dmseay

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.

Looking out the window, he could see the snow melting on the Midwestern land. Just brown and white colors where come summertime there’ll be cornstalks growing in green. But, for now it was the last shades of winter; bare trees lined the highway. And the gray sky with hues of purple and orange swept into night.

Red tail lights are chased. Yellow beams stared down; he wished for sleep, but the Black girls in front would not stop talking; chattering, snapping their fingers; they were on their way to Chicago where baby’s daddy awaits. The baby girl screams in the dark, Hush up child, the mother said, Hush up.

The sky grew darker, soon it would be pitch black. He was on his way to Gary where steel mills cranked out the American dream; for some, for some. But, his dreams vanished long ago. Now he just traveled from one town to the next taking whatever jobs he could get. The old man had been a laborer, truck driver, dishwasher, and held countless other occupations throughout his life. He just never could make anything stick. One year he had eighteen w2 forms for taxes. Fired from eighteen jobs in one year; spent his returns on steak dinners and a rounds of drinks for the house; being broke just felt normal.

But now it was off to Northwest Indiana where he’d once again look for work. A whole life of looking for work and riding on Greyhounds. He figured he was lucky; had a pack of smokes and a copy of Moby Dick in his book bag. Maybe that’s what his whole life was. Just one big search for a giant whale. Maybe.

It was time. This had gone on long enough. Look at him, he said to himself. Just look at him. All quiet. Silent. No words, nor laughter. A man long gone, the son whispered.

You come into this world wailing and you go home without a noise. Strangest thing, he placed his hand on his father’s chest, the heart still beats. It still wants to live. Or, is that the feeding tube giving him hope. He never liked olives, brushed pop’s hair out of his face.

No one wants to die. Evangelicals say they want to go home, but, they’re just as scared as the rest of us. Buddhists believe in nothing. Nothing, try wrapping your American head ’round that. There has to be some kind of reward when it’s all done, he smiled. Which do you prefer dad? Nothing, or, a mansion on a hill? To spend your days with Jesus? or, maybe Virgil?

Sir, we have papers for you to sign, the nurse said. You’ve come to your decision?, the son nodded and signed on the x. It won’t be long, she said. I’m so sorry, he smiled.

See you down the road, he said. Don’t take any wooden nickels.

The sign said, SLEEPING ROOM FOR RENT, out in the front yard with snow all around. Had a number you could call, 260-745-0931, and the name of a landlord down below. He wondered how many people called, thought that a room sure would be nice for a change.

He called the number from a pay phone on the corner. He had quarters on him; always had quarters. His mom told him to never be caught without change on you; only piece of advice that stuck. They wanted $325 a month for a room with the kitchen and bathroom down the hall. The old man said he’d take a look at it and felt ’round in his pockets for a few bills. Earned em by working day labor jobs. Had $500 on him. He knew his money would soon be gone.

The old man drove over to the place on Clifton. Outside waiting on him was a real pretty Mexican girl who couldn’t have been more than twenty-five. You James?, she asked. The bony old man nodded his gray head. Come on, let’s go look at the room, she turned the key and the smell of old trash smacked the two in the face. Sorry ’bout the smell, she said. They’re supposed to keep the halls clean, he smiled.

As she opened the door, yelling could be heard from down the hall in another room. Something about giving him till Friday to pay his rent. He screamed, the eagle fly on Friday. The Mexican girl shook her head. It’s always something, she said.

Right away the smell of urine ran rampant in the room. There were dark spots on the carpet where blood and piss had soaked in. Over in the corner was a twin bed with a blanket waded up on top. A pillow with brown stains lay across the bed as well.

You want $325?, the old man asked. She smiled, then informed him that actually they needed $650 to move in; security deposit. He shook his head and said he’d continue to look.

Do you have enough to cover it?, she asked. The old man told her he did not. Well, how much do you have?, she put her hands on her hips. He told her $450. We can work something out. Can I see the money?, he took it out and handed it to her; keeping a $50 in his pants pocket. She counted and smiled at him. They had a deal.

That night he fell asleep with springs pushing up on his body. He was awakened by sirens and couples fighting down the hall. He lit a cigarette and watched it burn in the beer can he had on the floor; crushed by his boot. This is home, he said. This is home.