dmseay

Pictures on the mantle. Some black and white. Others colored. Photographs from weddings, anniversaries, baby pictures framed in silver, spanning years, generations of a family. Dad and Granddad, Mom and Grandmother, all lined up. She was beautiful when she was younger. And, he was so dashing. What happens over time?

Wrinkles set in. Circles from years of little sleep form under eyes. The hair is gray.

She remembered when Grandpa died, Dad passed away. She thought about her mom breaking her hip; the beginning of the end. She never knew her grandmother.

Sundays were spent around the table. Bowls of boiled potatoes and baked steaks. Gravy from a pan consisting of milk, butter, and white flour. Mom stirred it while the young daughter pulled on her apron.

The men talked mostly. Discussions about farming and high school football; looked at the girl wishing she was a boy. The farm could use an extra hand. As the years went by, she pulled her weight.

And now all she had were pictures on a mantle. The farm was sold years ago. She’d drive by it every once in a while. Looking out her window at brown stalks, dry fields; a sale sign always in front of the house.

Who would buy it? she thought. Who’d be fool enough to do it? she laughed.

Years later, a housing addition was built on the land. Cookie cutouts of aluminum sided homes with manicured yards and lit Santa Claus at Christmas time. Italian lights in trees.

The old farmhouse was knocked down. A community swimming pool was built there. Kids jumping off high dives and wading in the shallow end. A shower and locker room for boys and girls was now where the red barn once stood. She saw it in her mind. Where she grew up.

You can’t stop progress, she said. You sure can’t.

I’m going to give you five seconds to stop staring at me, he said. There’s no reason for it. I ain’t done nothing to you. Best if you just finish your drink and leave, the kid said.

You don’t remember me, the older man said. He brushed back his long black hair. Used to have shorter hair, was heavier too, he told him.

Never met you before. Never seen you.

We had a fight one night. Years ago, out in the parking lot. You got a glass jaw.

You have me confused with someone else, the kid said. He lit a cigarette and placed the pack on the bar. No, I’ve never seen you before.

You were pretty drunk. Mouthed off about how she was yours and some other nonsense.

What do you want?

Nothing. Just letting you know I remember. That’s all. Soon enough, you’ll be dead, I’ll be gone, and it just won’t matter. All this macho bullshit won’t matter.

You’re the one staring, the kid said.

Right. Just wanted to tell you I’m sorry.

Whatever.

Buy you a drink?

Never turn one down.

The two clanked shot glasses of whiskey and threw them back. The kid ordered the next round. They talked till the bar closed about baseball and women. Then, they went their separate ways.

He chased her around the country for years. Watched a little girl become a young lady from the front seat of his pickup truck. Looked at her when her mom dropped the kid off for school. Saw her when she got her own car, a beat-up Dodge, parked at the DQ she worked at. He watched her grow up.

She was taken away in the middle of the night. Her mother packed a couple of suitcases and headed off for California. There was a note on the kitchen counter when he got home. Looking for a better life, it read. Don’t bother looking for us. We’ll be fine, written in red ink.

For a couple of days, he went on a drinking binge. Told the story to whoever would listen. Talked about mistakes he’d made; women on the side, too many drunk nights, putting his fist through a wood paneled wall. All of them told him the same, move on. But he couldn’t.

He knew she had a sister out in California, a trailer in Bakersfield. The young man followed the routes and highways out there cross country, over mountains, across rivers. Got her address from an old envelope she left behind in the dresser. A letter saying, come out here. You deserve better. He kept it on the dashboard.

This man had every intention of getting his woman and child back. Swore he’d drag them by the hair if he had to. But, when he got to the house as the sun was coming up, he froze. Felt a cold feeling inside. Knew things would never be the same.

So, he watched. Saw his girl grow up, his woman marry some insurance guy. Looked on without saying a word. Silence can kill you.

They found him out in New Mexico. Whiskey bottle on the floor of his Ford; a gunshot to the head. No note or letter. Just dried blood all over the cab. His radio was on. Playing gospel music on a Sunday morning. Some song called, I’ll Fly Away being sung by a choir. His eyes open. Wide open.

What is inside of us? he asked. Heart, lungs, liver, kidneys, a brain, some form of a soul? he continued.

Watching rain fall on an August morn. He breathed in and out. A potbelly stomach goes in and out as well. His heart beats.

It’s the soul that wanders. Perhaps irregular. Or, maybe it is its regular state to wander. Green trees shine in the rain.

He goes back and forth with thoughts of God. Does he even want to meet him face to face? His breath quickened. A fast pace of the heart. Maybe this is death? he said. But, I see no light. My life has not flashed before my eyes. I have no regrets.

