dmseay

You’re never sure of these things, he said. It could go either way. Just when you think you have it all figured out, boom, it hits you. And then life, as you know it, is never the same, he lit a cigarette and pushed the pack to his son. Go on. Take one, the old man walked over to the refrigerator and reached in the back for two beers. He held them in one hand. Want one? the young man nodded. The old man placed it in front of him on the kitchen table. A cat jumped up on the counter. Get down, the father said, then laughed. He never listens. No one in this house ever listened. Cautiously, the boy drank from the can of Old Style. His hand shook a little as he put the drink down.

And for a half hour, there was silence. No talking. A train whistle blew. Cars with loud radios drove by.

Are you going to miss her? the son asked. Can you honestly say you’re going to miss her? the old man tapped his fingers on the table. You two had problems, I know. I probably contributed to those. And for that, I’m sorry. But are you going to miss her?

Funny, you ask that question. Haven’t thought about it, he said. In the beginning, yes. And then, over time, no. I won’t remember her. I won’t remember you. Life does that. You get old, you forget, he told his son. She got lucky. Got out when she was young.

The two men drank their beers. Another train rolled through town.

An envelope was hidden in the back of the drawer. No name on it, just an address. Some PO box in Lubbock, Texas. The envelope was sealed with an Elvis stamp on it. Writing in cursive letters. And, no name from the sender; just a zip code.

He could feel the paper inside of it. Perhaps a letter, he thought. Wanted to open it. Wanted to see what was inside. Took out a pocket knife and ran it across the top of the envelope. Whatever secrets were in there would now be revealed.

On a long yellow sheet from a legal pad, a letter was written. He unfolded the paper and began to read.

Dear Sir, the letter started, I’m writing to you about your son who I’m married to. Sorry we’ve never met, but I’m now taking the time to reach out, she said. It’s important. I think you should know.

He comes home at night drunk, the letter continued. And passes out on the couch. Pete never wakes up before noon. He just lays there snoring until I pull back the shades and let in sunlight. Then he yells, kicks and screams. I throw water on him to get him to calm down. He mumbles about being in a war zone. Firing guns and having guns fire back at him. And then he just stares into space. He doesn’t eat much, asks for a beer from the refrigerator, and the bottle of whisky from the top of the cabinet. Before sundown, I have to go fetch him another bottle and a twelve pack of Old Style, an exclamation point was used at the end of the sentence.

I know you don’t know me. And, I feel terrible about there never being a proper wedding, but I feel this need to reach out and tell you that I can not do this anymore, she wrote. I’m leaving your boy. I’m sorry, but he’s gotten too much for me to deal with. I’m asking you to take him in and give him the love he needs. I can no longer do it. She signed it, All my best, Tracy.

The old man folded it and placed the letter back in the envelope. He then returned it to the back of the drawer, opened a beer, and stared out the window at the sunlight coming through the shades.

I never believed him. He’d make up these stories, wild tales. Out and out lies. Real whoppers, he said. What do you do with a guy like that? Caught up in his own fantasy world, he lit a cigarette.

Shhh. It’s not nice to talk about someone when they’re dead. You know that, his wife told him. He just lived a different life than most of us. Was a different way, she said, putting on Chapstick.

The wind grew cold and swept through their bodies. They inhaled the cold air and blew out smoke like dragons. Shuffling feet. Moving side to side to keep warm.

If he were alive, he’d say he created that wind. That coldness. He’d say he was in charge, her husband told her.

What makes you think he’s not?

And on the third day, he arose. Pushed the stone aside in front of the tomb. You’re comparing him to Jesus Christ?

Well. He would. Christ said some pretty crazy things as well.

But he was the son of God.

So was Charlie. So was Charlie.

Now I’ve heard everything.

Maybe he wasn’t a liar after all. Maybe none of us are.

Come on now. You know the difference between truth and lies. And if you don’t, then it’s time to get wise.

So. Christ told the truth?

Yes.

So did Charlie.

He was a third-rate conman who sold used cars and preached on Sundays. You tell me what’s the difference?

