dmseay

This house makes noises. It creaks and moans. Hardwood floors sag. Toilet runs.

The staircase is not to be trusted, broken boards, and a railing coming loose. They used to sleep in the bedroom up there. Now that she’s gone, he sleeps in his easy chair downstairs; a blanket she sewed keeps him warm from the draft.

He thinks he hears her voice at night. Talking to him the way she used to. Complaining about his snoring and gas. But, it’s only the wind howling through.

She died back in ’97. Cancer got her. Died in the bed upstairs. She didn’t get treatment. Saw it as a blessing coming to her. She was done with this life.

The old man didn’t question her. He figured she was entitled to make her decisions. She’d been through enough. The arguments, infidelity. He thought she deserved a rest.

And he sits there each night. Listening to the house moan and groan. Feeling wind blow in. Floors creaking when he walks to the refrigerator to grab a beer. He turns on the TV with no picture and listens to Lawrence Welk. Champagne music mixed with memories.

This house makes noises.

You know what makes us human? he asked. Guilt. The more guilty we feel, the more human we are, he told him. If we didn’t feel guilt, we’d all be monsters. Just evil specimens on a lonely planet.

Right.

There’d really be no use for us. We’re bad enough as it is.

Yeah.

The old man began flipping through television channels.  Stopping at cable news programs. Stories about politics and brush fires, shootings on the Southside, a woman was robbed at an ATM. See all this? he asked his son. Terrible, just terribile, dad kept flipping through stations. Wars, hunger. Some madman in control. All about money, he said. All about money. You listening?

Sure.

Right, he walked over to the refrigerator and grabbed two beers, and handed one to his son. Got your attention now?

Nope.

Guilt.

The kid opened his beer. He could feel the can sweat around his fingertips. It was ice cold.

Miller High Life. The king of beers, the father told him.

What?

Used to be commercials for this stuff. Claimed to be the king of beers.

That’s Budweiser.

Same thing. It’s all American made.

Some Brazilian Belgian conglomerate bought Budweiser.

Fucking krautes.

No, dad. Kraute would be a derogatory term towards Germans.

Same thing. Belgians and Brazilians. All the krautes went to Brazil after the war, you know. All those Nazis went down there. Girls in bikinis and plenty of sun. That was their punishment. Never trust a German.

Things change, dad. People change.

Guilt doesn’t.

We don’t feel guilt anymore. Keep watching the news, dad. Keep watching the news.

I didn’t say anything.

Yes, you did.

No. I’ve been quiet this whole time. Not a word, he said.

Not a word? Nothing? he asked. Must be hearing things. Strange. I could have swore you said something.

He shook his head. Looked into the dark. Could barely make out his face. He wanted to talk but couldn’t. He was being held back. His filter wasn’t allowing it. They sat quietly in the dark.

There. Right there. You said something.  I heard you.

No.

You wanted to. I can tell. Maybe I can read minds; your mind. Thoughts come out crystal clear.

Not too clear.

How’s that?

You’re asking what I said when I’ve said nothing. Then you said you can read thoughts, minds, my mind. I think you’re full of it. You’ve heard nothing. My thoughts are silent.

Loud.

What?

You’re being loud.

Yes. Now I am. Why do I stay here with you?

Because you can’t leave. Deep down, you don’t want to leave. You’d rather stay.

I don’t enjoy this.

What?

Being here. With you.

Right.

Yeah.

Leave.

It’s too dark. I can’t find the door.

Wait until morning. When light comes. Maybe then, at that time, you’ll have a whole new perspective. Maybe. Maybe not. But be careful what you think. Be careful. I hear you.

He placed his hands over his ears. Then, over his mouth. He kept switching back and forth. Slapping himself. Throwing a fit on the filthy floor.

What did you say?

I said nothing, he screamed. I have nothing to say. Just leave me be. Will you? Leave me be.

Yes. Those are your true feelings?

Yes.

OK. Goodnight.

This is the point, he said. What I’m telling you. Listen up, he offered a cigarette. I don’t tell stories. Lies. My tales are a whole new brand of truth. Bones are bare.