The heart stopped. His eyes stared towards Heaven. Only he knows.

Blood was on his clothes. A perfectly white tee-shirt turned dark red. His hands were shaking. Tried to talk but made no sense. Babbled about how the dude kept coming after him. Said he wouldn’t quit swinging. All this for a girl.

She was a pretty one. Long black hair and high cheek bones; mysterious eyes. Tall girl. She wore jeans and cowboy boots to the local bars. He thought she was all his. Killed him when he saw her that night. Out with some dude from Chicago. He wore gold bracelets with his initials on them, a necklace with a diamond anchor. Had a gold tooth.

It don’t have to go down this way, he said to the boy in the parking lot. I just met her, the dude told him. Haven’t even bought her a drink, the boy pulled out a switchblade his daddy had given him before he died.

The boy went straight for the heart. Started slicing away at the dude’s chest, his neck, and stomach where he jabbed it in and twisted it. Dude fell to the pavement. No one made a sound. The boy didn’t make a sound, and neither did she. They just looked at each other. He dropped the knife.

We met down by the river. I remember waiting for him in the rain. Told him if they caught him he was looking at manslaughter, maybe murder, but probably manslaughter. He didn’t know the difference. He just said, I done messed up this time.

I had a spare plate in the trunk. An old license from a truck I used to own. We switched out plates and he opened the door to the Dodge. He said, I’ll never see you again, lit a cigarette and rolled down the window.

Sometimes, these things happen, I told him. Here, put on this shirt, he threw the bloody one down on the floorboard. You know, I said. That blood is never gonna come out, he nodded, said thanks, and took off.

I ain’t seen him since.

Trees, tall weeds swaying in the backyard. Cushions from patio chairs scurry across green grass. An umbrella shakes and bends. A siren goes off.

He sits in a kitchen chair, watching God’s wrath. Hail comes down. Balls bounce off his Ford. A windshield cracks. The old man shakes his fist at the sky as he has many times before. Cats are getting restless.

The widower opens the refrigerator and grabs a beer. The electricity goes out. He sits in the dark. Lightning makes the sky orange. He drinks his Old Style and pulls out a Marlboro from his pack. His fingers shake as he lights a match; burning down to his fingertips. Calluses have been there for years. Hail has turned to rain.

Thunder rolls in the sky. The sirens stop. He goes to the front door and opens it. Trees are down. Power lines stretch across the street. A work crew is on their way.

Cats sleep now. Another beer is opened. Soon, there will be light.

What’re you doing? Do you know where you are going? Driving like a mad man. Slow down, she said. Pull over. We should be heading east. You’re chasing the sun. The moon is behind us. Pull over, the young woman got out a map.

I know where I’m going, he told her. What time is it?

It’s 8:30.

Are you sure we’re going west?

The sun sets in the West. It goes down in California. Didn’t you learn that in school? Turn around.

I’m lost, he said. I’ve been lost. Never know where I’m going. Never know if I’m coming or going. Never sure. I get confused.

How did you start going west?

You were asleep. I took a wrong turn. Took a wrong turn a long time ago, he laughed.

You can say that again, she looked at the map. Ohio. It’s right there, she pointed. Lima, Ohio. We’re in Iowa heading west.

Yes. I gotta turn around. Start over.

Right. Yes, you do.

Sorry. I’ll get back on the straight and narrow.

I have not seen you lately.

You left years ago.

Time and clouds change.

Rain falls, and I think of you.

Seasons come and go.

Barren trees and brown grass.

You always preferred gold and green.

Life was never simple.

They looked at each other. Hadn’t seen one another for a long time. Just kind of stared.

He didn’t know what to say. She was tongue-tied. Didn’t even embrace.

Others danced to karaoke songs belted out by drunken fools. Some talked about old times. One guy had become a lawyer. The class valedictorian grew up to be a housewife; living on some ranch in Wyoming with her husband and three kids. The quarterback was killed in a car crash. They said he had a drinking problem. A picture of him, along with the other deceased, stood upright on a folding table. Classmates looked on, wondering when their time would come.

And these two kept staring at each other till he finally said, Hello. It’s been a long time.

Yes, she said. It’s been a long time.

Hoping it turns cool soon. Wanting to see colors of gold, rust, yellow. Burnt offerings in backyards.

A first frost. Shining grass. Writing names in hearts on car windows. Taking in Indian summer. Marching bands. Days getting shorter. Apple cider doughnuts. Kids picking pumpkins.

Sitting on hay. Drinking a stout. Starlit nights and you. Long walks. Blowing out smoke. Oh, how I long for autumn.