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this was not the truth (Part 1)
Christopher/1997-1999
I waited.
I stood in the snow with only two shirts to keep me warm. He had disappeared again. Our mother would be full of smiles for him. His face looked deep with long hours and cigarettes. I saw the car rumbling low from down the road. A rusted blue Olds still with real chrome. The car slowed, stopped, and he got out. I watched him circle around the hood. His slender fingers were tracing their way back toward me. He left the car running. In the lingering exhaust he found enough cover to get clean of it all and wrestle himself back into place and pretend he never left.
“How’s mom?”
“She misses you. I missed you.”
“How do you know?”
“I don’t know.”
I looked down.
“I told you.”
“I know.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
“You know why.”
I felt something rising up in my throat.
I was pulling at the insides of my pockets.
“I ask you for one thing?”
“ I am not a little boy anymore.”
“Sometimes you act like it.”
“I don’t want to fight.”
In my limp arms he could see it.
“Either do I.”
“Why did you come back?”
I could not stop my mouth from asking.
“There is no other way.”
“That’s it?”
“That is it.”
“Liar.”
“Just let it be.”
“Let’s go home.”
“Okay, let’s go home.”
I watched him walk back to the Olds. I climbed back into the truck. I knew that I had loved him. I watched him lead me back home. He drove with the window open slightly despite the cold. He was smoking again. The car moved smoothly for him. He took the long way home. He enjoyed another cigarette. There was only one light on in the house. Her bedroom was church to him. That is where he pleaded with her. That is where he begged her for forgiveness. That is where she gave him absolution. That is where no one could touch them. I understood he had nothing left. He jerked the car into park. He did not wait for me. I watched him hustle up to the front door the keys jangling in his hand. She was waiting for him. He was so impatient. He fumbled over the door lock. I took his bag out from the backseat of the car. He was already with her. I pushed my ear up against the door. I had heard it before. They talk in a way that I never understood. It sounded unconscious. I watched my breathing as they spoke. I was careful not to interrupt. I knew if I waited he would come to me tonight. I would hear him turn the knob slightly, and watch the light in the hall slip in through the space. It would cut right across my face. I would wait for him to slip into the bed. He would be ready by then. I knew it would happen. I listened at the door.
“I missed you.”
Her voice cracked against itself.
“I know.”
“I was not happy you left again.”
“I had to go.”
“I do not understand.”
“These things are complicated. I do not always understand it. They can not understand it.”
“All that matters is this.”
She was growing firmer in her tone.
I could hear them moving.
They stepped lightly like children around each other.
“I am sorry.”
“It will be difficult.”
“It will be.”
“What about him?”
“There is only this.”
“I understand.”
“Are you ready?”
“I have nothing else.”
“It is time then. Kneel.”
“Everything smells so wonderful.”
I pulled away from the door. It sounded as if they were crying. My room was cold. I turned on the small lamp at the desk. There were shadows everywhere. I could see the outline of the Great Horn above, calling me. It was everything I wanted.
When I woke up he was already gone. The house was full of the early summer sun and the smell of grease in a pan. I could hear men with garden tools. He was with her. They were eating breakfast. I dressed quickly. His space of the bed barely looked slept. I came down the stairs quickly. It was Sunday. I would have to wait. I stood in the doorway until they noticed me. They ate quietly with smiles and fast bites, toast, eggs, jelly, orange juice, and a coffee ring. They did not have time for anyone else. Sunday. He was naked to the waist. She already had her dress on. I made my own breakfast. I listened to the hiss of the iron as I ate my cereal. He stood over her. It was his only good shirt. I had never seen him wear it except on Sunday. Then he disappeared.
He took the keys from the counter. He barely looked at me. He knew I could never say no when he was dressed like that. His shoes had been polished. His pants creased only ten minutes ago, even his skin looked starch. I did not dare touch him. I would have to wait. I watched from the hall as he backed the car carefully out of the driveway. There was a heavy cloud of exhaust that lingered after them. They would be gone for hours. The house felt so small without him. In the kitchen the dishes were still piled in the sink. I put the towel over my shoulder and turned on the faucet. The water ran hot almost immediately. I pulled my hands back quickly the dish broke against the side of the steel sink. The cut was deep down the inside of my hand. A line like the great river and the blood ran quickly into the drain. I wrapped the towel around my hand. The blood was beautiful and heavy but I forced myself into the bathroom. I opened the medicine cabinet, hand lotion, aspirin, Band-Aids, Trojans, Gauze. I pulled the towel from my hand. The blood ran down the valley of my hand into the sink. The pain left no questions. I tried to turn on the faucet. I tried. I could see the shinning tips of the valley.
When I woke he was whispering. I could barely see, my eyes were full of sleep and shine and with that light he looked stripped naked and whole again. Judas, Judas, Judas. I am sorry father. I could not help myself. I knew it would be me in the end. I know you can not help yourself. Then, when the light broke from my eyes and I could feel the sheets against my body again I knew what happened. I loved him when he smiled. I am sorry father.
We started at Pointe Noire. It was hot even in the water as we helped push the boat to shore. The men at the shore had arms scarred by the sun and wrapped in muscle. I wiped my face with the rag in my pocket. My father was standing like a peacock his hat full with flamingo feathers bought in Ghana. The other men at the shore seemed to have the brightest smiles of all. I could not wait to see the valley. Father pulled some money from the pouch inside his shirt. It was barely dry enough to count. The men took the boat. He smiled. I handed my rope to a boy twice my height. At the shore I took my boots from around my neck and untied the laces. They smelled like ocean. I had not seen land for almost a week. Africa.
I heard the door open. They were full of laughter and the incessant talk that comes with church. I would not be able to talk to him until late. I knew he would want to be close to her. I thought I understood. I could hear her start the talk of dinner and things about salad, fresh vegetables, chicken, hard boiled eggs, the cloth napkins, the good plates, the fine spices, preheating the oven, sautéing the greens, peeling the potatoes, homemade stuffing, communion, mary, jesus, pudding, whipped cream, fresh strawberries, the fine linen table cloth, the upstairs candlesticks. He was a part of all these things. I turned my head back on the pillow and stared at the slender contours of the great horn. It was the most noble land mass I had ever seen, proud sure of its hip. A woman who has seen many children, a father with an eager lap to rest in. It was never desperate, simply waiting.
