dmseay

He carried her upstairs. Long strands of blonde hair covered her face. Blue eyes closed. Snoring. In his arms, her limp body lay still. Like a rug folded in the middle. Every once in a while, she’d smack her lips with her pierced tongue.

She had a tattoo of the maiden voyage on her right arm. Outlined in black with red ink. Wore short sleeves to show it off; even in winter. He laid her on the sofa in the front room with coffee stains and spilled gravy on it. Without opening her eyes, she smiled at him.

The television was on with the sound down low. Spencer Tracey and Kathryn Hepburn kissing on a black and white screen. The young man opened a beer and sat beside her on the couch. He placed her head in his lap. Started flipping around channels. Entertainment Tonight was on. Celebrities interviewed on the red carpet as they strolled into the theater.

We’re going to be stars like that one of these days, he wispered to her as she slept. People are going to know us, he said. They’re going to recognize us when we go out for dinner or get a latte at Starbucks, he laughed. Then we’ll take all our money and move to Paris. Start speaking in French. You’d like that ,wouldn’t you? she smiled, coming out of her coma.

There ain’t no such thing as Paris, she said. There’s a Paris, Texas. There’s a Paris, Tennessee. But, there ain’t no Paris, France, she said. Not for people like us. Never for people like us. Do we have any ice cream? Chocolate?

We got frozen yogurt.

See. You’re already getting weird. Paris, France? Frozen yogurt? I don’t know, Billy. Things sure are strange.

Go back to sleep, he said. And dream. Just dream.

That’s all we do is dream, Billy. That’s all we do.

Shouting. Screaming. Yelling out in the middle of the night to no one. That voice. A screeching voice. One with a mix of cigarettes and whiskey.

Kentucky Fried Chicken barrels all over her apartment. The old woman hangs the fried skin of the chicken on wire hangers. She saves them for midnight snacks. bones from thighs and drumsticks litter the room.

She cries out obscenities. You mother fuckers. You sonofabitch, she carries on. You left me, she says. Left me here with nothing, she goes on. I hope you rot in Hell.

There’s a light on in the kitchen window. She’s on the floor. On her hands and knees. Pills are emptied out of prescription bottles. The old woman is naked. Rolls of fat, loose skin, knees shake. She wobbles as she tries to pick up the pills.

A young man looks in the window and sees her struggles. He notices pictures on the walls; a man in an Air Force uniform. Black and whites. A girl with ribbons in her hair. You mother fucker, she yells. You sonofabitch, she curses again.

The old woman looks up at the window and looks at the young man. What are you looking at? she asks. He quietly shakes his head and says, Nothing.

Work. tirelessly working at something, not sure what it is. Just like ants. Carrying things above heads. Shovels, pitchforks, hoes, everybody has something in their hands. Heading up a mountain top. The earth is soft from the rain. Looking for a place to raise their flag; a marker for others to find them. Clouds grow gray. Darkness falls. They work into the night. Digging a final resting place for a comrade; limbs cut off, eyes staring up at the sky. Red blood turns black.

War is not neatly packaged. It is not pretty. Heroics go unrecognized. And here, on this mountain top, they bury their friend, a soldier, a boy of twenty-one. They drink vodka and cry. Some laugh at memories of the lad. They tell stories.

And, in the distance, there is gunfire. There are missiles being shot off by both sides. More soldiers killed civilians, too. Some say peace will never come. Others hold out hope for victory. A win. At what cost?

Check the thermostat, will ya? he asked. It’s a hundred degrees outside, and it feels like it’s forty-two in here, the old man poured a cup of coffee. Did ya hear me? she sat in the rocking chair, slowly going back and forth. I’ll check it myself, the old man looked at the gage on the wall. Sixty-two? Are you out of your mind? she smiled. First thing, we can’t afford it. Secondly, it’s cold, he said, turning the dial to seventy-eight.

I wanted it to feel like fall in here, she said. Autumn. I wanted it to feel like autumn, the old lady continued rocking in the wooden chair.

You want me to paint the leaves too? he took a sip of his coffee. This ain’t coffee. This is brown luke-warm water, she laughed. You know, you’re getting crazier by the day. By the minute, he laughed and walked into the kitchen. The old man started going through cabinets. Looking past sugar, salt, various spices she’d collected over the years. OK, I give up, he yelled. Where’s the coffee?

It’s in the freezer, she said.

