dmseay

I poured you some coffee. Got that creamer you like. The French vanilla kind, she nodded her head. He sat down next to her at the kitchen table. You need a spoon to stir it with? Again, she nodded her head. Her green eyes didn’t make contact with him. You’re awfully quiet. Like a mouse, he lit a cigarette. Why don’t you tell me what’s going on here, he said. Let’s get to the marrow of the situation, she took a drink. Maybe the French vanilla wasn’t the right kind. Maybe you need some Baileys in that coffee. Or, some whiskey.

Don’t need either. This is fine.

She speaks, his wife smirked a little bit. Threw her blonde hair up over her shoulder. It’s been a long time, he said. Long time. Twenty-five years. We been throuh a lot. I remember our wedding day. I was drunk as a skunk up there. Terrified. Making up vows as I went along. You just smiled. You took out a piece of paper and read yours off. Like you were giving a speech. Real lady like. You started crying, she laughed.

I’d had a few too that day.

Oh yeah. Couldn’t tell. You did everything perfect. Like you always do.

You going to get a job?

I don’t know. I try.

You don’t try hard enough. Tired of supporting us both. Aren’t you tired of it? he nodded his head. You’ve never held down a job. Whole time I’ve known you. And now you just…given up completely.

What’re you saying?

I can’t do this anymore.

You want a divorce?

I think so. Yes. I do.

OK. I’m going to take a nap. And when I get up, I’ll start looking for a place to live. I haven’t been alone for twenty-five years.

Sure you have. We both have. We just been playing house.

He loved her so much. He didn’t want to let her go. She threatened so many times to leave him. They kept moving around the country just to keep her quiet. Always thought a change of scenery would do her good. Tried Vermont for a while. She liked the leaves changing in the fall. But, when the trees grew bare, they lost their magic.

They headed down south to Arkansas. She said that’s where she spent her childhood. Thought there would be happy memories. She just thought of her old man beating her with a belt every time she stayed out late; fooling around with boys under bleachers at the high school football games. She’d come home drunk, filled with schnapps, breath smelling of peppermint, weaving back and forth. Some things never change.

She kept saying she wanted to go, leave him. So, in the middle of the night, she left for Dallas. She took the truck, some money under the mattress, wrote a note out for him to find in the morning.

Dear Jimmy. Don’t be mad at me. I need to be on my own for a while, maybe the rest of my life. Thanks for taking care of me for this past few years. I’d probably have been dead long ago if you hadn’t stepped in. But, I hear these voices inside my head telling me to go. Always telling me to leave. Those voices have always been there. Inside of me. I’m going to start listening to them. We’ll see if I survive. It’s a crazy world, Jimmy. It’s a crazy world. Love, Anna.

Jimmy read the letter and tucked it away in his shoe box he kept with all these photos of her. Snapshots of them kissing in a booth. Pictures of her smiling for the camera. He placed the box under the bed along with the rest of the money she’d left for him. He got dressed and went to work. Thought about her throughout his shift. Screwing in bolts and thinking of her. This is a crazy world, he thought. This is a crazy world.

What time did you get in last night? she asked as she poured coffee for herself. He lit up a cigarette. Placed the match in the ashtray. I said, what time did you get in last night? His wrinkled lips took in a drag. Finger tips had burn marks on them. I’ll tell you what time you got in, she pulled a chair out from the table and had a seat. Heard the dog barking around two. I know it was two ’cause I looked over at the clock. Then I heard the door open. Heard you stumbling around. Jingling your keys. Tripping over the door mat. You tracked mud on the floor, she said.

Sorry ’bout that.

Whatever. I’ll clean it up. Just part of what I do ’round here, she stirred her coffee. You think there’s ever going to be a time when you don’t go out? You stay home? You’re out every night of the week. Always coming home at odd hours.

I get off at eleven. I like to wind down.

You like to get drunk is what you like to do. I’ve heard stories. Heard about how you flirt with girls half your age. Making a fool of yourself is what you’re doing.

I do no such thing, he said with a grin. I do no such thing. They come on to me. I don’t go after them.

Must be your astonishing good looks. Or, your charm, she got up and sat in his lap. Placed her arms around his neck. What am I going to do with you? he shrugged his shoulders. What am I going to do with you?

White barns. Trees blooming on the first day of May. Fields tilled. Farm equipment for sale. And semis race each other. A pond in a yard. Acres and acres of land. Rain is coming down.

I ride on 30 across Indiana. Tail lights shine brightly, reflecting off the wet pavement. A cigarette is tossed out of a truck. Its orange tip bounces on the road briefly before fizzling out. A sign in bold letters states that JESUS IS LORD. It’s getting dark.

Emergency lights on. A car pulled off the road. A boy pissing in the weeds. Dad stands beside him. Windows rolled down. A whole family encourages the kid. A Peterbilt honks.

I’ve traveled this road a hundred times. Just like I’ve driven on 80 stretching across Chicago, 69 going down to Indy, 55 on my way to Memphis. I -95 from D.C. to Maine is a sight to behold. This is a big country. I never tire of it. Do you?

He sat inside, watching tree limbs sway in the wind. Saw an American flag flapping in the breeze. Looked at semis shaking as they drove down 41. A rabbit chased a mole.

The television wasn’t coming in. Just blurred lines with gray snow. Turned on the radio; nothing coming in. Just fuzz. Dog tied to a tree barked.

