dmseay

He sat in the front room listening to rain hit the skylight. Bowls were placed on the kitchen floor to catch the water that dripped from the ceiling. The roof had damage done to it long ago. Never had the time or the money to fix it. Maybe it needed a shingle or two. He wasn’t sure. House chores weren’t his specialty. He’d rig up something in the mean time. But, never would he solve the problem. It just got worse.

His son came by the other day. Told him he had a hole in his roof. Asked if he was having trouble keeping the place up since mom died? The old man said no. Actually, he said it was none of his business.

Two of em sat there in the front room watching television; Dennis Weaver riding a horse through the city with a cowboy hat on and a badge. Sound was down. Two of em sitting in the dark watching McCloud. No conversation. Just silence.

Dad. You know that time’s coming, the kid said. Time we fix the place up and sell it, he poured himself a Pepsi.

I ain’t ready to leave just yet, the old man whispered.

You might not have a choice.

What do you mean?

The house is in bad shape. You’re in bad shape, offered his dad a cigarette.

I’ll fix it. I’ll get ’round to it.

Too late for that pop. I gotta talk to those folks at the nursing home. See what your Medicare will cover.

They’ll take my whole check. I won’t be able to get Col. Sanders no more. No, I won’t do it. Your mother died here and so will I.

Mom died in a hospice. Don’t go on with these romantic notions of how mom died in your arms here in this rat trap.

But, she did.

The young man shook his head. I gotta get going, lit up another cigarette. You gonna be alright, the old man nodded his head. O.K. dad. I’ll see you tomorrow.

The old man waved his right hand quietly. He continued watching television. It was Dennis Weaver riding a horse through the city.

Imagine that, the old man said. Imagine that.

He saw her through the screen door hanging clothes out in the back yard. The wind whipped up making the white sheets ruffle in the cool morning air.

The young man would just stand there and watch. Her thin body would bend over to pick up more clothes and then stretch to hang them. He’d look at her. Just look at her.

On Sunday afternoons they’d go for a ride in the Dodge pickup. He took good care of it. Always washing and waxing. She grinned from ear to ear when he opened the door for her. He made her feel special.

They’d drive down by the Ohio river on the Kentucky side. They used to skip stones on it. Sometimes he’d pick her up and dangle her feet in the cool water. She never wore shoes.

That all changed when she lost the baby. Blamed him for it on some days and blamed herself on nights when the moon was full and she stayed up looking at it. Made her wonder what she did wrong. Doctors, preachers, friends, told her it wasn’t her fault. Said it was nobody’s fault. Said these things just happened. Best you could do is try, try, try, again. But, she wouldn’t. She couldn’t.

She became cold and distant. He became withdrawn. The Dodge just sat out there, rusting. He’d think of old times, but he never brought them up.

He’d just stand there looking at her through the screen door.

The gate came unhinged that night; wind blowing on wood; metal against metal; the noise it made. Swinging back and forth while an alley cat moaned and a truck in need of a muffler started up. A cold breeze blew through the windows.

He sat in the sun room as he often did at this time of night. Listening. Looking out into the dark, one streetlight glowed dimly. As for listening, it had now become silent. No wind, or truck, just silence. He appreciated the silence.

His wife came from down the hall. Older now; in her younger days she could turn all the boy’s heads. Now she had a little weight to her, gray hair, makeup was no longer important. She started to turn on the television, he shook his head, she put the remote down and sat next to him on the sofa. She held his hand. Patted it. He liked that.

She knew it was a matter of time. From day to day he would forget who she was. Her name, their relationship, everything gone. He’d just sit there while she cleaned up after him, cooked his meals, counted out his meds. Part of her wished that day would come soon. When they would part. Fifty-five years was a long time. However, the last three made it feel like thirty more. She was tired.

And so they sat there on the couch. He talked to her about his trips to the moon and Mars. Told her he’d been hiding something from her, that he was now a secret agent.

She held his hand and listened to his wild stories, these concoctions made up in his head. Every day a different story. She just listened. Just listened. ‘Cause in his mind he’d been to Mars, he was a secret agent.

The latch on the gate outside rattled in the wind. It was going to be another long night.

Unopened letters lay on the leather foot stool in front of the old chair. There was insurance statements, books by Miller and Bertrand Russell, sandwich bags that held cookies in them from a nearby church, and a television remote. All piled on this falling apart foot stool. He’d sift through the items when he was bored. But, these letters, addressed to him from Carolina, he never opened. He left them intact, stacked neatly, waiting for the right time.

Maybe never. Perhaps he would never open these cards that came every year ’round the same time. Could be he just liked looking at envelopes. Real pretty envelopes with printed holly and angels blowing trumpets on them along with Merry Christmas running over the borders. The stamp was an American flag.

