dmseay

An orange moon was tossed on dark clouds that moved by. They both saw it. The two looked up in the sky and could see the shining ball bouncing, dodging and weaving as a midnight mist came down upon them. Both boy and girl stuck out their tongues to catch the drops of joy that fell. Water for thirsty souls.

Sinners always need cleansing. Scars from misdeeds show on their faces. The guilty can never look innocent. And they pray and pray and pray for forgiveness. They never feel clean. Harm that they’ve done to others haunts them.

She never confessed her sins to anyone. Everyone thought she was pure as gold. But, the beautiful girl was tainted. She tried to get rid of evil thoughts stirring in her mind. It was to no avail. These dreams were persistent; spoke to her in a language only she understood. Secrets eventually kill us.

The boy sat there with her that night. A silence between them. He could tell somthing stirred inside her. Some kind of spell from way back. He asked, Do you have something to say? She shook her head. He asked again, Are you sure? She shook her head again; violently this time. Then she turned away. Started running. Leading him on a chase through the pitch black woods. He was out of breath when she stopped. They both were.

She pointed to the soft ground. Something down there? he asked. She kept pointing. The boy took the heel of his shoe and started kicking in the dirt. Then he got down on his knees and started digging. He dug deep. She kept pointing. Her mouth closed.

He had dug down deep into the earth. Not knowing what he would find. And then he told her, There’s nothing here. Nothing buried here. She smiled. And jumped down in the hole with him. The moon was now hiding. Why? He asked. Why did I dig this hole? The girl grabbed him and kissed his lips. Forcing him to lay down. She undressed and saw that moon glowing again. Then she told him. She confessed.

I’m not what you think, she said. I’m a lost soul. Soon I’ll be gone. My sins are many. But, I’ve enjoyed them all.

Come morning she left him there in the hole. The sun had replaced the moon. She laughed silently. Her deed was done.

Ghosts walked around in the backyard. Old friends of his. Children laughed on a swingset. His father stole tomatoes. Mom sat on the back porch smoking a cigarette. A high school sweetheart. Some former co-worker stood by the wooden gate. Holding hands.

He popped open a beer and offered one to his mom. The can was sweating. Cold in the dark heat. Moonlight shined down on both of them. She took the Old Style and drank it in one gulp.

This is what killed me, she told him. Beer and cigarettes. Now I can have as much as I want without anybody questioning me, she said in a hoarse whisper. It no longer hurts, she stated. The pain has gone away, he nodded and took out a Marlboro for himself. Your father still won’t talk to me, she said. He wants nothing to do with me. But, we’re stuck together here. He does his thing and I do mine, she coughed. We never were in love I guess. Just married ’cause everybody else was, she confessed. The son got up and walked out in the yard.

Valerie stood with her lover at the gate by the rose bushes. His high school girlfriend and his friend from Piggly Wiggly waved at him as he walked past. They were killed in a car accident out on Lima Road on graduation night. The night she broke up with him. He always knew they were up to no good. Sneaking behind his back. What kind of a guy steals a friend’s girl? he thought. He kept walking.

The children on the swingset reached high in the sky with their feet touching the stars. They were kids he knew in grade school. The boy died of cancer at age eight. And, the girl passed on a year later. Shot in a drive-by. The news report said she wasn’t the intended victim. Cross fire on the Southside. Both of them were laughing. They would now be forever young.

And dad. Pop wouldn’t talk to him. Wanted nothing to do with his son. He didn’t want him to begin with. An accidental pregnancy. Forced to marry. The boy was blamed for his failures in life. He was going to live in Alaska and work on a fishing boat. Romantic dreams of the sea. He settled for a job on a used car lot. Selling Ford, Chevrolet and Dodge automobiles. Bored out of his mind. Some say that’s why he shot himself. Others said it was life in general. And there he sat eating tomatoes from his son’s garden. Didn’t say a word.

A train passed. Going out West. The old man wanted to jump on it. But, he couldn’t. Stuck in the backyard forever. Winter would come soon.

They were both quiet. Didn’t look at each other. She stirred her coffee while he looked out the kitchen window. Staring at hummingbirds. Drinking the sweet sugar water he’d put out the day before.

They’re quite amazing aren’t they, the old man said. The way they flutter their wings. Staying in place. It’s like watching a movie, he poured coffee for himself.

What’re you talking about? she asked.