Hail came down. Hard balls of ice. Baseballs being thrown down from God, he thought. He’s trying to tell us something. Like, maybe it’s time, the man whispered.

He’d been waiting for the end of the world for a while. Stocked up on canned beans and chipped beef. Had cases of water in the garage. Opened a beer as he looked on. Watching a funnel cloud touch down in the north. Sweeping across fields of soy beans and corn. Tearing trailers apart. This is God’s wrath, he said.

And, like that, it was over. He was untouched. Everything around him destroyed. Cars turned over. Debris everywhere. People crying out to God and Lord Jesus.

We’re left, he said. We’re left here on earth. Satan is among us, he called out. Satan is here.

On the radio, a song was playing. Stand By Your Man by Tammy Wynette.

Dogs barked next door. You couldn’t see them in the dark. It was just this ongoing barking. Then, there’d be silence for a little while, followed by more barking. Two dogs held in by a rusty chain link fence. Tied to a post in the ground. They were really making a ruckus.

Birds began singing as the sun approached. They sang loudly, joyfully. Dogs began to growl.

He got up and poured himself a cup of coffee. Drew the blinds back and saw a man pull up next door in an old truck. He’d never seen this truck before. The man, short and squatty, carried a shot gun. The dogs barked more.

The old man turned around for a second and heard gun shots. The dogs quit barking. He saw the shooter bang on the front door with his heavy foot; kicking at it. He decided to call 911. The door was opened. Shots were fired. Birds were still singing.

Squad cars pulled up too late. Red and blue lights made a circular motion. Sirens were turned off. A woman came to the door with blood all over her long tee shirt. She was crying and carrying on. Yellow tape was placed on the door that said, CRIME SCENE. DO NOT CROSS.

Birds really sang a chorus that morning. The sun shined on the dew. The old man just kept looking next door. Couldn’t figure out what happened. There’s evil in this world, he whispered. Pure evil.

Stop.

What?

You know what.

No. I don’t. I’m sitting. Sitting here. Minding my own business. Doing nothing.

Just stop. There was silence for two minutes. She lit a cigarette and turned to him again. How does it feel?

What?

What I’m doing. This thing I’m doing to you.

You’re not doing anything.

But, I am. The same thing you were doing to me, she stopped talking. He stared out the train window. Trees went by. Old buildings in small towns. Debris out in the streets. They both looked out the window. Then she, sitting across from him, looked at him again. There sure is a lot to see, she said. This is my first time on a train.

Oh, he turned to her.

Don’t do that.

What?

You know what. Think I look funny? she asked. You keep staring at me. Don’t look at me.

You were talking to me.

Yes. Yes, I was. I need a drink. Maybe that would calm me down. Do you want to join me?

He looked out the window. Saw cars lined up. Dodge, Fords, pickups, station wagons, a Pinto. No, he said. He pointed to outside.

Fine. Maybe you could see about sitting somewhere else while I’m away.

Maybe. Just maybe.

You don’t have to be condescending, she walked away. He continued looking at America.

Do you hear them?

Who?

The birds. They’ve come back. Nests are being made. Different colored eggs will fill them. Chicks will chirp while mothers sing. It’s really quite something. They fly south and then fly back. Like senior citizens.

I wonder where they go. Arkansas, Texas, Florida, Alabama. How far south do they go? We should follow them sometime, Grandpa. Get in the truck and chase them.

Can’t chase birds. Too fast. Fly too high.

We could pretend. Imagine that we’re following them. The same way we pretend that grandma’s in heaven.

You think that’s pretend?

Sam’s mom says it is. But, what does she know?

What do you think?

I think she’s in heaven. All good people go to heaven.

Right.

We should chase birds, Grandpa.

Yes. We should chase birds.

Don’t force anything, he said. Let it come naturally. If you have to think about it, then it’ll come out wrong, the old man said. That’s the problem; too much forcing. Trying to put a circle in a square. It just doesn’t work, he told the younger man seated next to him. The harder you try, the worse it gets, he motioned for the bartender to set up another round. There’s nothing wrong with hard work. It’s just when the hard work doesn’t work, you gotta a problem, he downed his whiskey, tapped the shot glass, and motioned for another.

The young man looked at the old man’s hands. Wrinkled and lined. Calloused. Black underneath nails. He laughed.

What’s so funny?

Your hands, the kid said. All they’ve ever known was forced work. Look at mine, he stuck out his hands, fingertips pointing to the sky. These hands are clean. Never had a scratch. They’re pure white. The nails evenly trimmed. I’ve never had to force anything. Smooth, he said. Notice how my ring slides off and on. No forcing. No forcing.

I see, the old man grabbed the kid’s hands. Things have come easy for you. Not a matter of skill or brains. Just luck. There will come a time when you’ll think you have to force. And you’ll get nervous. But, don’t.

Have you forced? Am I right about that?

Look at me, the old man said. What do you think? You learn as you get older.

He sat in his car, looking at Christmas lights in April. Red, orange, green, yellow glowing in the pitch black of the trailer park.

Another beer was pulled from his six-pack. He felt the coldness in his hand as he drank. Sweat dripping off the can.

The old man noticed how the lights sparkled and flashed on and off. It gave him peace. He didn’t question why they hadn’t taken them down. He was thankful.

He crushed the beer can in his hand and tossed it out the window amongst the other debris; candy bar wrappers, used condoms, burned out Roman candles that lay there. Put the car in drive and took off. Headed back home. It was two o’clock in the morning.