dmseay

Folding chairs standing in the corner. A lamp across from them. Two milk crates act as tables. Mattress on the floor.

Blinds are open, letting in sunlight on a cloudy day. Dust on the windows. He sits on the carpet like a Buddha of old. Bill Evans plays in the background. Not loudly, but soft. The fat man listens and goes into a transcendental state. He is calling on friends of old who have gone before him. He whispers their names; David, John, Michael, Gabriel, and Peter. He wants to see them one more time. Have tea and cakes with them. Perhaps a shot of whiskey. They are nowhere to be found. Their spirits have lifted higher than he can attain.

But he does see a light. The shining light everyone talks about when reaching life’s passage. If only for a fleeting moment.

His three hundred pound mass starts to lift from the floor. Take me now, Lord, he prays. Take me now.

But he is placed firmly back on the carpet. A voice is heard inside his soul. We have work to do fat man. We have work to do.

I used to love snow. Cold, wet snow that came to my town in Arkansas once a year. One inch of white magic.

School would close for two days. Kids playing football on fertile grounds of summer. Squash, greens, tomatoes, corn, peppers of red and yellow, purple hull peas, and green beans growing in the spring. Picked in late August and canned for winter. Shelves stocked high in basements.

Across town in trailer parks, kids would wake to the ground cover as well. Yelling, screaming, laughing over news reports of closed roads, closed businesses, and the inch that was reported. Their parents were not so happy. Missing two days of work. Worried over bills. A bottle of hooch in the cabinet. But the kids were just like us. Pleased with the inch and the magic that it brought.

And then it was back to normal. Roads wet from melted snow. Temperatures back to around fifty-five degress. The sun showing who truly owns this land. We would all wait for the inch to come back. And it always did.

Going east on Highway 20. White blotches of snow on chopped trees. Dead wood.

Pickups parked in driveways. Various houses along the road. Shacks and beautiful old farmhouses dot the land. Wires high above. Electric poles passing for crosses. Did they crucify Jesus in the Midwest?

Dollar General store shines like a temple. An old restaurant has a for sale sign on it. Surrounded by bare land and brush. Trees with no leaves. Dead, all is dead. Christmas lights on a shanty home. A barbed wire fence keeps no one out. Ghosts come and go.

Soon, this land will be covered in corn and soy. Gold and green. But for now, it is in mourning.

Aren’t we all?

What happened to you? she asked. Looks like you’ve gained some weight. Few wrinkles. Blotches on your skin. I guess some folks show their age.

Yeah. I suppose, he told her. You look good. No wrinkles on you. Fit and trim, he gazed at her, lit a cigarette.

I take care of myself. No smoking or drinking.

That so? Hell, I couldn’t make it through the day without smoking and drinking, they laughed.

Some things never change. Remember when we used to get drunk and jump naked in the lake? he nodded. Those were good days. Nice nights. Making love under starlight. Not a care in the world. Just two kids.

Yeah.

Then you went off and joined the Army. You were gone. Never called. No letters.

Sorry about that.

Had to pay for the abortion on my own.

What’re you talking about?

It’s alright. It’s fine. I didn’t expect you to come home or anything. Didn’t want any money.

I had no idea.

She shrugged her shoulders. Twisted her long gray hair. Say, she said. You wanna go down to the lake? Take a dip?

He looked at her. Is that what you want?

It is. I want to be young again.

There’s no going back.

Lying awake. Warm night air. Too hot to sleep. Thoughts crossed his mind.

That woman down the street. I never saw her with anyone, he said. She’s always by herself. Alone, he whispered.

In bed, she tossed and turned. The windows were open. Ideas formed in her head.

I’ve never seen that old man at the tavern with anyone. I wonder if his wife died. Did he get divorced? she pondered.

They sat at opposite ends of the bar. Wheel Of Fortune was on. While others yelled out, buy a vowel, they sat in silence. Quietly having their drinks. Every once in a while, the two would look at each other. Then turn away. Back to his scotch and soda and her Manhattan.

Both walked home at the same time. She walked on her side of the street, and the old man walked on his. She watched as he continued to walk down a few houses. Looked on at him, unlocking the door. It was time for Jeopardy.

A bed. Queen size. Blankets and sheets. Two pillows. Headboard made of wood. Shaker style. His father built it.

She slept there during the day. Alone. Didn’t even eat. Just slept. A bottle of whiskey was in a cedar chest at the end of the bed, along with sweaters and winter clothes. She thought she was fooling him.

