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It’s time, he said. Turn off the lights. The air-conditioner, turn that off too. I’m not a millionaire, the old man declared. Did you turn off the coffeemaker? she nodded. Put some food in the bowl for Norman. Just open the bag and let it out on the kitchen floor. He’ll have plenty. Fill his water, too.

OK, she whispered.

Why are you whispering?

Because you so loud. The neighbors will hear us. They already think we strange.

Is that what you do in the Philippines? Keep quiet? Worry what neighbors think?

OK. OK. Just let’s go.

A couple of duffel bags were placed in the back of the truck. Doors on the old Ford creaked. The engine had trouble starting. A streetlight shined down on them.

Look in the glovebox and get me that flashlight. Amongst papers, a title, some cash, and a bottle of Wild Turkey was a yellow flashlight. The young lady handed it to him. You keep the hood up for me while I look into this.

OK. OK, she could hear the dog barking.

Hold the hood with one hand and the flashlight with the other. Point it where I tell you to. The short woman stood on her tip toes to open the hood. Here, he said. Down here. Shine it on the blue and red wires. Come on now.

OK. OK.

See. This blue one is disconnected.  And the red one is nearly chewed through. The old man placed the blue wire on the battery. That should hold for a while. Get back, he slammed the hood down. Tried to start the truck again. It sputtered and spat. The old Ford would not start. Lights came on next door.

What we do now? she asked.

Why doesn’t anything work for me? Hand me that bottle in the glovebox.

You don’t drink, she said. It make you mad.

I’m already mad. Hand me the whiskey. 

She grabbed the bottle and handed it to him. She smiled. It be alright, she told him. It be OK.

Together, they sat there in the truck as the night became morning. There wasn’t any talking. Just silence. She leaned up against his shoulder. He tried the ignition one more time, and with a whine, it started.

The dog continued barking.

A cat tower. Television set. Brooms leaning on a white wall. A red dustpan. Birthday and Mother’s Day cards stand on end tables. Brown stained carpet.  A mirror by the front door. She looks at herself. Lego pieces stepped on.

In a room down the hall, a child cries. He whines and throws things. Says, I hate you. Then cries more. He kicks the walls and door.  Mom takes another look in the mirror. 

Be quiet, she yells. You’re only going to make yourself sick. Don’t make me come back there, she looks at her phone. The baby sitter called and said she’ll be late. Her date has been canceled. Said he had to work. There are bottles of booze on top of the refrigerator. She pulls down a bottle of Skol vodka. She drinks from it.

A soft knock on the door. The babysitter apologizes. She can smell the alcohol. Nothing is said. The boy continues crying.

Go back and check on him every once in a while, the young mother says. He should wear himself out and fall asleep. The babysitter nods and smiles. I’ll be home late. Call me if you need anything. But, only if you really need something.  OK? She takes one more look at herself and closes the door.

Maybe she’ll find what she’s looking for. She drives the Dodge past the downtown bars past the church. She has a full tank of gas. The entrance to I-69 shines in the night.

She thinks about leaving it all behind. Fumbles through the glovebox. A small bottle of Fireball is half empty. She drinks the rest of the whiskey and is on her way. Going south. She has no idea where she’ll wind up. She wants to start all over again. A clean slate? There is no such thing.

Blank stares between the two. He had seen her before. Some time ago. Years. The man could not stop looking at her. Time had done nothing. So What played on the jukebox.

She sat on the barstool with her legs crossed, wearing a red dress. The same dress he’d seen her in before. The one with the V-neck. She looked up at the silent TV. The Mets were on.

He wanted to walk over. Say something. But he didn’t have the courage; not enough whiskey yet. She looked back at him and pointed. Started to walk over past the pushers, pimps, fat men, gamblers, dope-heads, queens, and concubines. I know you, she said. Yes. I remember, she took a drink.

I know, he told her. I have a familiar face.

No. I know you. We’ve spent time together. You don’t remember?

He looked at her up and down. She grabbed his cheeks and kissed him. Left a red stain on his lips.

Oh yeah, he said. It’s coming back to me. The tall woman kissed him again. Joan? Is that you? she nodded and smiled. Forgive me, he said. It’s been a long time.

It has.

You still look great.

Thanks.

Haven’t changed a bit.

You didn’t recognize me, she said. Couldn’t make me out?

