?, he’d whisper as he looked everywhere for the bottle; looking under beds, the couch, cabinets, bathroom, everywhere. He’d find it eventually. Take a big sip. Then hide it from her.

It was like a game these two played. Always hiding the bottle. Always making the other miserable. But, they couldn’t live with anyone else. And, although they never said it, they loved one another.

They’d throw stones in the river. Skip rocks against the water’s current. Watch em ride for awhile, then sink to the bottom where the catfish and carp did their feeding. Muddy water. Tree limbs floating down stream. A greasy old John Deere cap atop a wave. Did he throw it out there? or did someone throw him out there? Hard to say.

The young couple sat on the river bank, looking. Soon they saw a tee-shirt float by. Then a pair of jeans. Some old Chuck Taylor’s came down the river as well. Then they heard,a voice; screaming. It was a naked mad man singing out ,Ramblin’ Man, by The Allman Brothers. He could barely keep his head above water.

The two of em called out to him. Followed along the banks as he floated on.

You can’t save me, he said. It’s too late, the naked man began to laugh.

Grab onto something, she said. A rock, a limb, anything.

Don’t want to. Just pray for me kids. Just pray for me.

And the naked man swam to the middle of the river. He dipped his head underneath the brown water. He did not come back up. Like that, he was gone. The two of em had seen the last of the naked man.

There was no obituary, or, police report, just an account of the day’s events by the two of em to the officer on duty.

His body is at the bottom probably, the cop said. We’ll fish him out here soon enough. This happens more thank you’d think.

They nodded their heads and went home. They did not eat that night.

He was like a ghost. Pitch black outside, but you could see his image. Tall and white. With slicked back black hair. The way Elvis used to comb his when he got older. When he got fat.

There was a pickup truck out in the parking lot. Music came from it. Marty Robins singing about El Paso. Falling in love with a Mexican girl. He sat there inside humming along. His head tilted back on the leather headrest. Lights on the truck came on. A cigarette burned and another song played on the radio. This one was an old George Jones tune about when he stopped loving her. He let that one sink in.

And, in the back there was a rusted chain. Said he used to keep his dog on it when he lived in Whiting. Had it tied ’round an oak. There were chips of bark in the grass from where the animal pulled on it; barking into all hours of the night. Had to get rid of it. Told his kids he’d taken him to a big farm over in Dekalb. The kids didn’t believe him. They never believed anything the old man said. Just one lie after another as far as they were concerned. That was a long time ago.

The truck started up fine. He backed it out of the lot with his lights on high beam and windows rolled down. Singing to himself bout the second coming. That was the last we’d seen of him. Just driving off into the night. Singing bout sweet Jesus. He had gone to meet his maker.

There was a fire out on 30 that night. The woods were a flame. The whole community came out to watch. Mothers holding babies, dads with beer cans in their hands; volunteer fire department tried their best to put it out. It took hours.

And, there was this smell of burning pines, oak, cherry wood throughout the town. Dark clouds of gray rolled over.

It was one o’clock in the morning. Cars were parked on lawns. Fire hoses stretched ‘cross the street. Dogs barked; chasing cats up trees. The kids stood there in amazement; looking at the sea of orange. Little boys pretended they were fire men. Girls stood by and held onto the hem of their mothers garments. Swaying their night dress back and forth in the cool autumn breeze.

Soon, women made sandwiches for the men and pitchers of lemonade. A pot of coffee was put on. People talked about old times. About neighbors who had moved, or, passed away. They spoke about church on Sunday. Words from the King James Bible rolled off their tongues. And, they prayed.

Finally the fire died down. A blackness covered the trees as the morning sun cracked through. See ya tomorrow, they’d all laugh. A whole community of kids called in sick. They went to sleep with smiles on their faces. Happy to get a free day off from school.

Folks slept during the day. The sounds of chain saws filled the air. Trucks rolling in and out. On-lookers drove by slowly.

Memories from childhood. An easier time.

The house was in need of a paint job. Bluish gray strips and chips of wood clung to the old two story, making it look run down, beaten, tired. A window had a crack in it as well. On cold nights when the wind blew, glass would make a screaming sound, like it was getting punched, or, kicked. The grass was brown.

In his younger days he kept up with the property. Both the house and the yard looked immaculate. Bushes were trimmed, limbs cut, tulips blossomed in the spring. White rabbits danced on green grass. The dog buried bones in the backyard. A swing set looked perfectly new. He and his wife would push their kids into the stratosphere; they’d laugh.

Now the swing set was rusted. No one played on it anymore. He’d go out there at midnight and push the empty seats. The old man could’ve swore he heard laughter. Both his boy and girl had been gone for years. He blamed himself. And his wife was no longer alive either. Everyone had left him it seemed. ‘Least that’s what he thought.

