dmseay

We need to talk about this, she said. Too many times things go unnoticed. They’re just left alone. Or, buried. Put behind us and then it catches up and there’s anger. Quiet anger, she told him. We just sit here silently. And it’s right here in the room. You see it. I see it…

What’re you talking about? he asked. This 800 pound elephant. I haven’t seen it. I don’t feel it.

You’ve got to, she lit a cigarette. It’s been here for years. I’m suffocating. It’s killing me, the old woman said. It happened and we put it away. Didn’t even discuss it. Is that healthy? No. No it is not, the round woman said. I wanna talk about it. Get it off my chest. You killed our boy, she screamed. You killed him..

Stop it. Just stop. It was an accident. Nothing was done intentionally. I loved him as much as you. You can’t deny that, the balding husband said.

Careless. You were careless. He had no business drinking. You had no business drinking. What were you thinking.

It was supposed to be fun.

Well it didn’t turn out that way did it?

We got in the raft. We went down stream like we’d done a hundred times. The wave came from out of nowhere. It was too much. Too much. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. One day he was alive and then the next…, the dad grabbed a beer from the refrigerator.

I’m tired. I’m worn out. It’s cold in here. I just feel cold, he wrapped a blanket around her. I can’t take it anymore. I just need you to say it was your fault. ‘Cause all these years I’ve been blaming myself. Say it. Say it.

He shook his head. Pushed his glasses up on his nose. Looked at his wife and said, That I cannot do.

You gotta be honest, the old man said. Have some kind of morals, he told his son. Can’t just go off and do whatever you want in this life. There are consequences, he lit a cigarette and inhaled slowly; blowing out gray smoke into the lit lampshade. The boy reached for the old man’s pack of Newports and had his hand slapped. You shouldn’t smoke, the father said. It’s bad for you. It’s killing me, he said. If it’s not too late don’t start. If you have started, quit, boy got up and walked over to the refrigerator. Hey, the old man whispered. Grab me one. The boy popped open two Old Styles and started to hand one to his dad then pulled it out of his hand. The boy continued this game. Damn it, pop said. Give me that beer, the young man smiled. Held the can up by his shoulder. Shook it a couple of times. Gave it to the old man, who grabbed it with both hands like a baby wanting a bottle.

You shouldn’t drink dad, boy said. Probably why you’re in the shape you’re in, he told him.

Mind your own business, the old man said. The son laughed. It’s a combination of things, he coughed into a rag. Stress throughout the years. Smoking too much. Your mom getting on my nerves. Just an unhealthy lifestyle. What did that German fellow say? That which does not kill me makes me stronger, they both laughed.

I think you messed up the quote dad.

No. That’s what he said. There’s a sign above the bar that says that. What was his name?

Nietzsche. Died of syphilis, the boy said.

Well, he said that.

It’s us, pop. He said, That which does not kill us makes us stronger. That’s the quote dad.

Us? Me ? What difference does one word make. You think you’re so smart. Why don’t you get a job you’re so smart. Always drinking my beer and eating my Pop Tarts, the old man said.

I’m not going to work for no $11 an hour. Or, even $15. Why should I? Work is what kills you. And for what? So you can pay a mortgage? Bills? Buy a car? That’s the American dream dad. Not mine.

Lower your voice. Your mother’s trying to sleep.

Sorry.

What’re you? Some kind of communist? Next thing I know you’ll be speaking Esperanto. Just listen to me, he said. Stop these shenanigans. Get a job and start your life. Move out of this trailer. I got $500 saved up that I’ll give you. You can start with that. Buy you some clothes and gas for the car. You can borrow that too. American dream? Yes. You can have it too.

We’ll see.

It’s a one time offer.

Now that’s truly American.

He rolled his head around from side to side. Bones in his neck popped and creaked. She was asleep down the hall. The old man sat in darkness. He turned the radio on low to a jazz station out of New Jersey. It was Coltrane’s birthday. The station played the saxophonist all night long. Love Supreme, Central Park West, and Lush Life in the background as the frail man lit one cigarette after another.

