dmseay

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.

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.