I thought it was you. You never know. How are the kids?

One’s in college. The other cuts hair. They’re doing good. They ask about you. That is, they used to. Things fade away. We let go.

Yes. Could I buy you a drink?

She shook her head. No thanks. Just wanted to say hello.

Hello.

What is real? he asked. We think we can tell the difference of real and unreal, but we can’t, he sat by the fire stirring the coals. I’ll tell you one thing. Love is not real. It’s a figment of our imaginations. Young men, mere boys, fall in love five or six times from grade school crushes to high school sweethearts. They think it’s love. But it’s not. Just fooling around until someone gets hurt, he said to his friend. Least, that’s my experience.

Did you love your wife?

Sure. Whatever that means, they both laughed and opened another beer.

How many times did you tell her you loved her?

Not many. I rarely felt it. I didn’t know if it was real or not. Was never sure, he lit a cigarette. 

Never felt it? Not even on your wedding day?

I was smashed on my wedding day.  Drunk as a skunk. Started with bloody Marys, and by noon, I was drinking gin and tonics. Maybe I was preparing for the worst. I don’t know, he smiled. Made up my own vows right there at the altar. She had hers all memorized. I pulled it off. That’s what people said. But, was it real? I couldn’t tell you.

Do you want to be alone? he asked. By yourself for a while? she kept looking out the kitchen window. I can let you be. Leave you here, he tried to embrace her from the back; holding on around the waist. I’m going. You shouldn’t be driving in this condition, he let go.

She watched him climb into the Ford. Saw him back out of the driveway onto the two lane road. She looked down; looked again, and he was gone. Still, she stood there. Looked outside at the changing trees, birds flying, squirrels running around, cars going up and down Highway 10. In her mind, she counted the colors. One red car. Three black. One green. One real pretty Bronco that looks avocado. The young woman kept looking. She poured herself a cup of coffee and watched the world go by. Wondering where he’d taken off to.

Maybe he left town, she said out loud. Could’ve gone to the store. Probably went back to her, she cried. Probably went back to her.

They never stay, she whispered.  Always leave. Go back to their safe lives. Women they call dear. Children bounced on their laps. Mowing lawns on Saturday. Church on Sunday. It was fun while it lasted. 

She got dressed in her tightest jeans. Put on a white tee-shirt and a pair of cowboy boots. She was tired of waiting. It’s time to find the next one.

Hollow sounds. Nothing. You think there’s something, but there is not; just a long night of silence. The kind of silence that makes you worry. Scares people, desparately wanting to hear anything; a dog barking, a cat fight in the alley, cars without mufflers, something to let you know there is life. But, there is not.

I watched him lie in bed. Tubes ran over and into his body. Folks gathered around; mom and dad, friends old and new. Prayers said, stories told. A bottle of wine passed from one hand to the next; a sort of last supper, a final communion.

The hospice nurse came to check on him. Brought him Italian lemon ice to suck on. His tongue turned yellow. He stuck it out for us all to see. His pillow was fluffed, sheets adjusted, a blanket over his feet. He thanked her. Even in pain, he was thankful.

I wanted to say goodbye but didn’t know how. I wanted to bring him one last great meal. But I knew he couldn’t digest it.

We talked about the great dinners he’d had with us. Traveling around the world using it as a smorgasbord. Greek food in Chicago, along with Jim’s Maxwell Street Polish. Chinese noodles as long as a leg in Manhattan. Street tacos in Mexico City. Pate in Paris. Indian food in Amsterdam. A simple bowl of chili in Cincinnati. Picking up the bill at the newspaper’s expense. Laughing as food and drink filled us.

His eyes opened, and closed. Falling in and out of it. I waved goodbye. I knew he was gone.

Did you mean to kill him? he asked. When you shot him, did you mean to kill him? he lit a cigarette and handed it to his son.

I never mean to do anything. Like the time I got on a bus in Pittsburgh and wound up in Los Angeles. You remember? the father nodded. Had no money. Nothing. Just got on a bus one night and left. I’ve always done that. Leave. New Orleans, Dallas, Iowa City,  Denver, New York, Vermont, all this coming and going. Always running from something. Like a crazy person.

What did he do to you? dad asked.

He tried to steal from me.

Under the bridge?

Yeah. I was asleep, and I heard him going through my stuff, so I shot him.

I see.