The old man could hear his wife getting out of bed and walking towards the living room. She turned the music off. His wife hated jazz. She put on a pot of coffee. The dripping of the liquid had a rhythm to it. They listened till it stopped.

Can’t sleep? she asked. He nodded. She turned on a lamp. If you can’t sleep, I can’t sleep, she laughed. Do you have to listen to that music at this hour? he ran his fingers through his long gray hair. Well? Do you? he looked at her then turned his head away. I’ll pour some coffee, she got up and he reached for her hand. The old woman dodged it.

They hadn’t touched one another in years. The house was filled with memories. Not love. Pictures of their children hung on the walls. Their daughter who grew up to be a lawyer like the old man. A son who was never quite up to par. Both smiled in their cap and gowns.

That’s funny, she said. I can’t remember how much sugar you take. One or two spoons? he held up two fingers. The round woman brought the coffee over to him. Again, he reached out to her. Again, she denied him. She dimmed the light. They sat in silence for awhile. For awhile.

I was thinking of this time five years ago, he said. That phone call.

Let’s not talk about it, she said in a lowered voice; almost a whisper. I don’t want to talk about it.

We never talk about it.

What’s buried is buried. What’s gone is gone, she glared at him.

So young. He was so young.

I’m going back to bed.

No. Stay with me, he pleaded. Stay.

Can we talk about something else?

Yes, he said. Yes. There was quiet once again. Did you hear from Patricia?

She’ll be here on Saturday for the weekend.

Good. Did you buy flowers?

Not tonight. Please. Not now. I’ll turn the music back on. Coltrane was playing on Kind of Blue. He was playing along with Miles Davis and Bill Evans. It was the old man’s favorite album. He used to listen to it when their son Johnathan was a baby. She remembered and quickly turned the radio off.

I would like to listen to that. Please.

Her thin lips whispered, no.

No more talking. They both stayed wide awake in silence till the sun came up. Neither said a word. There was a chill in the air. The house was cold. He turned the radio back on. No more Coltrane. Just morning news.

It is morning. And, you are not here, she whispered. Strange. Your presence is no longer felt, she sat up in bed. Long time. It’s been a long time since I felt free, the old woman said. Why didn’t you leave earlier? she looked at a picture of him on her night stand, then turned it face down. She wiped her emerald eyes with her wrinkled hand. Looked at the clock. She had slept throughout the night. No dreams.

Walking down the hall, she carried his picture with her. She placed the photo on the kitchen counter. Made coffee and watched as hummingbirds flew to the feeder by the window. They were free. Free to do as they wish, she thought. I wonder where they’ll go next, she mumbled. Do hummingbirds fly south for the winter? she asked herself. Maybe I should.

She finished her coffee and slapped her brittle thigh. I’m going to do it, she said aloud. I’m following the birds, she laughed, got her car keys and started the old Dodge. It runs, she rejoiced. It runs, the old woman couldn’t believe it.

And, in her robe and slippers she flew with the birds. Followed them down highways and back roads. Laughing the whole time. I’m free, she said. I’m free.

Before midnight. Half of America asleep. Some work third shift jobs; drive diesels down highways, cook omelets, drink heavily, make love. And many sit in the dark thinking of what might have been had they towed the line. Just followed the rules; a lot of folks like that.

The clock on the stove read 11:47. The microwave blinked 12:00 in a repeating rhythm. His watch said 11:17; he had options.

He sat in his chair and lit a cigarette. Blew the gray smoke into the dark. Listened to the radiators hiss. The old man had heard that sound all his life. Conjured up memories; his past. A life of nothingness. Alone throughout it. Never went anywhere. Never traveled. No schooling. Just alone in an old house. Burn marks on the floor.

Everyday he went to two places; the liquor store and Kentucky Fried Chicken. Drank the same beer, Old Style, and ate the same meal, a three piece with a thigh, wing, and drumstick. Mashed potatoes and Cole slaw came with. Along with a stale biscuit. Walked the same route everyday too. West on Baker to Broadway then up north to Main Street. It was his daily ritual. Talking to himself silently the whole time. His thin lips moved.

