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Want anything? he asked. Coffee? Iced tea? A newspaper? she shook her head.

The television was on. Some show about cookware. A short fat man selling pots and pans, making bacon and eggs. Showing how easy it is to clean up afterward. Just wiped out the pan with a paper towel. The sound was down low. You could barely hear him.

Want some juice? I could ask the nurse to bring you some, he told her. Again, she shook her head side to side. Alright, he sat down next to the bed. We’ll just sit here till it’s time, she smiled.

A nurse came in to check her vitals. Blood pressure was good, heart was pumping, temperature normal. Do you know what time it’ll be? the husband asked.

No, sir. I do not. Shouldn’t be that much longer, she left the room.

It’s so dark in here, he got up and pulled the blinds. The sun came through. That’s better, he told her. So depressing in here. It’s gotta weigh on you, he looked down at the parking lot. Watched the cars moving around. Saw people walking into the hospital carrying flowers and stuffed animals, helium balloons with well wishes on them. He brought a Bible. Neither read from it.

You’re going to be alright, he stroked his wife’s face. You’re going to be alright. I love you, he said. I love you. 

She just smiled. 

She poured him a cup of coffee. Blinds were open, and sunlight peeked through. A stack of buttered toast sat on the table.

Do you like marmalade? he asked. I eat it by the spoonfuls. But I don’t put any on my toast, he offered her a package. Isn’t that strange? I don’t put it on my toast. Just never did. Used to sit down with a jar of it and eat till my belly was full, she nodded. Not anymore. Too fat. Gotta cut back. I figure small amounts are what’s best, they smiled.

Her omelet was brought over by the waitress. He watched as she walked away. He kept looking at her. As if he knew her even though he was a thousand miles from home. 

You know what you got there? 

A Denver omelet, she replied.

Yes. Not a Western, but a Denver. There’s a difference. 

Oh yeah? What would that be?

He laughed. Picked up the menu and tossed it aside. I don’t know, he said. I think they put ham in the Denver and no ham in the Western, she nodded. Could be reversed. Not sure.

Which do you like?

The one with the ham. I’m thinking that’s the Denver. Gotta be the Denver.

I just ordered it cause I like the name. Western. Sounds like old school talk,  she said.

Well. Has it got ham in it?

It does. But Denver has ham, too. They both do. I think it’s the way they’re cooked. Different ways.

I see, the truck driver said. Well, I’m glad we got that figured out.

Right.

Yeah.

What’s your wife like?

Who said I was married?

Got a ring on.

Yeah, he opened another packet of marmalade. She passed away a few years ago. Cancer.

Sorry.

He nodded. Thanks. I guess I’m not ready to let go.

Looks that way.

Doubt if I ever do.

I could help with that, she grabbed his hand.

I’ll bet you could. But that’s OK. I’m going to pass. 

Alright. You sure? 

Yep. I’m sure. He reached in his pocket and pulled out a hundred. Take this, placed it in her hand. And you take care now. 

The young girl took the bill and tucked it away in her backpack. Thank you, she said. I gotta find a ride.

Where you heading?

Albuquerque. 

I’m going east.

Oh yeah? What’s out East?

Just another town.

I see. They looked at each other for a few seconds.

God bless you.

Yeah, mister. You too.

Los Angeles. Why do you want to go to Los Angeles? the driver asked the passenger in the backseat. Think you’re going to be a movie star? he looked in the rear view mirror. Never been there. Isn’t that funny. I’ve lived in Sacramento all my life, but I’ve never been to Los Angeles, he laughed. She remained quiet. You’re pretty enough to be a movie star, a semi passed. You got that classic look. Like Bacall or Ava Gardner. Frank Sinatra used to sleep with Ava Gardner. Ava Gardner used to sleep with everybody, the driver laughed, she pulled out a razor blade, and began slashing her wrists under her jacket. Blood began to soak into her jeans. You don’t talk much, he said. Just kind of quiet? Shy? Your red-hair is pretty. Nice and long. You know, there’s boys with long hair these days. Can’t tell them apart from the girls, he smiled back at the teen. I can tell them apart, he snickered. Oh yeah. I can tell them apart.

