dmseay

Two black crows ate stale bread in the backyard. They swooped down from the sky and stood atop snow. Eating away at rye, white, and wheat bread. Some pieces had mold on them.

He sat on the deck and watched. Steam came from his coffee cup. You could see his breath.

For hours, he sat out there in the cold. Snow was beginning to spit on him. The crows had left long ago.

It seemed as though he was frozen. He didn’t move. Neighbors drove by and waved. He did not wave back. It was beginning to get dark. The porchlight came on.

His face was red and chapped from the breeze. He peeled dead skin off his lips with his teeth. He sat a while longer.

Then he saw it. The Great Northern Lights. Purple and green. Yellow and blue. A touch of orange. What a heavenly light, he said softly. What a miracle.

He formed a frame with four of his fingers connected together, thinking he’d captured it. Keep it in his mind, just like he did when he saw the red clay mountains of New Mexico. Or Niagra Falls. These things we never forget.

The mind is a camera, he thought. Taking pictures of everything spectacular. He laughed. Sat there and gazed at the lights some more. He had his picture. Filed it with the rest in the back of his mind and watched the Sunrise.

He fell asleep in the chair. Cold winds woke him up. The crows were back.

Mass crowds cross the street. Ubers zip by. Trains above roll through town. Drunks fall out of bars in the afternoon. Happy hour has come and gone.

The Great Lake is frozen. Snow on sand. Cars parked at Montrose and Belmont. Lovers taking a midnight stroll. Hand in hand, they follow a path to North Avenue. Standing on a white beach, they look south and see The Drake, The Tip Top Tap, John Hancock, LSD lit in blue. Frozen air sets stars in place.

They talk of old times. Way back when Washington was mayor. The press asked Harold once what it was like to be a black grand marshall in the Saint Patrick’s Day parade? He laughed and said it was fine, just got to carry a bigger sheleghla. The two Northsiders chuckled.

Chicago has changed, the old man said to his wife. Everyone has left for the suburbs. There’s no humor anymore. No one can laugh. No one wants to laugh, he continued. Sad. Where’s the Chicago of Sandburg and Algren? Gone. Nowadays, the city dances to an angry beat.

That’s not Chicago, dear, she told him. That’s America.

I long for JoAnn Piano Bar.

Coffee percolating. A cat munching on dry food. Clean dishes in a rack. Christmas lights on houses in February. 

He goes outside to start the truck. Notices ice on the porch and walkway. Pours salt on it. Shakes the salt bag. Reaches in with a dry hand and tosses the rocks. It’s too dark to see if it’s working.

The truck is covered with frost. He reaches in the backseat and grabs a scraper, and begins moving the tool on the windshield. Exhaust pours out of the tailpipe.

His wife watches from the kitchen window. She sees her husband of twenty-five years marching towards the house. She knocks on the window.

Be careful, she yells. Be careful walking up the steps. He nods and waves his hand at her. Grab onto the rail, she tells him through the frozen glass. Again, he nods and waves his hand. The backdoor is opened. She cracks the screen door. Come on in here, she says. Come on inside. A cup of hot coffee is in her hand.

Thank you, he says, and sips the drink. You know what would go well with this?

Let me guess. Bailey’s.

Now you’re talking, he walks inside.

Make sure you take your boots off.  She warns him. Don’t want snow on the floors.

Yes, ma’am.

He places the coffee on a stool and pulls his boots off. His socks are wet. He takes those off, too. Time for new boots, he says.

You just got those.

No. You’re thinking of the other pair, he tells her as he walks barefoot across the hardwood, sips his coffee, and wipes his nose on his sleeve.

I’m confused.

You’re always confused, he says. The two of them laugh. The old man gives her a kiss on the cheek. She smiles and gets down the bottle of Irish cream from the middle shelf.

Tommy and Jean are coming over tonight.

Darn it, he says. I just want to be alone tonight.

We we can’t cancel. We set this up months ago. I’m making a meatloaf.

It’s Valentine’s, he says. I wanted to be alone with you.

Just another Hallmark holiday. She pours the Bailey’s in the coffee cups. Besides. It’s not like it’s St. Patrick’s or something important.

Right. Spring is just around the corner. Lent will be here soon.

What are you giving up this year? She asks.

Not sure yet. Maybe red meat.

Ooooo. That’s a good one.

Yeah. I think so. He stands at the table and pulls the chair out for her.

Thank you.

He winks at her. You bet.

They drink in silence. Finish their coffee. And kiss each other goodbye.

Be careful out there, she yells.

He waves goodbye and pulls out of the driveway. 

She watches as he drives down the road. One tail light burned out.

The porch light is on. Shadows move behind blinds. Silhouettes.

