dmseay

He’s out there. On the ledge. There is no parachute. No net below. A hundred feet above the street. Cars and trucks, pedestrians, hot dog vendors, taxis, and cop cars race up and down. A small girl points at him.

He’s eating a sandwich. His last one. Tuna on toasted wheat with cheddar cheese. A can of Coke sits beside him. It sweats in the summer heat.

He’s humming his favorite song, Central Park West runs through his head. The version Coltrane made famous. His fingers snap to the rythm in his mouth. The man points at clouds. An airplane goes by. A crowd forms on the sidewalk. His palms are wet.

Someone yells out, Don’t do it. But, he can’t hear them. He hears nothing but Coltrane playing his saxophone. Suddenly, there’s a cool breeze, and all seems right. He stands on the ledge. He does not look down. Coffee sounds good.

It’d seen better days. Marked up with blue and red paint. Graffiti had been swashed on by local kids. Mean words about mothers and killers, so on and so on. Pitchforks and devils with crowns dancing on brick walls. Tiny dents where bullets had bounced off . Mortar chipped. Gunshots could be heard throughout the night. One gang trying to claim territory and another attempting to reclaim it. The fighting went back and forth. Newspapers got tired of writing about it. They’re doing us a service, one city councilman said. Let them kill each other.

But, the word on the street was always about a fight being on the horizon; a major gangland battle. Machine guns and semiautomatics shooting into the night behind buildings off Western and out in the street; young boys with toys that kill out in the open with nothing to protect them. Wearing dark clothes and ski masks. Some carjacking for quick getaways. Windows shot up. Babies crying in the night.

Everything was fine when the battles took place in the black neighborhoods on the southside. But when they moved north to white land, folks got concerned. Soon, there were hold-ups at ATM’s. Couples getting mugged coming home from theaters. Drunks rolled in alleys. And gangs tagging buildings, shooting at each other down the street from Mr. and Mrs. Weinberg’s house. Something had to change.

And so, a new sheriff was elected to take care of this crime. This blight. His job was to move everything back to the southside. Back to Austin, Cottage Grove, 95th Street, Blue Island. But, this is not business. Business needs to grow. That’s what the gang leaders told the sheriff. Profits were being seen. Now it was just a matter of fighing it out for supremacy.

You can try more cops, one gang leader told him. but they’ll just be killed in the process, he said. You’ll have a real blood bath on your hands. Things will settle down, the leader of the red gang told the sheriff. Soon, the killing will be done, and the blues will stay on the southside. But, we got these pills to push,and every white kid loves them. Black kids too. This is business, he said. This is business.

The killings continued. Robberies, muggings, stickups, a real crime spree. Nothing got solved. The reds and the blues fought it out forever. And ever. Goodbye, Chicago. So long. It’s business. Somebody’s getting paid.

Dead leaves mixed with candy bar wrappers and cut grass still green. Kids play on swings while old men smoke cigarettes on front porches of the Midwest.

Pumpkins smashed by boys drunk of drink from their fathers liquor cabinets. Young girls dream of homecoming dances.

Fields of corn now brown. Stalks dying. Soon to be tilled back into the earth; where we all will be.

And church bells ring out on a Sunday morning. Calling us all to prayer. Worn out from Saturday night’s folly, we stumble through doors, dipping fingers into holy water. The face of Jesus looks down on all of us, saying, Don’t let me down. But, we do. For we are humans in a Midwestern town.

Do you love me? he asked. Care? he continued. You know, I look at you and sometimes I see nothing. Nothing but a pretty face. No soul behind it. This whole time, I’ve known you, and you have yet to show your cards. Some kind of game you play, he rolled a cigarette on the bar. She looked around the room. Looked at other men walking through the door. Watched couples dance and laugh. Wondered why they didn’t. Would you look at me when I’m talking? he asked. It’s just a common courtesy. At least show interest, she took a drink from her rocks glass. I remember when I first met you, he told her, pointing his forefinger at her chest. I thought, what a pretty girl. You had a real pretty look to you. Sweet, he laughed. You looked sweet. You never know what it is you’re getting, he smiled. I saw you in this bar, and I said to myself that one day you’d be all mine, he took a drag. That’s what I said. Silently. Quietly. I felt my lips move just a bit. And, I walked over to you. What’s the first thing I said to you? she shook her head. You dont remember? she moved her head from side to side again. I said, hello. Just a simple hello. But, I looked you in the eyes when I said it. Those pretty green eyes. And that’s all it took. Three kids and a mortgage later, that’s all it took.