They just sat there. All these letters of Christmas unopened. Until one night at two in the morning when he could not sleep he considered it. The wind wailed outside, an occasional siren from a cop car, and a couple arguing in a room down the hall, made it impossible to slumber. He made some tea and sat in front of the stool running his hands through the pile. He reached over for the letters and smiled.

It’d been years since he’d seen her. He wondered if there was anything different about her. Wondered if she had forgiven him. Thoughts ran through his head.

There was no return address posted on the envelope, no name, just Charlotte, North Carolina printed in black with the date.

He’d heard she wound up there. Heard she married some insurance salesman. Didn’t hear whether she was happy or not. He thought ’bout that from time to time.

And, he wondered how she got this address. Guess anything’s possible these days.

They used to go out sledding this time of year. Went to a big hill there in Pennsylvania. Other couples, families, would be there too. She’d watch the kids smile and drink hot chocolate from a thermos. She wished for kids every year ’round this time.

So, as the wind blew harder outside, he sifted the cards through his fingers. Maybe one day he’d open one, or, all of em. Maybe. But, not today. Not today.

He used to get excited looking at all the lights on 80. Head lights, road lights, lights from restauraunts, colorful neon signs glowing in the dark, tail lights passing him by; flicking burnt cigarette butts out the windows; orange dots bouncing down the road.

On occasion he’d sing to himself. Old songs. Songs about beautiful losers, love affairs gone bad, and how the night is our only friend. He would mumble along as the radio played. Stations out of Chicago, Mishawaka, Elkhart, South Bend, came and went throughout the night as 80 became 69.

At three in the morning your mind plays tricks on you when your driving. Heading south to Auburn, Fort Wayne, Indy; driving mad, wanting it to end while at the same time needing it to continue. Looking at billboards for massage parlors, hotels, motels, gas at this exit, McDonald’s two miles up the road, the never ending cry for coffee. Lord how we pay for our sins.

And he’d look up at the moon. A sliver in the sky. No stars to guide him home cause he doesn’t have one. Just a Dodge pickup with a rusted bed, couple of colored quilts, and a book bag carrying, Moby Dick.

Oh Ahab. Where are you?

He could hear the hay trucks running down 41 in the early morning hours; sat there with his coffee; light on above the stove.

She stayed asleep back in the bedroom. It’d be sometime ‘fore she woke up; night stretched into day for her.

And he kept hearing the wind outside, blowing ’round trash cans and creepin’ up on window panes. He sat quietly and kept watching the clock tick. Thinking about hitting the road. Wondering if he could be in Dallas by noon. He had business to tend to.

Then she appeared. Woke up earlier than usual. She poured herself some coffee and cut a slice of banana bread. She pointed at it. He just shook his head no.

Where you heading to?, she asked.

Gotta run a haul down to Dallas, he took another swig of joe.

Got your thermos filled?, he nodded yes. Well that’s good. You should be hittin’ the road. Gonna be behind schedule, she winked at him.

I spose.

When you coming through this way again?

Hard to say. Should be going out to California soon.

I always wanted to go to California, she sat down next to him. I always wanted to go out there and be a movie star.

Did huh?

Uh huh. Have a pretty tan year round. Bleach my hair blonde. Get a boob job. The works.

You don’t need none of that.

Don’t think so?, they both shook their heads. She sat in his lap and grabbed his face. Kissed him hard. You don’t have no other women in your life now do ya?

Just you and the Mrs. would be it.

Make sure you keep it that way, she placed his John Deere hat on his head. Gave it a tug. See ya down the road.

See you down the road.

There was a loud noise from down the hall; people laughing behind a wooden door; some sound, people talking on a radio or television.

It was Art Carnery. Art Carney talking to Jackie Gleason about drain pipes. Gleason questioned his expertise in this area, but, Carney seemed to know what he was talking about in a weird sort of way.

And as he walked further down the hall, he could see there was a crack, an opening of the door. Cigarette smoke and the smell of pot came wafting through it forming dark clouds just outside the rented room.

Art Carney and Jackie Gleason continued talking about pipes, but, it wasn’t Carney and Gleason, it was two cartoon mice discussing the subject. He could see this through the split in the doorway. Then a sexy mouse showed up with a loud voice sounding like Audrey Meadows. The three men inside laughed at this. They laughed hard, coughing and wheezing.

These were three old black guys laughing at the television and getting high at four in the morning; cans of Faygo lemon lime being mixed with booze. They were getting louder and louder with their laughter until one of them stopped and noticed the spy.

Can I help you, an old man asked the white dude at the door.

Yeah, he said, Could you hold it down a bit?

The old black man smiled. His wrinkles smoothed out on his face. He nodded his head yes and then shut the door.