One of these days I’ll paint this house, he said. Someday, he popped open a can of beer, I’ll fix her right up like the old days, took a drag on a Marlboro.

But, each night was the same. He drank and cursed his God. Watched reruns of Rockford Files. And laughed at how it used to be.

The house was in need of a paint job.

The names of towns he drove through were pure Midwestern. Places like Goshen, Middlebury, Elkhart, small towns that folded up after midnight. One minute he’d go south and then the next headed west. He was wandering all over Northern Indiana. Had a half tank in the old pickup and did not want to stop. Had no idea where he’d wind up at. Maybe in a farmer’s barn for the night. Maybe pull over at a rest stop and sleep awhile. The moon was covered in clouds.

He left Ohio after a terrible fight with his wife. She threw punches, he returned em with a left hook to the guts and a cross punch on the jaw. She yelled at him for being drunk. He screamed at her for cheating on him. The problem was, she could prove he was drunk, he couldn’t prove she cheated.

They’d been married five years. For three of those years he said he could smell a man on her clothes. Some kind of musky cologne. And, she smelled booze on his breath the whole time. He’d often try to kiss her with a tongue that smelled of whiskey and beer only to pass out on the couch in the front room mumbling to himself.

It was a starless night. These towns were real quiet. He decided to pull over and park it in Michigan City, up around the lake. The sound of waves put him to sleep. Not a sound sleep. He tossed and turned with half his long body off the front seat. A hat over his eyes.

In the morning there was a terrible rain storm. He looked at his watch, the one he got from her for a wedding gift, and it said, 5:30. He sat there a minute or two. Pulled a gun out of his glove box. And, he used it.

City streets were empty. There was no bustle on the sidewalks. One lone street cleaner made it’s way down Clark Street. A cat hissed in an alleyway. Water slapped Kathy Osterman Beach. Storm clouds filled the midnight sky. He just sat watching.

Out on the backyard stoop was a man drinking a beer. As he opened each one he was reminded of his youth. Back when storms terrified him. He would hide in his bedroom under covers, shivering, waiting for the rain and the thunder to stop. Now, he embraced it.

He looked at the lightening dance. Hummed along to the sound of thunder. Washed his soul in the rain. And, he’d call out, Thank you Lord. Thank you Jesus, running his greasy hands through his greasy hair. Knowing full well the cleansing wouldn’t last long.

It got to be where these baptisms were the only part of life the old man enjoyed. Sitting in the rain; reflecting. Mistakes made. Choices. Always choices.

Twas morning and the sun peaked down on him. He finished his last beer and called it a night. Hoping that another storm was coming soon.

The chainsaw kept going all day long. Cutting tree limbs up and down the boulevard. Placing them in a wood chipper attached to a truck. Neighborhood improvements, the city called it. Another boy got shot last night; priorities.

Kids played in the park up until dusk. They knew when to go home; knew when momma would have dinner ready. They swung on swings and slid on slides covered in graffiti. Broken glass lay on the concrete basketball court. Sneakers hung over wires. Someone gave up long ago.

And, there was a house on the corner all boarded up. People came and went throughout the night. Never made a sound. Zombies getting their fix.

Over in Hyde Park the cops cruised through the neighborhoods on an hourly basis. Streets were safe. No gang signs, nor painted property. The university was well policed; mom’s and dad’s money was protected; priorities.

There was all kinds of talk about her. When people don’t know, they make up stories. Tall tales of her promiscuity, desires, habits. Most of em made up by men who couldn’t have her. Some stories told by women. Just jealous women.

She worked at a massage joint out on highway 61 just past the truck stop. Big sign that read, All Asian Staff, in green that shined in the middle of the night; she had room number 3, a massage table and candles with a radio playing Chinese music was all it consisted of. The smell of steamed rice hit ya as you walked through the door; that mixed with cheap perfumes on the ladies.

Sunny was her name. She’d touch ya all over with light finger tips while singing softly in your ear. The short brunette made a lot of tips from regular customers and some from men she’d never see again.

I heard he was one of her regulars. Heard he was on a mission from God. That’s what he thought. Said he was all about God, family, and guns. There were those who thought he had a screw loose. Thought he’d gone crazy. The news called it a hate crime. Crazy and hate is a bad combination.

There’s still yellow tape all over saying, Crime Scene, on it. People drive by it everyday. Gossiping women talk about it at Sunday dinners when the kids leave the table. Others don’t know what to say. Just kind of silent about it. We’re all sinners. That’s what the good book says.