dmseay

Guilt.  It’s the guilt that gets me, he said. Stealing, lying, cheating, conning people. These sins. This is what keeps me up at night, he lit a cigarette. I’ve never been square. Forthright. Ducking and dodging. That’s what I do. And it’s on my mind constantly. Never ends. Crimes committed years ago are still haunting me, he took a drink of scotch.

Have you confessed these sins? To a priest? Or a counselor of some kind? he asked.

No. I keep it to myself. 

Probably best. You say sins. How bad could they be? These crimes you’ve committed. Have you ever killed anyone? he swerved back and forth, side to side in his chair.

No.

Are you sure of that?

Yes. My crimes involve theft, stealing, lying to people to get ahead.

Yes.

And what has it got me?

What?

Nothing. It was all for nothing.

Do you give to people?

The poor? When I can.

You make that sacrifice?

Yes.

The past is the past. Have you tried to right your wrongs?

Yes. I guess.

And you give to those down on their luck?

I do.

Life is over in the blink of an eye. You can only do so much. Forgive yourself.  Soon, it will be over.

That’s what I’m scared of .

They say there’s a light. A brilliant shining at the end. Warm and glowing. Inviting, he said. Like a rebirth. Moving from one life to the next. That is what they say.

Brilliant shining, huh?

That’s what they say.

Who’s they?

Those that have started to go to the other side. Heart attacks, car wrecks, stroke. A life altering event. Taking you just to the brink. And then pulling you back. Letting you see just enough, he told him. It’s called a near death experience. Saw it on some news program. People talked about the warmth they felt. This unconditional love.

The love of who? Jesus? Vishnu? Mohammed? Peter standing at the gate, passing out fliers?

Not sure. They all had the same story. A glowing light. A presence, he sipped his coffee; ate his donut.

I’m not ready to die. Or, almost die.

But doesn’t that comfort you? These stories?

Why did they come back?

Wasn’t their time.

And if they proceeded?

God bless.

I don’t know. Pretty strange.

Do you believe in an afterlife?

I believe I’ll have another donut.

Tonight, he’s talking to her. Sweetheart this and honey that. Lighting her cigarette and pouring a beer. Asking her, do you want a blanket? Could I turn the heat up for you? Kissing her on the forehead and rubbing her feet. Chet Baker sings in the background.

Last night, the two yelled at each other till sun-up. Harsh words were said. You son of a bitch, she screamed. You’re a whore, he told her. All this ranting about being drunks and having their child taken away. It’s your fault, she said. All of it. You left bruises on my baby. You hit my kid, she said.

What about you? he asked. The bath water was too hot. Skin burnt. Always crying. Did you ever wash his clothes? he pulled a gun out. This time, I’m going to do it. I’m going to rid myself of this problem for good, he laughed, pointing the gun at her.

Don’t.  Just put the gun down, she said. Please. Don’t do this, a window opened. Down below traffic drove down 1st Avenue. The bars were closing. Men lined up for day labor. The sun rose over the Hudson. He put the gun away. They held each other. Sorry, never sounded so sweet.

Tonight, he’s talking to her. Sweetheart this and honey that. Chet Baker sings in the background.

It’s a square. Four walls, he said. Containing us. Keeping us from getting out. No doors. Nor windows. Just walls.

I do like the color. It’s cheery. Very nice indeed. A beautiful room, he said. Better than being out there, I’ll tell you that.

Do you miss it?

Miss what?

Freedom. The ability to go anywhere.

Those days have passed me by. Used to be, I could travel anywhere I wanted. Now, I don’t have any gumption. I’m happy how it all turned out, he told him.

Not me. I still have the wandering ways. Out West. Sleep in the desert. Walk into a bar and order a shot. A cold beer. A woman’s touch. You don’t miss that?

I’m glad it’s all over. Eternity with you. Not a bad deal. We can talk about old times. Remember when we headed south to Arkansas.  Up in the Ozarks. What beauty. And it got cool at night. Winds came through the trees. Made you feel alive, he reminisced.

Never again. We’ll never see that again. Never feel that. Or smell it. It’s over. This is how it ends.

You think the box will fill up?

Hard to say. I don’t know what’s in store for us. This could be just a holding place. A room to wait in till he makes up his mind.

Which list do you think we’re on?

I don’t know. Nobody knows. Out there, I kept a Bible on me.

Yes. Yes, you did.

I never read it. Too complex. Didn’t understand the writing.  I just carried it with me. Like a rabbit’s foot. For luck.

Did it serve you well?

It was given to me by my grandmother. It had pictures in it. And maps. I looked at the pictures of Jesus performing miracles. Hanging on the cross. I don’t know what happened for him to get crucified.  Don’t know the whole story. Pictures only tell you so much.

Quiet.

Yes.

Silence.

It’s nice.

Soon, they’ll be here. Singing into the night. It’s been seventeen years. Not a sound. Not a trace, he said. Sure. There’s birds and coyotes. Dogs barking at all hours. You become immune to that. Tune it out. And now, we know what’s coming. That shrieking sound. Sounds of summer every few years.

They come out of the ground, he said. They piss on everything. Like they were little boys. A constant stream of urine runs from them, he looked at the dark sky. Rain was moving in.

What day do you think they’ll launch their attack?

Not sure. Soon. It’ll be soon. And the fireflies will be out as well. Remember when we would catch them in glass jars? they laughed.

Yeah. That was years ago.

Yes. Seventeen, to be exact. At the same time, cicadas came around. Light and loudness. It was like a war zone.

How long do you think they’ll stay?

Not sure. I’m sure scientists know. Experts on these matters. I couldn’t tell you, he lit a cigarette. Enjoy the silence for now, he told him. Enjoy it.

