dmseay

They’d been looking at each other for hours in silence. She came close to tears a couple of times while he remained steady as a rock. Neither was going to bend. He wanted to say so many things, but masculinity stopped him. Maybe too proud. Perhaps ashamed of what he’d done.

And she stayed quiet out of fear. Scared that if she said anything at all he’d walk out the door again; just like he had a year ago.

Standing there in the living room with the corner lamp on, her dressed in a nightgown, he had on a pair of jeans and a shirt, they both tried to remember when it was they saw each other last. He had become so skinny. The road will do that to a man. While she had picked up a little weight round the middle. Eating out of stress. Wondering when he was coming home. She ate doughnuts. Big cream filled ones with pots of coffee everyday. While he ran with coyotes. Picking up scraps, dead animals along the highways. Dried blood caked on his chin.

She didn’t want to hold him. Didn’t want to get hurt again. He wanted to tell her he was sorry. Wanted to apologize. Let her know that it wasn’t him that left her. Wasn’t his soul. His thinking was all screwed up, wiring was off. There was something not right about him. One minute he’d be in Terre Haute and the next day St. Louis. Hitchhiking along back roads, through small towns. Just him with a book bag.

She asked if he wanted coffee? He shook his head no. Asked him if he wanted to sit down? Again, he said no. What is it that you want? ,she asked.

He stood in silence. Finally said, money.

You need money?, he nodded. They both heard a dog barking outside. Howling. Did ya bring a friend along with ya?, she grinned. He shook his head. What’re you gonna do with this money? Spend it on what? When are you going to settle down?

I’ll take that coffee now if you don’t mind.

No, I don’t mind.

And they walked into the kitchen where pots and pans were piled up in the sink. She made a path to the faucet and ran water into the coffee pot. Filled it up all the way. You want something to eat?, she asked. I got doughnuts, he shook his head.

What was it like out there?, she poured the water into the coffee maker.

Cold. Lonely. Free.

I see. Is the cold and lonely part worth the freedom?

Sometimes.

Yep. I guess it would be. I’m gonna have a doughnut. Sure you don’t want one, again he shook his head. She grabbed a wet cloth and tended to the dried blood on his chin. He leaned forward and kissed her. Why’d you do that for?, she whispered.

Just wanted to, he told her. She grabbed his face and kissed him hard then slapped him.

They stood there in silence. There was no longer a dog barking outside. It was just quiet. And they both looked at each other. That’s all they did. Just looked. The screen door was open. Cicadas began to sing.

Chinese restaurants and billboards for McDonald’s. Truck stops, brown corn fields and naked trees. Houses with big yards. Trailer parks.

He’d look out the window of the bus as it traveled on 30. It was April. The trees should be blooming. Grass was green. And all these diesels riding in the left lane. A sign that reads, End Of Construction. He kind of felt that way too.

His stomach was growling. Soon they’d stop at a Dairy Queen. Little benches outside. Signs that say, No Inside Dining. He settled for a vanilla cone.

And, what if she wasn’t there to pick him up? Maybe she’d changed her mind. Decided she was better off without him. He knew that day would come.

The skies grew dark when the bus stopped in Gary. He’d wait for her. He’d wait. Evening time was still ahead.

What was his business?

He sold used cars.

What kind?

All kinds. Pickups, station wagons, mini-vans,SUV’s, even had some of those Hummers.

Was he honest?

He was a salesman. I know that much ’bout him. He had those cars polished. Spic and span they were. Hubcaps, everything. The cars had a glow ’bout em.

Who’d wanna kill this guy? Was he well liked? Have any vices?

People liked him. I know he used to bet on horses. That can be a vice. A problem in somebody’s life. Don’t you think so? Maybe he gambled on other things too, football, baseball, everything. You know, they still won’t let Pete Rose in the Hall of Fame. Damn shame. Un-American.

Price you pay.

Was there a lot of blood at the scene? Of the crime. The scene of the crime. Blood everywhere?

Yes. A real mess you could say.

Just curious.

Yeah. Looks like the damage was done with a ball bat. Blows to the head. Took the money and ran.