What are you talking about?

Stripping it all down to the very core. Get to the marrow. The bone, he said. What do we have if we don’t have truth? he asked. Honesty between human beings. People not scared, not afraid of confessing to this or that. These sins we commit. 

You’re on a roll tonight. He held up two fingers for the bartender to see. Cleared his throat. Tried not to make a face. 

You’re hiding something.

Yes.

Why?

Cause I’m scared.

Of what?

We’re all going to die someday. My father dead. Mom passed away. A boy on the news tonight died of a gunshot on the Southside. A woman in a hospital sacrificed her life for a child. We’re all going to die someday.

Yes. Yes, we are. Best to confess your sins.

I slept with your wife, he told him. Didn’t mean to. Just happened. You were out of town. That’s when it happened. 

More than once?

We used to sneak away to hotels over in Allen County. By the interstate. We’d have breakfast at Cracker Barrel.

Jesus. I always suspected. Never wanted to believe it.

And now I’m paying for it.

How?

An early death. Cough up blood. Taste it in my mouth.

Cancer?

Yeah.

You deserve it. They both laughed. She was always up to no good. And you took advantage of her nature.

Guilty as charged. He ordered two shots of cheap whiskey. Handed one to his friend. To Marilyn, he said. They clanked glasses and shot them back.

You know you’re going to hell.

I figured as much.

Why? he asked. What’s it got to do with me? he flagged down a waitress to fill his coffee. I seldom get involved in these sort of things. I like to keep my nose clean. You, on the other hand, you, my friend, run in the opposite direction.

How so?

You seek it out. You look for trouble. The waitress poured more coffee. He added cream. His friend took it black. Chet Baker sang Funny Valentine in the background.

I seek it?

Yes.

I go out and look for it on my own? That’s what you’re saying.

Correct.

I take that as an insult. Almost calling me an amateur. I am a professional.  Do you hear me? A professional. 

I hear you.

These things fall into my lap. These opportunities. What am I supposed to do? he poured sugar in the cup. Miles Davis now played It Never Entered My Mind.

Right.

You know. You come to me with a hell of a problem here. Asking me to fix it. We haven’t discussed money or the job itself. You tell me you want this woman killed. Why?

Just forget it. Forget I said anything.

Sure. I’m supposed to forget. Just let it go. And then the next week, maybe a month, I read about some dead broad on the Southside where there’s a million dead broads that usually don’t get reported or solved. Except this time, the job was done on the cheap. The killer or killers didn’t get it right. They made mistakes. Right?

What kind of mistakes?

Anything. Fingerprints. A gun thrown in a dumpster. They were followed. Too loud when they killed her. Too much noise. Could be a number of things. That’s what you get with amateurs. Savvy?

He nodded. Took another drink. Slid a small sack of money across the table.

I’ll be in touch.

Nothing works. It is dark. No heat. This blanket does not help. Up and down the street, there are lights on. People plotting. Planning holiday trips. Vacations in the mountains. Christmas in Chicago. But in this house, nothing works.

Cats cry. The place smells of piss. Mattresses with stains on them. Pillows colored from sweat marks and drool. An American flag waves on the corner. A spotlight shines on it. An old Dodge drives by. These cats. Damn cats. Stop crying. Stop ruining my life. Their dish is empty.

The cactus blooms.

Is this a test? she asked.

What?

These questions you’re asking.

No, he told her. This is not a test. These are just questions. You can answer them or choose not to. It’s up to you.

I’ve never been on a date where I felt interrogated. Asked over and over. Have you done this? Did you do that? It’s quite annoying, to be honest with you. Do you question every woman you go out with?

Yes.

Have any of these dates turned into long-term relationships?

No.

I wonder why. 

They never return phone calls. Always leave me in the dark. I guess the term is ghost. Yes. They ghost me. I never heard from them again, he said. Are you enjoying your meal?

The food here is quite good.

Yes. It is. I like it.

Do you bring all your dates here for questioning?