Why is it in the freezer?

Keeps it fresh.

That’s an old falsehood. An untruth. It’s a lie some fool started a long time ago. Behind the green beans, frozen chicken stood a can of Maxwell House. They say it’s good to the last drop. Or, is that some other brand? he took out the coffee and removed the plastic lid. Maybe I’m losing my mind too, he said. Maybe we’re both goin’ crazy, he started looking through the cabinets again. What did you do with the filters?

You can’t find them?

Just tell me where they’re at.

I don’t know. Funny. I used them this morning. Now I can’t remember where they’re at.

The old man started pulling everything out of the cabinets; peanut butter, crackers, Wheat Thins, old bread passed the date, a can of sardines, unopened pickles, an Allen wrench.

Where are the Goddamned filters?

Maybe in the bathroom, she said.

He walked down the hall, mumbling to himself. Who keeps filters in a bathroom? he asked out loud.

I think I left them there this morning when I went to the bathroom, she said. I did. I left then on the back of the toilet. I forgot.

Why would you carry them into the bathroom?

I don’t know.

From now on, the coffee and filters stand on the back of the counter, he said. I decree this. You understand? she nodded her head. You’re getting dingy, dear. You’re getting dingier by the day.

I was talking to Robert Paul’s wife the other day, and she said the end days were coming. She could feel it in her bones. Turn on the TV, and all they talk about is war. That and how some cute kid saved his fish from a tornado; I like those stories. Anyway. She said the end times were coming, he counted out spoons of coffee. Added water. Turned the maker on. The brown water dripped into the pot. They sat in silence.

Storms were coming. They sat on the back porch watching the clouds roll in; a mist was in the air.

She loved rain and thunder. Took her back to when she was a kid and she hid beneath blankets in her room with her sister. The two of them would take a whiffle ball bat from the shed and pitch a tent. They’d stay underneath till the storm stopped; laughing and pretending late into the night.

He sat there with his arm around her. The rain drops got bigger. Thunder became louder. She placed her head on his shoulder. Thinking of her little sister who had passed a few years ago. Strange thing. She died listening to the rain fall, thunder clapping.

Bolts of lightning flew across the night sky. There she is, she said to her husband. She’s out there in the sky, letting me know her energy hasn’t died, she held his hand.

We never die, he said. We just keep on living. Lightning, trees growing, leaves turning green, rain falling, we never die. Just become a part of nature.

She rested her head on his shoulder again. He kissed her hand. The sister lit up the sky.

He looked at the Picasso, Dali, Matisse, a sculpture by Rodin. Walked in silence; taking in colors. Hours spent in a museum. Long stretches of hardwood floors. Art hanging on white walls. The middle-aged man felt at home.

Outside, cars honked and belched fumes into the air. Cop cars blasted sirens. Ambulances sped up and down Lake Shore Drive. Boarded up buildings on Michigan.

Alone, he walked amongst the crowd. Kids looking at cellphones, trucks cutting off pedestrians, food vendors selling hotdogs with sweet relish and peppers. He remembered this town. Remembered when Millennial Park was Grant. Drinking six packs at Blues Fest; a bottle of wine with jazz.

The gray-haired traveler thought of Studs Terkel. His interviews on the fine arts station. That gravel voice asking questions to artists, politicians, working class men, and women, seeking truth.

And, he stumbled past bars on Clark Street he used to frequent. The Duke Of Perth, Joann’s Piano Bar, The German American Bar, Irish joints, the raising of a glass, a toast to the town.

He looked in his backpack and found a harmonica. The thin man zipped it across his lips. God, how he missed this town.

I’ve never been one for self-promotion. However, that being said, yesterday, I wrote short story number 2,000 on my website dmseay.com.

It started in 2016 when I was homeless in New York. I started writing about the city using no punctuation. I was experimenting with language about poverty, race, and America as a whole. I had no idea back then it would take me to what I’m writing about today; relationships, leaving, death, life in the Midwest, and still, America.

Two thousand stories and four published books later, I feel lucky to still be alive and doing what I love on a daily basis; writing. Thanks to the few who read my work and buy my books. Here’s to two thousand more.

Tennessee pines. Tall oaks. Hickory wood burning. They sat by the fire on a cool autumn evening. Both of them counted their blessings. It had been a while since the two of them had prayed to their lord. He had just gotten through cancer. And she had helped him along; in the bathroom with him when he was throwing up, putting blankets on him, holding him when he needed to be held. They had survived.