He stands on the sidewalk, watching, looking, folded newspaper in hand. Rubber bands hugging print tightly. The boy throws the paper and hits the front door. He folds another and moves on to the next house.

Dark. There are no lights on. Newspapers piled up on the porch. A dog used to bark in the morning. Now it’s just silence as snow flakes begin to fall. Their car has been gone for weeks now. No trace of them. Maybe they’re on a winter vacation. Perhaps they moved. Could be they took off in the middle of the night. They hadn’t paid for the paper in months.

I’ll bet they died, he mumbled. Two bodies lying in the kitchen or in the bedroom. Maybe he killed her and turned the gun on himself? Who knows? He wonders.

The boy walks to the end of the cul-de-sac. Lights are on at the Johnson’s. He throws the paper. Mrs. Johnson comes out in a robe and picks up the wet rag.

Do you have a dry one? She asks.

He reaches into his bag and pulls out a dry newspaper. Here Mrs. Johnson, he says. Here you go. Sorry about that.

Thanks.

Sure.

She goes back inside and stands in front of the living room window and opens her robe, revealing her fat belly and saggy breasts. She blows the  paperboy a kiss and closes the curtains.

I don’t think you understand, he said. These beliefs. Simple.

Right. The boy told the minister.

He took down a Bible from his bookshelf. He turned the pages. Mathew, Mark, Luke, and John. The preacher had verses marked in yellow and orange highlights. He closed it and held the holy book in his right hand.

Thousands of years, the reverend said. Thousands. He got up from behind his desk. Wars over its truth. People misinterpreted the book. Religions started. False religions, he told the teen. Folks calling themselves Christians who aren’t really Christian. You follow? The youngster sat in silence. He did not move a muscle. Just sat in the red velvet chair that swiveled. The boy began to move his legs a bit from side to side. Nervously.

Do I have your attention? The minister asked. Do you grasp what I’m saying?

The kid shook his head. No, he said. No, I do not.

Presidents place their right hands on this book and take an oath. It is holy. It means something. Christ is trying to save your soul through me and the Bible. He is speaking to you right now. Do you accept him as your lord and savior?

The boy looked at him. Looked at the man hovering above him. Can I think about it? Does this decision have to be made today? In this instant? Because I can’t do that.

Why not?

Blind faith. I believe what I see. Not what I hear or read. Could be fiction. Stories written by men. Old Testament. New Testament. The Koran. Who’s to say?

God. The preacher man said with his hands trembling. God says.

The boy swiveled around in his chair and faced the minister. God left the building a long time ago.

The house is falling apart, he said. Gutters need replaced. Cracks in the windows. A kitchen sink that doesn’t drain. Carpet smells like  cat piss.

A smoke cloud rose above him. The old man sat in a red velvet recliner puffing on a pipe filled with Prince Albert. Lawrence Welk was leading the band on television. Bobby and Sissy danced in colorful costumes. He smiled and pointed at the screen.

I was a dancer, he said out loud. We used to dance all night long, he laughed. Then I would walk you home and kiss you goodnight. Remember?

The Lawrence Welk singers were now performing Cry Me A River. All of them on stage singing. He hummed along.

Remember this one? He asked. His thin lips mouthed the words. The old man looked over at the couch and saw no one there.

Where’d you go? No one responded.  Are you in the kitchen baking a pie? My favorite? Rhubarb?

He picked up the empty tin Prince Albert can to his left and knocked his pipe on the inside of it. He then picked up the half-full can on his right and refilled the old pipe that he’d had for years. Bought it when he quit smoking KOOL cigarettes. A cough and a sputter always came after the first puff.

Maddie? Maddie? Where did you go? Come on now. Don’t be shy. He walked down the hallway and knocked on a closed door with a flowered wreath on it.

Come on now, the old man knocked harder, turning the door knob. I’m coming in. I’m coming to get you. On the count of three. One, two, three.

An empty rocking chair in the corner. A queen sized bed with quilts on it. Black and white photos on the chest of drawers. Pictures of him in his Navy uniform. She with a rose in her hair. A closet filled with clothes. Cobwebs. 

I could’ve swore she was here, he said. Could’ve swore. 

Dead deer lie on the shoulder. Buffalo penned in. Hawks swirl up above. Sky is purple. Sun will come up soon, looking like a yolk broke all over God’s land. A bridge over a river.

He keeps it at sixty. The truck shakes a little. Bad bearings. He tosses a cigarette out the window and watches it bounce. Lit tip blown out by a northern wind. The radio is playing Night Moves through a tinny speaker. Seat is torn.

A shotgun hangs on a rack behind him. Bullets in the glove box along with license and registration, a couple of twenties, and a pack of Wrigley’s.

Heading to Chicago. Back to a town, he won’t recognize. It’s been twenty years since he lived there. Humboldt Park. Wicker Park. Roger’s Park. Lakeview. He moved around Chi-town like a scurrying rat being chased by Animal Control. He never wanted to be caged.

