dmseay

Lying awake. Warm night air. Too hot to sleep. Thoughts crossed his mind.

That woman down the street. I never saw her with anyone, he said. She’s always by herself. Alone, he whispered.

In bed, she tossed and turned. The windows were open. Ideas formed in her head.

I’ve never seen that old man at the tavern with anyone. I wonder if his wife died. Did he get divorced? she pondered.

They sat at opposite ends of the bar. Wheel Of Fortune was on. While others yelled out, buy a vowel, they sat in silence. Quietly having their drinks. Every once in a while, the two would look at each other. Then turn away. Back to his scotch and soda and her Manhattan.

Both walked home at the same time. She walked on her side of the street, and the old man walked on his. She watched as he continued to walk down a few houses. Looked on at him, unlocking the door. It was time for Jeopardy.

A bed. Queen size. Blankets and sheets. Two pillows. Headboard made of wood. Shaker style. His father built it.

She slept there during the day. Alone. Didn’t even eat. Just slept. A bottle of whiskey was in a cedar chest at the end of the bed, along with sweaters and winter clothes. She thought she was fooling him.

In the evening, when he came home, no supper was made. He’d heat up a TV dinner in the microwave. Sat and watched Jeopardy in silence. Eventually, she’d come down the hall to use the bathroom. She never said hello or how was your day. Didn’t ask about work. She just took a quick drink and went back to bed; wrapping herself in blankets her mom had sewn.

And he just sat in an easy chair all night with the television down low. Falling asleep around midnight. Dreaming in color. The two of them. Sleeping in separate rooms. Alone under one roof.

Listening to no one. Hearing nothing. Not a sound, nor a voice.

She speaks in soliloquy; an ongoing monologue. Talking to herself about loves lost, fools she danced with, journeys never taken.

A garbage truck rolls by at five in the morning. Men working loudly. Disregarding the hour. Kitchen lights in windows shine. Couples drink coffee. Lonely people drinking whiskey. Sounds of the city go by.

And she talks and talks and talks. But still, he does not hear. Does not listen. Fumbling his slippers with his bare feet. Watching a mouse scamper across the floor.

Her voice grows louder. A crescendo peaks.

Quietly, they start their day.

A red light blinked. Children crossed the street. A man smoking a cigarette in a truck watched. Merle Haggard was on the radio. Days ended early. Brown leaves on the ground. Nightfall was an hour away.

He saw his son playing football in the park; running and getting tackled, laughing. The little kid could throw the ball as well. Sending it way down field for his friend to catch in a crowd; a hail Mary. Dad lit up another cigarette.

The radio now played George Jones. He sang along, He stopped loving her today. Took out a picture of a pretty blonde woman with feathered hair, wearing a sweater, and looked at it. He looked at her and watched him. How did things get so screwed up, he thought. Maybe life cheats us, he whispered. Maybe God laughs at us.

Dad watched his son throw one more touchdown. He looked at the picture a last time. Pulled a gun out of the glove box and stuck it at his heart. The trigger was pulled.

It took her years to pay off bills that had mounted over time. Death doesn’t stop collectors. She looked at the receipts carefully. Hotels, dinners out of town, various escort agencies, Asian massage parlors out on Highway 30. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. The young wife kept them as they were paid off. And then, one by one, burned the bills in an ashtray on his desk until they were black. His secrets had become hers.

At first, there was anger. Followed by madness. Dark days of drinking in the mornings and afternoons. Cursing out loud at pictures of him that hung on the walls. But, she never told her son. Mom just said, Dad was a tortured soul.

Autumn had returned. The two of them had Thanksgiving in a new apartment. There were no pictures of the father on the walls. Just reminders of God’s love crocheted on framed white pads and pillows. The boy never asked why.

I used to be so mad at you, she said. Just angry. And, for what? Nothing. There was nothing you did wrong. Perfect in every way. Maybe that’s why I left; got tired of it.

You knew what you were getting, he told her. Knew what I was all about. I wanted to be the perfect husband. And in doing so, I drove you away.

You brought home flowers every night. Made tea for me. Fixed dinner sometimes. It was too much, she said.

