dmseay

It was 3:30 in the morning when she heard gunshots go off in her neighborhood over by Harrison and Creighton. The older woman sat in the window watching cop cars with lights on and sirens blaring, make their way down nearby alleys which were wet from a morning rain. The sound of water pealing off tires almost sounded musical. A truck carrying a bunch of Mexicans was parked out in the street, waiting for the doors to day labor to open. Cops continued their search.

And she put on a kettle for tea. The sounds of the city would not allow her to go back to bed. She picked a favorite from the cookie jar, English Breakfast, and let it steep in a cup with the saucer over it. More gunshots went off and a boy lay on the sidewalk with blood seeping through his clothes. She took a sip.

As the sun came up, her phone began to hum loudly with a high pitch noise coming from it. It was an Amber alert. The salt and peppered hair lady read the information and saw that the child had been abducted around her neighborhood a short time ago. She rubbed the wrinkles on her face and whispered, Could we have peace please? could we have peace?

The doors to day labor were opened and the Mexicans slowly took seats to wait for their names to be called. Some would go to factories, others on the backs of trash collecting trucks. They spoke in Spanish. The only English they knew was, clock in, clock out; drinking coffee with cream, cinnamon, and sugar in it. Eating tortillas their wives had made that night, wrapped in tin foil. The sun was now up. Soon their work would begin.

The cop cars with lights on stuck around the neighborhood till mid-morning. She had gone back to bed where she dreamed. In her dreams there were no gun shots, no police cars, nobody laying on the ground shot, and not a child taken. These were dreams of peace. She finally had her peace.

There was a yellow haze in the night. Streetlamps let off a glow. He sat in his chair at the window and looked on, taking in everything; blackness of early morning hours, rain thumping on windows, cars driving by on wet pavement, the sound of Coltrane running through his head. And, every once in awhile, his own voice, talking out loud in whispered tones. Saying nothing really. Not much to say.

He looked around for inspiration. The canvass was stretched. Looked at old photographs of her. Pictures from vacations they had taken. Driving across North America without an itinerary, a plan. They never had a plan. Life just came and went. He’d have a job for a month or so, then quit, or, get fired. They’d take final paychecks and celebrate by going out in style; fancy restauraunts, bars, The Pump Room, Kitty O’Shea’s. He held her in his arms and they danced till the money was gone.

And now he looked at her differently. She was no longer a woman he was in love with. Pictures showed her at her best, dark hair and dark eyes, but they never caught her true essence, her nature. She was always laughing in pictures, but, not away from the camera. Did I make her miserable?, he asked. Did I waste her life?, he began to paint. I’m sorry, he said as he put energy into every stroke. I’m sorry.

He stayed up all night painting her; jet black hair, cream colored skin, never did she blush. And, when he was done he sat in his chair and looked out at the night and wondered where she was? She was gone. Real gone. And, so was he.

He looked at that blue light out there in the sky. Felt the carpet under his bare feet. Breathed in and breathed out. Thoughts were heavy in his mind.

The light was on over the stove. A set of knives sat on the counter. He counted them. Never knew how many knives she had till then. And, she used the blades every day to prepare meals for the two of them. She also used the wooden spoons in the drawer which was always off track; never did get around to fixing it for her. Just let it go. Like so many things.

He was the one that found her there in the bed they slept in, held each other, whispered words in the dark. He placed his hand over her mouth and felt nothing, no breath. Put his ear down there and heard silence. A deafening silence. She was gone.

And, they’ll bury her today. She wanted to be cremated, but, he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. She had no written will. It was his word she trusted.

The old man told her he was going to have her burried. Said he could never do her harm. She told him, I’ll be dead. He could never accept that.

He looked at the blue light out there in the sky. Felt the carpet under his bare feet. Breathed in and breathed out. Thoughts were heavy in his mind.

There was a quiet that night. He sat in the dark. A blue hue came from the lightpost outside. In the distance, a cat called out for a dance. He heard the hissing for a fight in the alleyway. It was that time of year; either fuck or fight. Spring does that to animals.

He thought about his trips to Paris in the spring back when he was married. They’d go and stay for a week. Walking all over the city. Looking at churches. Old churches with gargoyles on them. Made of stone. She took pictures. Wanted to preserve the memories. Photographs of Notre Dame, The Seine, around St. Germaine, Le Deux Magots. Places where writers met and smoked cigarettes while drinking cheap brandy. He was on the wagon back then. The Americano was his drink of choice.

And all through the week they held hands. Kissed on the train. Made love till all hours of the morning. They were young. Or, was it Paris. Something about that city. Perhaps it was the spring air. They made a promise each year to return to the city of love. And, they did for awhile. Till pressure from real life ran it’s course. Mortgages, car payments, parents wanting grandchildren, credit card debt, it became too much.