I stood at the top of the stairs. She was talking about how to baste the chicken from the top of the stairs. She was wearing her favorite apron, tied at the neck and the waist just above her hips. She still had on her dress. I was surprised to see her without shoes.
“Can I help?”
I did not dare cross the threshold.
“We have everything under control.”
She did not turn, she would not see me.
“I can set the table.”
“Your brother will do it. He understands what I want.”
I could smell her lay butter into the pan.
“Are you sure I can’t do anything?”
I already knew the answer.
No. I waited. I wanted to smoke. I went to the hall closet. I pulled at the pockets of his jacket in order to find his cigarettes. I knew he would have hid them from her. I took a desperate looking nail from the pack and slid it into the corner of my mouth. The pack of matches was nestled in the corner of the same pocket. I opened the front door quietly. I knew it didn’t matter. I knew they couldn’t hear me, not today. They did not want to. It was cool outside and the air smelled like a our neighbors cut lawn. I folded over the match, one hand, and struck it with my thumb against the back of the pack. The initial inhale was full of sulfur and threatened a coughing spurt. I held the smoke deep and long and watched as the long stream pushed out past my lips. At the corner two boys were riding their bikes. I moved towards them turning over the matchbook in my hand and taking long drags every few steps. The boys had cards jammed in their spokes. Rat-ttt-rat-ttt-rat-ttt-rat-ttt. I listened to them ride in circles around their driveway. They looked like brothers. Each with the others smile. It was beautiful. They laughed and spun about on hard turns and half-done tricks. I stayed after the smoke was gone watching them ride as the sun set and bleached them out in a blanket of orange until all I had was shadows, long and sick like. I could still hear them laughing. Rat-ttt-rat-ttt-rat-ttt-rat-ttt-rat-ttt-rat-ttt. Rat-ttt-rat-ttt.
I sat next to him at dinner. Our chairs were close enough that our legs could touch. She was burning at the other side. I spooned potatoes on to my plate. The room was hot from cooking all day. The perspiration was in a slight line on his upper lip. I was afraid to turn my head, to look at him. I ate. I ate as if I would never see food again. I shoveled greens, potatoes, chicken, gravy and glasses of milk into my mouth. I dried my plate with hot biscuits and swallowed them almost whole but I could not look at him. I felt his leg pressing against mine but I did not turn my head. I could not give him away. When he adjusted his napkin I felt his hand. I could not turn my head. She brought dessert without her eyes ever leaving the table and I ate because I thought I might never eat again. After she cleaned the table I watched him follow her upstairs. Neither of them had shoes on. The river ran ragged through my bed.
“Let me see you hand.”
The bandage was still on my hand.
He smelled the ends of my fingers.
I waited for his tongue to taste the tips.
“You smoked my cigarettes.”
“I had to.”
I pulled my hand back.
He made attempts for my wrist.
“What?”
“I needed something.”
“What does that mean?”
Exhale.
He stubbed the cigarette into the ashtray.
I watched his back as he leaned forward to open the nightstand drawer.
I placed my finger at the top of his hip.
“This, this is Point Noire. This is where we start. Then to Kinshasa. Then we follow the river. It is a beast. Cuts through the heart of it all.”
I traced my way up his back with my mouth. The jungle that dashed along the equator, the thin hip high grass of the savanna, at the Albert Nile we would drink. I lingered there for an extra day enjoying the sounds of birds and the wind ripping down from the Nangeya mountains. When I reached the mouth of the great valley I nearly collapsed on top of him. Africa. Father it is so beautiful here. I am so sorry. I could not wait any longer. Judas. Father. Judas. Father. Father. Judas. The sun was pulling up over the city of Nazret. I could not wait any longer.
She was smiling at the breakfast table. The pan was fresh with grease and fried eggs. The kitchen was full of light from the windows and he had a look that I had not seen in years. She poured orange juice into a tall glass and set it next to him. My place was not set. I opened the cabinet and removed a bowl. The cereal was stale as it came out of the box. There was no milk left in the refrigerator. I took a glass from the sink. Orange Juice. I drank with my hips leaning against the counter. She was still wrapped in her bathrobe. I was wearing clothes from the floor. He had showered and shaved for the first time in two days. He looked just like our father. She looked nothing like I remembered. I watched her as she forced her way through the kitchen for him. She brought him eggs, toast, juice, a cup of coffee, milk and sugar. She smiled for him, and he made small motions with his hand while he ate. My father used to tell me that everything happens in the morning. Everything.
I watched him working in the yard that morning from my bedroom window. He had his head buried in a thick bush. She was sipping milk from a glass at the edge of the porch. She had just turned fifteen and the icing was melting off her cake onto a paper plate. It was not even noon yet. She watched our father work over the bushes. His bare chest was shiny with sweat and patched with dirt. He had on gloves and a thick handled pair of pruning shears were sagging in his pocket. The sun was filling up the yard from high overhead. I heard my mother humming old psalms in the kitchen. My brother, Isaac, was sitting in the kitchen. I saw it all that morning. He looked so tired under that sun. He was tired and had given up. The pruning shears laying open in the grass she nearly cut her foot open. She held the glass for him. His mouth begging her. He had forgotten himself. She let the milk spill over the edges of his lips and roll down his chin and neck into the hair on his chest. She slid her slim hips over his body so quickly I almost pretended not to see it. If the muffins had been ready ten minutes earlier nothing would have happened. She would have not come out of the house to get him. She would have not seen them in the grass just past the hedge. My sisters blue bathing suit top spread out simply in the grass. She would have not screamed his name. Paul. I would have not broken the window and let it all coming crashing in.
“You will leave. You will pack and leave.”
It was a voice I had never heard in her.
“I’m going with him.”
She had a voice too young even for fifteen.
“I know you are.”
“That is her decision.”
He was drying his chest with a kitchen towel.
“Who are you to talk after what you have done to me.”
“To you?”
“How could you?”
“I love her.”
“Fuck you. You love her. Fuck you.”
“I love him mother.”
