dmseay

He walked in on her. She was sitting in the front room on the couch. The television was on. Some infomercial. A man selling pots and pans. Cooking food. The audience applauded.

She was talking to herself; a full-on conversation about nothing. Just drunken talk. There were empty beer cans on the coffee table. She’d let out a laugh every once in a while. Then she’d get real quiet. She would watch the man on the TV cook these amazing dishes. And, when he pulled them out of the oven, he said, Bam. The audience would clap louder. She clapped, too, then went back to her conversation with herself.

Her husband sat down in the recliner next to the torn couch. Cigarette burns exposed the foam under the fake leather. She kept on talking. As if he wasn’t there. He wanted to say something to her, but he just watched the television. He picked up the remote and started to change the channel. She stopped talking and looked at him. She said, Why you gotta come in here and ruin everything? We were getting along just fine before you showed up, she took a drink from a dented can.

Am I disturbing you? he asked. She brushed her hand in the air towards him. Who are you talking to? Every night you’re out here talking. Talking to nobody. Where’s your pills?

Don’t make me.

I said, where’s your pills?

Threw them away.

Why?

‘Cause I don’t need them, she said. I’m fine just the way I am, she lit a cigarette. Placed the lighter on the couch and watched as it slid between the two cushions. What does it matter to you who I’m talking to? We don’t talk anymore. Gotta talk to somebody, she blew out smoke. If it’s any of your business, I’m talking to my mom.

That woman has been dead for twenty years.

She visits me. Says she likes me the best. Better than the rest of the children. Says I was her angel.

You ain’t no angel honey. You’re just a drunk that talks to herself, he laughed.

You laughing at me? Think it’s funny that I talk to my dead mother? She’s more alive now than she ever was. And she’s got plans for you.

Oh, does she now. What kind of plans?

Huh?

I said, what kind of plans?

You’ll find out. One of these days you’re gonna find out. She’s going to come after you like the wrath of God.

That so?

Yeah. That’s so.

The two sat there watching the infomercial. The cook added garlic and white wine to the dish. He said, Bam. And the audience went wild.

He told the boy there were no promises. The old man said, You want something in this life? You have to earn it. Go out and work for it, he told him.

The father gave examples of his own life. I might’ve worked a hundred different jobs, but I was always working, scratching to keep our heads above water, he lit a cigarette.

We moved around a lot, the young man said. We were always on the move. Starting school here. Quitting school there. North, South, the Midwest, we lived everywhere. Why was that dad? Why was it that we kept moving?

They’re always trying to keep the working man down, the old man said. They’d fire you for dropping gum on the floor, he looked outside at the sun. It was peeking through the clouds. There was a cactus in the window. The old man looked to see if the sunlight was changing it, making it grow. It was winter. The plant was dormant.

We must’ve lived in eight different places, the boy said. It wasn’t easy dad.

Living is not easy. It takes a lot out of you. If you don’t mind me saying, you sound ungrateful. You sound like you expected more. What could I do? he popped open a beer from the refrigerator. It was my job to put food on the table and keep a roof over our heads. And I did that. Contrary to popular belief, I did that. You want a beer? the son shook his head. You never have a beer with the old man do you?

I don’t drink, dad.

So I have a few beers. I’m entitled.

Yes. You are entitled.

You think you’re smarter than me. Don’t you? the boy shook his head again. You don’t hardly work, the old man said. Your hands don’t get dirty.

It’s a different type of work, dad. I have to use my mind. I have to think.

Think? Yeah. Think. You do think you’re smarter than me. And, maybe you are. Your mom said you were the sweet one. Of all our kids, you were the nicest to her, I suppose. And now you’re going to tell me I wasn’t good to her. That she deserved better. I kept a roof over our heads.

Yeah. You did.

The two of them looked at each other. Then dad turned to the cactus. It had not changed.