Art Carney and Jackie Gleason’s voices were turned off and the sound of Coltrane playing sax was now soft and mellow as the door was opened again allowing white smoke to come down the hall. A new pope had been elected.

Seated on the mattress, trying to listen to noises outside at four in the morning. Different kinds of noise. Cars and trucks going up and down Lincoln Highway. Semis putting on air brakes. A dog barked.

The windows were open. He liked the house to stay cold. Curtains blew in the breeze. He just sat there smoking a cigarette. A train went by in the distance.

He touched his right arm. Was he still alive? Wasn’t sure. The night felt different to him. Like somebody, or, some thing was watching him. Maybe a ghost. Maybe high school kids breaking curfew. Lights shined in on him through the window then kept on going down the road. Bright lights. Like they were looking for something.

The old man put his robe on and walked out to the front porch. Lit another Camel and then touched the wet grass with his bare feet. Flood lights flickered on and off. That damn dog was barking again. Finally the lights went out completely. Just dark. Pitch black. No cars coming. No diesels running through town. The moon shined brightly behind clouds. He used to catch it for his daughter when she was young. He’d reach up and grab it for her. That was a long time ago.

For old times sake, he tried to grab the moon. His right arm wouldn’t reach over his head. It’d been years since he tried to pull the moon down. Now it seemed impossible.

And he tried to pull the moon down with his left hand. That arm wouldn’t reach either. Stretched on his tippy toes. Couldn’t do it. Gave up when he saw the Sun coming up. Went back inside and made coffee. Stared at the phone.

He got his address book and looked up his daughter’s phone number. He wanted to call badly. Wasn’t sure what to say. He just let it ring until a voice answered. He paused and hung up. Just paused in silence and hung up. His day would soon begin.

There was nobody out there, Chuck said. I looked all over the county for that red Chevy pickup truck like you told me and nothing turned up, he lit a cigarette and opened his thermos to pour a cup of coffee.

Did you try over by the river?, John C. asked. Sometimes bodies show up there, he wiped his mouth with his sleeve. Sometimes you can see em floating down stream. Other times you find em washed up on the banks.

You think that’s what happened? Think somebody killed him and dumped his body in the river?, Chuck crossed himself.

This boy owe anybody money?

He owed everybody money. Including me. I’d loan him money when I saw him ’round town. He looked so dirty all the time; bathed in Fountain Square. Used dishwashing soap. Just jumped in there clothes and all on hot summer days. We’d have to tell him to get out of there. Always took two of us in uniform to get him to listen. But, he’d come out. Always singing. Sang that song by The Stones. Brown Sugar.

Yeah, I heard him sing that a few times. Only song he knew I think.

You think he done took off?

Might’ve.

I’ll call other counties.

Yeah. That’s a good idea.

Did you ever think you’d be better off dead?, John C. shook his head.

I’ll bet ya he did. Get rid of them demons once and for all. I know he was miserable.

Who called him in missing?

His momma. Said he stopped calling her two days ago. Said that wasn’t like him.

Well, I’m not going to waste all my time looking for some crazy homeless guy.

I hear ya.

Give it a couple of days, see if he shows up. We’ll see. We’ll see.

There was screaming down the alleyway. Some high pitched voice ringing out, you killed him. You killed him, a voice with no body to it; just words.

All the lights were out ‘cept one. It didn’t shine brightly, just kind of let off a glow as fog rolled in making it harder and harder to see. He wiped his glasses on his shirt and continued looking at the formless figure. She was sobbing. You killed him, she yelled. You killed him.

He decided to walk towards the light. Pulling out his cell phone, he could barely make out the numbers. He stopped and pushed 911.

In a hoarse whisper he told the operator of this woman yelling in the alley between Calhoun and Harrison. Told em she was crying hard; back porchlights began to come on. People stood in their backyards; no one approached her.

This went on for awhile. Just a voice in the dark yelling out, you killed him. A cop car pulled up and so did an ambulance. At this point the body was on the ground, the hard, wet asphalt, shaking. An EMT tried to cover her with a blanket. She shook it off each time.

Ms. You wanna tell us what’s going on here?

He killed him, she said.

O.K. Ms. when did this happen?

A long time ago.

Earlier in the day?

Years ago. Killed him with a butcher’s knife. I saw it happen. Right there in the kitchen.

We wanna help you. Who got killed?

My man.

Your man?

My father never liked him.

So, your father killed him?

Yes.

Where’s your father now?

Took off. Ran out the door and never looked back. He took the old truck. Blue Ford.

Did you ever report this to the police?

No, I didn’t. Too scared. But my man came to see me tonight. Told me to turn him in. Tell all the world that my daddy had done killed him.

Why don’t you come with us Ms. Come with us.

She shook her head and kept saying, you killed him.