dmseay

It’s never like you planned it, he said. Think you’re getting somewhere? No. Just a trace. That’s all you see, he picked up a small stone and threw it in the water. One minute, you’re here, and the next, you’re gone, the kid listened. He threw a rock, too. The old man sat down in the sand and took out a flask. The two shared communion. Bread was broken. Sourdough he’d baked that morning. The starter he had gotten from his late wife. A pinch of yeast, flour, and water. It’s funny what people leave behind.

The two ate bread and passed the whisky back and forth. He took big gulps. And the kid, small sips. They watched the tide roll in. There was silence. A dog ran by.

What is with you? he asked. Something bothering you? he took a drink of coffee. You know, I didn’t ask for this either, picked up a piece of toast. There are things in life that just hit us. Like death. It hits us all of a sudden. I mean, there are those told ahead of time they’re going to die; cancer, heart problems, some kind of incurable disease. And it makes you think. Whereas if it’s just sudden, on the spot, there’s no time. You’re done.

Oh yeah?

Happened to my dad. He died in my arms. Said he felt dizzy and then just fell back on me. I didn’t try to save him. I just held him. Me holding onto a dead body. He was already gone, lit a cigarette. Anyway. What’s bothering you?

Nothing.

I don’t buy it. You’re not yourself. You’re like a million miles away. Waiting on something. Wanting something.

Yes.

What?

Salt and pepper.

The headline read, Cicadas Coming In 2024. It’s been 200 years since the singing insects have been in multiple states. This time in the Midwest and Southeast sections of America. I wonder if they’ll keep me up at night as I lie in the spring heat with the windows open and a fan humming.

We’ve heard the cicadas before. They sang us love songs. Those were nights without blankets, lying naked next to each other, sitting up only to drink wine from a paper cup. Talking till three in the morning. Making plans to head out West. You wanted to be a movie star. I would have followed you anywhere.

And then the cicadas left. I’m glad they’re coming back around. Maybe someday you will too.

I saw you down at the bus station; bags in hand. My pickup was parked across the street. Engine off. Radio on. A Bob Seger song was playing. I can’t remember the name of it. Something about taking off. Never looking back. I guess you were doing that as well.

Did you see me? You never looked my way. I started to honk, but I figured I’d leave you alone.

I don’t know why I’m writing to you. Guess I just wanted to say goodbye. Take it easy out there. And, don’t look back.

Books on shelves. Paintings on walls. Framed drawings sitting on the floor. A cat drinks water and then prances over to him. He strokes the animal and says, good boy. A bird in a cage chirps. Whistling a song. The cat pays no attention.

Tennessee Pine is the candle on his desk. He lights it. His apartment now smells like the woods in the South where he grew up. Pines, oaks, hickory, tall grass you could suck on, a stream running over rocks, all part of a childhood. He played there every day. Make believe games with himself. Pretended he was a soldier fighting in a war. Saw imaginary choppers flying over head. Spraying the woods with bullets. Crawling through brown leaves on his belly. A toy gun in his hands.

The cat jumped off his lap. The canary continued to sing. He pulled down a book from his collection. It was Kerouac’s On The Road; the first novel he ever read. The old man used it to map his adventures when he was younger; living in New York City, taking a bus to Chicago, hitchhiking to San Francisco. Making friends along the way, true companions for a short time, then leaving them behind, never seeing them again. Taking odd jobs to make ends meet. Writing the whole time. Stacks and stacks of notebooks piled on the floor of his apartment. Wild manic tales. Blue stories of loneliness. The sacrifices of an artist.

El Gato is drinking from his bowl again. The yellow canary is quiet now. And he sits at the typewriter. Nothing comes out.

She looked at him. Sitting in his easy chair. Playing Monday morning quarterback. It’s easy to point out the mistakes of others. To laugh at yourself is hard. A scotch was in his hand. The morning news was on.

Clothes were being folded from a big pile on the couch. Underwear with holes them. Shirts with permanent stains. Pants that no longer stayed up around his drooping waist. A low pressure was coming up from the South.

He was starting to doze off. She removed the rocks glass from his hand. Placed it on a table next to him. The old man was mumbling in his sleep. Something about a cat he saw in the driveway. Talked about offering it milk. Started snoring.

The sound was turned down on the TV. She watched news anchors move their lips. A man and a woman. With perfect hair. Sometimes, a serious face. Other times, a nice smile. He wore a tie. She, a low cut sweater. Her lipstick was red.

