dmseay

I watched rainwater pour through gutters on the old house out into the street. Sticks and leaves washed on pavement.

Red bricks needed tuckpointing. Bits and pieces broken. Sharp edges smoothed out over time. Stones split in half.

Windows with cracks in them. Wooden frames splintered. Overgrown weeds and tall, fat shrubs covered the front porch.  A sign on the front door stated CONDEMNED.

This is where he lived. This was my father’s house. He lived there by himself. Left the family years before his death. Mom just let him go.

He doesn’t want to be here, she said on the phone. He might as well leave. Him and his whiskey, along with those depressing Chet Baker records. I’ve had enough, mom said to my aunt. I’ve had enough.

It took me forever to find this old house. I was not shocked to see the disrepair it was in. An old broken down house. I wonder if it was ever a home.

A thousand pieces of her broken. Bits of bone scattered on the floor. Locks of blonde hair lie in the corner, removed from her head. Blue eyes stare at the ceiling.

The fire completely demolished the farmhouse they lived in. Officials said it was a gas leak, while others believed he had set it that night with a match struck after she had been killed. Either way, she was dead. Two bullet holes were found in her neck. 

Twenty-four hours after the fire, he was found in a hotel room in Richmond. Cops knocked on the door. He responded right away. 

Yep. Give me a minute, a hoarse voice said. The officers continued knocking. I said, give me a minute, I’ll be right there. 

An older man with his tie half -way tied looked through the hole in the door. Saw the police adjusting their hats; placing hands on weapons. He opened the door.

Help you boys, the suspect said. Something I could do for you?

Where were you two nights ago? the officer asked.

I been down here on business for a week.

I see.

Yeah. Came down here to play some golf with clients. Not much good at the game, he told them. But I play OK. What’s this about?

Were you aware of the fire at your house in Warrenton?

No. I was not.

A body was found inside. A woman. Burned badly. Pieces of her on the floor. Two bullet holes in the back of the neck.

Who was she? Please don’t say it was Jenn.

Jenn?

My girlfriend. Jenny Black.

We’re afraid so. Need someone to identify the body. What’s left of it. She have any next of kin?

No. Her parents passed away years ago. No brothers or sisters.

Would you mind coming with us?

I guess not.

Turn around and face the wall.

What is this?

You have the right to remain silent…..

And silent, he remained.    

All the time. It could be midnight with orange neon blinking in the windows. Maybe morning when the sun kisses the cactus. Or evening, watching reports on war and famine with a feel-good story at the end. These hours go by.

Years can not erase thoughts or memories. Pictures are always there in the mind. Where are you now? We are no longer in Chicago or New York. Not in Los Angeles chasing dreams. Nor are we in Montpelier or Montreal. Watching autumn set in. Rain on leaves. Rust drips.

Older now. The body hurts. Breath is short. Looking at lovers strolling  in the park past streams and waterfalls. Thought I saw your ghost standing by the cherry trees whose flowers have fallen to the ground. Was I mistaken? Are you haunting me?

All the time. Days wasted. Nights of unrest. Because of you.

Be a mirror, he said. Not a visionary. It’s hard to lead when nobody believes you. Tough to tell people where they are heading. The pages turn. Leaves fall from trees. Eventually, we’re all stripped naked, standing in front of the reflective glass, showing us what we truly are, the artist told him. Fat, short, too thin, not thin enough, pimples on our face, a birthmark, all of it is seen. And though we deny it, truth looks back at us, leaving only ourselves, good or bad, to contend with.

Miller was a visionary. A prophet,  the young man said. I’ve read Tropic Of Cancer, Tropic Of Capricorn, both are warning signs. Telling us where we are heading. Eventually, freedom will be ripped from our souls, he said. And, that means whether you’re in New York or Paris, artistically, you will be ruined on your own accord or that of a lover’s, a friend, government, the list is endless. Unless we make changes. Until we listen to the visionary, we will be lost.

Keep looking in the mirror, the old man said. Or are you frightened by truth? the kid turned away. I’m asking. Are you frightened by honesty? he looked down at the ground, the mud, trash, candy wrappers, beer cans, rusted chains, used condoms spit out of mouths of whores who years ago never saw this coming. And now it’s too late. They never looked in the mirror. Never at themselves, few of us have.

Who has?

Writers, sculptors, painters, teachers, the wise; the very wise. They’ve had the courage to show us what we are, if only we would look.

There was never a word mentioned. She didn’t tell. Like so many, she kept quiet. Left without a trace. Didn’t even lie. Just went.

No note. No letter. Goodbye Pork Pie Hat by Mingus played on the radio. The sound was soft, melancholy. A full ashtray sat on the nightstand

Down the hall, a couple was yelling at each other about rent. A man asking a woman where her end of the deal was. Said she spent it on things she needed. Things that made her feel like a woman; perfume, makeup, red red lipstick.  They were so loud. Mingus was turned up.

He sat on the edge of the bed, waiting for her. Black and white photos taken in a booth out on Coney Island lay on the nightstand. The young man looked at the pictures. Her tongue was sticking out in one. In another, she was kissing his cheek.

He lit a Lucky Strike, knowing it was over.

Birds sang outside the window. Rain fell last night. Cornbread turned to mush upon the ground. Still, the ancient dinosaurs pecked at it. Swooped down into wet grass and ate swiftly until all the yellow bread was gone. 

He watched while drinking coffee. His wife spoke of chores to do around the house; take out garbage, mow the yard, dishes to be washed. One word after the other fell on deaf ears.

Honey. I’m talking to you, she said. Listen to me. The least you could do is listen. You’re not going to stand there all day watching birds. Who does that anyway? she asked.

