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Did you shoot him? Tom asked.

Yeah, Jimmy responded. I did. Right between the eyes. Blood all over the place. Got some on me.

Better wash it off. It’ll stain.

Permanently?

Permanently.

I feel like I should have given him a fighting chance, Jimmy said.

How so?

He was chained up. Didn’t seem right. He was happy to see me.

He’s happy to see anybody. Did you give him a bone?

Nah. I didn’t.

Not even a final meal?

Nope. I patted him on the head, said goodbye, and pulled the trigger. Jimmy pulled out a cigarette.  Tom lit it for him and pulled two cans of Old Style from the cooler in the front seat between them.

Probably best.

What?

No final meal. Just did it. Like in Old Yeller.

We’re talking real life here, Jimmy said. Not the movies.

Right. Tom raised his can to Jimmy. They toasted. Here’s to Floyd. 

Yeah. Here’s to Floyd. 

Different candles on the table. One is a pine scent that reminds him of Tennessee when he was a kid running through the woods. Green needles in summer turned brown in fall. Tents set up. A fire burning of logs and kindling. Coyotes howling at midnight. His dad drinking from a silver flask. Initials carved into it. Sleeping with one eye open. 

Cotton candy candle. Smells of county fairs in Texas visiting his grandparents. Walking through crowds on route to the tilt-a-whirl, Ferris wheel, a small roller coaster with metal tracks, and food alley where a foot long corn dog awaits. Walking on his own. Grandma and Granddad never held his hand. They said his claws were too sticky. Sugar on his finger tips.

Lilacs. This scent leads him to sleep and dream of his mother in the garden picking flowers. Holding out her arms with a basket in hand. Telling him it will be OK. Everything will be just fine. A scarf around her head. Hiding truth. Damn lilacs.

Nothing forced, he said. Wait for it to come. You’ve got time. What’s the rush? Worried? Thinking your mind is blank forever? It will happen.

Look at shadows on walls. Notice how black they are and what light does. The power of light. We seek it out. None of us want to live in darkness. In the land of shadows.

What is the first thing you do when you wake up in the morning? he asked.

Turn on coffee, she responded.

No. Before that.

Turn on the kitchen light.

Right. Yes. Because you don’t want to be in the dark, he told her.

What about at night? she asked. When I’m sleeping? It’s dark. We want it to be dark. Well, except children.  They want a nightlight. Or the closet light on with the door cracked. They don’t like it dark.

But then we get older, she continued. And the dark becomes our friend at night. It allows us to sleep. To dream.

Yeah. We do, he said. Maybe darkness is our friend at night. We cling to it, perhaps. However, I could live in the light forever. The dark, not so sure about that. 

Suit yourself, she said. For the most part, I like the dark. I’ll stay in the dark. Less of a struggle. When there’s light, you know. You’re aware. I don’t want to be aware anymore. It’s too frightening. 

Shhh. Don’t force it. Just write.

Frank’s coming home.

How long has it been?

Seven, eight years.

Had to have changed.

Maybe. Cheaters always cheat.

Criminals always commit crimes?

Yeah. Something like that.

Wonder how he looks? He was always handsome. Always had a thing about him. He’d walk into a room, and people noticed. They’d look at him. Even stare. Jet black hair and brown eyes. Clean shaven and chiseled face. He was something.

Yeah. He was.

Where’s he been?

Didn’t say. It was a short phone call. Said he was coming home. Needed me to wire him a hundred dollars.

Same old Frank. Always borrowing money from folks. Never paid me back.

How much did you give him?

A hundred.

He always operates in hundreds. Never fifty or twenty-five. Always a hundred. There’s people all over town he owes money to.

He means well.

Does he? I don’t know. He left me a long time ago. Hard to forgive that. But, I probably will.

Where’d ya wire the money?

Lancaster. Lancaster, Pennsylvania.

So he’s been out East.

He’s been everywhere. I’m sure of it. Men like him don’t stay in one place too long. Miracle he stayed here as long as he did.

Guess so.

When did he call you?

A week ago.

He’s not coming. He would’ve jumped on the first bus he could get once you wired that money.

Maybe he’s hitchhiking.

Doubt it.

Who knows?

Right.

Let me borrow a cigarette.

Here. But you gotta give it back.

Both women laughed and then cried. Frank’s coming back to town.

It’s like trying to get somewhere, but I can’t.

What do you mean?

I can’t make a move. I’m stuck.

How so?

It’s America. We’re all stuck. Even you. You’re stuck. You just don’t realize it yet. One day, you will. You’ll wake up, and it’ll be too late. You’ll be in the same scenario that I’m in; broken and unable to fix. Put back together again. One piece. See what I’m saying?

You make no sense. 

I got pieces of me spread all across this country; California, Iowa, Vermont, New York, Chicago, Dallas. And now I sit here completely disassembled. I’m just telling you.

Ain’t told me shit.

