dmseay

The door slammed shut. He started the truck. Loud music played. Some kind of Mexican oom pah pa band on the radio. A tuba in the background. Trumpets blaring. Men singing in Spanish. Streetlights were still on. The Texas sun was starting to rise.

Working girls were still working the boulevard.  Wrapping it up from the night shift. A few cars pulled over to the side. Men negotiating with boys in tight dresses and women made up in heavy lipstick. Calling out as they walked home to 24-hour hotels, SRO’s, and pimps apartments. Street cleaning crews talking loudly about last night’s game. Rotating brushes hitting pavement. He drove right past.

Downtown Dallas was still dead. A few lights on in towers. Early morning business overseas. A Starbucks opening. Chairs placed on a patio. Soon, lattes and cappuccinos will be poured. Blondes in Pilates pants ordering iced coffees with soy or oatmilk. Almond if they have it. Pancho keeps driving.

In the yard is a little girl with a lunch pail in her hand. Dora the Explorer smiles as her father pulls up in his truck. More oom pah pa. More tuba. Pancho holds his daughter, and they begin to dance.  They laugh and sing.

Go tell your mom I’m here, he said to her. She runs inside, yelling that her daddy is home. Mom and dad embrace. More kids come running down the stairway. Papa was home.

Is there truth in that? Story, you just told. Or is it fiction? Maybe an out and out lie, he said. There’s ways of getting to the core of something. Place where all truth is. We dig at it each day. Scrape off a little skin till we get to the bone. That’s where it hurts, he took a drink of whiskey.

You went out one night.

Go on.

I followed you. Through cornfields, you crossed the highway. You were following some kind of light. A path.

Be sure you’re telling the truth.

That road took you to South Calhoun. A blue house with a red light shining over the porch. Sign that read, The Kingdom. I watched you go inside from across the street.

You got the wrong guy.

Came out an hour later. You looked cold and disheveled. The streetlight shined down on you.

That’s a lie.

I knocked on that door. A woman came dressed in lingerie.  She asked if I wanted to come in. I just shook my head. Started crying.

About what?

My daddy. Whoring around town. I watched you walk back home. Saw the shadow of you. Talking to yourself.

What did I say?

You were mumbling about death. How you weren’t fit for this world. Bout being a sinner.

You got it all wrong.

Do I? Said, do I? Momma died without knowing. Or, did she?

Your mom didn’t know nothing.

Hmmm. She knew lots of things. She smelled your clothes. Your breath. Heard you coming and going in the night.

This is all made up. You got some kind of mind boy. 

Yeah. I suppose I do. But one thing is certain.  You’re going to answer to somebody. Yes, sir. I’d get on my knees now if I were you, the kid pulled out a pistol. Aimed it at him. On your knees. We all pay for our sins.

She ate watermelon in the back of a truck as Daddy drove through town. They passed the church where her sister left the groom at the altar. Took off for Little Rock. Nobody has heard or seen her since. All kinds of rumors. That tends to happen.

They passed the filling station her brother robbed back when he was a kid. Stuck a gun up to the cashier’s face and demanded cash. He’s doing time. Writes home asking for money so he can get cigarettes. Daddy says he can go to hell. Said the boy couldn’t be his; must be the mailman’s.

There’s the tavern where Granddad died one night, she whispered as she spit out seeds. Had a heart attack right there at the bar. They dragged him out by his shoulders and threw him on the sidewalk. His brown eyes looked up to heaven. Doubt if he got there.

Daddy drove through the  cemetery and parked the truck by mom’s grave. A bluebird whistled. He placed flowers there. Tulips. The kid wondered if she was resting in peace. She often thought about that.

Cobwebs. Dust. Sun glares in from behind broken blinds. Lampshades on crooked. Wires split.

The folding chairs were stacked in the corner. Rips in cushions. A Graceland sticker stuck to the back of one of them. Christmas wrapping paper taped to the back of another. A dark brown spot on the carpet.

A hole in the roof let in rain water. Buckets half full. Rust in the kitchen sink. A moldy mop in the corner.

He looked around this house of his. How did I lose control of this? he asked himself.  Years pile up, and you don’t give a damn. No money to fix it, he laughed. It’ll go away some day, he said. Just like me. We’re all falling apart.