Where you calling from? the old man asked. You gotta stop calling collect. It adds up. These short conversations add up, he looked outside at the trash blowing around in front of his trailer. There was no voice on the other line. Just silence. Breathing. A shortness of breath. Last time we talked you were in New York up around Plattsburgh. That’s where Lake Champlain is right? They were going to make that one of the Great Lakes, but they never did. Told me you took the ferry over from Vermont. That water’s deep.

You got a hundred you can wire me? the son said. I need a hudred pop, he told him. I haven’t eaten in a couple of days.

Borrowing money? Calling collect on payphones? What’s going on with you? dad asked.

I just can’t seem to get it right, the boy said. I’m always losing jobs. Or, they don’t hire me. It’s hard living in this Dodge. Haven’t had a shower in a couple of days now. Like to go to a truck stop and take care of that. Buy some deodorant. Get some food, he lit a cigarette.

What good is a hundred going to do you? Makes me think I’m throwing my money away. Your mom and I didn’t raise you to be like this. Running around the country like a chicken with his head cut off. I never know where you’re going to be. This has to come to an end.

Yessir.

How much gas you got?

On empty.

How you getting around?

Got the car parked over by the library. I walk everywhere. Just use the Dodge to sleep in.

Where you at again?

New Hampshire.

Real pretty country up there.

Yessir.

If I sent you a couple of hundred could you get back to Whiting on that? Probably take three or four tanks of gas. That Dodge doesn’t do too good does it?

No sir, the son crushed the cigarette out under his shoe.

You need gas and food huh?

Yessir.

You coming home?

Guess I’ll have to.

I’d say your little adventure is about over. I’ll send you three, but you got to pay me back. I live on social security. Can’t be doing this all the time.

I know that.

And by chance that you don’t come home. That you just take the money. Don’t ever call me again. Comprende?

Yessir.

Call me when you get the money. I’m going down to the liquor store and wiring it right now.

OK.

Have a safe drive. You’ll be coming through Pennsylvania and then shooting across into Ohio and Indiana.

Yessir. I know my way back home.

I’ll bet you do. I’ll bet you do.

There was silence. Neither of them talked. Two men on the phone saying nothing.

Is he real? the son asked. You think he really exists? the father popped open another beer. He stared at the can. Took a drink and then lit a cigarette. When I was a kid, I used to believe he ruled the world. All these wars going on. Starvation in far away lands. Tornadoes knocking down houses, the old man rocked back and forth in his recliner. I think he’s real. I think sometimes he’s inside me, the boy said. These evil thoughts I have sometimes. I don’t know. Stealing, cheating, lying; the only thing I haven’t done is kill somebody. Not that I know of, the son grabbed a beer from the refrigerator.

What makes you think you killed somebody? the old man asked. That’s something you’d know.

Yeah. I suppose. What if it wasn’t me that killed a man? What if it was the devil inside me? the old man smiled, let out a laugh. That devil. Once he gets a hold on you. It’s hard to shake him.

He’s a ghost. A spirit that roams this earth, dad put out his cigarette. There’s two ghosts that roam this world. The devil. And the Holy Spirit. It’s your choice which one you take, the father declared. There is good and there is bad. But, it’s up to you, he looked at his son. Have you killed somebody?

No. Not physically. Never shot anybody. Or, stabbed them. Pointed a gun at a man before and told him to give me his money.

Being poor will do that. You feel guilty? Feel like you sinned?

I feel like I sin every day. Maybe I’m filled with the devil.

Maybe you’re just human. Making mistakes as you go along, the old man reached for the remote. He started flipping through channels. Barbara Eden was on. Granting wishes. He turned the sound down. Confess these sins to God. Ask for forgiveness. Keep that devil at bay, lit another cigarette. Strange world we live in. Just strange.

There’s no truth in happiness, he said. It’s a facade. It’s something that we think is there, but it’s not,the old man lit a cigarette. Did you know that truth can only get you so far? You don’t see me walking around all chipper, he took a shot of whisky. This, the old man pointed at his beer. This is a lie, he said. But, I believe in it, his son smiled.

