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Jack’s flying out tonight. He wants to talk to you, Bob said.

What about?

Things. Here at the plant. He’s heard rumors. People talking.

About? Tom asked.

Just talk. He wants to put a stop to it. These things he’s hearing. So and so said this and so and so said that. One guy stabs another in the back, and a whole house falls down, Bob told him.

Do you believe in redemption? That a man can redeem himself.  Make up for his faults. Mistakes.

That’s not for me to say.

What? Is Jack an mighty god? Is he coming here to save my soul or cast me to hell? Tom lit a cigarette. Took a drink of whiskey.

Rumors. Give me a break. Bunch of hens talking. Men not being men.

That may be.

Including Jack.

He built this company.

Yeah. And he’ll destroy it too.

You think so? You’re so sure of that.

Yes. What am I under a microscope?

We all are. This is business.

What did you do with him?

He’s in back.

Of the truck?

Yeah. Tied tighter than a mummy. 

Anybody see ya?

Nope. He was heavy. A good 210. Just tossed him back there among the other stuff; boards, hammers, saws, power cords. Covered him as best I could. I don’t think anybody will notice.

So he’s dead?

Nope. Wrapped him alive. Casey held a gun to him while I wrapped the cloth around him. Placed a hand towel in his mouth.

You’re going to toss him in the river alive?

Well. Yeah. Gunshots make a mess.

Taking him out in the boat?

I figured we’d drop him off the bridge. More dramatic that way.

How much did he owe?

A lot.

How much?

$50,000.

That’s not much money for a life.

I guess not. Not in the grand scheme of things.  He’d been way behind for too long. Always an excuse. Made us chase him across the country. It was taking up time and money.

He didn’t offer to wire it a bit at a time?

No. Never leave a paper trail. Bad enough, we talked on the phone. These things always come back to haunt you. Sure way of getting caught.

I see.

Let’s do this thing.

What is it with you and the dark? she asked. Turn a light on. That lamp. Turn it on, she said. You sit here. Awake. You sit in silence. Come back to bed, she told him. This is not good for you. Sitting out here. Letting your mind wander. That’s how bad things happen.

Did you ever read Salinger? he asked. His short stories?

No. I don’t read.

You should.

I watch TV. Movies mostly. I didn’t bring you here to talk about that. She moved closer. Placed her hands on his shoulders and straddled his legs.

There’s one. Something about suicide. A man on vacation with his wife kills himself. Right there in the hotel room.

That’s dreadful. Why are you telling me about this?

I don’t know. It’s called The Perfect  Day For Bananafish. It makes you think.

About what?

Society. America. War and its effects on soldiers. Commercialism.

I see.

Yeah. Salinger lived by himself in New Hampshire all those years. Everybody knows him as the guy who wrote The Catcher in the Rye.

Right, she stood up. Come to bed.

Give me a minute.

Don’t be too long.

He sat there. Thinking of Bananafish. Not saying a word. Just being in solace.

Are you coming to bed or what?

I think I’ll what.

You can get dressed and leave if you’re going to be like this. I didn’t bring you here to discuss books.

Yes. I know that.

He stood up and walked over to the window and opened it. Looked down on 8th Avenue. Lights. Cars. Smells of trash and food. Music. A blaring of music. People below.

He jumped.

It is November. This weekend, the clocks fall back an hour. Winds will get a little colder. Maybe a dusting of snow before the month is done. There is frost on grass.

The furnace kicks on. Heat comes through vents. Cats warm themselves. Spiced wine in a glass. Leftover candy.

Maybe you’ll come home.

He’d stay up all night looking at pictures. Colored photographs of when they were younger, taken with a Polaroid.

There were shots of her wearing a graduation gown. Long blonde hair covered her shoulders. A tassel with an ’86 on it. Colors of blue and white. The cap matched her eyes. 

They married soon after. He got a job at the factory making gas pumps while she stayed home and took care of their newborn. A baby boy. A girl would follow.

Those pictures of family vacations, dates to the prom, the boy in his football uniform, daughter in a marching band outfit. She played the piccolo.

But the snapshots that really got to him were of her down at the beach. They drank beer and had barbecues with other couples. Cruised Lake George. Watched the sun go down.