The car kept cruising along the highway. Signs for gas stations on the side of the road. Amoco, BP, Exxon Mobil. Convenience Stores like 7-11 shined in the night.

You want some coffee? Gotta go to the bathroom? he asked her. She nodded her head. Sure don’t say much.

He parked on the side of the gas station. Left the motor running on the old station wagon. There was a cold breeze blowing. They both walked inside; him with a limp, and her with a Hello Kitty bag slung over her shoulder. He poured coffee and bought a pack of Kool cigarettes. She went to the restroom in the back.

The driver waited for her to come out. He lit cigarette after cigarette. Took great swigs of coffee. Turned on the radio to a Tonya Tucker song; sirens in the background, getting closer. A cop and an ambulance pulled up in front. He decided to just keep driving.

How soon do we get there? she asked.

We’re still a long way away, he told her.

Nothing but static on the radio. Bits and pieces of sound coming through the speaker. The night was clear. There were no stars.

What’re you going to do when I’m gone? the girl asked.

I’ll be gone before you, dad replied.

You think Texas will be new for us? she looked out the open window. Took in the smells of Arkansas summer.

New?

Different. Will it be different?

It’ll be hot, he said. It’ll be hot, he smiled and drank from a Styrofoam cup filled with soda and whiskey.

You think you’ll find a job?

Yeah. All kinds of work in Texas.  Young ones like you don’t want to do hard work. I still got it in my bones.

What’s that?

Hard work. Labor.

Pay much?

Enough.

I want a big house with a swimming pool, she told dad. And a swing on a tree.

I’ll see what I can do.

What’re you going to do when I’m gone?

That ain’t gonna happen.

Never thought that mom would be gone.

Nope. Neither did I.

Did she leave you, or did you leave her?

We both left each other.

His television was always on with the sound down. Pictures flickered on a small screen throughout the night. The old man sat there with a can of Pepsi and a glass of melting ice watching in the dark. A cat scratched litter in the bathroom.

The antenna was adjusted to pick up stations in Little Rock. Channel 7 Eyewitness News was always on at 10. He liked the weather girl. She had a rather round face and wore tight sweaters like his wife used to when she was young. His now deceased wife was also a brunette, like the weather girl. This pleased him. He spoke to her during the five minute weather portion of the broadcast. And though he never heard her voice, he would answer as red lips moved in silence.

Yes, dear, he said every night. I’ll take the trash out in the morning. No, dear, I did not pay the gas bill yet. Do you need a ride to the grocery? he asked the television. 

The weather girl moved her long arm over a map of Arkansas,  explaining where there were highs and lows, rain storms, and possible flooding. The old man didn’t care about any of that. He just kept his eye on her.

I’m sorry honey, he said every night. Sorry I cheated on you. Sorry I didn’t provide better. The cat would jump in his lap.

He said goodnight to her and the rest of the Channel 7 Eyewitness News team with a wave of his hand. He would blow her a kiss and wipe his eyes.

Till tomorrow, dear. Till tomorrow.

Can you stop, please? Stop talking. All I hear is this constant jibberish. A loud staccato voice, he said. You’re not even making sense. Just rambling. On and on and on.

Are you talking to me?

Yes. You would be the one.

What’s with you? she asked. Don’t you like to talk? Converse?

We are not talking. This is not a conversation,  he told her. This is you speaking to yourself.  Which, by the way, you are the only one listening. Do you make a practice of this?

I don’t have to answer that.

No. No, you do not.

He used to ride a tricycle up and down the street; throwing rose petals into the wind. People sat in their front lawns, looking on at his childlike behavior, pointing and laughing as he peddled by.