It was a hot day in June; he was born in November. Parents marveled at the child whose smile was a mile long. Teeth pearly white. Ten fingers and ten toes. Hair was sandy blonde. The perfect child. A sight to behold.

Days at the car wash during the summer were miserable for the young man. His whole life had come to this, he thought. Scrubbing on Chevys, brand new Ford trucks, Lincolns longer than a football field, and Korean cars owned by daughters of middle-class families. Given to them as graduation gifts. They’d tip him a dollar.

He had dreams of leaving town. Going off to Chicago or New York. Just pack his book bag and go on a bus. A one-way ticket would suffice.  He never wanted to come back; wanted dreams to become real.

In the midnight hour, he purchased a ticket for New York. Said goodbye to no one. His parents didn’t realize he was gone till a week or two later. They wondered what had happened to their golden child. The one God smiled down upon. No clues left behind. Just an empty underwear drawer and a missing copy of Catcher in the Rye were all they had to go on.

Dad said, maybe he went camping. I’ll check down by the river this afternoon. You know how he loves adventure,  the father laughed. Yes sir.  He loves adventure.

The bus trip took him on 80 across Ohio onto 76, passing along Pennsylvania. He saw America on and off the bus. Poor people. Blacks, whites, Mexicans traveling the promise land. Some got off in Cleveland and Youngstown.  Others took root in Pittsburgh or Philadelphia. Only a few were left for the journey into the epicenter of American culture. A true pie made up of every color, race, and religion there was. He looked out in awe.

Our boy has left us, dad said. He’s gone. I guess he’s at that age. Time for him to start his life, he told his wife.

Should we go get him? she asked.

I wouldn’t know where to start. Truth is. I barely know him.

He walked all over Manhattan. Looked up into the sky at all the tall buildings. Sought peace in the churches. Had lustful needs taken care of on 8th Avenue. Took up shelter behind a dumpster in an alley. Which is where they found his body in the month of June with a notebook beside him. The first page read, Always Be Prepared For Your Journey.

You have nothing to say? he asked.   Where’s your voice? Something happened to it. You don’t sing anymore. Used to sound like a bird. That was years ago. Little by little, you lost it till you became silent. I don’t even think you clear your throat anymore. There’s nothing there. What’s that like? he lit a cigarette. Took another one out of his pack and offered it to her. The older black lady took it. He lit it for her. She sucked in its poison. 

You remember the time we went fishing? her son asked. I think that’s where it began. Dad told you to shut up. You were saying something about a child left behind. The old man said he didn’t want to hear about it. He said, be quiet several times. Huh. You kept on yacking. Could say he warned you. I guess. Then he struck you in the face. You were silent then. No more talking. You didn’t even cry. Just sat there. Momma. What happened to that child? Can you tell me?

She looked away. The old lady kept looking at the door to her hospital room. She kept looking over her son’s shoulder. A voice came over the speaker in the hallway. Fifteen minutes until visitors have to leave. Fifteen minutes.

Some said you couldn’t take care of him, he said. Said you just dropped him off at the fire station. Put the kid in a box. Opened a door and slid him through. Is that what happened, momma? Did you let that child go? She kept looking over his shoulder. 

I don’t blame you, mom. I heard he cried all the time when you brought him home. Said it sounded like a sheep. Some say he was really skinny, too. Under weight, they called it. No one thought he’d survive. You ever want to talk about it, let me know.

Visiting time is over, the voice said. Visiting time is over.

The son placed his arms around her and said goodbye. She did not respond. Momma just sat there in her chair, hands by her waist. Flowers standing in water. When he got to the door, he waved.

Visiting time is now over.

You don’t listen, do you?  I say words, full-on sentences, and they go one ear and out the other, he told her. Tell you not to mess with something, and you go ahead and mess with it. You got to stick your nose in it, she looked at the floor. How long does it take? he asked the young woman.  How long till you finally catch on? she placed her small hands over brown eyes. She ran her fingers through black hair. 

What do you want from me? she asked him. I’m trying to help you out. Trying to be your partner. Your wife. I didn’t sign up for this, she mumbled. 

Till death do us part. I can arrange that. The old man went to the closet and pulled out a heavy chain, the kind you place on dogs to keep them in the backyard. He hooked it to the collar around her neck. She sat on the couch, panting, sweating. The young bride knew what was coming next.