“He is your father Mary, your father you dumb cunt.”
“I love him. That is more than you ever gave him. You are dried up.”
“Cunt.”
“You let them inside you and you never can give him what I have.”
“You will never understand. You ruined me. You ruined us all.”
It was then that we all knew she was pregnant. It was full on her face and she could no longer hide it. When they left that night there was nothing. The house felt so small as I watched them. I thought Isaac would never let go of me. I was never so wrong. Everything happens in the morning.
After breakfast there was nothing to do. There was nothing to do except wait. In the sun on the porch I smoked a cigarette and waited. When Isaac came out of the house he had the keys in his hand. He looked at me, smoke left hanging, and said nothing. He did not dare open his mouth and tell me where he was going. He did not tell me what time he was coming home. He did not tell me that our mother was crying. He did not tell me anything. He knew everything and it was the only thing that he had left. I had to let him go. He always handled the car smoothly. I watched him turn the wheel flat flesh part of his palm on the wheel. He whipped it around and was past the corner before I exhaled. I wish I had taken another cigarette. It was not even noon yet. Tonight I would need her more than ever.
The people of Kinshasa were alive. They were full of energy and heart I had never felt before. Father was alive and laughing. I could not even belief it myself anymore. It was all amazing. The men moved about the tall unexpected buildings in business suits and smiles. The woman blushed modestly at our bare legs, and children followed us everywhere. Father had already booked our passage down the river to Kisangani. There was French everywhere. The men smiled and the women closed their eyes as we passed by. Father wiped his face with the cloth in his back pocket. The man at the boat office had eyes like the dead. The river was waiting.
In the cool nights I stayed on the porch until the dark walked up the front lawn. She was always waiting for him. We were waiting for him. I pulled myself up from the rattan bench. The air at night always smelled better. I looked in through the window. In the orange hallway light she almost looked peaceful. She was just sitting there, absolutely still. I found it hard to believe she was even real. I knew she was afraid to breath without him. I was afraid of her now, like this. I walked into the front yard. The grass was gathering dew, I knew it would break. I knew all of it would break. I walked until to Evelyn’s house. There was nothing to stop her anymore. She could have all of me. She could take everything.
“I can’t come out with you.”
“Why not?”
“You know why.”
“I need you.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Come down.”
“I can’t.”
“Please.”
“You have to be strong.”
“I know.”
“Is this what you want.”
“I need this.”
“There is no end to this now.”
“I know.”
“It will be this way now.”
“I need you.”
“This will be it now.”
“I know.”
“It will be everything for us.”
“I need you.”
“I always loved you.”
When she came out the front door her hair was still wet and her face was fresh from the shower. I felt her hand against me and everything was right again. Her father’s car smelled like tobacco. Her face looked very determined. The Cedar Pine’s motel had only twelve rooms. I waited for Evelyn at the front entrance. In the window I could see the desk clerk. He was wearing a red vest and looked tired. She smiled awkwardly as she approached the door. I knew she was worried but the routine was familiar enough. I smiled at the desk clerk and his face remembered me. There was a moment of indecision as he chose a key from the peg board. Number 2, number 8, number 10, number 3. Always number 3. He handed me the key and I dug in my jeans for money. Evelyn was getting ice from the machine in a plastic bucket. I took the key and walked out to the room. The walkway buzzed with fluorescent lights and insects. We could hear two men in room number 9. I could hear them talking through the walls. I opened the door and undressed.
Evelyn was holding the ice bucket against her breasts. She was smiling. She placed the bucket down on the nightstand and moved across the room. The light in the bathroom was yellow and I turned away. When I turned back she was already undressed her skirt on the white tile floor. I could hear the shower running. She wanted to be ready. Her mouth was warm on the side of my neck. I closed my eyes again. Evelyn. I wanted to say her name. I wanted to scream out. Her hand was at the small of my back. The edges of her finger digging into my side, still fresh despite some time. In her face she begged me not to hit her. All that was left was for us to wait.
We had to wait for the boat in Kinshasa. It would be a day and a half if everything went right. The man at the boat office directed us to the Colonial Bungalows. The roof was a sheet of tin and the two rooms smelled like urine and cut grass. It was hot. The kitchen sink was full of black water. Father sat down carefully on the only chair. I watched him look at the room. His hand was broad and wide on his thigh. He pushed back his hat and wiped his brow. There was no reason to stay in the bungalows. Kinshasa was waiting for us. The sun hit my face like a matchhead as soon as we opened the door. There were beggars everywhere. My father pulled his billfold from his back pocket and slipped it against his thigh. Everyone was looking for the shade. An elusive criminal. There were soldiers leaning on their weapons by a fruit stand.
Evelyn was driving fast. I could not tell what she was thinking. I could not read her face anymore. Everything had changed for me. I knew I could not go home yet. My clothes smelled like the motel. I wish I had another cigarette. There was no where to go. There was nothing I could do. Nothing I could do for her but give. Nothing I could do for him. Nothing I could for us. I could not look at her when I got out of the car. Her hands were still on the wheel. She would not move. Her eyes told me everything. I could not say no to something so beautiful. I would walk the rest of the way home taking my time around the quiet blocks. I knew he would be home already. She would be full of him already and sleeping. The street before the house was wet from a summer shower. I liked the smell of it, afterrain.
The front door was unlocked. I was surprised. The kitchen light was still on and their was the smell of smoke in the house. I was surprised. Isaac was sitting at the table. He was not wearing his shirt. I watched him from the hall, smoking, using a saucer as an ashtray. The smoke left his mouth slowly, elegantly. It was these things that made him dangerous. He could break us all.
Kinshasa smelled like garbage. The city was beautiful. The trees jutted out of the streets like ripe fruit in orange and blue. I could hear music vibrating down the crowded street. The rhythms were almost irresistible. I looked at father. He was sitting on the bed naked to the waist. He had been smiling since we reached shore at Point Noire. We had at least two days to wait for the boat. A soldier smiled as we passed by. He was resting against a cinder block building. His gun slack in the corner of his elbow. I was grateful that the sun was setting. The shadows were a great relief to everyone. I made sure to walk carefully. I watched father wipe his face again. The cloth stained and heavy with sweat. Their was a bistro at the end of the block. There were four young girls outside. Their skin in the settling light looked like coffee with cream. Their perfume mixed with the dull smell of rotting garbage and fresh ash. Father took a feather from the tallest ones hair. He gave her an American dollar. When she smiled the white in her teeth was startling. She touched my cheek. I did not want to say anything. The dull ache of pain in my side was enough.