Hummingbirds. I’m talking about the little hummingbirds.

Oh, she paused for a minute. He continued looking outside at the tiny creatures. They fascinate you do they? she sipped from her cup.

Yes. Yes they do. I like them very much. It’s one of my favorite parts of summer. Seeing them. Drinking from water I made for them. They have a sweet tooth, he laughed.

I see.

Silence came back between them. Neither spoke. The hummingbirds flew away.

I never saw you

Standing there

Staring at me

Looking through me

Hollow me.

Nothing

An outline

Soul missing.

No words said

Between us.

Silence in morning’s dew

Nightfall of a thousand stars

You were there

And, I was not.

He looked at her. Seated in the kitchen. Staring out the window. She sat quietly. Not making a sound. Like she was a zombie. It seemed as though she had death in her face. Wrinkled face. Blue veins in her hands. Her hair was gray and she was balding. The old man looked at her.

Where have we gone to? he asked himself. Yesterday we had youth on our side, he thought. There were dreams, ambitions. Nothing could stop us. And now, now this, the husband whispered. Now this.

She turned her head towards him; her lover of sixty years. Gave him a good look up and down. She drank from her coffee cup. Play some music, she said. Play Lush Life. He laughed. He smiled. Nodded his head.

The old man went into the living room and thumbed over old albums. Frank Sinatra, Chet Baker, Miles Davis, and Billy Strayhorn singing Lush Life. He put the old, scratched record on the turntable. It weezed and coughed, but the music still came through.

He went back into the kitchen and offered her his hand. The old couple embraced and slowly moved to the song. Billy Strayhorn singing Lush Life. Yes, it had truly been.

Blood soaked into the white sheets. Dark blood. Almost black. It was his blood. Leaking from his chest where a couple of bullets were lodged. She stood over him just looking at him. He didn’t know what hit him. Shot him in his sleep. His hazel eyes looked up at her. Or, maybe he was looking up at God.

The two never got along. They’d yell at each other in grocery store parking lots. Raise their voices at O’Sullivan’s bar. Hit one another on the long gravel road that led to their house. Going back and forth while he tried to drive the pickup and keep it straight. She’d slap him and he’d punch her. Both of them had constant bruises.

And then, he would threaten to leave her. Tell her it was over. Done. She’d start balling. Crying over his hollow words. He was never leaving. She knew that. Deep down she knew that. The tears were a facade. Made up to get sympathy. He fell for it every time.

Sometimes she’d threaten to leave him. He’d get angry. Loud. Take swings at her. Hard hits with his fists closed. His hands were made from the jaw bone of an ass. Strong weathered hands from years at the steel plant. It was a wonder she never had a broken bone.

But, why’d she shoot him? Maybe deep down she wanted it all to end. Finished. Tired of all the violence.

She stood over him with rifle in hand. Picked up the phone and dialed 911. She told the dispatcher, He’s dead. You can come pick him up now, she said calmly. He’s laying right here in bed. Second bedroom on the right. I’ll be here waitin’, she said. The address is 1611 Northwest Road. I’ll be in front to let you all in. Should I put on a pot of coffee? See you soon, she hung up, lit a cigarette and tossed the gun on the bed in the blood. Poured herself a drink and waited. Just waited. She had a smile on her face.

Used car lots. Burned out buildings. Empty shopping malls. A strip joint featuring a one arm go-go dancer. Two dollar well drinks on Tuesday nights.

This was once a boom town. Industry thrived here. Back when we made things. Now technology is all the craze. The two coasts prospering; Midwest making the best of hard times.

Prices going up. Service jobs; McDonald’s, Wendy’s, Burger King, hiring and firing folks with no future. The green fields made him smile.

Every time the old man drove past the tall corn stalks, soy beans starting to grow, lush colors, he was reminded of his youth. A time when community meant something. People looked out for one another. Men sat in the diner discussing the decline.

It’s all the Democrats fault, one said. They started this whole Covid crisis, he slurped his coffee. Now we’re broke. China owns us. Bill Gates owns the rest, puffed on a Marlboro.

Now, now, wait a minute, another said. The Republicans are at fault too. Don’t trust them. Never have. They’re all about big business and leaving the rest of us behind, he stated.

They both are, the third senior citizen declared. They both are. It’s a club gentlemen. And we ain’t invited.

This gave the table pause. It was now clear the American dream was over. They drank their coffee. Ate pie. And smoked cigarettes. Sitting in silence.