Somewhere between too much and not enough, he said.

No. Just too much. You drowned me in love. Most women would want that, I suppose. I felt like I was suffocating. Couldn’t catch my breath.

So, you left.

Yeah. Sorry about telling you in a text. I thought of telling you in person, but I chickened out.

I see.

You’re happy now?

I am. You?

No. I’ll never be happy. Happiness is something few people have. You’re lucky, she playfully punched his shoulder. You’re damn lucky.

Did you ever love me? she asked. I mean, really love me. Like you couldn’t go a day without me? That kind of love, she looked at him, sitting next to her on the porch swing. He nodded his head without a word. Most of their marriage, he did not say a word. ‘Cause, if you did, you never showed it, she said. We didn’t even write our own vows. Just repeated whatever the preacher said. And you were drunk, she laughed. Everyone could smell it. I sure did, he looked at her. She smiled.

Sorry, he told her. I’m truly sorry, he said. In my mind I knew it would never last.

Our marriage?

Right. Just too young. I still needed to go off and look for new adventures, he turned his head down.

Did you find them?

New adventures? No. I did not.

You just found new women, she laughed.

Yeah. That’s true.

For the short time we were married, did you ever cheat on me?

Not physically, he said. But, in my mind? I did. In my head, I cheated all the time. I never gave it a second thought. In Fool For Love, the old man says, In my mind I was married to Barbara Mandrell. In my mind, they both laughed. In my mind, I cheated on you. Sorry about that.

That’s OK. For years, I’ve been sleeping with George Clooney, she smiled.

You take care of yourself.

You too.

They sat on the couch in the dark. Not a word was said. It was early morning. Still dark outside. Moonlight glistened on snow. He reached over to hold her hand. She pulled away.

A phone call came the night before. It was a woman claiming to be his lover. She said the two had been involved since early spring. Dodging around town. Rendezvous in various hotels out by the interstate. She told the young wife she was pregnant.

When confronted with this, he broke down and cried. Told the mother of his two children how incredibly sorry he was. Said it was not love. He wasn’t sure what it was. An affair based on physical attraction was all.

Man and wife sat there watching the sun rise. Not a word was said. Only silence.

I sit too long in darkness

Waiting for the sun to arise

Giving me hope

First glimpse of orange and blue light coming through my window

Street lights fade

And then…strange…I want it to grow dark again

Where is he?

Hiding.

He’s always hiding.

From you.

Me?

Yeah. Even when he was a little boy, he used to run from you, she said. He’d run and trip over his own two feet. Falling right into my arms. You’d call his name, and he’d turn away.

That so? Never realized. I know I don’t see him much.

You never see him. And when you do, he runs. Like you’re some kind of monster or something. And when you call, he gives me the phone. Just hands it over the second he hears your voice.

He never liked me.

What do you want? she asked. I don’t think you ever liked him. He was just some mistake you made on a Friday night.

Huh. That so?

Yeah. I told you no. Remember? You just had to push it. Made me do something I didn’t want to do.

So you regret him too? Huh?

No. I do not. I just regret the man who gave him to me.

Hmm. He lit a cigarette.

No smoking in here, she said. He continued blowing smoke.

I said no smoking, she grabbed his arm. He laughed.

You gonna stop me? Should have done that six years ago. She pulled out a gun from her purse. A short snub revolver. You serious? Gonna kill me over a cigarette? she nodded.

This aint about no cigarette.

What’re you saying?

You know God damn well what I’m saying.

Alright. Alright. I’ll leave. Don’t go shooting me in the back now. Hear? she nodded. He closed the door behind him.

Where are all the gifts?

What gifts?

It’s Christmas. No tree, no gifts, no lights. Seems like just another day.

As we get older, we don’t need them. It’s a child’s time. We grow up and leave fairytales behind, he laughed.

So sad. Why? she asked.

Money. Belief. No more magic. All that wonderment is gone. I’d just as soon have a tuna casserole than a turkey, he opened a beer. Well, here’s to Christmas, he raised his can of Budweiser. Here’s to another year.