I took the cigarette from Isaac’s hands. He lit the match and waited for the smell to dissipate. I inhaled heavily on the first drag. He did not look familiar anymore but it did not matter in the dark. It would only hurt in the morning. I followed him up the stairs. The hallway was dark. I could not see him anymore. We laid down in the great valley for the last time. The sky shut its eye on us. The mountains covering us in towers of shadow. The moon barely a candle amongst their hands. In the morning, the sun would pull up over the tips of the peaks cresting like a wave in subtle hints of red, orange, lavender. We were only two days from the great horn.
Father. Judas.
I did not mean to drive you from here.
this was not the truth (Part 1)
Christopher/1997-1999
I waited.
I stood in the snow with only two shirts to keep me warm. He had disappeared again. Our mother would be full of smiles for him. His face looked deep with long hours and cigarettes. I saw the car rumbling low from down the road. A rusted blue Olds still with real chrome. The car slowed, stopped, and he got out. I watched him circle around the hood. His slender fingers were tracing their way back toward me. He left the car running. In the lingering exhaust he found enough cover to get clean of it all and wrestle himself back into place and pretend he never left.
“How’s mom?”
“She misses you. I missed you.”
“How do you know?”
“I don’t know.”
I looked down.
“I told you.”
“I know.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
“You know why.”
I felt something rising up in my throat.
I was pulling at the insides of my pockets.
“I ask you for one thing?”
“ I am not a little boy anymore.”
“Sometimes you act like it.”
“I don’t want to fight.”
In my limp arms he could see it.
“Either do I.”
“Why did you come back?”
I could not stop my mouth from asking.
“There is no other way.”
“That’s it?”
“That is it.”
“Liar.”
“Just let it be.”
“Let’s go home.”
“Okay, let’s go home.”
I watched him walk back to the Olds. I climbed back into the truck. I knew that I had loved him. I watched him lead me back home. He drove with the window open slightly despite the cold. He was smoking again. The car moved smoothly for him. He took the long way home. He enjoyed another cigarette. There was only one light on in the house. Her bedroom was church to him. That is where he pleaded with her. That is where he begged her for forgiveness. That is where she gave him absolution. That is where no one could touch them. I understood he had nothing left. He jerked the car into park. He did not wait for me. I watched him hustle up to the front door the keys jangling in his hand. She was waiting for him. He was so impatient. He fumbled over the door lock. I took his bag out from the backseat of the car. He was already with her. I pushed my ear up against the door. I had heard it before. They talk in a way that I never understood. It sounded unconscious. I watched my breathing as they spoke. I was careful not to interrupt. I knew if I waited he would come to me tonight. I would hear him turn the knob slightly, and watch the light in the hall slip in through the space. It would cut right across my face. I would wait for him to slip into the bed. He would be ready by then. I knew it would happen. I listened at the door.
“I missed you.”
Her voice cracked against itself.
“I know.”
“I was not happy you left again.”
“I had to go.”
“I do not understand.”
“These things are complicated. I do not always understand it. They can not understand it.”
“All that matters is this.”
She was growing firmer in her tone.
I could hear them moving.
They stepped lightly like children around each other.
“I am sorry.”
“It will be difficult.”
“It will be.”
“What about him?”
“There is only this.”
“I understand.”
“Are you ready?”
“I have nothing else.”
“It is time then. Kneel.”
“Everything smells so wonderful.”
I pulled away from the door. It sounded as if they were crying. My room was cold. I turned on the small lamp at the desk. There were shadows everywhere. I could see the outline of the Great Horn above, calling me. It was everything I wanted.
When I woke up he was already gone. The house was full of the early summer sun and the smell of grease in a pan. I could hear men with garden tools. He was with her. They were eating breakfast. I dressed quickly. His space of the bed barely looked slept. I came down the stairs quickly. It was Sunday. I would have to wait. I stood in the doorway until they noticed me. They ate quietly with smiles and fast bites, toast, eggs, jelly, orange juice, and a coffee ring. They did not have time for anyone else. Sunday. He was naked to the waist. She already had her dress on. I made my own breakfast. I listened to the hiss of the iron as I ate my cereal. He stood over her. It was his only good shirt. I had never seen him wear it except on Sunday. Then he disappeared.
He took the keys from the counter. He barely looked at me. He knew I could never say no when he was dressed like that. His shoes had been polished. His pants creased only ten minutes ago, even his skin looked starch. I did not dare touch him. I would have to wait. I watched from the hall as he backed the car carefully out of the driveway. There was a heavy cloud of exhaust that lingered after them. They would be gone for hours. The house felt so small without him. In the kitchen the dishes were still piled in the sink. I put the towel over my shoulder and turned on the faucet. The water ran hot almost immediately. I pulled my hands back quickly the dish broke against the side of the steel sink. The cut was deep down the inside of my hand. A line like the great river and the blood ran quickly into the drain. I wrapped the towel around my hand. The blood was beautiful and heavy but I forced myself into the bathroom. I opened the medicine cabinet, hand lotion, aspirin, Band-Aids, Trojans, Gauze. I pulled the towel from my hand. The blood ran down the valley of my hand into the sink. The pain left no questions. I tried to turn on the faucet. I tried. I could see the shinning tips of the valley.
When I woke he was whispering. I could barely see, my eyes were full of sleep and shine and with that light he looked stripped naked and whole again. Judas, Judas, Judas. I am sorry father. I could not help myself. I knew it would be me in the end. I know you can not help yourself. Then, when the light broke from my eyes and I could feel the sheets against my body again I knew what happened. I loved him when he smiled. I am sorry father.