What was he saying to himself? Just chatter. Mindless chatter to God. Always asking for forgiveness. Knowing that he, like all of us, were sinners. He had this fear of dying. Scared of eternal suffering. Never thought he was good enough for heaven. When he was younger he was told that. Stuck with him. Never did the church teach him forgiveness. Or, the sacrifice of Christ. He was taught that God will punish us. So much for salvation.

Alone he sat in the dark eating chicken and drinking beer. Scared to go out at night. Knowing the apocalypse could come any day. These were fears that kept him awake. He never knew what time it was. He just knew light and dark.

When you give something up, it’s gone. Never see it again. Habits, liquor, people, things in life you thought were important; thought you needed. They just vanish. Maybe for better? Maybe not?

She’d been gone a long time. He gave her up back in ’86. That’s when they both decided to let go. There was no forgiveness. No wishes of goodwill. The judge put an end to it and that was that. All the fighting, all the arguing, had ended. They were two separate people walking out of a court house. They didn’t even say goodbye.

And now he sits in his trailer. Listening to trucks roll up and down 41 throughout the night. No pictures on walls. No paintings. Just cheap furniture and a coffeemaker. A stack of paper plates stood on the counter.

The old man stayed up all night eating Pop Tarts and drinking coffee. Sitting in silence. Watching the clock. Sometimes he thought of her. Wondered if she’d remarried. Was she alone like him? Semis shook the walls.

He couldn’t remember what she looked like. Was her hair red, or, blonde? Did she have green eyes? Thought she was fat. Bet the years whittled that away. Maybe now she was thin, he thought. Thin as a rail like me, the old man whispered. The heat came on.

These things in our past. Things we give up on, he mumbled. We let go of them, but, they don’t let go of us, he poured another cup. Grabbed a Nutty Buddy out of the cabinet.

I wish she’d let go, he said. Maybe it’s her ghost? he opened the candy bar and took a bite. I’ve done my part, he laughed. I’ve done my part, he closed his brown eyes. Ran frail fingers through gray hair. Lit a cigarette. Listened to trucks fly down 41.

The house was dark. Couldn’t see his hand in front of him. Stumbled to the refrigerator and grabbed a beer. Kept the door open. A mouse scurried across the kitchen floor. He did not scream, or laugh. Did not eek. Just opened his Old Style and downed it. Grabbed another. Found some cheese in the corner. Sprinkled bits under the counter. Lit a cigarette. Smiled.

He sat down in his favorite chair. Stared into dark space. Looked outside. Streetlights were out again. They’d been flickering the past few nights. Diesels ran up and down 30. Semis carrying heavy loads. He heard them racing, but, could not see them. They were loud. Some applied air brakes. Others just rolled through the dark intersection. Passing up a stop sign. Ignoring it. Or, just couldn’t see it. He turned the television on.

Sound was turned down low. The late show was on. Some local station that played movies at midnight. Some Like It Hot was on. Tony Curtis and Jack Lemon were wearing dresses. Marilyn Monroe played a small guitar. She fell for Curtis. Lemon got stuck with an old man. Well, nobody’s perfect.

Infomercials played after that. The old man grabbed another beer. And, another one. He watched a man cutting meat with incredibly sharp knives. Then he cut through a soda can. Finally he cut through an empty can of corn. Only $19.99 if you act now, the man said. Plus they were throwing in a cutting board. Absolutely free. He snored. Couldn’t keep his eyes open.

Had dreams about her. The one that got away. Thoughts of her walking towards him. Wearing a blue dress. Her blonde hair was long and curly. Blue eyes that looked into his soul. She didn’t talk in these dreams. Just looked at him. And, he looked at her. They stood there with a brilliant light shining on them. They were about to embrace when the sound of a truck woke him. A warm beer was on the table beside him. A full ashtray had cigarette butts with a little bit of tobacco left. He lit a bent one. Swigged down the beer. And just sat there. Thinking. He was alone. He was truly alone. Always had been.