I know the menu.

I see.

You’re almost done. I suppose you’ll take a cab home.

Yes.

Leave me with the tab.

Did you want me to pay for my meal? she asked.

I would.

I wasn’t expecting to.

Well, I thought you would answer the questions.

No. It’s none of your concern. She leaned over the table. Yes, I’ve had several lovers. Yes, I’ve been married twice. Yes, I’ve had one night stands. What else do you want to know? I had an abortion back in ’98. My step dad always had his eye on me. Mom hated me.  Anything else?

No. I was just curious.

Excuse me, won’t you.

Of course.

There were holes and burn marks all over his easy chair. A pipe and Prince Albert sat to his side on the small table. An over-filled ashtray, and a glass of whiskey kept him company throughout the night.

Silence. No noise. Just a hum from the furnace. The refrigerator rattled a bit. Head of a buck stared down on him. Shot the animal back in ’86. The year his son left home. Last time the old man saw him.

He remembered hunting with the boy. Teaching him gun safety and how to be patient. Let em come to you, he said. Like women. Just wait. They’ll come around. Don’t pursue them. Less chance of getting your heart broke.

The old man packed his pipe. Lit it with his brass Zippo he got in Vietnam. Looked up at the buck. Wondered where his son was.

He looked for him a long time ago. Thought he might have gone to New Orleans. Drove all over that town. Took a picture and asked folks if they’d seen him. People shook their heads.

Went all the way to New York City. He remembered the boy talking about moving there. Had nothing to trace him with. No leads. Didn’t know the city. Drove around aimlessly for three days. Looked in porno shops owned by Pakistanis, diners, and pool halls. Bars. All over Manhattan. Millions of people. Kind of all blended together. No one stuck out.

He did get a phone call a few years later. There was no voice on the other end. The old man knew it was him.

Listen, the father said. I know that’s you. You don’t have to say a word.  Just listen, he could hear the boy nod. You remember the time we went hunting, and I got that buck. I’m staring at it right now and thinking of you, he told him. I thought you were scared out in the woods. But, you weren’t.  You’re not scared of anything. Are you? Never was.

There was no talking for two minutes. Quiet. Two men with nothing to say. You take care. Hear me? Take care.

What did you say?

Nothing. Nothing important. Mumbling, really. Talking to myself, he said to her.

About?

Just things. Things that don’t matter anymore.

Like?

It’s a type of malaise. A depression perhaps, he confessed. Little things are slipping by me, he lit a cigarette. Raking the yard. Cleaning gutters. House could use a new coat of paint. Everything is all at once. I just don’t care anymore.

Right, she told him. I feel that way at times. There is always something to do, and I just don’t want to do it, she laughed.

Have we become lazy?

No. Just old.

Flood lights on over the garage. A lamp in the front room.Wind blows an American flag. Trash dances down the street; wrappers from chocolate bars.

A twenty-four hour gas station. Various cars and trucks fill up with petrol. The lottery sign glowing in the window says $42, 000, 000. That would be enough, he said.

To what? she asked

Start a new life. Move to a new town. Not have any worries.

You’ll always have worries, she told him. In fact, they get bigger. All them people want money from you. A constant line of folks asking. Yelling for help.

Yeah. I’ll take my chances. They both laughed. If I won the lottery, we’d leave this town immediately.  Go someplace nice. Like Vermont. Or Maine. Maybe New Hampshire. 

I’d live in Chicago or New York. Have a place in the Hamptons. I saw it on Bravo. Real Housewives of New York City. Now, they have money. And, they have problems.

Are they worried about eating?

No.

Then they have no problems.

They drink a lot. So do the other housewives on Bravo. Orange County, the Potomac, New Jersey, Beverly Hills, Salt Lake City. And they’re always yelling at each other. Always a fight. Yeah. Maybe being rich ain’t that great, she said.

I’d like to give it a try.

They drove through town in their old rusted Buick. Looked at the American flag waving. Lights on at midnight. Wrappers from chocolate bars dancing down the street.