We started at Pointe Noire. It was hot even in the water as we helped push the boat to shore. The men at the shore had arms scarred by the sun and wrapped in muscle. I wiped my face with the rag in my pocket. My father was standing like a peacock his hat full with flamingo feathers bought in Ghana. The other men at the shore seemed to have the brightest smiles of all. I could not wait to see the valley. Father pulled some money from the pouch inside his shirt. It was barely dry enough to count. The men took the boat. He smiled. I handed my rope to a boy twice my height. At the shore I took my boots from around my neck and untied the laces. They smelled like ocean. I had not seen land for almost a week. Africa.
I heard the door open. They were full of laughter and the incessant talk that comes with church. I would not be able to talk to him until late. I knew he would want to be close to her. I thought I understood. I could hear her start the talk of dinner and things about salad, fresh vegetables, chicken, hard boiled eggs, the cloth napkins, the good plates, the fine spices, preheating the oven, sautéing the greens, peeling the potatoes, homemade stuffing, communion, mary, jesus, pudding, whipped cream, fresh strawberries, the fine linen table cloth, the upstairs candlesticks. He was a part of all these things. I turned my head back on the pillow and stared at the slender contours of the great horn. It was the most noble land mass I had ever seen, proud sure of its hip. A woman who has seen many children, a father with an eager lap to rest in. It was never desperate, simply waiting.
I stood at the top of the stairs. She was talking about how to baste the chicken from the top of the stairs. She was wearing her favorite apron, tied at the neck and the waist just above her hips. She still had on her dress. I was surprised to see her without shoes.
“Can I help?”
I did not dare cross the threshold.
“We have everything under control.”
She did not turn, she would not see me.
“I can set the table.”
“Your brother will do it. He understands what I want.”
I could smell her lay butter into the pan.
“Are you sure I can’t do anything?”
I already knew the answer.
No. I waited. I wanted to smoke. I went to the hall closet. I pulled at the pockets of his jacket in order to find his cigarettes. I knew he would have hid them from her. I took a desperate looking nail from the pack and slid it into the corner of my mouth. The pack of matches was nestled in the corner of the same pocket. I opened the front door quietly. I knew it didn’t matter. I knew they couldn’t hear me, not today. They did not want to. It was cool outside and the air smelled like a our neighbors cut lawn. I folded over the match, one hand, and struck it with my thumb against the back of the pack. The initial inhale was full of sulfur and threatened a coughing spurt. I held the smoke deep and long and watched as the long stream pushed out past my lips. At the corner two boys were riding their bikes. I moved towards them turning over the matchbook in my hand and taking long drags every few steps. The boys had cards jammed in their spokes. Rat-ttt-rat-ttt-rat-ttt-rat-ttt. I listened to them ride in circles around their driveway. They looked like brothers. Each with the others smile. It was beautiful. They laughed and spun about on hard turns and half-done tricks. I stayed after the smoke was gone watching them ride as the sun set and bleached them out in a blanket of orange until all I had was shadows, long and sick like. I could still hear them laughing. Rat-ttt-rat-ttt-rat-ttt-rat-ttt-rat-ttt-rat-ttt. Rat-ttt-rat-ttt.
I sat next to him at dinner. Our chairs were close enough that our legs could touch. She was burning at the other side. I spooned potatoes on to my plate. The room was hot from cooking all day. The perspiration was in a slight line on his upper lip. I was afraid to turn my head, to look at him. I ate. I ate as if I would never see food again. I shoveled greens, potatoes, chicken, gravy and glasses of milk into my mouth. I dried my plate with hot biscuits and swallowed them almost whole but I could not look at him. I felt his leg pressing against mine but I did not turn my head. I could not give him away. When he adjusted his napkin I felt his hand. I could not turn my head. She brought dessert without her eyes ever leaving the table and I ate because I thought I might never eat again. After she cleaned the table I watched him follow her upstairs. Neither of them had shoes on. The river ran ragged through my bed.
“Let me see you hand.”
The bandage was still on my hand.
He smelled the ends of my fingers.
I waited for his tongue to taste the tips.
“You smoked my cigarettes.”
“I had to.”
I pulled my hand back.
He made attempts for my wrist.
“What?”
“I needed something.”
“What does that mean?”
Exhale.
He stubbed the cigarette into the ashtray.
I watched his back as he leaned forward to open the nightstand drawer.
I placed my finger at the top of his hip.
“This, this is Point Noire. This is where we start. Then to Kinshasa. Then we follow the river. It is a beast. Cuts through the heart of it all.”
I traced my way up his back with my mouth. The jungle that dashed along the equator, the thin hip high grass of the savanna, at the Albert Nile we would drink. I lingered there for an extra day enjoying the sounds of birds and the wind ripping down from the Nangeya mountains. When I reached the mouth of the great valley I nearly collapsed on top of him. Africa. Father it is so beautiful here. I am so sorry. I could not wait any longer. Judas. Father. Judas. Father. Father. Judas. The sun was pulling up over the city of Nazret. I could not wait any longer.
She was smiling at the breakfast table. The pan was fresh with grease and fried eggs. The kitchen was full of light from the windows and he had a look that I had not seen in years. She poured orange juice into a tall glass and set it next to him. My place was not set. I opened the cabinet and removed a bowl. The cereal was stale as it came out of the box. There was no milk left in the refrigerator. I took a glass from the sink. Orange Juice. I drank with my hips leaning against the counter. She was still wrapped in her bathrobe. I was wearing clothes from the floor. He had showered and shaved for the first time in two days. He looked just like our father. She looked nothing like I remembered. I watched her as she forced her way through the kitchen for him. She brought him eggs, toast, juice, a cup of coffee, milk and sugar. She smiled for him, and he made small motions with his hand while he ate. My father used to tell me that everything happens in the morning. Everything.