You got something you better hold on to it. No matter how tough it gets, you better hold on. These days will kill you. They’re killing me. You’ll see. Just hold on to what you got. A little bit of sanity goes a long way.

Snow thunder, Tom said. Never experienced that, but I’ve heard of it. A guy told me once that he was driving through West Texas, and it was snowing real hard, and you could hear thunder. Strange. He said it scared him. Said he thought the end of the world was happening. That’s what he said.

I’ve never heard of it, Johnny said. But I know things get strange out in West Texas just before you hit New Mexico. All that red clay.  It’s like a painting. Just red clay under a blue sky.

Snowing. Gray. Real gray. That’s what he told me, said Tom.

That’s your story. Mine is blue skies. Pretty as it can be, Johnny told him.

He had to use chains on his tires. Tom swallowed more coffee. He looked at the menu. They have biscuits and gravy. Half order or full?

Full. Don’t do anything halfway, Johnny said. Halfway gets you nowhere. That’s why I have a cross hanging on my mirror. You either accept him as your lord and savior, or you don’t.

What the hell has that got to do with anything? Certainly has nothing to do with biscuits and gravy. Some kind of crap you’re telling me.

No. I just have a full-on faith, Johnny proclaimed.

Yeah. You’re full-on, alright. Full-on crazy.

That red clay. God made that. Same as snow thunder. He made that too. Johnny called over the waitress. Told her he would have a half order.

That means just one biscuit, the waitress told him.

I know. Gotta watch it these days. He thumped his fat belly. Yeah, just a half.

You sir, she asked, Tom.

Just coffee. Could I get some more half and half?

Snow thunder? John said.

Yeah. That’s was his story.

Sure.

Blackbirds have come to eat their stale bread. Five or six of them swoop down and feast on old wheat, corn chips, and outdated pita. Feral cats come, and the birds fly away, leaving bits and pieces I tore up days ago. Old food on top of snow. Half eaten. They’ll be back.

She’s inside asleep. Sun has just come up. We were up late arguing. I think this time it was about the TV remote. But it wasn’t really about that. It was about control. Everything is about control.

I make my way inside and pour a cup of coffee. There’s a quarter pot left from last night. I wanted to throw it out and make a fresh batch this morning, but she said to let it be. Said coffee was expensive these days. And even if it wasn’t, it’d be wastful. She’s right. She reminds me she’s always right.

Watching her sleep, I make my way to the closet and rummage around in the dark, looking for a book bag. All I need is a small bag for underwear and toiletries. A copy of On The Road will be packed as well. A pair of jeans rolled up, and a couple of black tee-shirts. Always pack lite.

She rolls over on her other side, snoring and farting. I zip my bag and leave.

Where you gone off to now? she asked. Always going places. Never touching ground. Never landing, she said. Like some bird. Flying south in the winter and north in the spring. Living off of bits and pieces of stale bread thrown out in backyards. She placed the phone between her shoulder and cheek as she lit a cigarette. When was the last time you had a homemade breakfast or a decent cup of coffee? Donuts and black water. That’s what you live off of.

Yeah, her son said from a payphone in Phoenix. 

That bus can’t be comfortable, mom said. All them Mexicans on it . And blacks. Bet you’re the only white person on the thing.

I haven’t taken count.

Don’t get smart with me, boy. I’ll hang this phone up right now, she told him.

Alright. Alright.

Why you calling?

Just wanted to.

You need money?

This will be the last time.

You said that five times ago, she laughed. I can wire you fifty bucks. But, that’s it for now.

Yes, ma’am.

Don’t be so formal. I’ll go to the gas station and send this out to you.

Thanks.

Phoenix?

Yeah.

Spend it wisely.

I love you.

I love you too.

Cacti are watered. Pink and white blossoms dotted on the plants. They sit in the sunlight.

Chamber music plays on the radio. He listens while sitting on his bed, which has peaks and valleys. A folded jacket is used for a pillow.

He lights a cigarette and stirs instant coffee in his cup, which reads, BEST DAD EVER. His ex-wife gave it to him when they were expecting years ago; never count your chickens before they hatch.

The music on the public radio station has switched now to jazz. Bop jazz, to be precise. The old man looks out his window down onto the streets where traffic is starting to flow on 24th Street. Cars and cabs turning the corner at 8th Avenue. He stands there just looking up at the sun, which has winked at him. He tells the cacti to soak it in.

Take it whenever you can get it, he says. The forecast for the day is cloudy with precipitation, he tells his two children in clay pots. Take it when you can get it.

The house is quiet. Curtains pulled back, revealing darkness and shimmering snow under streetlights. Floodlights glow on a stretched American flag. A truck starts down the street.

I sit here and look on through glass sliding doors. Soon, it’ll be morning, and blackbirds will come looking for food. Stale wheat bread and expired hamburger buns hidden under the white blanket. A snowman stands in my neighbor’s yard. A carrot for a nose.

The flag now waves. Wind comes and goes. Two men get in a truck with guns in their hands. Where are they going? What are they doing? A Trump sign stands in the front yard.