dmseay

No one expected to see them at the funeral. He’d been gone for such a long time. Years went by without a trace of him. He’s grown up. And her, she still looks the same. Looks like she jumped off a wedding cake. Maybe she did. Did she leave with him, or did he leave with her? Can’t remember. We tend to forget these things.

There they stood. Waiting in line to see dad one more time. The two of them sat in the back of the church, holding hands. All these folks here to bid farewell to his father; no one recognizing them. Maybe they didn’t want to. Damn shame. His own brothers and sister didn’t shake his hand. And as for her, they pretended she wasn’t there.

I saw them in front of the casket looking at dad. They both just stared. Dad’s ghost had long left the room. Looked at him real strange like. Then they walked away. Just left. You know when you’re not wanted.

Day light is good. You can see for miles, he said. Night time, nothing; no vision. Barely see in front of you, he lit a cigarette as they walked through fields of yellow, purple, rust.

He took her hand. Their fingers intertwined. Easy fit; no rings. What do you want? she asked. He kept looking forward. A dog barked in the distance. Am I in your future plans? She began to swing their arms back and forth. They kept walking. There was silence for a few minutes. I didn’t mean to ruin the afternoon, she told him, hands released. He kept looking on, beyond rows of wildflowers.

She stopped walking. He continued. Didn’t turn around. And, she didn’t chase him.

Morning. Did you sleep? She was crying all night. Said she was having bad dreams.

I heard her. Crying. Didn’t hear any talking, but there was crying.

Lately, she cries all the time. She could be in the grocery store and just break down in the middle of the produce aisle. Weeping over cabbage. Or something.

The other day she cried. Talking about the second coming of Jesus. Said she wasn’t ready for it.

Did you tell her she was?

No. I said nobody is. Left it at that. Figured she wouldn’t feel so singled out. Told her I wasn’t. Said I hadn’t been to church in years.

You told her that?

Yeah.

No wonder she’s crying all the time. She thinks she’s going to Hell, dad laughed. Poor thing. We gotta get her baptized.

You know any preachers?

We’ll do it ourselves. Take her down to the river and dunk her under for a bit or two.

That’ll work?

I believe so, the old man poured himself a glass of whiskey. He pointed at it. Holy water, he said.

Holy water, the boy poured a shot as well.

Here’s to Heaven.

Cheers.

There’s no point. This is done. Do you hear me? What’s the matter? Don’t just lie there in silence. Talk. Say something.

The silence continued. Her husband just laid there naked. Sheets and blankets were pushed aside. The cat made strange noises.

Do you remember the time we went on that trip to Florida. It was so hot. You said we’d save money by going in the summer. Who goes to Florida in the summer? she laughed, ran her fingers through his gray hair. The drive down there. Oh, that drive was something else. I remember we stopped in Savanah and went for a walk around town. All those weeping willows. Flowers. Orchids, I believe. Water. Lovely water, she continued stroking his hair. She placed her other arm around his belly.

You’ve got a bit of a paunch on you dear, she whispered. Yes, you’ve gained weight, she smiled. Better start taking care of yourself.

Tonight I’ll make grilled chicken and put it on a salad. It won’t hurt you to eat healthy, she got up and took her robe hanging on the door knob. You want coffee? she asked. You always want coffee, she opened the bedroom door. The cat stayed by her husband’s body.

I wish you’d say something. At least a good morning, she shook her head and walked down the hall. Made a pot of coffee. And waited for him.

He walked in darkness. No streetlights, porchlights turned off, signal lights did not flash. There were no cars out. No Fords or Chevys taking girls home past curfew. And it was silent. No music, no noise. Only sounds of semis racing on the nearby highway that ran north and south, from Chicago to Terre Haute, carrying diesel, pigs, furniture, and people’s belongings. Sounds of air brakes in the distance. Motors ran on a truck stop lot. He walked towards the far-off noise; had nowhere else to go.

Lights from diesels danced on the highway. The young man waited for there to be a lull. He crossed cautiously. All those trucks lined up on a cold night. Kid saw it as an opportunity to get out of this small town. A town where everyone knew each other’s business but never spoke. Where living room lights went off at 10:00 and shades were drawn. A town in the summer filled with the smells of hamburgers on grills and cut grass. A place where you knew something wasn’t quite right. No fish ever came out of the pond. And though shots were heard in autumn, no one ever brought home a deer.

The youngster went from semi to semi knocking on doors; asking for a ride. Truckers would ask, where you going? The kid told them anywhere. Anywhere.

No one would take him. He sat in the diner, stirring coffee. Looking at the waitresses’ legs, watching the sun come up. Hoping he’d have better luck in the daylight.

His book bag became his pillow. Leaned it up against the glass and bent his body in the booth. Kid slept for twenty minutes, felt like an hour.