I watched him working in the yard that morning from my bedroom window. He had his head buried in a thick bush. She was sipping milk from a glass at the edge of the porch. She had just turned fifteen and the icing was melting off her cake onto a paper plate. It was not even noon yet. She watched our father work over the bushes. His bare chest was shiny with sweat and patched with dirt. He had on gloves and a thick handled pair of pruning shears were sagging in his pocket. The sun was filling up the yard from high overhead. I heard my mother humming old psalms in the kitchen. My brother, Isaac, was sitting in the kitchen. I saw it all that morning. He looked so tired under that sun. He was tired and had given up. The pruning shears laying open in the grass she nearly cut her foot open. She held the glass for him. His mouth begging her. He had forgotten himself. She let the milk spill over the edges of his lips and roll down his chin and neck into the hair on his chest. She slid her slim hips over his body so quickly I almost pretended not to see it. If the muffins had been ready ten minutes earlier nothing would have happened. She would have not come out of the house to get him. She would have not seen them in the grass just past the hedge. My sisters blue bathing suit top spread out simply in the grass. She would have not screamed his name. Paul. I would have not broken the window and let it all coming crashing in.
“You will leave. You will pack and leave.”
It was a voice I had never heard in her.
“I’m going with him.”
She had a voice too young even for fifteen.
“I know you are.”
“That is her decision.”
He was drying his chest with a kitchen towel.
“Who are you to talk after what you have done to me.”
“To you?”
“How could you?”
“I love her.”
“Fuck you. You love her. Fuck you.”
“I love him mother.”
“He is your father Mary, your father you dumb cunt.”
“I love him. That is more than you ever gave him. You are dried up.”
“Cunt.”
“You let them inside you and you never can give him what I have.”
“You will never understand. You ruined me. You ruined us all.”
It was then that we all knew she was pregnant. It was full on her face and she could no longer hide it. When they left that night there was nothing. The house felt so small as I watched them. I thought Isaac would never let go of me. I was never so wrong. Everything happens in the morning.
After breakfast there was nothing to do. There was nothing to do except wait. In the sun on the porch I smoked a cigarette and waited. When Isaac came out of the house he had the keys in his hand. He looked at me, smoke left hanging, and said nothing. He did not dare open his mouth and tell me where he was going. He did not tell me what time he was coming home. He did not tell me that our mother was crying. He did not tell me anything. He knew everything and it was the only thing that he had left. I had to let him go. He always handled the car smoothly. I watched him turn the wheel flat flesh part of his palm on the wheel. He whipped it around and was past the corner before I exhaled. I wish I had taken another cigarette. It was not even noon yet. Tonight I would need her more than ever.
The people of Kinshasa were alive. They were full of energy and heart I had never felt before. Father was alive and laughing. I could not even belief it myself anymore. It was all amazing. The men moved about the tall unexpected buildings in business suits and smiles. The woman blushed modestly at our bare legs, and children followed us everywhere. Father had already booked our passage down the river to Kisangani. There was French everywhere. The men smiled and the women closed their eyes as we passed by. Father wiped his face with the cloth in his back pocket. The man at the boat office had eyes like the dead. The river was waiting.
In the cool nights I stayed on the porch until the dark walked up the front lawn. She was always waiting for him. We were waiting for him. I pulled myself up from the rattan bench. The air at night always smelled better. I looked in through the window. In the orange hallway light she almost looked peaceful. She was just sitting there, absolutely still. I found it hard to believe she was even real. I knew she was afraid to breath without him. I was afraid of her now, like this. I walked into the front yard. The grass was gathering dew, I knew it would break. I knew all of it would break. I walked until to Evelyn’s house. There was nothing to stop her anymore. She could have all of me. She could take everything.
“I can’t come out with you.”
“Why not?”
“You know why.”
“I need you.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Come down.”
“I can’t.”
“Please.”
“You have to be strong.”
“I know.”
“Is this what you want.”
“I need this.”
“There is no end to this now.”
“I know.”
“It will be this way now.”
“I need you.”
“This will be it now.”
“I know.”
“It will be everything for us.”
“I need you.”
“I always loved you.”
When she came out the front door her hair was still wet and her face was fresh from the shower. I felt her hand against me and everything was right again. Her father’s car smelled like tobacco. Her face looked very determined. The Cedar Pine’s motel had only twelve rooms. I waited for Evelyn at the front entrance. In the window I could see the desk clerk. He was wearing a red vest and looked tired. She smiled awkwardly as she approached the door. I knew she was worried but the routine was familiar enough. I smiled at the desk clerk and his face remembered me. There was a moment of indecision as he chose a key from the peg board. Number 2, number 8, number 10, number 3. Always number 3. He handed me the key and I dug in my jeans for money. Evelyn was getting ice from the machine in a plastic bucket. I took the key and walked out to the room. The walkway buzzed with fluorescent lights and insects. We could hear two men in room number 9. I could hear them talking through the walls. I opened the door and undressed.
Evelyn was holding the ice bucket against her breasts. She was smiling. She placed the bucket down on the nightstand and moved across the room. The light in the bathroom was yellow and I turned away. When I turned back she was already undressed her skirt on the white tile floor. I could hear the shower running. She wanted to be ready. Her mouth was warm on the side of my neck. I closed my eyes again. Evelyn. I wanted to say her name. I wanted to scream out. Her hand was at the small of my back. The edges of her finger digging into my side, still fresh despite some time. In her face she begged me not to hit her. All that was left was for us to wait.
We had to wait for the boat in Kinshasa. It would be a day and a half if everything went right. The man at the boat office directed us to the Colonial Bungalows. The roof was a sheet of tin and the two rooms smelled like urine and cut grass. It was hot. The kitchen sink was full of black water. Father sat down carefully on the only chair. I watched him look at the room. His hand was broad and wide on his thigh. He pushed back his hat and wiped his brow. There was no reason to stay in the bungalows. Kinshasa was waiting for us. The sun hit my face like a matchhead as soon as we opened the door. There were beggars everywhere. My father pulled his billfold from his back pocket and slipped it against his thigh. Everyone was looking for the shade. An elusive criminal. There were soldiers leaning on their weapons by a fruit stand.
Evelyn was driving fast. I could not tell what she was thinking. I could not read her face anymore. Everything had changed for me. I knew I could not go home yet. My clothes smelled like the motel. I wish I had another cigarette. There was no where to go. There was nothing I could do. Nothing I could do for her but give. Nothing I could do for him. Nothing I could for us. I could not look at her when I got out of the car. Her hands were still on the wheel. She would not move. Her eyes told me everything. I could not say no to something so beautiful. I would walk the rest of the way home taking my time around the quiet blocks. I knew he would be home already. She would be full of him already and sleeping. The street before the house was wet from a summer shower. I liked the smell of it, afterrain.