And now they sat in these woods. Quiet. Every once in a while, an owl would hoot, some deer would run, the trickling of water from a nearby stream; peaceful.

They said their prayers out loud so that the other could hear. Man and wife said goodnight. He kissed her on the forehead. Ginger hair pulled back in a bun. Dreams were on their way.

He had this vision. A day of peace worldwide. No armies fought. Missiles would not fire. Handshakes on battlefields. The old man slept with a smile on his wrinkled face.

She dreamt of a black horse on a beach. Running. And she was riding it bareback. A voice kept calling her name. His voice.

And he was dressed in white. Standing on a rock. Feet in sandles. She came to him. They held each other and said goodbye. She told him, I’ll see you in the next life. He nodded his head.

The next morning, the fire had died out. Ash laid in the dirt. She unzipped her sleeping bag and kissed him on the cheek. He did not wake up.

What is this trap we fall into all the time? We’re like kids down by the river at midnight. Out past curfew. Snuck past our parents sleeping in easy chairs. Staying out under stars, making love till the morning dew comes.

I don’t know, she said. Looking at you, I want to believe. Believe in our love. But, then something happens.

It all falls apart, he said. You look at me a certain way. Say the wrong thing. I take off.

Don’t see you for days.

Some bender over in Ohio. Hanging out in bars. Looking for someone to replace you. But I can never find her. That woman doesn’t exist. She’s just a dream. You’re a dream.

Sure I’m not a nightmare? she asked. It’s hard to say goodbye. Hard to watch you walk out that door. But I do. I hear the truck start up. See you pulling out of the driveway. The headlights shine inside the front room. And, I just sit here waiting. The whole time. Just waiting on you to come back home. It’s not fair. What you do to me is not fair.

I was going to say the same thing, he said. He lit up a cigarette. Tossed the match in the over-filled ashtray. Butts spilling out onto the table. At times I love you so much, I don’t know what to say. Don’t know what to do. We are those kids down by the river at midnight. And then, we’re my mom and dad. Fighting all the time. You hit me. I punch a wall. Drywall is getting expensive, they both laughed.

You can say that again.

Maybe it’s best if I take off for a while. Not just two or three days, but longer. Go somewhere. Find out what I’m looking for.

You can’t keep running all the time , she told him. She poured herself a whiskey. Hands were shaking. You’ll be gone for two months. You’ll come back here and what? Same thing. No. You leave this time it’s for good, they looked at each other.

Yeah.

Yeah. Make your choice.

He kissed her on the forehead. Brushed back her long blonde hair. Walked out the door. She watched as the truck pulled out of the driveway. Headlights blinded her. She poured herself another drink.

Paths in the woods. Old deer tracks leading down to a stream. Peaceful. Perfect for a burial.

The moon shined down on the man carrying the body over his shoulder. Wrapped in a blanket made by Navojos. Different colors. Red, green, yellow, aqua, weaved into a square with tassles hanging from it. Blood seeped through. The mother at home. Crying in her sleep.

They talked earlier that morning over coffee. The body lying on the floor. A small naked corpse. No hair. Bald as an eagle.

What do you want me to do? he asked. We can’t call anybody. They wouldn’t understand, the mother nodded her head. She took another sip of coffee and a drag from a cigarette. He poured whiskey into his cup. I’m sure you didn’t mean to do it, he said. It was an accident. Could’ve happened to anybody, this time, she shook her head.

No, no, no, no, she cried. I meant to do it. All the crying at two in the morning. The constant care. I didn’t love him. I resented him, she said. Look at what he did to my body. I couldn’t take it anymore, she yelled. Just couldn’t.

Shhh, he said. He held her to his chest. Quiet down. Just quiet down. I’ll bury him tonight out in the woods. By the stream. Then, we’ll leave. Start some place new. No one has to know.

No one?

No one, he walked over to the dead child. Placed his hands on his heart. He did not cry. The young husband wrapped the baby in the blanket and said, I’ll be back in a little while. Just sit there. I’ll take care of everything.

On his walk out to the woods, he prayed to the dark sky. Said words out loud to the shining moon. Forgive us. For we know not what we do. A dog barked as he headed in between tall pines and oaks. A shovel in one hand. A son in the other. We know not what we do.