I hear you, he told her as he walked away; strolled down the hall, opened the closet door, and looked inside.

What are you doing? We have work to do, she told him; he continued looking through the closet.  I give up. I’m going into town for a few things. Do you want anything? his eyes were transfixed. She left in a huff.

Christmas lights. A plastic Santa. Artificial tree. The old man kept looking through the closet. Old sweaters. Rain slickers. High school letterman jacket. Step ladder. A bird feeder.

This is it, he said out loud. The feeder still had seeds in it. He laughed while grabbing it and the small ladder. The husband of thirty-two years also took a wire hanger and began forming it into a circle, a loop. There, he smiled, taking all of it out to the back deck. There.

The old man hung the feeder from the gutter, standing on the ladder with the tops of his toes, then waited for the magic to begin. And, sure enough, birds came, flying to the feeder. A sight to behold.

He spent the rest of his days watching birds. All kinds of birds visited. And that he thought was as good as it gets. Just spending days watching birds. Magnificent creatures.

I have fear.

Fear?

Yes.

It strikes in my sleep. When I’m awake. Sipping my morning coffee. Or having a cordial in the evening. Reading a book by Joyce or Dostoyevsky. This fear of death haunts me every day. And people go about their business. Living life. Providing for loved ones. They never show fear. Their cards are held close to the vest. Mine are on full display.  Always have been, really.

Were you baptized?

I was.

And that fear was not removed. A faith in God. Something bigger than you.

Right. I watch the news. Kids with arms and legs missing. Blown off in war. People starving. Fighting over a grain of rice. And I think maybe in the next life that’s where I’ll be. Living amongst bombs and guns. Soldiers marching on my street. I’ve had it, too good. Too good. Here I sit waiting to die. To move on somewhere.

I see.

Americans are funny. We have a reward type mentality. Comes from capitalism. Streets of gold. Beautiful mansions. God saying, well done. Wanting a giant shopping mall in heaven when we die. All the things our lives didn’t allow. What’s the point? Choosing the most expensive casket to be buried in. Or a pot of gold for our ashes. It’s never enough. Maybe God will not meet our expectations. Perhaps heaven will be a flop. I am scared of this life. I am terrified of the next.

Only fools are not.

Did you know him?

No. Not really. Read about him this morning. He seemed like a nice man; wife and kids. Liked to build things with his hands. That’s what the paper said.

Yes. He was a craftsman. Made grandfather clocks and cedar chests. I have a clock he gave me for Christmas one year. My wife. She hates it. Chimes throughout the night. Hangs on our wall in the  living room. Now it will be a memory of him.

I see.

Why are you here?

The food mainly. Always a lovely spread at these events. Casseroles,  salads, jello molds of different colors with fruit in them; the little oranges, bits of apple. Yes. Quite lovely indeed.

This is a practice of yours?

Every day, I read the obituaries. Curious about lives lived. Survived by such and such. Wife of whoever for fifty years. Died suddenly. Try to avoid those. Too sad of a crowd. Or kids killed by drunk drivers. Never know what to expect there. But usually no alcohol.

How often do you do this?

I don’t know. Three or four times a week. Whenever I get hungry. I give the loved ones my condolences. Then, make my way in line for my plate. I prefer China over paper.

I see. Has anyone ever kicked you out?

Not yet. I’m very quick. Get in and get out, I always say. Like a bank job. Take the money and run.

Nice chatting with you.

Yes. Let’s do it again sometime. 

He kept her in a wooden box up above the fireplace. She wanted to be let go. Wanted to be tossed out into Lake Michigan at sundown on Olive Beach, where they used to go to after dinner on cool autumn nights. But he couldn’t let go.

Often, he would open the pine box and run his fingers through the ashes. Folding dust into his hand and then releasing it back into the box. Saying a prayer each time he did this. Asking God, why did you take her from me?

They all leave, he thought. We leave each other, sifting ashes through his wrinkled fingers. We die or run away. Divorce or stay together, drifting farther and farther apart, he whispered.

But we get used to having the other, our partner, around. And when they leave, we long for them. We can not let go. I can’t let go, he said.

The old man took the box of ashes down from the mantle and placed it on the kitchen table. He poured a cup of coffee. Buttered a piece of toast and spent the day staring at the box; talking to it, speaking to her.

You remember our  walks to Olive Beach? he asked the box. We walked up the trail from North Avenue, getting coffee on the way. Every night was a first date, he laughed. And now you want to say goodbye. I do not want to say goodbye. But it’s time. It is time.

The widower carried her to Olive Beach at sundown. Said so long and tossed her into the water. Swim, honey. Swim, he said. I’ll see you soon.

He watched from the shore. Waves came in. Sand between his toes. The skyline of Chicago behind him. The Drake Hotel, townhouses on Dearborn, Water Tower, cars moving slowly on Lakeshore Drive. Early morning. Birds flew above.

North Beach was empty. A few runners on the track, but quiet. He had not seen Lake Michigan like this in a long time. He and his wife came here throughout their lives together. Mornings and evenings spent at the beach. Drank coffee with Bailey’s in it. Sometimes, they passed a joint back and forth that they’d stole from their son. That was years ago. Walked with a boom box playing Chet Baker and Bill Evans. A mixtape he’d made for her. The couple held hands. Spoon rings on fingers, made of metal, they became loose throughout the years, until one day they fell off; lost in the sand. Never to be found.

After her death, the old man continued looking for those rings. He bought a metal detector and traced up and down the shoreline. Nothing was ever discovered. They were gone. She was gone.

It’s funny how life takes us on a journey. Through loves, heartbreak, a belly full, a stomach starved, always wondering what is next. Always.

He looked out at the water. Walked into the waves. Stood there. He thought of her. He was happy.