dmseay

There was never a word mentioned. She didn’t tell. Like so many, she kept quiet. Left without a trace. Didn’t even lie. Just went.

No note. No letter. Goodbye Pork Pie Hat by Mingus played on the radio. The sound was soft, melancholy. A full ashtray sat on the nightstand

Down the hall, a couple was yelling at each other about rent. A man asking a woman where her end of the deal was. Said she spent it on things she needed. Things that made her feel like a woman; perfume, makeup, red red lipstick.  They were so loud. Mingus was turned up.

He sat on the edge of the bed, waiting for her. Black and white photos taken in a booth out on Coney Island lay on the nightstand. The young man looked at the pictures. Her tongue was sticking out in one. In another, she was kissing his cheek.

He lit a Lucky Strike, knowing it was over.

Birds sang outside the window. Rain fell last night. Cornbread turned to mush upon the ground. Still, the ancient dinosaurs pecked at it. Swooped down into wet grass and ate swiftly until all the yellow bread was gone. 

He watched while drinking coffee. His wife spoke of chores to do around the house; take out garbage, mow the yard, dishes to be washed. One word after the other fell on deaf ears.

Honey. I’m talking to you, she said. Listen to me. The least you could do is listen. You’re not going to stand there all day watching birds. Who does that anyway? she asked.

I hear you, he told her as he walked away; strolled down the hall, opened the closet door, and looked inside.

What are you doing? We have work to do, she told him; he continued looking through the closet.  I give up. I’m going into town for a few things. Do you want anything? his eyes were transfixed. She left in a huff.

Christmas lights. A plastic Santa. Artificial tree. The old man kept looking through the closet. Old sweaters. Rain slickers. High school letterman jacket. Step ladder. A bird feeder.

This is it, he said out loud. The feeder still had seeds in it. He laughed while grabbing it and the small ladder. The husband of thirty-two years also took a wire hanger and began forming it into a circle, a loop. There, he smiled, taking all of it out to the back deck. There.

The old man hung the feeder from the gutter, standing on the ladder with the tops of his toes, then waited for the magic to begin. And, sure enough, birds came, flying to the feeder. A sight to behold.

He spent the rest of his days watching birds. All kinds of birds visited. And that he thought was as good as it gets. Just spending days watching birds. Magnificent creatures.

I have fear.

Fear?

Yes.

It strikes in my sleep. When I’m awake. Sipping my morning coffee. Or having a cordial in the evening. Reading a book by Joyce or Dostoyevsky. This fear of death haunts me every day. And people go about their business. Living life. Providing for loved ones. They never show fear. Their cards are held close to the vest. Mine are on full display.  Always have been, really.

Were you baptized?

I was.

And that fear was not removed. A faith in God. Something bigger than you.

Right. I watch the news. Kids with arms and legs missing. Blown off in war. People starving. Fighting over a grain of rice. And I think maybe in the next life that’s where I’ll be. Living amongst bombs and guns. Soldiers marching on my street. I’ve had it, too good. Too good. Here I sit waiting to die. To move on somewhere.

I see.

Americans are funny. We have a reward type mentality. Comes from capitalism. Streets of gold. Beautiful mansions. God saying, well done. Wanting a giant shopping mall in heaven when we die. All the things our lives didn’t allow. What’s the point? Choosing the most expensive casket to be buried in. Or a pot of gold for our ashes. It’s never enough. Maybe God will not meet our expectations. Perhaps heaven will be a flop. I am scared of this life. I am terrified of the next.

Only fools are not.

Did you know him?

No. Not really. Read about him this morning. He seemed like a nice man; wife and kids. Liked to build things with his hands. That’s what the paper said.

Yes. He was a craftsman. Made grandfather clocks and cedar chests. I have a clock he gave me for Christmas one year. My wife. She hates it. Chimes throughout the night. Hangs on our wall in the  living room. Now it will be a memory of him.

I see.

Why are you here?

The food mainly. Always a lovely spread at these events. Casseroles,  salads, jello molds of different colors with fruit in them; the little oranges, bits of apple. Yes. Quite lovely indeed.

This is a practice of yours?

Every day, I read the obituaries. Curious about lives lived. Survived by such and such. Wife of whoever for fifty years. Died suddenly. Try to avoid those. Too sad of a crowd. Or kids killed by drunk drivers. Never know what to expect there. But usually no alcohol.

How often do you do this?

I don’t know. Three or four times a week. Whenever I get hungry. I give the loved ones my condolences. Then, make my way in line for my plate. I prefer China over paper.

I see. Has anyone ever kicked you out?

Not yet. I’m very quick. Get in and get out, I always say. Like a bank job. Take the money and run.

Nice chatting with you.

Yes. Let’s do it again sometime. 

He kept her in a wooden box up above the fireplace. She wanted to be let go. Wanted to be tossed out into Lake Michigan at sundown on Olive Beach, where they used to go to after dinner on cool autumn nights. But he couldn’t let go.

Often, he would open the pine box and run his fingers through the ashes. Folding dust into his hand and then releasing it back into the box. Saying a prayer each time he did this. Asking God, why did you take her from me?

They all leave, he thought. We leave each other, sifting ashes through his wrinkled fingers. We die or run away. Divorce or stay together, drifting farther and farther apart, he whispered.

But we get used to having the other, our partner, around. And when they leave, we long for them. We can not let go. I can’t let go, he said.