That’s what people do?

Yes. That’s what people do.

Blue lights on the bottom of a Charger. It cruises through town at forty-five miles per hour. There is silence. He does not hear him. Only sees the silver car moving down the street. Wonders where he’s going at three in the morning. Not many options. Could be coming home from a bar that just closed; kicked all the drunks out; last call was made. Maybe he’s driving up to the filling station to see a girl there working third shift. Get some coffee. Chat awhile. Maybe.

The old man adjusts in his chair. Continues looking out the window. It’s so black out there, he says. He sees outlines of cars parked up and down the street. Hears a train coming through town. But, he’s still wondering what that Charger is doing out at this time of night. A diesel puts on his air brakes. The old man breathes in and breathes out. He thinks that maybe that Charger is heading to I69. Leaving town forever. Maybe the guy had enough tonight at the GM plant and just said the hell with it. It’s a possibility. Heading up to 80 to take it across to Chicago. He’s got a little dough in the bank. Wants to start all over again. Leave the wife behind. Just drive.

I’ll bet he’s heading out to California, the old man whispers. No…he’s going out to Vegas to gamble what little he has left, the old man smiles.

I’ll betcha he’s going out to Los Angeles on old Route 66. Be in St. Louis by noon tomorrow. Stop along the way and hold up a 7-11. All these scenarios. Maybe he just can’t sleep. Maybe the baby can’t sleep, the old man feels his skin, his own skin.

He wishes he had a car.

She threw herself at his feet. Begged for forgiveness. He stood there, in the kitchen, streetlight coming through the window, and just looked down on her.

The house was dark. No lights on, just the lamp in the living room where she waited for him. All night long she waited for him. He’d left early in the evening. Words were exchanged. Accusations made. A fist was thrown into a wall. He’d heard enough.

She had dark circles under her green eyes. These nights were common. Nobody got any sleep; she didn’t, he didn’t. Their whole lives had become a circle of yelling and forgiveness. Sentences, like, I promise, were said. And, she’d tell him she loved him. Those simple words, I love you, were hard for him to say. Even after twenty years of marriage. Seemed like neither knew what love was. Maybe at one time they knew. Maybe.

He had women ’round town. She knew bout it. Wasn’t suppose to know, but, she did. People talk. And, she had her one time affair. Some salesman who left town. Walked out on his wife and kids one night. Just drove to another state. Maybe Nebraska, or, Oklahoma. She blamed herself. Blamed herself for breaking up a family. Breaking up a family just out of spite. He found out about it. The whole town did.

She locked herself away. Hid from everybody. If the phone rang, she didn’t answer it. Lived in darkness. A kind of lie to herself. No, he wasn’t sleeping around. Not her man, she said to herself as she waited up for him. She’d pour coffee with a bit of whiskey in it. And wait. Just wait.

And, she threw herself at his feet. Begging for forgiveness. He just looked down on her. Looked down. No more words were exchanged. No more lies.

Corn fields were dead along 41. Debris had piled up on em. Drivers throwing out cigarette butts, McDonald’s bags, Happy Meal boxes, beer cans, all over resting soil.

Soon they’ll come alive again. Soon. Green stalks reaching and the smell of corn will come quickly to this land. Almost as if it were over night. A farmer’s dream.

There’s a time of the year when the sun never goes down in Alaska. They call it midnight baseball. That’s what he longed to see; midnight baseball.

He’d been to almost every state in the country. Spent a lot of time in the Midwest; Indiana, Ohio, up around Chicago. Big fan of Michigan too. But, he wanted to see the sun at midnight. Wanted to feel it on his skin. Wanted to drink beer under golden rays at two in the morning. Maybe these were all just dreams.

The sun followed him. Followed him all the way to California. Then he took a right at San Francisco. And then,it was dark. His friend no longer had contact with him. It was that way throughout the night.

Morning time came and his pal woke him up. There he was in the sky. Shimmering in the morning fog. Rising to where he’d always been; looking down on him.Watching his every move.

He drank coffee and looked at it through his windshield. Soon we’ll be together, he whispered. Soon.

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.