He fell off the wagon. Went out drinking every night, particularly in the spring. He’d wander all over town by himself only to come home to a woman who’d given up. There was no longer any fight in her. And, they no longer thought of Paris.

It was quiet that night. He sat in the dark. A blue hue came from the lightpost outside.

She wondered what happened to him. He was with her one night and then gone. The young lady gave him her number. He never called.

And he took off as soon as they were done making love. Said he had to get going. Had to get up early the next morning. Call me, she said, half asleep. He nodded his head in the dark. Didn’t say a word.

The pickup started and he pulled out of the gravel driveway. Woke up her young boy in the other room. Go back to sleep, momma told him. Everything’s alright, she said.

He drove through town. Bars were closed. So were the liquor stores. He had a pint in his glove box. Took a swig and sang along with the radio; some old Tom Petty song. Stepped on the gas a little harder. Had to get home.

And there she was; laying in bed; blankets up to her neck. She was dreaming; talking in her sleep; mumbling about some child they never had. She even named the boy; called him Tommy. He would’ve been ten on that day.

He placed his finger on her lips. Shhh, he said. You’re just dreaming, he started to undress. Go back to sleep, he told her.

The water sprayed him in the shower for a half hour. He was trying to wash away his sins. Asked the Lord for forgiveness. Crossed himself.

His back was to her’s. They did not touch each other. Did not say a word. Just laid there. Neither one of em slept. It was no surprise when the morning sun came through the window.

Coffee was made in silence, toast was buttered. He went to kiss her goodbye and she turned away. He still smelled of her.

They decided to meet down by the lake where they used to go as youngsters. The two thought it’d be best if they saw each other in the sunlight. When they were kids it was moon beams that shined down on em; swimming naked under starlight.

He hadn’t seen her in years. The radio played as he drove down 41 past small towns he grew up in; Lake Village, Crown Point, Schneider, a whole mess of em on road signs; counting down the towns till he reached the lake. He was getting anxious.

And, she told her husband she’d be gone for the day. Said she was going on a girl’s trip up to Chicago. Told him she’d be home late; there was a casserole in the refrigerator.

She didn’t pack any clothes. Threw her swimsuit in her purse; a one piece. She wasn’t as thin as she used to be. She’d sent him recent pictures of her face with her dyed red hair, but, none below the neck. She was hoping he’d be understanding.

What’s a sweetheart like you doing in a dump like this?, he sang along with Dylan; lit a cigarette. Saw the sign for Monticello, he’d be there shortly. Sent out a text to her, Almost there, kept driving. Should we meet under the old pine like we used to?, he asked. She didn’t answer right away. Then text him back, Yes.

Can’t wait to see you, he text.

Me too. I’m driving a Dodge Avenger, she said. It’s white.

I’m in an old blue Ford pickup. I’ll find you.

He parked the truck by the tall pine; waited an hour. He’d already been through a pack of smokes. Started his second.

She stopped at a gas station on the way and prettied herself up for him; eye liner, blush, red lipstick. She ran her fingers through her hair. Breathed in and breathed out. Her palms were sweaty.

Where are you?, he text.

I’m almost there. Wait, is that your truck? Wave at me, she saw him turn and look out the back window, waving. He hasn’t changed a bit, she whispered. She pulled up beside him.

For a second or two they just looked at each other. Then they embraced, holding onto one another. They did not kiss.

He told her about his divorce and she told him about her unhappy marriage. They laughed some and cried too. Each realizing you can never go back. She had grandkids and he had bills to pay. It was too late.

Night began to fall. The moon looked familiar. Hey, he said softly. How ’bout one last time we go skinny dipping?

No, she said. I best be getting back.

You know where to find me.

She nodded her head and gave him one last hug. They never kissed.

He talked to her on the phone as he drove through New Mexico at night; red clay mountains making it darker; a star guided him.

She spoke of old times; memories from a past that wasn’t perfect; he wasn’t perfect. The brunette sat at the mirror, looking at herself as they talked.

Do you remember the first time you cheated on me?, she asked as she lit a cigarette.

Now why you gotta bring that up?, he turned the radio down.

What was her name? Sarah? Six months behind my back, she laughed as she adjusted her G-string. She was a tall blonde, as I recall. Didn’t she do some modeling? You used to come home late. I knew. I knew.

Yep. And, I tried to hide it from you. As best I could. I was in love. Thought I was in love.

And, the second was some redhead you met at a truck stop. Where was she heading to?

Amarillo. Don’t know why I told you ’bout her. Guilt I guess.

There was a silence between them. He could hear music in the background. Could see her plain as day through the windshield of his truck. It was her; floating in the midnight sky. It was an optical illusion. She was dancing under that star.