He took out a wooden paddle with the words, The Law written on it in red. The old man used The Law quite often. If she said something, he disagreed with, out would come The Law. If she fixed a meal he didn’t like, out would come The Law. On nights when she would not make love to him, out would come The Law. He used it every chance he got. Sometimes, he’d spank her just for the fun of it. It wasn’t the spanking that entertained the old man as much as it was just watching her squirm, trying to run away from him, no-where to go. 

That fear she had was starting to turn into anger. Anger became rage. She plotted. She planned a way to leave. To escape. For her, there was only one way to do that.

In a glass case down the hall of the trailer, he kept a shotgun. It was always loaded. Other than women, the old man had a huge fear of black folks. And, as more and more blacks moved into the trailer park, his fear grew. He wanted to be ready at all times. If someone of color was walking in front of his trailer, he got the gun out. If he heard voices outside, he got the gun out. If someone knocked on the door, he got the gun out. People in the trailer park knew this about the old man. More and more, they avoided him.  They just let him be.

However, one morning, the whole community gathered around the old man’s trailer. A body in a bag was carried out on a stretcher, placed in an ambulance that drove off in silence. A woman stood in the doorway with black hair and brown eyes. She was holding onto, The Law. 

Storage units. Billboards.  Land for sale. Signs that say no stopping or standing. A semi carrying coils. Travel centers with certified scales.  Green leaves overlapping the highway. This stretch of road does not end. Makeshift memorials to those who have died on it.

U.S. 20. Heading into Michigan City.  A town of poverty and despair. He speaks Spanish into his cellphone. Talking loud. I can’t make out what he is saying. But he says Michigan City very clearly  into the mic. I will meet you in Michigan City, he laughs. He goes on talking about a casino. The Mexican plans on winning big. I don’t have the heart to tell him that in Michigan City, nobody wins.

The sign on the outskirts of town says welcome to Michigan City: sand and smiles. Along the way, a plasma center pops up. A Popeyes Chicken sits next to a Fannie May candy store. Travel Inn is on the next street across from a dead-end strip mall. It is a true symbol of the American small town. Brick and mortar left behind. Passengers on the bus do not take notice of the store closings, motels turned to shanties. Everyone looks at their cellphones for salvation. Bare parking lots and a Dollar Tree store. Black girls walking in short shorts. Weeds taller than them on the sides of the road. Debris drifts across the highway.  Sand and smiles.

It is on to another town. We’ll be deep into Ohio by midnight. More small towns and people left behind along the way. Flags wave. Nobody sees them. The driver keeps going. All of this is too familiar.  A trailer park. Gas stations. Farmlands sprout up. A dead dog on the shoulder. The sun is going down. Soon, it will be dark. No one can see without light.

Voices grow quiet. I wonder how the Mexican faired at the casino. I hope he got a piece of the American dream.

There is no definitive statement.  No words. Maybe silence speaks for itself. Time goes by. These minutes that tick in quiet. Makes me think of  rain. Both of us in the rain. Soaked, he said. Rainfall in sunlight. Rays of light. Shining on us. Water glistens.

Asleep. She didn’t hear a word he said. Tubes in her mouth. A heart monitor making a beeping sound. She was still breathing. He held her hand.

Do you remember the last time you were in the hospital? When our son was born? Long time ago, the husband caressed his wife’s palm. He came out wailing like a tenor. I believe he was scatting.  Ripping off jazz notes, he smiled. The green line on the heart monitor still jumped up and down. Waiting. Come on, Father. Take her home.

What are we talking about here? he asked, sitting on the edge of the bed. Does any of this make sense? he lit a cigarette, the room was dark. Logic, he told her. We have to think about these matters logically. Thoroughly thought out. No mistakes, she rolled over on her side, placed her hand on his thigh, moved her finger up and down his leg.

How much money you got? she asked. Think you have enough? she continued stroking his leg, circling the knee.

Got enough. Do you have enough? she laughed. I know. There’s never enough, he told her. Right?

You could say that.

When we first started this thing, I didn’t know where we’d end up. Maybe Montana? Texas? Wasn’t sure. But we made it out to California.  Surprise, surprise, he turned his back on her and looked at his phone. Bank says I got $2000 left before I gotta start working again. I say we spend it all in one night.

I got $500.

That’ll do.

Yeah.

Well. So much for logic.