So he left. Quit everything and just left one night; leaving a woman and a kid behind. Told her he was going out for cigarettes, filled up the tank instead, and just kept driving west through Illinois, Iowa, Nebraska, all the way out to Colorado. He’d always heard it was nice.

What makes a man return to a place he left years ago. Guilt? Curiosity? Wanting to see how it all turned out? He wanted to tell her he was sorry. Wanted to tell the boy he was sorry as well. He had no idea where they were, just hoping they were still in town on the Northside. Hoping they were still alive. 

One hundred miles to Chicago. He pulled over in a rest area and decided he wasn’t ready to face her or him. Took a stick of Spearmint and tossed the wrapper out the window. And turned around.

Jackson Brown plays on the radio.

Half and Half spilled on a table. Sugar packets piled up. Coffee stains on a napkin. Two men sit in a booth and wait.

He said he’d be here? Paddy asked.

Yes. Yes, he did. Said so yesterday when I spoke to him, Smitty said.

Yesterday?

Maybe the day before, Smitty said. Or the day before that. Too much. Too many things on my mind. 

The two went back to silence. Both stirring coffee. A waitress comes over with a pad and pen.

We’re just having coffee, Paddy told her.

Just coffee, said Smitty. We’re waiting on someone.

A friend? The waitress asked.

Something like that, Paddy winked.

So you’re waiting for him to get here before you order?

We’ll let you know, Paddy pointed while Smitty slurped his drink.

Could we get water? Smitty asked with a smile. With lemons. It tastes better with lemons. Right?

I suppose so, the waitress walked away.

Paddy looked at his watch. Where is he?

You told him the right place?

Yes.

The right time?

Stop. Paddy said. Just stop. Of course I did. I told him everything.  All information was revealed. 

And he said what? Smitty drank more coffee. What did he say?Smitty asked in between gulps.

What?

What was his reply?

The two looked at each other. Paddy pulled out a pen and grabbed a napkin. He made a mark. A straight up and down line. Then another.

What are you doing? Smitty asked.

Marking down how often you annoy me, Paddy said. I predict I’ll have a hundred marks on this by the time he gets here.

Smitty sat in silence. Elevator music played in the background. The two looked at each other.

Nothing to say? Paddy asked.

Smitty shook his head.

They continued waiting.

Pictures. Paintings of windmills hung on white walls. Tiny Italian lights shine down from the ceiling beams. Broken lava lamps. A cat scratching post. Smell of banana bread baking in the oven. Cutting it before it’s cooled. Crumbles on the linoleum floor. She lies in bed asleep.

This world at four o’clock in the morning. Cars and semis drive through the night. Truck stops open. Selling live bait and windshield washing fluid. Hot coffee and fried pies. A box of donuts. The sun will be here soon.

I hear a storm coming. Thunder and wind gusts. The old house shakes a little. Sitting in a recliner, I hear the shuffle of Ted’s feet. His paws dancing down the hallway. He asks for food. We all ask for food. A can of tuna is opened, and water drips onto the dry mix. Sandwiches are made with mayo and a dill pickle on the side. Placed in the refrigerator for later. Still, she lies asleep.

Morning comes too soon. Day begins like any other day. On the news, there are stories of murder and mayhem in the streets. Officials lying about evidence. Saying we are not at fault. Telling us to remain calm. And she still sleeps.

She might never wake up.

Standing on the corner crashing cymbals and calling out for alms, the Salvation Army soldier lights a cigarette and loosens the beat. Used to be, he kept it tight. Hitting the instruments with precision while calling out to the crowds, walking up and down Eighth Avenue past adult bookstores, souvenir shops, suit and clothing stores that won’t be there tomorrow; they packed up and left over night with tourists cash, money from the Midwest.

I look down on Eighth Avenue and see all of humanity. The salesman, on his way to a lunch meeting, lawyers going God knows where, hotdog vendors and halal meats with rice sold under my nose, the runaways getting off the busses at The Port Authority, kids from strange places in America, like Idaho and Vermont, Indiana and Nebraska.They walk around in a daze, confused yet rejoicing, and scared, not knowing where they’ll sleep tonight or even if they will sleep.

People scurry to go underground where trains will take them to Columbus Circle, Central Park, 52nd Street, where devils dance to the Hell’s Kitchen beat. Trains going north to The Bronx or south to Brooklyn, some know not where they’re going, the mental misfits sleeping in seats covered in newspapers with slices of pizza at their feet; an offering for the poor.

I watch this city. I watch and I watch. Rents are getting higher. Food cost. Soon, everyone will be eating in soup kitchens. I watch this city. This Manhattan. And I am scared. Mickey Mouse will control us all.