Cans were piled high in the corner of the trailer. Old Style, PBR, The Champaign of Beers, King of Beers and Schlitz tossed aside by a television set that was always on.

The old man watched talk shows all day long. He’d start with Kelly and Ryan then end with Dr. Phil; Springer and Maury were in the middle of the day.

He’d talk to the TV. Call women whores and men assholes. He’d swing in the air if a fight broke out. Flailing his arms out in front of him. Making fists out of weathered hands. He’d yell out, You whore. You asshole, at the top of his lungs. Then the old man would tell Jerry and Maury to get ’em. Show ’em whose boss Jerry. Tear ’em apart Steve, he’d drink another beer. Slurped it down with a loud noise. Whatever was on sale that week.

His boy would come around every once in awhile to check on him. Basically he just came by when he didn’t have any beers or money. The old man was always good for a ten or a twenty spot. The boy would steal bills from dirty pants laying on the floor. Waited for the old man to go to the bathroom then go through the pockets. It was a habit he had since childhood. Boy knew the old man didn’t have much in the bank , but he couldn’t wait for the old man to die so he could take that too.

They sat there in silence watching Dr. Phil. A teenage girl was tearing her family apart. One day she wanted to be a boy, the next she’d want to be a girl. Her indecision was driving her mad. The parents didn’t know what to do. Please Dr. Phil. Will you help us, they’d ask.

The old man would sit there glued to the TV. The mother and father were crying. The girl kept spouting off at them. Saying, You don’t understand. Never have, never will, the daughter screamed. Dr. Phil got her in line. Told her he wouldn’t put up with that on his show. The old man cheered him on. Boy just sat there in amazement.

This is America, the kid said to himself as he opened another beer. Take it or leave it. This is America.

She did not claim him. Turned her back away. Said she didn’t know him. She knew a guy once. Used to bring her flowers every day. He’d dance with her under the moonlight at midnight. Told her she was something special; pure. Confessed his love to her. That was the man she knew.

Not this. A killer. Murdered all kinds of people across this great nation. Gas station hold ups. Bar fights. Waiting in parking lots for men to come out and meet their maker.

He liked to kill bikers.He’d drive down 30 at night with his window down and a sawed-off shot gun in his lap. Creeping up to them in the dark. Open fire. It was almost like a game he played. Extra points if there was a woman on the back. Arms wrapped around him. He’d aim for his head. Shoot at will. Watch the bike wreck on the highway as he drove off. Flicking his cigarette out the window and watching the lit butt bounce on the road. Then he’d turn on the radio and listen to gospel music.

Like I said. I don’t know this man. He is not the one I married, she said. You think you know some people. You don’t. You really don’t, she paused. No sir. I do not know this man.

It was dark. Daytime, but dark. Clouds blocked the sun. It was a greyish black color. And, trees danced in the wind.

He watched from his living room window. The reception on his television was weak. Pictures kept coming and going. His antennae wasn’t up to the task. The old man fidgeted around with it. The more he moved the metal plate, the worst it got. Until there was no picture at all. Just a blank screen.

God damn it, he said. Nothing ever works. Earler that morning the coffee maker dumped grounds in his pot below as it was brewing. The toilet was running. Kitchen faucet had a constant drip, drip, drip. Bath tub was clogged up. He was right. Nothing ever works.

The old man watched lightning and listened to thunder. The skies made a stirring sound. Like a train running at a slow pace. He drank coffee and spit out grounds on the floor. A green carpet with tiny black bits all over it. Looked like a painting. An obscure painting. Something that might go in New York for two hundred grand. He laughed.

It has a certain appeal to it, the old man said to himself. He played around with the grounds and smeared them on his canvass. Got a razor blade and carefully cut squares in his carpet. Making faces with the black substance. Drawing clouds and trees. A black sun.

I’ll make a fortune, he thought. Sell these down town at one of those galleries. Call the show, Art From The Old Man, he couldn’t stop laughing.

Outside the winds were picking up more and more, shaking his trailer. Moving it off the concrete blocks a little at a time until eventually it tipped over, trapping the old man. Furniture. Tables, chairs, the couch, his new finger paintings, all destroyed.

The old man climbed his way to the door and opened it. Looked around at power lines down on the ground. Poles knocked over. Other trailers turned on their sides. He whispered, Nothing ever works.