dmseay

A cold May tells me it’ll be a hot August, he said. The cicadas are gonna be out, singing their songs, I hum along too, the old man told his wife. She smiled and shook her head. The peppers and tomatoes should be coming up late June and into July. Nothing better than a tomato off the vine, he lit a cigarette. They don’t even need salt; have a good flavor on their own. Yeah, it should be a good summer.

The car pulled into the driveway around two in the morning. It’s lights were off, radio turned down, muffler intact. Didn’t make a sound, ‘cept for the tires rolling over the gravel. The old man and his wife didn’t hear a thing, not even the front door being broken into.

The burglars successfully picked the lock. Their muddy boots left a trail on the white carpet. They had guns cocked and ready to fire. The old man thought he heard something in the front of the house. Honey, he said to his wife. Honey, stay right here. She asked what it was and he held his finger to his mouth. Shhh, he blew air.

They came down the hallway while the old man pulled his shot gun from under his bed. He’d always dreamed that it would go down this way. Now was his chance.

He softly walked over to the doorway of their bedroom. The old man could hear the two men walking towards him in the dark. He could make out the outlines of their bodies. They wore masks.

And then, without hesitation the old man fired at both of them; hitting one in the chest and the other in the back; they moaned and bled all over the carpet as he dialed 911.

The tomatoes and peppers were late coming in that summer. He watered and tended to them. They grew and grew; big plants, green and lovely. He was proud. It was a good summer.

There’s no sound. No dogs barking, or, men rummaging through garbage dumpsters. Not any cars going up and down the street. Bars let out awhile ago and the drunks all stumbled home; singing songs they’d heard on the jukebox a couple of hours ago.

The fan blows silently. An American flag dances in the wind. He watches it; thumbtacked to the wall; it shakes and buckles. The stars and stripes wave back and forth. He’s reminded of a John Wayne movie, The Green Berets. He keeps looking at the flag.

Outside it is dark. There are no streetlights. There are no stars. Just the reflection of his lamp in the window. Light bounces off the glass. He notices this. Hears her voice calling out from down the hall.

Pete, she cries. Peter help me, blankets drop to the floor and she sits up. I need a glass of water, she says. Could you bring me a glass of water? he walks into the kitchen and fills a glass. And make it cold. Ice cold, he dumps out the water and let’s it run awhile. The water drips from the faucet when he turns it off.

Thank you, she takes the glass from him. He sits down next to her and feels her tight, round stomach. Her belly button is popping out. She hurriedly drinks down the glass of water.

I woke up and you were gone, she says. You were just gone. At first I thought you’d left me. Here, in the dark. Left me to go see some woman on the other side of town, she reaches over for her pack of cigarettes and lighter. Yep, I thought you’d left me, he shakes his head. What would it take for you to leave? she asks. He just looks at her and turns on the bedside lamp.

I’m not leaving, he says. ‘Sides, I got nowhere to go. Been with ya so long my options are limited, he smiles.

They both place their hands on her belly. Soon honey. Soon. They kiss and fall back into bed.

The sun is a burning star; shining brightly in the sky amongst clouds and shades of blue. It rises in the east and sets in the west. And, in the summer time it doesn’t disappear till late in the evening. People watch the sun go down. They say it’s romantic, or, beautiful to see. This ball of fire that burns and burns forever; will it ever go out?

The two of them drove west on 80 going into Iowa. It was late in the evening. Soon it would be dark. They watched coons and opossums cross the road. Looked at billboards for gasoline and cheap fast food. They were just driving. Didn’t know where they were going. Just heading west with a full tank of gas and a carton of cigarettes. Their bellies filled with McNuggets, cheeseburgers, fries, and a large Coke they split. One would sip from the straw then the other would take a turn; they asked for a little ice.

And they both kept looking at the sun in silence as night rolled in; exposing the moon and shining stars. She didn’t know what he was running from. And, he didn’t tell her. He just told her to get in the car back in Chicago. Pointed a gun at her and said, Give me the keys, she did.

At first she trembled, shaking as she sat beside him. Scared of what his next move would be. The young man with grease in his hair and a goatee on his face looked through her purse. She had all he needed; cash, credit cards, pictures of her children. The woman, short and squatty, at first began to cry. She just looked out the passenger window at cars and semis passing them by. And, he sang along to songs on the radio with his gun pointed at her hips. He sang along to tunes by Bob Dylan, The Eagles, Jackson Brown, others. Sang real pretty too, she thought. And he wasn’t bad on the eyes. She could see his reflection in the window.

The darkness of an Iowa highway can play tricks on you, he told her as he took in a long drag from his Marlboro. It’s not like the sun. The sun exposes everything. Shows us for what we really are, he said. She nodded her head. I’m gonna let you out at this next exit. I got what I need.

She began to cry. Don’t let me go, she wailed. Please don’t. I got nothing to go home to. I have nothing.