Can’t sleep here, a blonde server told him. Go on now. Get, she demanded; talking to him like a dog. She wiped down his table. The boy started to say something, but no words came to him. Just an awkward silence between them while Taylor Swift sang in the background. He walked out the door, and a bell rang.

Now, he was facing the highway again. He took a quarter from his pocket and flipped it. Heads. He was heading to Chicago. A hundred miles away.

There’s a fly buzzing around. Actually, he’s very quiet. I chase him with a folded magazine as he flies from table to counter to bookshelves to the television.

Good Morning America is on, and the fly has landed on George Stephanopoulos. It’s on his forehead. I move in cautiously, silently, I don’t think he’s on to me; I’ve been wrong before.

He’s twitching as I move the magazine with my hand, placing power in it from my forearm. The fly sits still now. And just as I swing with my follow-though, he takes off.

Stephanopoulos has been struck. I hope he doesn’t file charges.

This rain won’t stop, he said. Kankakee is touching the bridge on 41, took a sip of coffee. Soon it’ll be overflowing into land. Creating small ponds, lakes, too much for the soil to take, lit a cigarette, looked at his wife who was frying eggs and making toast. We got a roof over our heads, he said. Guess we should be thankful.

Did you hear the boy come home last night? momma said. Told him to be home by midnight. Said be careful, she served breakfast to dad. Don’t see his car in the driveway. I’ve told him to call if he’s not coming home.

He don’t listen. Never has. Just does what he wants. He’s just a boy. He’ll get it together one of these days, he got up to look through the cabinets for a can of tobacco and rolling papers. That’s funny, he said. Swore I had a bottle of Red up here, he moved items around looking for it. Was about halfway full. Took a shot last night. He better not have taken that whiskey.

He wouldn’t do that, she declared. He minds.

That boy. Damn it. Bottle ain’t here.

A sheriff’s car pulled up in the driveway. Lights came through the house like the second coming. A message was to be delivered.

The parents held hands and waited at the door.

He screamed. She cried. Words carried through vents and walls. Mean words. Harsh. Yelling about how much he loved her. Pots and pans thrown. A butcher’s knife pulled from a wooden block. Threats.

What’re you doing this for? Sneaking around on me. Who is he?

There’s no one, she said. It’s a figment of your imagination.

I’ve seen him. I’ve seen the two of you.

You’ve seen ghosts. You’re hallucinating. I stay here all day. Sleeping off the night before, she told him.

You’re lying. Never honest. That’s what this junk does to you. Makes you lie. It seeps into your blood and destroys whatever goodness there is.

You do it too.

Only on the weekends when I want to relax. It doesn’t affect me the way it does you. You become this animal. Something I can’t control, he banged his fist on the kitchen counter while holding the blade in his other hand.

Are you going to kill me? she asked. Sometimes, I wish you would.

Your papa fought in World War II. Came home. He was a mess. Used to go out every night drinking. He’d start at a bar and end up in the gutter passed out. I used to pick him up and carry him home, he said. Took him in my arms. Just like we were back in France. Wounded. Shot. Shrapnel in him. I carried him a long distance. It felt like a long distance, the old man lit a cigarette. I just remember telling myself not to fall, he grinned. Be careful where you step.

Guns going off. Tanks rolling by. Machine guns. The sound of machine guns. Guys crying out for their moms or girlfriends back home. Everything seemed gray. Sky was gray. Faces gray. The mud gray, he placed his hand on the young man’s shoulder. Your papa was gray. I didn’t think he was going to make it. And of course he did. Some guys didn’t. But he did. I did. Lucky, I guess. Or the grace of God. Not sure.

I don’t know what you think about your granddad. I know you had your problems with him. His drinking was probably hard on everybody. Rambling around from town to town. Not knowing where he was going to wake up. That’s hard on a family.

See. He was running from the past. It stuck with him. He didn’t run away from his family. He ran away from himself. Least tried to.

So give him a break. Forgive him. We never know what makes the man.

This is my body. This is my blood, the bum said to his fellow vagabonds at the altar made of stacked tires with plywood on top. Do this in remembrance of me, he poured red wine into a paper cup and broke pieces of Wonder Bread. The homeless lined up before him, each taking a sip of wine and a bit of bread. They then sat on the ground around him; meditating on the blood and the body of Christ. Mumblings of prayers were heard. Asking for peace and strength.

Some had been on the streets forever. Others recently released from psych wards and jails. There were those with addictions. And ones who had fallen on hard times. Under the bridge, they met every Sunday to break bread and listen to readings from scripture. Some understood. Others could not comprehend.

How could the son of God sacrifice himself for me? many would ask. A poor, broken man. Why would he do that? And then words rang in their ears. To the least of my brethren…to the least. There will always be the poor among you, Christ’s words.

Based on Mathew 26:11.