He sold cars and Christ.

He sold his soul for a little bit of dough. So be it. So be it.

They walked swiftly back into the funeral home. Stepping on their cigarette butts. A hole had burned through his glove. He looked up at heaven and shook his fist.

Damn you, Charlie. Damn you.

Did you see that?

What?

A cat crossing the street. A black cat dodging cars. Running to the other side. He’s up in that tree now. He’ll be safe.

Safe from what?

Cars.

Yeah. I guess so. Eventually, he’ll come down. Then what. He’s back to running in the streets again. Going through garbage. Choking on chicken bones. That cat’s going to die.

We’re all going to die.

Not like that. Not like some alley cat. He hisses every time I pass him. The thing looks me square in the eye. He speaks to me. I tell him, I don’t know where you’re going with this. This hissing. This madness. Then he just runs off. Like my words have no effect on him.

He’s baiting you. Waiting for the next time. I’d walk around with treats in my pocket if I were you. Gratuity is all he understands.

Gratuity?

Yes. He believes he’s entertaining you. Like buskers. Some kind of a sidewalk show. Like he’s walking a tightrope. He wants compensation.

This is a cat.

Yes. This is a cat.

He listened to trains all night. Coming and going. Wondering where they were heading to. Out East or West. Maybe to Canada; Saskatchewan, Vancouver, or Alberta, Montreal.

He dreamt of jumping on board. An empty car just for him. One with no graffiti on it. Get inside and sleep, dream of new land. Waking up in Santa Fe or Seattle. Maybe New York or Baltimore. Perhaps South; Nashville or Dallas. He was itching to go.

When he was young, trains were easy to catch. Jump on them in the middle of the night in towns like Joplin, Carthage, Wichita Falls, or Denver. He remembered getting off in Chicago and finding work. He also thought of New Orleans, where he found the bottle.

Off and on booze. Jumping from job to job, town to town. Women in bars that he gazed at from a distance. Whores in back alleys who he became better acquainted with.

Diner food at three in the morning. Bowls of chili in Oklahoma City. Tamales in Tulsa. Chicken fried steak on the menus throughout Texas. Never having enough.

And he listened to the trains coming and going. While he stayed in one spot and dreamed. Those days were over.

If you sit long enough in silence, you can hear it, he said. Listen. It’s a ghost from the past. Our past. Somebody we let slip through our fingers when we were younger, she nodded. You remember? That one kid long ago in grade school. The one nobody talked to.

Yes, she said. I remember. We used to torment that poor kid. made him cry every day.

His name was Steve, but we called him Bucky ’cause of his front teeth. They stuck out. looked like a cartoon character.

Yeah. Well, he’s haunting us now. I hear him all the time. He’s laughing at us. He’s laughing at all our faults. All the problems in our lives. Divorces, DUIs, our lousy jobs, bad choices we’ve made. He’s having the last word. He has not forgiven us.

No. That kid has not. never will.

He didn’t have to go and kill himself. We were only having fun, lit a cigarette. He used to walk in a strange way, too. Walked like a girl. Talked like a girl, too.

Said they found him in his room hanging from the ceiling. A rope wrapped around his neck. Garbage bag over his face.

That’s a shame.

Yeah. Listen. You hear him?

I don’t have any memory of it, he said. You want me to confess to something that I might or might not have done, he told his wife. All this talk of infidelity. Cheating throughout the years. Chances are, I didn’t, looked her square in the eye. That is. I don’t think I did.

It happened a long time ago, she said. You used to walk across town to see her. I followed you. You weren’t going out for cigarettes or milk, she sighed.

Where was I off to?

You went to this house over on Taylor Street. Porchlight was always on. I remember. It was an orange color with a tint of red to it. Real seductive like. I can’t blame you. It drew you in; she drew you in. She’d be standing in the doorway in a black slip with a bottle of wine, she said. And, I watched from the car. Sat in the front seat, listening to the radio and smoking. Telling myself I had to quit one day.

You never did.