Don’t you have any family?

Nope.

What about those pictures of kids?

Taken long ago.

You want me to keep driving with you in the car?

I don’t want you to stop.

Darkness plays tricks on you. Makes things out to be something they’re not. It stops us and makes us examine our lives. She longed to dream.

Underneath the paint bucket on the front porch was a rusty old key for use in emergencies. Or, it was to be used when dad left his keys on the counter, or, in a pair of pants.

Stumbling home drunk at midnight was how I remembered him. An old soul who was tortured by shots of whiskey and glasses of beer. The tavern was only a matter of twenty-five yards from our brick row house, and I’d watch him each night trip over his own feet. An uneven sidewalk made it hard on the old man as well. Often his thin face would be bloody from falling on the rough concrete. I worried about him though mom said not to. She said it was some kind of Polish tradition; work, drink, have family. Many times the order of that tradition was switched, changed to drinking first, then work, and family.

Downstairs I could hear her humming; mom waiting up for dad. I’d listen for the thin key to wrestle with the lock and then mom coming over to open the door. They’d speak in Polish. Yelling at each other. Raising their open hands to one another. A slap, a push. Makeup would cover mom’s bruises the next day, then the day after that. The night would end with a thirty minute love making session which I was forced to hear in my room next to theirs. Him, passing out on top of her. And she, pushing the old Pole away and claiming her side of the bed.

By morning all was fine. The smell of eggs and sausage drifted throughout the house. The picture frame which housed John Paul was covered in grease. A film ran over the glass. Mom would clean it after breakfast, but, she would just have to do it again the next day and the day after. Dad would sit there with coffee and a cigarette burning till it was time to catch the bus to work. The house was drenched in wonderful tobacco and paprika smells. We carried them with us, these odors. Enemies always knew we were coming.

And at midnight, I’d see the old man stumbling home. He’d fall. We all fall. That’s the beauty of it. That’s what I was taught.

There was no coffee in the cupboard. No Folgers, Maxwell House, Cafe Bustelo. That’s strange, he thought. We always have coffee in the house, he explored more; opening cabinets and looking in the freezer.

She never bought anything fancy. Usually what was on sale at the Kroger store. It varied from week to week. One more cabinet. He opened the one atop the stove; nothing. He then investigated the refrigerator by pulling everything out of it. Leftover chicken, week old pizza, some broccoli and corn flake casserole, milk, and back in the left corner, two little pouches of instant coffee. He grabbed them and began reading the label immediately. Mix with hot water, the packages read. He put a kettle to heat on the stove.

You can’t really call it coffee now can you,? he mumbled while emptying the contents into a cup that read, World’s Best Dad. His daughter had bought that years ago for Father’s Day. He remembered it had a red bow tied round it.

He then added sugar to the cup and mixed the two ingredients thoroughly; the kettle began to whistle. He added the hot water as he stirred then tasted it with a spoon.

You can’t call it coffee anymore, he took a swig and wiped his chin. It’s just brown powder, crystals. Better than nothing, he said.

His wife joined him as the sun came up. He saved a packet for her. They both smiled. I’ll put it on my list, she said. He nodded his head. What’re your plans for the day,? she asked.

Thought I’d go out to the cemetery and talk to her. Take her some flowers. You wanna come along,? he asked. She said yes.

The sun put a glare on their daughter’s picture in the front room as it rose. It always did. She walked into the room and noticed the picture had collected dust. She wiped it off with her bath robe. He stayed in the kitchen and she sat in the living room. It was quiet.

The television was off. So was the radio; it was dark throughout the house. He sat in the living room staring out the window at nothing in particular. Just staring. Counting cars as they drove by silently, to himself.

A Dodge went past, then a Ford, and another Ford. One car, a Chevrolet rolled down the hill with no lights on; seemed like it’s motor was off too. The vehicle was coasting. It was hard to make it out in the dark, only a few street lights were shining.

A Chevy truck. Just an old truck. That’s what it was. A truck in the early morning hours with stuff in the back end of it.

The passenger kept getting out of the black truck and grabbing bundles in the back. They were newspapers. The man was delivering newspapers. Throwing them up on the fine trimmed lawns of suburbia. He was like a well oiled machine; get out, grab papers, fold em, and throw em. What precession, the old man thought. This man was a pro.

He closed the curtains in the living room. Went over to his gun rack and pulled out his shot gun. Opening the window just a bit, he stuck his gun through a crack in the curtains and out into the night air. The old man watched the newspaper deliverer and took count of his pacing. I’ve got one shot, he thought. Just one, he looked through his scope. His greasy finger was on the trigger. Not today, he said. Not today. And he placed the gun back in its rack.

Honey, you coming to bed, his wife called from down the hall.

Yes dear. I’m coming.

Electrical wires running over fields and highways. Two lane blacktop taking him to Chicago. He hadn’t been there in years. Left a long time ago when the wife left him. The city had changed. He had changed.