In the evening, when he came home, no supper was made. He’d heat up a TV dinner in the microwave. Sat and watched Jeopardy in silence. Eventually, she’d come down the hall to use the bathroom. She never said hello or how was your day. Didn’t ask about work. She just took a quick drink and went back to bed; wrapping herself in blankets her mom had sewn.

And he just sat in an easy chair all night with the television down low. Falling asleep around midnight. Dreaming in color. The two of them. Sleeping in separate rooms. Alone under one roof.

Listening to no one. Hearing nothing. Not a sound, nor a voice.

She speaks in soliloquy; an ongoing monologue. Talking to herself about loves lost, fools she danced with, journeys never taken.

A garbage truck rolls by at five in the morning. Men working loudly. Disregarding the hour. Kitchen lights in windows shine. Couples drink coffee. Lonely people drinking whiskey. Sounds of the city go by.

And she talks and talks and talks. But still, he does not hear. Does not listen. Fumbling his slippers with his bare feet. Watching a mouse scamper across the floor.

Her voice grows louder. A crescendo peaks.

Quietly, they start their day.

A red light blinked. Children crossed the street. A man smoking a cigarette in a truck watched. Merle Haggard was on the radio. Days ended early. Brown leaves on the ground. Nightfall was an hour away.

He saw his son playing football in the park; running and getting tackled, laughing. The little kid could throw the ball as well. Sending it way down field for his friend to catch in a crowd; a hail Mary. Dad lit up another cigarette.

The radio now played George Jones. He sang along, He stopped loving her today. Took out a picture of a pretty blonde woman with feathered hair, wearing a sweater, and looked at it. He looked at her and watched him. How did things get so screwed up, he thought. Maybe life cheats us, he whispered. Maybe God laughs at us.

Dad watched his son throw one more touchdown. He looked at the picture a last time. Pulled a gun out of the glove box and stuck it at his heart. The trigger was pulled.

It took her years to pay off bills that had mounted over time. Death doesn’t stop collectors. She looked at the receipts carefully. Hotels, dinners out of town, various escort agencies, Asian massage parlors out on Highway 30. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. The young wife kept them as they were paid off. And then, one by one, burned the bills in an ashtray on his desk until they were black. His secrets had become hers.

At first, there was anger. Followed by madness. Dark days of drinking in the mornings and afternoons. Cursing out loud at pictures of him that hung on the walls. But, she never told her son. Mom just said, Dad was a tortured soul.

Autumn had returned. The two of them had Thanksgiving in a new apartment. There were no pictures of the father on the walls. Just reminders of God’s love crocheted on framed white pads and pillows. The boy never asked why.

I used to be so mad at you, she said. Just angry. And, for what? Nothing. There was nothing you did wrong. Perfect in every way. Maybe that’s why I left; got tired of it.

You knew what you were getting, he told her. Knew what I was all about. I wanted to be the perfect husband. And in doing so, I drove you away.

You brought home flowers every night. Made tea for me. Fixed dinner sometimes. It was too much, she said.

Somewhere between too much and not enough, he said.

No. Just too much. You drowned me in love. Most women would want that, I suppose. I felt like I was suffocating. Couldn’t catch my breath.

So, you left.

Yeah. Sorry about telling you in a text. I thought of telling you in person, but I chickened out.

I see.

You’re happy now?

I am. You?

No. I’ll never be happy. Happiness is something few people have. You’re lucky, she playfully punched his shoulder. You’re damn lucky.

Did you ever love me? she asked. I mean, really love me. Like you couldn’t go a day without me? That kind of love, she looked at him, sitting next to her on the porch swing. He nodded his head without a word. Most of their marriage, he did not say a word. ‘Cause, if you did, you never showed it, she said. We didn’t even write our own vows. Just repeated whatever the preacher said. And you were drunk, she laughed. Everyone could smell it. I sure did, he looked at her. She smiled.

Sorry, he told her. I’m truly sorry, he said. In my mind I knew it would never last.

Our marriage?

Right. Just too young. I still needed to go off and look for new adventures, he turned his head down.

Did you find them?

New adventures? No. I did not.

You just found new women, she laughed.

Yeah. That’s true.

For the short time we were married, did you ever cheat on me?

Not physically, he said. But, in my mind? I did. In my head, I cheated all the time. I never gave it a second thought. In Fool For Love, the old man says, In my mind I was married to Barbara Mandrell. In my mind, they both laughed. In my mind, I cheated on you. Sorry about that.

That’s OK. For years, I’ve been sleeping with George Clooney, she smiled.

You take care of yourself.

You too.