The old man took the box of ashes down from the mantle and placed it on the kitchen table. He poured a cup of coffee. Buttered a piece of toast and spent the day staring at the box; talking to it, speaking to her.

You remember our  walks to Olive Beach? he asked the box. We walked up the trail from North Avenue, getting coffee on the way. Every night was a first date, he laughed. And now you want to say goodbye. I do not want to say goodbye. But it’s time. It is time.

The widower carried her to Olive Beach at sundown. Said so long and tossed her into the water. Swim, honey. Swim, he said. I’ll see you soon.

He watched from the shore. Waves came in. Sand between his toes. The skyline of Chicago behind him. The Drake Hotel, townhouses on Dearborn, Water Tower, cars moving slowly on Lakeshore Drive. Early morning. Birds flew above.

North Beach was empty. A few runners on the track, but quiet. He had not seen Lake Michigan like this in a long time. He and his wife came here throughout their lives together. Mornings and evenings spent at the beach. Drank coffee with Bailey’s in it. Sometimes, they passed a joint back and forth that they’d stole from their son. That was years ago. Walked with a boom box playing Chet Baker and Bill Evans. A mixtape he’d made for her. The couple held hands. Spoon rings on fingers, made of metal, they became loose throughout the years, until one day they fell off; lost in the sand. Never to be found.

After her death, the old man continued looking for those rings. He bought a metal detector and traced up and down the shoreline. Nothing was ever discovered. They were gone. She was gone.

It’s funny how life takes us on a journey. Through loves, heartbreak, a belly full, a stomach starved, always wondering what is next. Always.

He looked out at the water. Walked into the waves. Stood there. He thought of her. He was happy.

I never wanted you, she said. It was forced. You forced yourself on me. Had no choice.

We all have choices, he said.  There’s door number one and door number two.

And you were three. So odd. I had. I had others to choose from. Suitors, lovers, men who would have given me anything. One owned a ranch in Texas. Another was a producer. Then there were countless truck drivers coming through here. Interesting offers. Romantic adventures.

There wasn’t any movie producer. No ranch owner. Lucky I found you. I was your last chance. Last hope.

There were many men before you. I don’t know what I was waiting for. Some kind of cowboy to sweep me off my feet.

Well…

You were supposed to be a one night fling. A roll in the hay.

Yeah, well. Twenty-five years later.

Right.

He nodded his head. Took a swig of coffee. Watched as Peterbilts and Kenworths rolled onto the highway.

Don’t you get no ideas, she whispered. Like I said. You forced yourself on me. Like glue. Now you’re stuck, she put her arm around him. You want some pie?

Sure.

He placed his frail hands on the Bible; King James. The right hand trembled, fingers tapped on red leather.

Grasping the holy book, he held it to the sky. Did you write this? he asked God. Are these your words? nobody answered. 

I didn’t think so, he told the almighty. These stories, tales, are written by man. And was Jesus your son? again, no answer.

This book has been read by millions. Maybe billions. Some believe in it while others are skeptics, he said in a hushed tone. 

And what are you? a voice inside asked the old man. What are you?

Not sure. I’ve never been sure. Even when I was baptized, I wasn’t sure. Moby Dick? I believe in Melville. Ulysses? I believe in Joyce. But this? he threw the book down on the ground. This I do not know. It’s as if it were a secret. Some are in on it while others just live their lives in mystery.  Why don’t you tell me.

That’s up to you, the voice said.

Yes. Yes, it is. We all have a choice. A free will. To live in the dark or to let in light, he shook his head. I choose the gray.

He was pulling garbage out of the trashcan; eating chicken bones with flies on them; cursing his life. The bearded man shook his fist at God. Yelled out at him as people walked by. No one stopped.

Mickey Mouse was above on a wide screen. Telling all about the wonderful world of Disney. Double decker busses drove by carrying Japanese tourists snapping photographs. Elmo waved.

Around the corner on 42nd Street, locals fell out of bars; stumbling home in the morning hours. Old men remembered how it used to be. The Circus Cinema sign still lit up, but dimming. Soon, it will be gone. No more places for lecherous old men and young boys to go when feeling lonely. 

The old man ate chicken bones and cursed God. His coat stained from city filth. He came here years ago with good intentions and got lost along the way. Didn’t we all.

I never got around to it, he said. There was always something preventing me from telling my side of the story. The way things really happened, he lit a cigarette. 

Somehow, I think it’s better that way. Let people think what they want. And if that means I’m the bad guy, so be it, he continued talking to his son.

But that was a long time ago, the father said. He took a drink of whiskey and offered some to the kid. The kid said no thanks. He had given up the bottle years ago; saw what it did to the old man.

You can believe what you want to believe, Pop said. Who you want to believe. But that don’t make it right. Now, does it? the son looked at his father square in the eyes. Dark eyes. Lines underneath.

Mom said you had a woman in every county, the young man said. Said you couldn’t keep it in your pants. Also said you left us with nothing.

She left me.

Why? Why did she leave you?

Some men aren’t made to be married. And they don’t find out till it’s too late. That’s what happened. As for the money. I didn’t have any to give. Still don’t. 

You drank it all? he reached for the bottle.

Give me that.

The son started pouring Wild Turkey down the drain. Pop fell to his knees and cried. Moaned till it was all gone. The glass bottle was thrown against the wall, breaking into a thousand little shards.

Welcome home, dad.