His tricycle had streamers on the handlebars of red, blue, and silver. The frame was a shiny purple. He named it Grover. 

The old man had dreams of riding the bike to another town, and another after that till he got to the West Coast. He wanted to spread joy.

One summer’s morning as the whippoorwills sang and roosters crowed, the old man left the small Iowa town he’d grown up in. Rode his tricycle out to the highway and headed west. He was gone. Like that, he’d disappeared.

That night, neighbors sat in their folding chairs waiting for the old man’s nightly ride. They carried their cans of beer and cocktails out to the front yards of America and waited until it grew dark. They’re still waiting for his return.

I woke up not breathing, he said. Thought I was in a deep sleep, but there was no air. Felt like I was drowning, he continued. Drowning without water, he paused. Just sat up quickly and tried to breathe. But there was nothing. Just thoughts racing in my head about the dream I had.

Dream? she asked. What dream?

This pickup truck was taking me to the border. I was sitting in the back with all these Mexicans. We were going to stampede the wall.

Stampede the wall?

Yes, he nodded. They refused to cross the Rio Grande. They didn’t want to get wet. Said they had too much dignity. They wanted to cross into America like white people, he told her.

What happened?

We loaded guns and got ready to face the border patrol. The truck was going faster and faster. As fast as an old Ford can go.

Were you Mexican in this dream?

No. I was just myself. As you see me today. American. 

Did you storm the wall?

That’s when I woke up. Gasping for air. Like I was drowning. Dying. My body left behind with a bunch of Mexicans. And for some reason, I felt at home.

With the Mexicans?

Yes. As if we were brothers.

Were you running from anything? 

No. Just going to the border. Just going to Texas with guns blazing like Santa Ana. 

Are you OK?

No.

God sent his anger. That’s what our preacher said. These storms don’t happen by accident. For it is God’s wrath upon us; a nation of sinners, he continued from the pulpit. This is what we’ve come to. A country, a world of violence,  homosexuality, children disobedient to their parents, parents disobedient to God, he slammed down his fist. We looked on in horror. 

Folks talk of Jesus’s love. However, they forget God’s anger. God does not love the sinner. He wants us to follow his rules. His teachings. The  Holy Father says that we are to be baptized in the name of Jesus and leave our sins behind. This is what we must do, he stepped away from the altar,came down to the crowd, and said, Who will follow me down to the river? Come. Come and be replenished. Saved by accepting Christ as your lord and savior, the preacher man walked down the red carpeted aisle. He walked past the one-legged man who gambled on a Saturday night. Placed his hand on a woman who sought pleasure through fornication.  Gazed at the drunk who still smelled of alcohol.

Who will follow? he asked. A line began to form from the back of the church to the front.  You are all sinners, the minister said. And today, you say no more. The shackles of sin will be lifted. And everyone nodded their heads. Except for me.

As they marched down to the river, I stayed behind, closed my eyes, and asked God to forgive him. He knows not what he does.

Later that evening I went swimming in the cool waters of the river. I listened to all that surrounded me; took it all in. The cicadas sang, frogs croaked, birds whistled. And I was at peace.

Waiting. Whippoorwails sang at five in the morning. Half dark,  half light. A tree has been butchered.  Limbs cut. Bare. Frogs croaked. He sat on his back porch and listened.

He looked at what might have been. What once was. Grass long with brown spots. A rusted fence falling apart. Overgrown shrubs. Swings they used to play on. He’d push her into the sky. A dress waved.

Off in the distance, he heard semis going up and down 41. He knows that road. The two would drive to Chicago and watch movies all day long. Walk in Grant Park. She would sing to him old Cole Porter songs of being in love. Drank beers at Miller’s, where he first told the short brunette he loved her. Bought a ring on Jewelry Row. Autumn on Lake Michigan.

The old man read a J. D. Salinger short story once about a man who killed himself. He placed a gun to his head and didn’t look back.