And now he sat by himself. Kids off in other towns; spread apart by states. The daughter married some insurance salesman in Georgia while the boy joined the Marines; he always wanted to live in California. 

Pictures. He touched her face with his fingertips. Held them up to the light and kissed her. It had been a long time since she left. 

He took off a couple of nights a week. Told her he was going fishing, or hunting, or overtime. A couple of nights turned into three or four.

One night, she followed him down the Lincoln Highway into Ohio. She watched as his pickup truck turned into the driveway, a light on over the porch. 

This woman greeted him while holding a baby. She bounced it in her arms and handed it to him. He kissed the girl’s forehead and walked into the house. She slowly drove away.

Now he was alone. Wrinkles in skin and hair gray with a bottle of Pepsi beside him as he popped peanuts in his mouth and looked at old pictures. Photographs of her.

                          

I don’t know. Couldn’t tell you, he said. All this. Stuff. Too much stuff, Bobby told his friend. Piles of it. Everywhere. You can’t walk through the house. He turned in his swivel chair; torn leather, yellow foam seeping through cracks.

Over the years, Tom looked around. Things accumulate. Stacks of magazines get higher. Dishes go unwashed. Trashcans overfill. What can you do? Clean? Downsize? Too much work.

We need a woman, Bob said. They have an eye for this sort of thing. Attention to detail, he pulled out a chewed on cigar from his desk drawer.

Don’t light it. The whole place could burn. One little spark. Just chew on it.

That’s all I do is chew on it. After a while, you want some results.

Just pretend.

That’s all we do is pretend, Bob yelled. Ever since we met. Years ago. We pretend.

About what?

This, he pointed around. We live amongst trash. 

Don’t say that, Bob. This is ours. Belongs to us.

We still could use a woman. 

A cleaning woman?

Yes.

How would we pay for that?

With beer. Alcohol.

Right.

All those whores on Broadway willing to sell their souls for a drink. We’ll just ask one. Buy her a six-pack and let her go to it. It’ll be like having mom around. 

Your mom was a whore? 

Watch your mouth, he laughed. Just a tremendous drunk who kept a tidy house. And the whore could cook for us too. Hamburgers, meatloaf, potatoes, all kinds of exotic foods.

All for a six-pack?

Yes. You’d be surprised. We’ll choose a different one every week. You put in three bucks, and I’ll put in three. Get em something nice like Miller High Life.

The champagne of beers.

Yeah. The champagne of beers.

A flickering light bulb dangled over a kitchen sink. Hardwood floors with boards missing. A plastic Christmas tree stood in the corner. Mice ran on counter tops. 

He sat in a metal folding chair, drinking what was left of a forty ounce. A pack of cigarettes with one sticking out upside down. His prison tattoos were starting to fade. The refrigerator hummed and kicked.

On walls are drawings in magic marker. Green and red with shades of orange leaves falling from a tree. It reminded him of his childhood. A cop car cruised by with its lights on. Sirens blared. The old man remained calm.

When he was a kid, he raked leaves every fall. His dad would make the boy sweep fallen colored pieces into piles around the yard. He was promised a dollar for every pile. Sometimes payments were made, other times not.

You’re not doing it right, kid, dad said. Put your back into it, he yelled. Girls walked by and laughed. And pick em up. All of them. I want to see grass. His father shouted like a Marine seargent. Pick em up. Pick them up. The leaves were placed in dark green trash bags and set out by the curb. You did good, kid. Here’s a five. Now beat it. The father laughed as his son ran away. Never to return.

That was years ago. Jobs had come and gone. Always on the bottom of the totem pole. He finished his beer and lit his last smoke. The one that was upside down.

Here’s to you, pop. Hope you’re at peace. The old man looked up and crossed himself.

The dangling light burned out.

They hiked through the woods over dead brown leaves and pine needles. A stream ran through the forest over rocks; beavers built dams.

Overhead, the sun was going down. A quarter moon shined. He set up the tent while she gathered kindling for a fire. A rain drop was felt.