It was all about money. Always about money. Not being able to pay rent, bills piling up, always behind. He was never in the clear.

One night he got really drunk. Polished off a bottle of whiskey and a few beers. Vowed to change his life forever. Drunken promises. He took all his bills and placed them in the ashtray. Took his Zippo and watched his burdens burn. Blue and yellow flames blistering shreds of paper with dollars on them; amounts. He just looked on. Laughing. Laughing ’cause it was so sad. This is what his life had come to. He thought.

He just quit. Took off on a Greyhound to Denver. No money on him to speak of. No assets with his name attached. He disappeared. Worked odd jobs. Slept in shelters. Showered at the gym. Did this for awhile. Hoping for nothing. Wanting nothing.

And now on a gray day the old man headed east. Going back to Chicago. Wanting to see it one last time. But, that would never happen; his city had disappeared as well.

She showed him pictures of her kids; three, one in college and the other two in high school. The ring she wore was the size of Gibraltar; she was always into flash. She stirred her drink and he lit her cigarette. It felt funny to him; talking to her after all these years. He ordered a cup of coffee.

He was always in love with her. Probably the reason his marriage didn’t work; too busy thinking of her. He knew she’d moved away. Lived in Kansas, or, Nebraska. Some flat state with open spaces. Married some rancher she’d met through a friend. Him? he stayed in the small town he grew up in. The same town where they used to go for walks together down by the river. Same place they’d eat ice cream cones in the summer time. And now, after thirty years, there she was. Right across from him in a Colorado bar. She hadn’t changed a bit. Still blonde, same green eyes, she had not gained a pound. Wanted to tell her that. He thought it might be in bad taste.

No kids. Lived in a trailer out on the South side of town. Surrounded by blacks and Mexicans. He didn’t tell her that. Thought he’d keep that to himself. He wanted so badly to hold her. Or, at least touch her hand. He settled for conversation.

What brings you to Denver?, she asked.

On my way to Vegas. Gonna give the black Jack tables a run. What’re you doing out here?

He’s got some kind of convention. A rodeo too. We’re always busy with something.

There was a long silence. They just looked at each other.

Well, it was good to see you, he said.

You too.

He walked back to his hotel room, turned on the television, and cried.

A car door slammed next door and it woke up the old man. He was trying to sleep off a whiskey hangover from the night before. Noises from all over kept him awake. Car doors slamming, people talking, diesels running along the highway, trains groaning through town; all of it made him toss and turn.

And then his mind started racing. Thoughts of old times ran through his head. Old dreams of past loves, women he’d been with, reeled in his brain like an old movie projector, in color, not black and white.

He called out, Carol…Carol, the old man screamed. Then he heard the car next door take off. Peeling gravel and burning up the engine. He looked over on the other side of the bed and she was gone, wasn’t there. Disappeared.

Down the hall he could hear her humming a song, smelled bacon frying, his mind was playing tricks on him. There was no bacon frying, no sounds of a woman humming, nothing. Nothing at all. Just a table with one chair at it, a toaster, coffee maker, and a bread box. Where was Carol?, he thought. She was just here, he said.

The old man opened a cabinet and spied a half bottle of Jameson. Opened it and poured the golden liquid down the sink. He made a pot of coffee and sat down. Kept asking himself, Where’s Carol?

He heard the car next door. People were talking, the two doors shut, and the engine was turned on. It was loud; needed a muffler. Tires spun on gravel; seemed like they took off rather fast. He went to the front window; they were gone.

This was one of many noises that kept him awake that night. The fan spinning, toilet running, semis grunting on Lincoln Highway, a strong wind outside blowing over lawn furniture. He heard a dog barking too. Or, was that a coyote. They say there’s a pack that run late at night.

He stepped out into his garage for a cigarette. It was quiet. All noise had been cut off it seemed. The sound of nothing. It was almost solace. His wife came out to join him. The middle aged blonde took a drag from his smoke. She coughed.

You shouldn’t, he said. It’s not good for you, the old man took another drag. He laughed.

Do you remember the garage sales we used to have?, he nodded. So much stuff gone over the years. Stuff we didn’t need. Things no longer used. Just useless stuff. Old lawn mowers on their last legs, she laughed. I think we sold a Toro for twenty bucks, both shook their heads.

We had a wheelbarrow. An old wheelbarrow. Back when we did yard work. We won a prize when we first moved in as most improved property. Best looking yard. Some bullshit, he took another drag and handed it to her. Things don’t matter anymore do they? We let the grass grow, dandelions take over, paint to chip and peel, old windows; there’s a draft.

What’re you saying?

I don’t know. Just talk. Nothing but talk.

They heard the car next door pulling into the driveway. Doors shut. And voices whispering. Trucks continued down Lincoln Highway. And the coyote kept howling.

Goodnight.

Night.