The two of them sat there on barstools side by side. Occasionally they’d look up at the television in the corner of the bar. An old war movie was on; The Green Berets, starring John Wayne. They’d watch a little, then go back to ordering drinks and talking. The old man was a bar room philospher. The kid, a listener. The son was there only to hear what his father had to say. He figured he owed it to him. All the grief he put him through in his younger days. The boy sat there. Going round after round with the old man. Drinking in silence.

Do you hear the birds outside? the old man asked. Hear em? They’re the last of the dinosaurs. Hmm. Flying dinosaurs, he motioned for two more. Soon, they’ll be going south for the winter, the son nodded. I think about going south for the winter, he lit another Marlboro. Someplace warm; Florida, Tennessee, maybe Arkansas. Or, Texas. They have a different perception of life down there, he said. The son looked up at John Wayne, then back at his father. Dad slapped him on the cheek. Are you listening to me? I said they have a different perception. A different way of life. It’s easier down there. Not as much pressure, he put out his cigarette. Maybe Joplin, Missouri.

Would you take me with you? the son asked. The father shook his head. Took another drink from his short beer. Looked at the boy then up at the TV.

There’s no truth in happiness, the old man said. Nope. No truth.

The Mexican sat quietly on the bus going east. By midnight the old man would be in Columbus, Ohio. That’s what the ticket said.

His wife slept next to him near the window. Evening sun shined down on her. She’d lift her head every once in awhile, then lean up against the cold glass. Headlights were starting to come on.

He looked at cars on his phone. Ford, Chevy, Dodge, SUVs, pickup trucks, he dreamed of being able to drive again.

Throughout the trip he’d blow his nose on the collar of his flannel shirt. Then it was back to looking at vehicles. He leaned over in the aisle and looked out at the road ahead. The old man looked over at me and smiled. I nodded my head. He spoke in Spanish. I couldn’t understand him. Again he spoke in Spanish. I shook my head, no.

The Mexican continued looking out the front windshield; pointing. Luna, he said. Luna. I closed my eyes and went to sleep. When I awoke, he and his wife were gone.

Scraps. I get what’s left-over, he said. Nothing new for me. Never there for the first meal. The one that counts, the old man lit a cigarette. A piece of chicken. Some potatoes with wilted parsley. Carrots with grease on them. I’ll eat mine cold thank you very much, he turned on the television. There was static. Lines ran across the screen. He adjusted the antenna on top. He’d move the rabbit ears east and west. Trying to get in a picture. It was cloudy outside.

He gave up. Quit messing around with the TV. Turned the sound down and ate from a paper plate while watching blue lines cross faces trying to sneak through. He popped open a beer.

Salt, he whispered. This meal needs salt. There’s enough pepper on it, but, there’s no salt, he got up and looked through the kitchen cabinets. Where does she keep the salt? It was here yesterday, he started moving items. Thyme, rosemary, sage, paprika, all this stuff you don’t need. All you need is salt, his voice got louder.

She came from the bedroom down the hall. Walked in on him. The younger woman saw her dad talking to himself. Speaking out loud as if he was conversing with someone. The old man moved from cabinet to cabinet rummaging through plates, potato chips, Tupperware, glasses, bottles of half empty liquor, Pyrex pans. Dad, she said. What are you doing? It’s three in the morning, she moved towards him.

I’m trying to eat my supper, he turned and told her. I come home from working all day and there’s no salt for my meal, he said.

Come on dad. Let’s go to bed. The doctor doesn’t want you to have salt, she wiped her eyes. Come on now. Turn off the TV and get some sleep.

He looked at her. What day is it?

It’s Saturday morning.

I don’t work on Saturdays do I?

No dad. No.

Do I work?

No dad.

He took one more drink of beer. Started to place items back on the shelves. The daughter grabbed his hands. Come on now. I’ll clean this up in the morning, he nodded his head. The two of them walked down the hall.