Put the sticks in here, he said, pointing under the tent. You bring newspapers? he asked. She nodded. Good. We’ll build  a fire as soon as this blows over, he told her. Here. Have a Nutty Buddy. She unwrapped it and began eating the chocolate covered wafer immediately. I didn’t realize you were so hungry. Here. Have another, he tossed it to her. Eat. We got plenty. This is an appetizer, he laughed. She smiled.

Why are you always bringing me out here, Daddy? the girl asked.

Don’t know. I like it. Thought you liked it, she nodded. Tall, naked oaks stood over them. He opened his canteen. Took a drink and then sat it down outside the tent. Maybe it’ll collect rain, he said. She smiled and opened her canteen. What you got in there?

Grape Kool-aid. I put the powder in it, then add water and shake it up and down. Delicious. They both laughed. The rain began to let up.

His daughter began placing sticks on the ground and adding logs they’d bought at the gas station on top in a pyramid shape. Dad fit newspaper in between the wood and on the bottom. Doused it with fire starter, squirting it from the tin can with a picture of a man in an apron and chef’s hat on it. An orange flame began to glow.

You do like it out here? Don’t you? he asked her, with her hands outstretched towards the fire.

Yeah. I like it.

I do, too.

Wish mom was here, she said.

Yeah. So do I. We used to come here before you were born. Way back. Before we were married. She gathered kindling too. Roasted hotdogs on wire hangers.

Just like we do?

Yeah. They got charred black, the way we like them. Then we’d roast marshmallows. Chewy on the outside, gooey inside.

Right.

Yeah.

Think we’ll ever see her again?

One day, dear. Some day. We’ll recognize her by her spirit. 

What do you mean?

It won’t be physical. We’ll know her by her kindness, her love.

You believe in ghosts? the kid asked.

I believe in spirits. Waiting for us in heaven. If we’re good.

Yeah?

Yeah. So be good.

She took another drink of Kool-aid and passed it to her dad.

I see a lot of her in you.

Really? What do you mean?

Your mannerisms. The way you act. Soon, you’ll be just like her. He laughed.

Think so, huh?

Yeah. Time goes fast.

Yep. It sure does.

It’s time, he said.

Time for what? she asked. What do you mean? Are you trying to say something? Just spit it out, his wife said. And be honest. Stop this guessing game. I’m always wondering what’s next.

I’m just tired of this. Everything is wrong. It’s all messed up, he told her.

Are you leaving?

Yes.

Why?

Are you happy in this?

This. This. This is nothing. Not anymore. It’s just two people living under a roof. Parked on one’s own side of the bed. Leaving the room as the other enters, she said to him. This. This is gone. Done. Right? He nodded his head. 

Yeah. We’ve beaten this thing to death. 

Right, she reached for a beer in the refrigerator. She took the last one. You wanna split it?

What?

The beer.

No. Go ahead. Too early for me.

It’s never too early. She pulled the tab on the can. Took a swig. Foam came up over the top. She slurped on it and took another drink.

This, she said. This. It hurts, she cried. Like you ripped a band-aid off. 

It’s been coming off for some time now, he said. You’ve been pulling on it, I’ve been pulling on it, just dangling there. Holding on for dear life. Gotta throw it away. Be done with it. Move on.

What’re you going to move on to? The next one? You’ll fuck that up as well, she scolded him. You’ll never be happy. And you know why I know that? Because I’ll never be happy. We’re two miserable people. We might as well be miserable together, she placed her hand on the side of his face.

No, he removed her hand. Grabbed her by the wrist. Shook his head. No, he said. Not this time. And he walked out the door.

She screamed and cried. Kept saying, This. This.  This. This is done.

The wife took off her ring and watched as his truck backed out of the driveway. She downed the rest of the beer and threw the can across the kitchen. Now that’s done, too. This. What is this?

Birds fly around. I toss pita bread in the backyard like Frisbees. Trees are yellowing, turning orange, and rust. An American flag waves in a front yard down the street. The library parking lot is empty.

Semis drive by on Highway 41. Out of state plates. Missouri, Illinois, Ohio, Pennsylvania, all of these diesels traveling in one line. Making their way north and south. Maybe ending up in Arkansas or Florida. Just like the birds.

Kids on bikes riding to school. Cursing and talking like their parents. Repeating political slogans. No original thought. We are all sheep.