dmseay

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.

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.