I’m leaving, she said. I can’t breathe anymore. You can have the kids, the house, I don’t want them. I need to take off and go look for myself. Somewhere. Not sure, she stood up. Took a drink and placed her glass on the bar. It was never right, she said. Never felt right. Just did it on a whim. I think most girls do. There is no love.

The room was well lit by sunlight coming through blinds. Shadows of bookshelves on the floor. An outline of a television on the wall. And above him, a ceiling fan rotated at a high speed. A cool breeze was felt. His body stretched out in an easy chair with the foot rest up; his bare feet with untrimmed nails shine in the light. A remote control dangled from his fingertips.

It was early morning when the kid came home. The slamming of the car door woke the old man. He’d been out all night, causing trouble. A typical evening for the kid; got high before he left the house, sold a couple of dime bags, went to the bar, and ordered beer for the rest of the night; watched baseball games and old movies with John Wayne in them. He sat there dreaming that he was the Duke in Rio Bravo; riding a horse. Shooting men who needed to be shot.

The old man put the foot rest down and let his feet touch the dirty shag carpet. Hadn’t been vaccuumed in years. Not since his wife died. Some say it was an accident. Others said he meant to do it. His gun was always on the table next to his chair; loaded. He said he was asleep and was awakened by a noise in the kitchen. He fired in the dark. Heard her cry out while blood dripped on the floor. He was smiling the whole time.

Where did you go tonight? the old man asked.

Same as every night, boy lit a cigarette. Grabbed an Old Style from the fridge.

When you going to get serious about something? Bite into something real?

You mean like you?

Thirty years I worked at GM. Putting in bolts. You think I complained? Never heard a word, did you? Got to apply yourself in this life. Can’t go on selling dope forever.

You done?

I am.

Well, goodnight.

Goodnight.

The plant in the window was dead. Nothing was tended to. Grass was never mowed. And, in the winter, snow was never shoveled. There were cobwebs in corners. The old man put his feet back up in the air. Picked up the pistol from the table. Pointed it at his head and laughed.

They both sat still. Didn’t move a muscle. Waiting for results. At first, he didn’t want to know. Thought they would be better off, not knowing. Too much anxiety. Nerves were built up.

But she wanted the diagnosis either way. If he was cleared, good. If he wasn’t, they would work on it together.

He was tired of throwing up all the time. Scared when his piss was red. At first, he tried to hide it. Didn’t tell her. Didn’t even tell his doctor. But it kept getting worse. Tired all the time. No energy. He knew his days of keeping it a secret would end soon; either act now or die.

The room was cold. They held each other’s hand. Outside he could see the city. Churches, skyscrapers, apartment buildings, condos, all lined between trees. The husband looked at the library where he used to go as a kid to read in the afternoons. He climbed the concrete lions out in front of the building; jumped off and skinned his knees. His first introduction to bleeding. He laughed. It all comes to this, he told her. Waiting. The waiting, she held his hand tighter.

The doctor entered the room.

Cake crumbs on the counter. A lit candle in the window. Empty coffee pot. Butter, left out to soften overnight. Two glasses stained from red wine.

Microwave clock said 12:30. Numbers glowed in blue. A fan turns overhead. She left hours ago. Some arguments about the current state of affairs; morals, politics, crime rising. Said she couldn’t take it anymore. So, she left. Got into the Ford. Turned the key. Left. He didn’t try to stop her.

The news told stories of teens killed on the Southside, a carjacking in Wicker Park, some stick-up at a Northside gas station. He watched with the sound down. Looked at pictures on the TV. Streets were slick with rain.

She called four hours later. Said she was in Iowa. Said it was safe there, but dark. Told him how she was guided by a star. One lonely light in the sky. He could hear her radio playing in the background. Ginger Baker playing drums. Eric Clapton on lead guitar. She spoke, but his ears were glued to the music.

Did you hear me? she asked. Did you hear what I said? he nodded his head. Did you? she yelled. He told her yes. Yes, he heard her.

It’s peaceful here, she said. There’s a cornfield to my right. And the smell of livestock lingers in the air, she told him. I think I’ll make my home here.

You do that, he said. Go on if that makes you happy. You should be at peace. So should I.

Why don’t you move here?

Where are you?

Iowa.