This is the day he arose from the dead.

Yeah.

So they say.

Right. If you believe that sort of thing.

How could I not? It’s been drilled into my head since I was a child. The son of God. The lamb. Sent here to earth to save us from sin. Yes. How could I not?

You could stop believing. 

And run the risk?

The risk?

Of not being saved.

That’s why you believe?

Yeah.

Out of fear?

Yes.

That’s no way to live.

Let’s talk present. Not past. You’re always talking about the past.  And, if I might add, your past is not always accurate.  It’s kind of a made-up past, he said. One that paints you out to be this real American hero. A friend to the working man, he lit a cigarette and ran his hand through his hair.  Is that true?

What?

These stories you tell.

Stories? You call them stories? When I think of stories, I think of fiction. These are not made-up tales. Truth. These are true, the old man took a drink of scotch. You wanna talk present? What have you done for me lately? That is what you want? the young man nodded. I watched this neighborhood grow. Watched from the very beginning,  the mensch said. I knew and know every family that has lived here.  Used to have turkey giveaways at Thanksgiving.  Bought toys for their kids at Christmas time. Would stop by homes at Easter and Passover. Gave away jobs to those who needed them. And those who earned them.

That’s past. Now is a different story. You’re indicted. Selling jobs, accepting bribes, all this, he told him. That’s the present.

Fundraising, the committeeman said. Someone has to keep this city running.

Machine.

Of course it’s a machine. Cause that’s how we were taught. That’s how things get done.

What things?

The building of communities.  The building of a city. You want transparency? You want to put a stop to nepotism? If a man is starving, do you help him?

Yes, but….

Damn right. You give that man a job.

And he becomes a slave to you.

Slave? No. Loyal? Yes. All the dirty secrets and back room deals. You think you know. But, you don’t. And you’ll never stop it. This is how things work. Don’t ever forget that. It’s all for the greater good. It’s like I say, democracy is too important to be left to the people.

He looked at the brick wall. Cans of black and red spray paint in his hands. The young man shook them like a bartender shakes martinis. Took the caps off and began his work.

With the black paint, he wrote a sentence on the rust colored bricks. The sentence read, Take back the power.  He looked at it; studied the structure. And began diagramming.

The kid used the red paint to make lines over and under words. Slants were used. The complete sentence  broken down for all to see. He knew then what his mission was; tag every brick wall in Queens with diagrammed sentences. This was his calling.

It was his grandmother who taught him how to diagram.  The two would sit at the kitchen table for an hour each day, working on various sentences; short sentences, and long statements as well. This time together was cherished by both.

Each day, as he diagrammed on buildings, public housing, subway trains, and sidewalks, the young man thought of his grandmother. The work was a reminder of her love. And with each word, every mark, he felt her presence. 

Funny. Things you say these days. No filter. Just out with it. Really speaking your mind, as if nothing else mattered, but your opinion, the wife said. I remember when you were more careful with words. More articulate. Now you’re just an old dog barking at cars as they drive by, she held his hand.

He looked at her. This companion of fifty-five years stared at her. The old man no longer felt her words. His wife’s love was no longer important to him. As much as she tried, the grandmother could no longer comfort him. At seventy-five, he wanted to move on.

You never settled, did you? she asked. The house, kids, and career were never enough. You’ve always wanted something else. Something out there, she pointed out to the open sky. Was I ever good enough for you?

The retired attorney got up and poured himself a drink. A whiskey. Wild Turkey. He always liked the bird on the bottle. The old man pointed the bottle at his wife. She shook her head, no. He sat down on the porch swing. Rocked slowly back and forth. At one time, he said. I was in love with you. I really felt something in my heart, he smiled. And the kids came along. I was proud of both of them. Their accomplishments.  But now I feel hollow inside. Nothing is there anymore. No love. No pride. I just want to die.

Don’t say that. You must never say that. We’re here as long as God intends us to be here and not a second less or longer, she scolded.

Yes. You’re right, he downed the whiskey and placed the bottle under his arm. The old man walked down to the grass. He tipped his fedora to his wife. See you around, kid. I’ll see you around.

And off he walked. Almost marching. She watched until he got to the street corner and turned. The wife did not call out for him. She did not contact the police. She just let him be.

I didn’t mean to, she said. Sweet words were spoken and magical spells cast. And he fell. Headfirst. Deep into my soul. My love. He couldn’t find his way out, the brunette ran fingers through her hair. See this. He gave this to me as a sign, a symbol of his love.

I’d say that’s a rock, he said. Let me take a look at that. How many carats?

One. One whole one. Said he spent all his savings on it, she leaned back in her chair. I don’t know if that’s true or not. Probably.  Then again,  he could’ve taken it.

From where?

His mother’s jewelry box. She wouldn’t know the difference.

Why’s that?

Dementia. I doubt if she even knows he exists. She clocked out years ago. Sits in a rocking chair all day long watching TV. She doesn’t laugh or cry. She just sits there till it’s time for bed around seven at night.

Shouldn’t the mother be in a home?

He won’t do it. He won’t do that.

She’s going to wind up getting hurt.

Who knows?

Do you know where he is? Where we could find him? she shook her head. The detective took a swig of coffee.

Aren’t you going to offer me a cigarette? On those TV shows and movies cops offer cigarettes to suspects.

We’re not allowed to smoke in here anymore. Used to. Long time ago. Hollywood. They get everything wrong.

Why did you ask me to come in?

Procedure. Guy comes up missing. We question everyone.

I understand.  Like I said. He fell deeply in love with me. Then, one day, he was gone. Nobody knows where he went to.

That seems to be the case.

Can I go now?

Sure.

The tempest went out to her car and lit a cigarette. Smiled, put it in drive, and laughed all the way home.