Clouds moved in as they drove across Ohio. The sun had followed them from Pennsylvania. Now in Youngstown, nothing but rain would hit their windshield. Wipers kept time to music on FM stations. The boy hummed along to songs from the ’60’s and ’70’s. Would ask his dad questions periodically.

When did you and mom meet? the kid asked. And where? the father looked at him; keeping one eye on the road.

We met a long time ago in Osceola, Indiana, he smiled. We weren’t even thinking of you back then, he said. Used to go on hay rides and to dances at the VFW hall, the rain picked up harder. Next rest stop we’re pulling over, the boy nodded yes.

You ever miss her?

Sometimes.

You think this is the right thing?

Letting her raise you? I guess. I’m on the road all the time. You’re closer to family. Grandma and Uncle Jack. I’ll see you on holidays. Summertime, they pulled into the rest stop. Parked close to the bathroom. You gotta go? he pointed to the men’s room. The boy shook his head. It’s a long way there still, the boy grabbed a bologna sandwich from the cooler between them.

I’ll miss you dad.

I’ll miss you too.

Dad moved the cooler to the floor of the pickup. Stretched his arm out and the boy felt dad’s jean jacket on his face. They waited out the storm.

Did you hear what the old man said this morning? the older brother asked his younger brother. He was talking about being on Mars. Talking about walking on Mars. Where does he get this stuff? the older son asked. These stories. Out and out lies, he said.

He’s not well, the younger man said. Dad is not dad anymore. He’s some guy who used to know us. Now we have to remind him. Tell him who we are. Who he is.

But, the stories. These far-fetched stories. He told a nurse the other day he slept with Marilyn Monroe. Said he killed the Kennedys too.

What did the nurse say? the younger one asked. They both laughed. Come on, he said. What’d she say?

She asked if it was true, both boys howled. The older son got a beer from the refrigerator. Pointed at it. The young son nodded yes.

Was it that black nurse with the real pretty eyes? the young one nodded yes again. She’s really good to dad. Treats him real nice, the eldest said.

When we were kids we went to Mars. Remember? We used to play like we were astronauts. We’d get in cardboard boxes and pretend they were capsules, both took a swig of beer.

We were kids. Pretending, the older one said. Now dad’s pretending.

No, he shook his head. It’s all real to him. As real as that cardboard box was to us.

Yeah. We were pretty serious about going to Mars, they toasted each other. Our giant sandbox became one big planet.

Whatever happened to that sandbox?

It went away. Just like everything does.

Where have you been, he asked his younger brother. We’ve been worried about you, the younger boy looked at him. Wondering when you were going to show up. If you were going to show up, the older sibling sipped his coffee. And now, here you are. Here’s Johnny, the younger brother smiled. You got any money? Are you broke? the older brother thumbed through his wallet. He pulled out a hundred dollar bill. Placed it on the table. Don’t spend it all in one place, the older son said. I can get you more than that. I don’t expect you to start all over again on just a hundred, he said. The other man looked at the bill then out the window of the diner.

I’m having scrambled eggs and bacon, the older man said. Maybe some buttered toast. You want something? he continued looking out the window. I said, would you like something? Breakfast? You always liked pancakes when we were kids. Bunch of syrup all over the place, he laughed.

When were you going to tell me she died? the younger boy asked.

We had no way of getting a hold of you.

Paul got a hold of me.

I know.

Did you tell Paul to call me?

I did.

Why didn’t you ask him for the number?

Number where?

At the shelter. In Joplin.

You could’ve called me a few times, the older boy said. Could’ve called your own brother. I told Paul to call you and tell you about mom. So, in a way. I did call you.

Paul would’ve called anyway, the waitress came over. Poured two more coffees. The older man gave her his order. Nothing for me,the younger one said.

You’re always starting trouble. Always taking off. Walking around America. Got nothing but the clothes on you. Don’t you want more? More out of life?

The younger brother looked at his older brother. Slid the bill back towards him and walked out of the diner. The older brother watched as he crossed the street.