That’s a big state. Could you be more specific? he laughed.

Heading west. Just driving in the cool breezes. Just driving.

The sun began to break in the sky. She awoke to the sound of a car door slamming, smells of exhaust. Her radio was still on. Some news report about a man killed in his own home on Chestnut Boulevard.

She shook her head and drove on.

Pictures on the mantle. Some black and white. Others colored. Photographs from weddings, anniversaries, baby pictures framed in silver, spanning years, generations of a family. Dad and Granddad, Mom and Grandmother, all lined up. She was beautiful when she was younger. And, he was so dashing. What happens over time?

Wrinkles set in. Circles from years of little sleep form under eyes. The hair is gray.

She remembered when Grandpa died, Dad passed away. She thought about her mom breaking her hip; the beginning of the end. She never knew her grandmother.

Sundays were spent around the table. Bowls of boiled potatoes and baked steaks. Gravy from a pan consisting of milk, butter, and white flour. Mom stirred it while the young daughter pulled on her apron.

The men talked mostly. Discussions about farming and high school football; looked at the girl wishing she was a boy. The farm could use an extra hand. As the years went by, she pulled her weight.

And now all she had were pictures on a mantle. The farm was sold years ago. She’d drive by it every once in a while. Looking out her window at brown stalks, dry fields; a sale sign always in front of the house.

Who would buy it? she thought. Who’d be fool enough to do it? she laughed.

Years later, a housing addition was built on the land. Cookie cutouts of aluminum sided homes with manicured yards and lit Santa Claus at Christmas time. Italian lights in trees.

The old farmhouse was knocked down. A community swimming pool was built there. Kids jumping off high dives and wading in the shallow end. A shower and locker room for boys and girls was now where the red barn once stood. She saw it in her mind. Where she grew up.

You can’t stop progress, she said. You sure can’t.

I’m going to give you five seconds to stop staring at me, he said. There’s no reason for it. I ain’t done nothing to you. Best if you just finish your drink and leave, the kid said.

You don’t remember me, the older man said. He brushed back his long black hair. Used to have shorter hair, was heavier too, he told him.

Never met you before. Never seen you.

We had a fight one night. Years ago, out in the parking lot. You got a glass jaw.

You have me confused with someone else, the kid said. He lit a cigarette and placed the pack on the bar. No, I’ve never seen you before.

You were pretty drunk. Mouthed off about how she was yours and some other nonsense.

What do you want?

Nothing. Just letting you know I remember. That’s all. Soon enough, you’ll be dead, I’ll be gone, and it just won’t matter. All this macho bullshit won’t matter.

You’re the one staring, the kid said.

Right. Just wanted to tell you I’m sorry.

Whatever.

Buy you a drink?

Never turn one down.

The two clanked shot glasses of whiskey and threw them back. The kid ordered the next round. They talked till the bar closed about baseball and women. Then, they went their separate ways.

He chased her around the country for years. Watched a little girl become a young lady from the front seat of his pickup truck. Looked at her when her mom dropped the kid off for school. Saw her when she got her own car, a beat-up Dodge, parked at the DQ she worked at. He watched her grow up.

She was taken away in the middle of the night. Her mother packed a couple of suitcases and headed off for California. There was a note on the kitchen counter when he got home. Looking for a better life, it read. Don’t bother looking for us. We’ll be fine, written in red ink.

For a couple of days, he went on a drinking binge. Told the story to whoever would listen. Talked about mistakes he’d made; women on the side, too many drunk nights, putting his fist through a wood paneled wall. All of them told him the same, move on. But he couldn’t.

He knew she had a sister out in California, a trailer in Bakersfield. The young man followed the routes and highways out there cross country, over mountains, across rivers. Got her address from an old envelope she left behind in the dresser. A letter saying, come out here. You deserve better. He kept it on the dashboard.

This man had every intention of getting his woman and child back. Swore he’d drag them by the hair if he had to. But, when he got to the house as the sun was coming up, he froze. Felt a cold feeling inside. Knew things would never be the same.

So, he watched. Saw his girl grow up, his woman marry some insurance guy. Looked on without saying a word. Silence can kill you.

They found him out in New Mexico. Whiskey bottle on the floor of his Ford; a gunshot to the head. No note or letter. Just dried blood all over the cab. His radio was on. Playing gospel music on a Sunday morning. Some song called, I’ll Fly Away being sung by a choir. His eyes open. Wide open.