dmseay

He walked in darkness. No streetlights, porchlights turned off, signal lights did not flash. There were no cars out. No Fords or Chevys taking girls home past curfew. And it was silent. No music, no noise. Only sounds of semis racing on the nearby highway that ran north and south, from Chicago to Terre Haute, carrying diesel, pigs, furniture, and people’s belongings. Sounds of air brakes in the distance. Motors ran on a truck stop lot. He walked towards the far-off noise; had nowhere else to go.

Lights from diesels danced on the highway. The young man waited for there to be a lull. He crossed cautiously. All those trucks lined up on a cold night. Kid saw it as an opportunity to get out of this small town. A town where everyone knew each other’s business but never spoke. Where living room lights went off at 10:00 and shades were drawn. A town in the summer filled with the smells of hamburgers on grills and cut grass. A place where you knew something wasn’t quite right. No fish ever came out of the pond. And though shots were heard in autumn, no one ever brought home a deer.

The youngster went from semi to semi knocking on doors; asking for a ride. Truckers would ask, where you going? The kid told them anywhere. Anywhere.

No one would take him. He sat in the diner, stirring coffee. Looking at the waitresses’ legs, watching the sun come up. Hoping he’d have better luck in the daylight.

His book bag became his pillow. Leaned it up against the glass and bent his body in the booth. Kid slept for twenty minutes, felt like an hour.

Can’t sleep here, a blonde server told him. Go on now. Get, she demanded; talking to him like a dog. She wiped down his table. The boy started to say something, but no words came to him. Just an awkward silence between them while Taylor Swift sang in the background. He walked out the door, and a bell rang.

Now, he was facing the highway again. He took a quarter from his pocket and flipped it. Heads. He was heading to Chicago. A hundred miles away.

There’s a fly buzzing around. Actually, he’s very quiet. I chase him with a folded magazine as he flies from table to counter to bookshelves to the television.

Good Morning America is on, and the fly has landed on George Stephanopoulos. It’s on his forehead. I move in cautiously, silently, I don’t think he’s on to me; I’ve been wrong before.

He’s twitching as I move the magazine with my hand, placing power in it from my forearm. The fly sits still now. And just as I swing with my follow-though, he takes off.

Stephanopoulos has been struck. I hope he doesn’t file charges.

This rain won’t stop, he said. Kankakee is touching the bridge on 41, took a sip of coffee. Soon it’ll be overflowing into land. Creating small ponds, lakes, too much for the soil to take, lit a cigarette, looked at his wife who was frying eggs and making toast. We got a roof over our heads, he said. Guess we should be thankful.

Did you hear the boy come home last night? momma said. Told him to be home by midnight. Said be careful, she served breakfast to dad. Don’t see his car in the driveway. I’ve told him to call if he’s not coming home.

He don’t listen. Never has. Just does what he wants. He’s just a boy. He’ll get it together one of these days, he got up to look through the cabinets for a can of tobacco and rolling papers. That’s funny, he said. Swore I had a bottle of Red up here, he moved items around looking for it. Was about halfway full. Took a shot last night. He better not have taken that whiskey.

He wouldn’t do that, she declared. He minds.

That boy. Damn it. Bottle ain’t here.

A sheriff’s car pulled up in the driveway. Lights came through the house like the second coming. A message was to be delivered.

The parents held hands and waited at the door.

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.