I just meant to scare him off, I guess. Maybe I did try to kill him. Wouldn’t surprise me.

You have to turn yourself in, the father said.

Huh. Now, who is the crazy one?

Men wearing neon colored vests sat on the side of the highway. Fresh patches of tar covered holes.  Orange cones lead drivers to the left lane. Slow down signs and dump trucks. They traveled north. 

What are you gonna do when we get to Chicago? she asked between sips of a 32 oz soda. I know where I’m going.

Yeah? Where?

Rock and Roll McDonald’s downtown.

Oh yeah? He kept driving. Smiled at her, this girl he picked up in Terre Haute. 

My daddy used to take me there when I was a little kid. He bought me chocolate shakes, and we listened to cool music from the 50’s.

Sounds like fun, the gray-haired man said. I like Buddy Holly. 

Who?

Buddy Holly. Singer from back then. You know. Peggy Sue…Peggy Sue…pretty pretty pretty Peggy Sue, he sang, struggled to hit notes. He stretched his arm out on the seat. Pulled in the seventeen year-old real tight. You’re going to be alright, he told her. You’ll be fine.

She continued slurping on her drink and looked out the window of the truck. She saw leaves dying, turned brown. She counted license plates from different states. Other diesels passed them by.

You never answered my question, said the blonde. What are you going to do in Chicago? she tucked her face into his ribs.

Just park the beast at a truck stop outside of town and get some sleep. I gotta be in Minneapolis by tomorrow.

I’ve never been there. I heard it’s nice though, she said. But I think I’ll hang out in Chicago.

How are you going to survive?

I’ll find a way. I’m smart. I’ll go to beauty school and learn how to style hair, she told him, placed her hand on his thigh, which he removed. You think I’m pretty? he nodded. You want me? he shook his head. I won’t tell anybody. A hundred bucks, and I’ll take care of you, the driver grabbed the steering wheel with both hands.

Don’t say that. You remind me of my daughter back in St. Louis. She’s really pretty like you. But, no. I don’t want you like that. Just want to get you to Chicago. 

The Rock and Roll McDonald’s.

Sure.

Kids slid on the morning grass wet from dew. White sneakers turned green. A line would form. Girls and boys with book bags stood in autumn’s dawn as the yellow, long bus arrived.

One by one, they climbed stairs and wished the driver good morning. She would tell them to watch their step in between gulps of coffee. A kid tripped. It never failed.

The ride to school would start off being a quiet journey. Keep it down, the driver said. Keep it down. However, inevitably, the silence didn’t last long.

Did you watch the Bears yesterday? a boy asked his friend, nodding his head. Sons of bitches looked terrible. That’s what my dad said, they both laughed. He yelled at the TV all afternoon. Run nigger, run, the kid said. All afternoon.

My old man says the same thing, his friend said. Every Sunday, he’s screaming at everybody when the Bears lose. Mom, my sister, me, the dog, the whole house while pops opens another beer. The neighbors complain. Mr. Beasley knocks on our door and tells him to turn it down and shut up. Then dad just gets louder. He yells and calls them all a bunch of niggers too, the boys laughed harder.

Keep it quiet back there, the driver yelled again. And quit using the N word. I can hear you all the way up here.

The boy with his buzzed haircut whispered to the other. What the hell? he said. Dad says it all the time. 

Mine, too.

Everybody in Bridgeport says it. It’s not like we live on the Northside. 

Right. Northside pussies.

The bus pulled up in front of the middle school. Watch your step, the driver reminded them. Watch your step.

 

Magic is gone. It has left the soul. Went God knows where. Hiding in closets, under beds, pantries; no more. Disappeared. Maybe magic jumped off a building in Midtown Manhattan. Perhaps drowned in the Hudson. I wish it would come back.

An empty, wadded up McDonald’s bag in a trashcan. A few fries in it. Opened packets of ketchup. I haven’t eaten in days. Considered the possibilities.

Cigarette butts burned in ashtrays. It has come to this, I say out loud. A thousand circus clowns pass by on their way to the big top. They cram into a small car and wave goodbye; honking and smiling. Honking and smiling.

These days are best spent under a tree in  Central Park, sleeping, and dreaming. Or at St. Patrick’s praying for a shift in life. A new beginning. Funny, the Protestants believe in being born again; I’ve never felt more dead. 

Autumn will be here soon.