I gotta go, she said. And, don’t call me no more.

How’s the boy? Does he ask ’bout me?

Uh huh. But, that’s done with. He’ll never know you.

You take care of yourself.

This voice boomed in the background, Now stepping up to stage three is Rhonda. Everybody, give it up for Rhonda.

He kept looking at that star.

Every time the wind blew open the screen door, he thought of her. The old wooden door being slammed to it’s frame reminded him of the night she left. He often thought of fixing it, but, the sound brought back feelings he thought he’d left behind.

So he’d leave the door open in the spring and summer. Sat there in the kitchen listening to wood hit wood. He particularly liked it during tornado season. Warnings coming over the radio and the back door flapping a mile a minute.

It was the beginning of his life, that night she left. All his freedoms came back to him. He felt like his old self. Often he’d sit there and drink whiskey in a glass and plan his life ahead. Maybe it was time for him to take off too; sell the house and just wander; looking for nothing other than what the day brings you. Day dreams.

And, he knew why she left. They all leave for the same reason; a better deal. Well, she got her’s, a young man with money and fancy things; multi colored suits, Cadillac, a mile long, and a house up on a hill. She’d found her freedom.

The wind whipped hard that night. Half a bottle of Jack was gone. That’s what gave him the courage. He opened the screen door and felt rain on his face. Pellets hitting hard. Made his way out to his old Dodge and pulled a rifle off the gun rack. Soon I’ll be free, he thought. Soon.

Mexicans were talking outside; some kind of part English, part Spanish talk; he couldn’t make out what they were saying. He watched from the back window as a group of them, three or four, sifted through garbage and stuff in and around the filled dumpsters. There was very little left.

They took his old leather sofa he’d placed out there earlier in the week. Took his small television and coffee maker too. The Mexicans took the old man’s metal twin bed frame he’d slept on four three years along with his worn out mattress which dipped in the middle.

But, the most important thing they took was his old wooden desk his dad had made. The old man got it when pop had died years ago. The piece was all chipped and scratched, the two drawers needed to be oiled, but it was a fine desk. His dad used to sit behind it in his study and pay bills, draw up furniture designs, or read old technology manuscripts. Dad’s world was one of math and logic. To him, the final equation always made sense.

The old man felt sad when he saw the desk loaded up on the rusted truck. But, he knew it was time. He’d been there long enough. It was time to see America.

Wanted to see out west first; sleep in the desert and listen to coyotes wail all night. He longed to dip his feet in the ocean. See the mountains.

Then he wanted to go south, through Texas and Louisiana. Spend time in New Orleans, pay for company at night, listen to the jazz out in the streets. Wind up in Alabama, sleeping on the beaches of the Gulf of Mexico.

And, he’d finish his days off in New York City. Walk around Times Square, Washington Park, Take a woman on a carriage ride then go softly into that good night. Good night. Good night.

Earth gets dry in summertime; spring still moist from winter’s hangover; he’d kill for some rain. Prayed to the Lord above everyday for rain; wanted to watch his garden grow; yearned for a tomato, a fresh Hungarian wax pepper, something crisp he could bite into. His carrots weren’t looking that good either.

The old man became obsessed with his garden. He’d water it with city water when he could afford it. All decked out in blue jeans and mud boots, the gray haired gentleman would walk his fifty foot hose out to the garden and let the water do it’s magic; peas were coming in and so were cucumbers. But, more than anything, weeds were growing and he couldn’t bend down to get em at the roots. They’d snap off in his hands.

Years ago his children pulled up the weeds and helped tend the garden. His youngest, Cindy, would spend hours out there everyday while the older boy, Bobby, would pull up just a few weeds then take off on hot summer days to chase baseballs or girls; he was pretty good at both.

But, that was a long time ago. Things happened, life happened. Bobby took off and quit high school. Left home one night and never came back. Some say they seen him over in the next county drinking at a honky tonk while others tell a story of a soul that’s done passed. Saying he died out in Caifornia; living on the streets; begging for money.

Cindy, the girl, she never came around either. Called the old man from time to time just to check in, but, she had a family of her own she was raising. Her husband, Carl went and got killed over in Iraq. Or, was it Afghanistan. The old man couldn’t remember anymore. Just couldn’t.

He tended his garden as best be could. Always out there singing to himself half songs and choruses. The words would come to him every once in a while. He’d pick a green bean off the vine and chew on it while he tried to remember the woman who was his wife for all those years. She did all the canning in the fall. What was her name?, he’d mumble. What was her name?, he’d munch on a leaf of lettuce. Oh well, he said. It don’t matter. Then he’d spy a red cherry tomato bursting in the summer sun. And all was right with the world.