The front door was unlocked. I was surprised. The kitchen light was still on and their was the smell of smoke in the house. I was surprised. Isaac was sitting at the table. He was not wearing his shirt. I watched him from the hall, smoking, using a saucer as an ashtray. The smoke left his mouth slowly, elegantly. It was these things that made him dangerous. He could break us all.
Kinshasa smelled like garbage. The city was beautiful. The trees jutted out of the streets like ripe fruit in orange and blue. I could hear music vibrating down the crowded street. The rhythms were almost irresistible. I looked at father. He was sitting on the bed naked to the waist. He had been smiling since we reached shore at Point Noire. We had at least two days to wait for the boat. A soldier smiled as we passed by. He was resting against a cinder block building. His gun slack in the corner of his elbow. I was grateful that the sun was setting. The shadows were a great relief to everyone. I made sure to walk carefully. I watched father wipe his face again. The cloth stained and heavy with sweat. Their was a bistro at the end of the block. There were four young girls outside. Their skin in the settling light looked like coffee with cream. Their perfume mixed with the dull smell of rotting garbage and fresh ash. Father took a feather from the tallest ones hair. He gave her an American dollar. When she smiled the white in her teeth was startling. She touched my cheek. I did not want to say anything. The dull ache of pain in my side was enough.
I took the cigarette from Isaac’s hands. He lit the match and waited for the smell to dissipate. I inhaled heavily on the first drag. He did not look familiar anymore but it did not matter in the dark. It would only hurt in the morning. I followed him up the stairs. The hallway was dark. I could not see him anymore. We laid down in the great valley for the last time. The sky shut its eye on us. The mountains covering us in towers of shadow. The moon barely a candle amongst their hands. In the morning, the sun would pull up over the tips of the peaks cresting like a wave in subtle hints of red, orange, lavender. We were only two days from the great horn.
Father. Judas.
I did not mean to drive you from here.
Wake
The light is makes a hum about the room
It keeps comfort amongst the relatives stuck black in the kitchen.
She has crossed legs and stockings
her lips are worried and chapped
His hands next to hers
swollen and the ice in her drink cracks anxiously
People are waiting
and her chest is trembling quietly.
Photograph
He was thinking of the photograph. The struck white faces in their slender teak frame. He was thinking of the photograph. Their hands still. He was thinking of the photograph. Their still hands. Their slender fingers balanced and quiet in their laps. He had seen it several times since then. He was thinking of the photograph. The lake shining in the background. He was thinking of the photograph. Her hair was lighter then. Their hair was longer. He was thinking of the photograph. The man walking by with determined red hands. He was thinking of the photograph. Their hands so still. He was thinking of her. He was thinking of her and his determined red hands.
The car swung out of the driveway simply. It was early. The road was still wet and quiet. He drove with the window open and enjoyed the morning smell. The house shrank away in the mirror. At the corner of Dutch Neck Road and Meadow Brook he turned left. The car steered well. He enjoyed the feeling of the leather wheel sliding past his palms. At the corner of Meadow Brook and Forsgate Drive he turned right. Their was a woman at the bus stop. She had a small brown bag and a large blue hat. He slowed down to look at her. He was thinking of someone else. At the corner of Forsgate Drive and South River road he turned right. There was a traffic light before the highway entrance. He waited. The car handled smoothly as he sped up the onramp. He closed his window.
The air conditioner hummed with a slight rasp as he followed the dotted highway lines. The median was littered with bottles and trash. He pulled a cigarette from the pack. He could not smoke with the window up. He placed the cigarette back in the pack eyes always turned to the road. At exit six, Route 27, he left the highway. He already had the toll money in his shirt pocket. 60 cents. The toll both operator was wearing a uniform and a New York Knicks baseball cap. After the toll both he turned left onto Stults Drive. The road was narrow and bordered by the heavy leaves of elm trees. He pulled the car over to the side of the road. He was crying. The elms were still morning wet. The leaves were drip drying in scatters of light and shadows. He placed his hand against the rough bark and felt the age of it against his skin. In the shade of the gentle elms he closed his eyes. Work.
“you’re late.”
“i’m sorry.”
“this is the third time.”
“i’m sorry.”
“we can not ignore this much longer.”
“i’m sorry.”
“i know it has been very difficult time for you.”
“i’m sorry.”
“we all want to help you.”
“i’m sorry.”
“but there are these things that can not be ignored.”
“i’m sorry.”
“we will only wait so long.”
“i’m sorry.”
“we will only wait so long.”
His desk was always clean. He sat in the chair and stared at the pile of thick manilla folders. He wanted a cigarette. He could not smoke in the office. He took a pen from his desk drawer. The first folder read Ashalnd Chemical. 3000 Tote Bin Labels. 123 dollars per thousand. The second folder read Harry Abrahams. 2000 Starburst Labels(Great African Ceremonies). 68 dollars per thousand. The third folder read Elementis Specialities. 10,000 pinfeed drum labels. 39 dollars per thousand. He wanted a cigarette. The woman at the desk closest to him smelled of flowers and mascara. He watched her. Her long thin fingers were holding a pen. The pen was ridiculous. It had a purple burst of hair at the end. The pen was ridiculous. She was writing cautiously. She read each number quietly but out loud. He was thinking of her naked. He was thinking of her children. He was thinking of her with a prosthetic arm. It would be a false flesh color. At her elbow the joint would bend awkwardly underneath her clothing. She would always were long sleeves. Her husband would leave her. He was thinking of the children. Her mouth moved carefully with each number. 36 dollars per thousand. 300 Sample Labels. He was thinking of the children.
“what were you looking at?”
“i’m sorry.”
“it is okay.”
“i’m sorry.”
“i know it must be difficult for you.”
“i’m sorry.”
“i wish there was something i can do to help you.”
“i’m sorry.”