No. I never did.

Never quit me.

No. No, I held on. Hoping it would stop. And it did. Until you found another one. Hmm. And then another one. Always out at night. All those lies.

I don’t know what you are talking about, he told her. And who are you anyway? Who are you to judge me?

I’m your wife. One minute you remember the next you forget. Been that way forever.

Right. I forget things. How long have we been married?

Sixty years.

I see. Why didn’t you leave me? If I did all this cheating.

‘Cause I love you.

I don’t know you.

That’s OK. Think of me as a friend who visits you. Maybe you’ll forget tomorrow. But I won’t.

The old man closed his eyes and fell asleep. She kissed his forehead and left.

What’s the point?

To what?

This deal.

It’s what we do.

We take money from people. Place it in our wallets, our bank accounts. Stuff it under mattresses . We spend it on foolish things. Booze, gifts for our wives, toys for kids. Meals out at restaurants we can’t really afford. So, I ask again. What’s the point?

I don’t know what you’re talking about. We live from day to day. Committing these sins. Why? ‘Cause we need to in order to survive. I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t ask to be placed in this hell on earth. But this is the predicament we find ourselves in, now isn’t it.

Yes. Yes, it is. I don’t know if I want to be any part of it anymore. This American dream. I’d just as soon take my money and go elsewhere. Another table to gamble at.

Right. Either way, you have to throw the dice. It’s a big craps game. There’s no escape. You might as well stay where the dice are hot. Blow on them if you have to. Wish yourself all the luck you want. Come on, seven. Yeah?

I just don’t know what the point is anymore.

We don’t have time for that. America needs us. We keep this country going. Deals. Always making deals. That’s the point. That’s what this country is about.

Right. and I’m stuck in it. Stuck in the shit. Trying to claw my way out every day.

Take it easy. You think too much. You take it too hard. We have it easy compared to what? Mexico, Guatemala, the Phillipines? Living in some shack with fourteen kids running around, grandmothers, aunts, uncles, suffering in the heat and despair. Pipe down and do your job. And be thankful. For we are truly blessed.

Never loved you. Thought I did, once a long time ago, when we were kids. But that was just a feeling I’d never felt before. A rush to the head. Causing nighttime sweats. Anxiety. After a while, it wore off. Then you were just another woman, he told her.

What do you think about? she asked. What goes through that fool head of yours? she brushed back her hair with long fingers. This is not what you wanted. Is it? I don’t think you know.

Know what?

What you want. One minute, you’re loving me, then the next you’re on some bus heading off somewhere. Santa Fe, Portland, Chicago, anywhere. Calling at all hours of the night.

Sorry.

Gotten used to it. Used to what feels like a broken heart, she reached in her purse and took out $500. The wife took off her ring and handed it all to him in one handful. Take this, she said. Just go.

You think it’s best?

Yes, I do.

Can I get a ride to the pawn shop?

I killed him, he said. I think I killed him, the man said into the payphone.

Well. Which is it? Did you kill him or not? his friend responded. Was he moving? Just lay there still? he poured a shot of whisky into his rocks glass. Poured in a bit of water. What happened? Tell me, he said calmly.

I was in a bar. This guy kept saying the wrong things. He was trying to get my goat, he told him.

Sounds like he did.

He was some stinking Hoosier. Running his mouth about women and money, blood from his hand dripped on the phone. He leaned on the booth.

What’s that got to do with you? Is it your mission to get kicked out of every bar in Chicago?

I think he’s dead.

Where is he?

Behind the bar.

Did anybody see this?

No. I don’t think so. I’m not sure.

I see. What? Did you shoot him?

Bare hands.

You killed a man with your bare hands?

I believe so.

Put the body in your trunk and drive down 41. Dump it in the Kankakee River. It’ll be high. It’ll suck it right down.

Yeah.

Yes. And, don’t ever call me again. You hear me? Head down South. Or go to California. Start all over again.

I got a girl.

You got nothing. Just leave. Take your money out and leave.

What about my job?

Just leave.