Whore, the old woman whispered as she dug into more clothes. She looks like a whore. She’s no Barbara Walters, the wife mumbled, waking up the old man, who reached for his drink.

What are you yelling about?

Go back to sleep.

He sipped his cocktail and closed his eyes. She continued folding laundry.

What did you see out there? the doctor asked. You must have seen something. Yes? Think about it.

No. Nothing. Just a field in the dark. Felt the wind at my back. Maybe they were old ghosts, he laughed.

Do you believe in ghosts? he shook his head. It’s OK if you do. Most people have a belief in the supernatural.

Do you?

That’s not the point. We are talking about you.

You said most people.

Right. I won’t discuss my beliefs. Wouldn’t be professional.This discussion is about you.

Me?

Yes. And what happened.

What did happen?

You were found in the woods. A body was found two miles from there in a field.

That so?

A woman’s body. She had on a wedding ring.

Till death do we part, the psychiatrist nodded.

Is that a vow you took?

Everyone does. Ritual.

Right. Are you apart now?

That field. I ran from it. Couldn’t stop running. Like something was chasing me. Isn’t that the damndest thing? the older man nodded his head. We were talking about ghosts.

Yes.

You don’t believe?

No.

Gotcha.

It hit him like a bullet. This idea of living forever. Somehow cheating death. To do the impossible.

Christ rose on the third day, he said. Came back to life. Stone was pushed aside. I think I can escape that, he told the monk. I believe I can just go on living, he slurped his coffee.

No one stays on this earth forever, the monk said. And why would you want to? Things are just going to get worse, he smiled. Think about it. Do you really want to be around when it all falls apart? The man looked at the brother.

Yes. Yes, I do, he said. I want to see it all. Big ball of destruction coming our way. Yes. I want to see God’s wrath.

Oh, you’ll see it. But you have to move on to the next part of life, he told him. Death is a part of life.

I see. We never really die. Do we? The priest shook his head. We just move along, brother nodded yes. Do you believe there’s a Hell?

I do.

I was afraid you’d say that.

You’re free to do whatever you want, she said. You can come and go as you please. There’s nothing stopping you. I’m not stopping you. You’re a free agent, she told him. Ties? You don’t have any ties, they both looked out over the river at the bank on the other side. It’s peaceful here, she lit a cigarette, and he leaned against the window. Little drops of rain began to fall. Come on out in the rain with me, she said. He began to laugh. Come on. Let’s make out in the rain one more time, she took her tee-shirt off, exposing her breasts. Come on now, she leaned over and playfully started to unbutton his fly. It’ll be fun, she opened the door and ran down into the red mud. He watched as she shook her her body all about. Tempting him to come join her. Reaching her arms out for him. He turned on the radio and watched her dance. A Warren Zevon song was playing, Werewolves Of London. She slipped and fell to the ground. The rain washed away her sin.

He took off his jacket and wrapped it around her. They walked back to the truck, and like a gentleman, he opened the door for her. She slid over close to the driver’s side. He got in and just looked at her. What am I doing? he asked. What am I doing?

You’re making a choice. You can go wherever you want to go, she declared. But, once you make that choice, stick to it. You hear me? Lotta men don’t have choices. They’re squandered on youth. Mistakes. We pay for our mistakes.

Yep. I suppose we do.

Go on now while your slate is clean.

And they drove through town. Passed the school where they played on the swingset together when they were kids. Went by the drug store where they used to steal gum and Tootsie Rolls. Drove her up to the trailer they shared as boyfriend and girlfriend. There was no kiss goodbye. No words were said. She just got out of the truck, and he drove away.

I didn’t hurt you. You did that to yourself, he said. All this talk. This constant babble. Unhappiness. Do you think you’re the only one with problems? Disappointments? he asked. Look around you. I haven’t met a happy soul yet, he lit a cigarette. Maybe it’s that time of the year. The holidays are over. Christ’s birthday? done, she pulled out a bottle of water from her coat. No one drinks in January. Dry month, they call it. Let the body recoop, he shook his head. But no. I didn’t hurt you. You were just looking for something else. A good man? That’s hard to find, crushed out his cigarette with his boot. We’re all looking for something. I dont know if we’ll ever find it, he smiled. I just want peace. That’s all. Just peace.

He placed his hand on hers. Patted it. Held it. Fingers linked. You take care now, he told her. And then he walked away.