He was thinking of the children. The phone rang. Acro Label Supply can I help you. MicroPowders Inc. 2000 laser labels. 178 dollars per thousand. He wanted a cigarette. He left his lunch in the car. The numbers on the clock were red. 12:30. He enjoyed the fresh air. Men and women were leaving the office. High-heels, dress-shoes, pants suits, double-breasted, three buttons, french-cut. He did not wear a tie. He ate his lunch on the hood of his car. Turkey sandwich, apple, diet-coke, Hershey bar. Her name was Hannah. He was thinking of the photograph. He removed the cigarette from the pack. He struck a match against the back of the book. He inhaled quickly. The smell of sulfur. Camels. He watched the ash float through the air. Thin, white flakes dusted the hood of his car in spells of flight abandoned with solitude, the leaves during autumn.
He opened the door to his car. The seat was warm. Full of noon sun. He leaned his head back. The keys were in his left pocket. The car started quickly. He placed the gear shift into reverse. The car handled smoothly. He turned left to leave the parking lot. Stults Drive. He turned right onto Route 27. He turned onto the ramp for the highway. 60cents. Home.
He got out of the car. The window was still open. Their house was waiting. The front door was unlocked. The kitchen smelled like coffee grinds. He took a cigarette from the pack. She always liked the smell of smoke. In the living room he sat in the only remaining chair. It was brown leather. It felt cool against his body. There were four liquor bottles still in the cabinet. Johnny Walker Black. Crown Royal Scotch. Grey Goose Vodka. Jack Daniel’s. He drank. No ice. The liquor felt warm and rough as it rolled down his throat. Black Label. He smoked another cigarette. He was thinking about the photograph. They had such slender hands. Her hair was lighter then. Hannah.
“come here.”
“what for.”
“i asked you.”
“wait.”
“it can’t wait.”
“why not.”
“it’s better that way.”
“it’s over isn’t it.”
“yes.”
“why.”
“because.”
“what about them.”
“i will take them.”
“why.”
“it is better that way.”
“what do i get.”
“you can visit.”
“when.”
“whenever. just call first.”
“how will we tell them.”
“i will do it.”
“why.”
“you are drunk.”
“i’m sorry.”
“i know.”
“i’m sorry.”
“it’s not all your fault.”
“i’m sorry.”
“stop saying that.”
“i’m sorry.”
“fix me a drink.”
“now.”
“yes. now”
“what will we do.”
“you will work.”
“what about you.”
“i will work.”
“where should i go.”
“i will go.”
“why.”
“it is better that way.”
“where will i sleep tonight.”
“with me.”
“why.”
“you are drunk.”
He woke up in the chair. He had spilled his drink. The stain was setting on the carpet. He was thinking of the photograph. The man with determined red hands. He had no face. All greys and whites and two thick dots for eyes. Red hands. Through the window he could see the swing. Mahogany. She used to sit, legs crossed, skirt riding up with a glass of lemonade. The glasses were sweating through paper napkins. He could hear their voices scattered like broken plates around the yard. She was wearing the same skirt in the photograph. Short, full of hope, and art deco red. She waited for him on the swing. The glasses were cool in his hands.
At the front door he watched the night. Cooler. The sounds of highway trucks and late night couples. The Anderson’s were making love. His car collected dew. The lawn was wet. She only let the swing sway slightly. Enough to enjoy the slight small breeze. The lawn felt cool on his bare-feet. He touched the edge of the swing. The wood had grown since the last time. The planks cracked and full with age. The mahogany smelt of summers and grass clippings. He sat down. The old sounds were comforting. The ice was ringing in his drink. He wanted a cigarette. He reached for his pocket. He knew he had left them inside. He could not get up.
“we had fun at the lake.”
“we did.”
“it was nice that day.”
“it was.”
“we should go back.”
“i don’t think so.”
“why not.”
“it is better that way.”
“i’m sorry.”
“it is okay.”
“do you want another drink.”
“yes.”
“there is no ice left.”
“i know.”
“i’m sorry.”
“it is better that way.”
“i’m sorry.”
He enjoyed the sound of his car. The engine, the turn signal. He was smoking a cigarette. The window was open. The highway was empty. His head lights flooded the road. The car moved smoothly. 85mph. He could see the storm in the distance. The lightening was moving sideways in flashpoint bursts. Trails and hues of orange. He could see them jumping, cloud to cloud, in short revelations. Their faces were full of laughter. It would never rain. Only lightening. Little thunder. No rain.
He was thinking of the photograph. Their hands so still. Her hair long and full of spite. The man with the determined hands. A blur of motion and aperture. He was thinking of them. His red hands on her body. Their struck white faces in the tint teak frame. Still hands. He was thinking of her. The man with red hands. The lake shining in the background. His red hands on her body. He was thinking of the photograph.
Gardens
I. Busy
In the dark of the city
She grew quietly
Her fingers becoming long and rigid
Her red hair
Still soft in the summer breeze
II. The Park
In the afternoon
At the eclipse in the park
As the light dimmed subtly
Like a failing candle
I took my time with her slender hands
Still small, still sweet on my mouth
III. Gardens
We dug with our nails
The cool earth brown and
Moist in our hands
Her garden a drifting memory
Of peas, carrots, melons, peppers,
Tomatoes, lettuce and one patch
Of quiet daises
IV. Thirst
In the summer
Months when
My hand guided her long fingers
Along slender curves
Of the watering can
We grew, budding flowers,
Easy and full of life
Her fingers still ripe with dirt
And earth
V. Daisies
And you, wretched flower
So smug
So sickly smart,
Always just alive enough
To call her
Always just breathing
Your roots merely stretching
Along the surface
I saw you fade
Begging for the slender grip of her petals
The water can raising after
A rushed dinner
Love wasted on wild flowers
VI. Blood
Two years later
Dirt still fresh under her fingers
She whispered rumors over a daisy
About disease
And I watched the sickly stem
My own blood
B positive
A frightening
Coincidence and little
Consolation
VII. Regret
The stem frail, withered
Like autumn
VIII. Blue
Her fingers look
Very,
So very long
In an English bed
Sheets austere and blue
[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]
Title: Visions of the Deep
Artist: dj/stretch
Album Title: In The Black Ocean
Matinee
In this place
we understand
each other the most
surrounded by strangers
and the smell of stale popcorn
we wait
one seat between us
an empty space for idle conversation
stilted on afternoons in the dark