Morning news came on. The weather girl was wearing a blue dress. The old man smiled.

*Well, nobody’s perfect. Is the last line in Some Like It Hot.

There was something wrong with the way she walked. A limp. And sort of a march. She’d raise the right leg mid-level and drag the left with her foot turned sideways. Her shoes were always untied.

She walked up and down Broadway wearing aqua colored spandex and a tight tube top. Even in winter she wore the same outfit. Makeup made her face look like a clown. Too much lipstick and rouge. Eye liner put on heavy and black. Her brunette hair came down to her shoulders. The young woman carried a small purse of turquoise with a small sign on it that said, Feed Me. Some did.

Sitting in Times Square with her hands out as people walked by in the night, or morning; she was always there; begging for money or maybe salvation. You could barely hear prayers from her mouth in Spanish; crossing herself and kissing a wooden cross around her neck. This woman had faith.

And there were times when sacrifices were made at the alter. Slices of pizza and McDonald’s laid at her feet. Food didn’t sit there too long; Mary would eat it right away; scared that someone would steal it. Always a fear that she would never have enough. I guess everyone has that fear. Kids across America stuffing themselves. Fighting over the last roll at the dinner table. I wonder if she ever fought with brothers and sisters over food. Or, had she always been alone. What was her story? No-one knew. She was just the crazy woman in Times Square begging for money, food, something. Maybe comfort? I don’t think she ever got that; not from me.

Is there anything you’d like? he asked. Maybe some tea. It’d help you feel better, the old man told her. She shook her head. How about a hot whiskey? she smiled. Told him no. You can’t go on like this forever. All curled up here on the couch. Why don’t you climb into bed and stay there till you feel better? she grabbed more of the blanket with her frail hands. I’ll make you some tea. The good kind with the Tang and lemonade in it. LIke your mom used to make you, he walked into the kitchen. Opened a beer from the ice box. Calmed his nerves. He was sure of it this time. She was dying.

The boy is coming up from Kentucky to see you, her wrinkled face was glowing. She smiled for a moment. Then winced in pain. Said he wanted to see you, he said. Asked all about you, he mixed the tea in her favorite mug. She got it from DollyWood when they went there on vacation some years ago. She was a big Dolly Parton fan. The old woman used to hum Jolene all the time. While she cooked meals, washed dishes, made beds, ‘fore she went to sleep. Always humming Jolene. The old man had the Playboy with her on the cover. He kept it hidden from his wife. He kept a lot of things hidden.

He carried the mug over with both hands. Placed it on the table beside her along with tissues, cough medicine, pills, and Tylenol. She had a constant fever. It wouldn’t break. You’re going to be alright, her husband said to her. You’re going to be alright, his hand felt her forehead. Yeah. The boy should be here any day now, he said. Took time off work just to be with you. Think he’s going to stay awhile. Think so. You wanna watch some TV? she shook her head. What about with the sound down. Just pictures. You can look at the pictures, she nodded yes. Well alright then, he said as he picked up the remote. Wheel Of Fortune was on. The old woman was a big fan of Pat Sajak. She liked Vanna too. She’d solve the puzzles in seconds. The phone rang.

Hello. Yes. How are you? he walked back to the other room. What do you mean you can’t come up? he hushed his voice. I’m telling you she’s dying. This could be the last time you see her, he said. The last time. You think work is more important than family? his voice raised. You should be ashamed of yourself. Down right ashamed, he told his son. You better hope she pulls out of this. But, I don’t see how. Yeah. Alright, the old man hung up.

That was work, he told her. She knew he was lying. She knew she wasn’t going to see her boy. And, she also knew he didn’t want to see her. They hadn’t talked in years. Arguments over money. She said he owed them and he said he didn’t and so on and so on. It’s always about money.

She laid there watching Wheel Of Fortune. A contestant hit bankrupt. She let out a snicker. Ain’t that something, she whispered. Ain’t that something.