Sometimes I drive past the blue house with its ashen roof and white trim, note the collected changes of a decade – gone the bushes at the end of the cracked driveway, gone the redbud popcorn bloom of spring. There’s a small garden in the backyard where the above ground pool used to bring the family together, and the wide oak, sick with canker and BB pellets, no longer leans heavy into the porch, lending shade to those unforgiving summer evenings.
I see you, bouncing room to room as if we were too poor for doors, your hair electrocuted, the bottom of my outstretched t-shirt scraping the carpet. I see the home movies where you played all the parts. I see our first dog, scarred by coyotes – still her tail thumps the floor.
The old neighborhood is a horseshoe in the wandering lens of a cold satellite, a postcard with a watermark so fine you don’t have to hold it to the light.
The door is locked, but all our ghosts still haunt inside.
He kneels closer to his work, ninety-two in the shade, cigarette dangling from his mouth as smoke mixes into his stringy, black hair with a little gray like the weathered back of a cattle dog. Ash drops onto the ovate hosta leaf and he brushes it away with his thumb. The air, thick as bathwater, chases the last of the bruised rainclouds that had briefly paused his work, beads of moisture ornamental on the lenses of his glasses. He reaches his hands into wet earth and pulls toward his body like a lucky hand of poker. He digs and digs and I know his mind is elsewhere. He stops and looks at the hole, there on his knees. He returns the dirt inside and lays the base of a new gardenia bush and I wonder where he had gone the moment before.
I used to lay in the dark with this wild idea that great celestial beings stood guard at the corners of my room, shrouded in ten-thousand unblinking eyes and milk-white fire, deputized by Christ to keep Satan and his supporters from scratching at the window and pulling my card. I would ask God to look after me and those I loved and those I didn’t understand, and if I couldn’t sleep, be it youthful regret or the shadowed chimera at the foot of the bed, I would open a gospel and thumb for red letters. Now I close my eyes and breathe deeply, picture myself in Northern California fishing the Sierra Nevadas with Dad and all the dogs we ever had. I picture sitting at the dinner table with Mom and my sister, laughing as the record skips, our feet in the cool sand watching boiler steam from the Ludington ferry stretch clear to Wisconsin as if tethered to the purview. I search both sand dune and marram grass for new angles to old ideas, the answer high in rafters, with the sweet, painful reminder that all roads end – mine a thinning two-track weaving in and out, past valleys and over hillsides before tapering off into row after row of eastern white pine. And with it comes the night, and the dark we all succumb to. Then I dream.
Beneath Broken Arrow power lines, Drummond Island in damp knee high grass, Croton and Henning Park, warmed in last light; the ball turns purplish orange with short tosses upward before landing in soft leather, like the fitted glide of putting on Sunday shoes. I love the motion, the rhythm, the movement of the seams – spinning, floating, dancing, guided by higher, misunderstood things. Deer watch from the edge of left field as coyotes canter in right, in royal view of the town water tower across the river, last in feeling the sun, framed in center. Practicing our knuckles and curves like boys who never wandered into the woods, never stared down wolves in new darkness.
Originally appeared in The Tulsa Voice: October 2017.
I fell from the treehouse as the adults talked in the kitchen. I stared up at the tree that betrayed me, past the leaves and branches at the moon in early evening, nestled close like a piece of fruit, wondering if the tree would let the moon tumble too.
Sitting here now I smell sweet redbud on the tail end of a western prairie fire, rows of Bradford pear looking like winter now more than three months ago. A county burn ban keeps us from collecting kindling and raking sanguine coals, over and over again.
A mourning dove rests at the edge of the roof as I start to shiver in the shade – the shadow swallowing the new grass of the courtyard. Her song asks for warmer days and spring showers and I tell her the rain will keep coming till the rain gets it right.
I heard his braided stories of cowboys and astronauts on the radio through the charcoal filter he was known for, a handwritten receipt of the wry Southwest. In San Luis he leans against a door frame – thin with sheep’s wool hugging the neck of his denim jacket, cattleman cowboy hat tilted, brim over his eyes, taking in the room.
The mountains from where I drink their shadows slide into the sea, and still their rivers breed continuity, hands cupped in the cool, trickling flow like the moon naked behind clouds.
Last night a coyote pup darted in front of my truck on the way home. I should’ve known it was you.
Originally published in The 3288 Review: Autumn 2019.
This weather confuses the birds, I’m told. Seventy-three degrees in January on a Thursday afternoon. The trees talk of former windfalls, widow makers, cradled for baptisms under Cherokee skies – bark stripped white like antlers tangled in black hickory, dried leaves the rustle of balled paper.
Winter is barely out the gate but spring chews in our ear.
This bar is lit year-round with Christmas lights reflecting off the varnished oak, drinking glasses, and liquor stock, and a dozen little tiki lamps sporadically glow from their stationed posts; an aura not unlike votive candles flickering at the feet of the Blessed Virgin.
I’m redefining what it means to sit here in the dark. It’s a shame they won’t be talking about this in the next century: the way he pronounced vacuous when asked to describe the room, or the shot-glass clank tuned in perfect collective pitch. It’ll either be too hot or too cold by then, and reading will be as ancient as laugh tracks and patriotic cowboys, Monument Valley now a beatific dementia that rises with Abbadon and sets with Big Sur.
But I’m not thinking about that right now. I’m thinking about you, whoever you are, wrapped carelessly in a coral, melon-white Mexican blanket on Zuma Beach with your back to me, and whether or not it’s really been ten years since I’ve seen the ocean.
Originally published in Sugar House Review: Fall/Winter 2018
In the warm glow of my reading lamp, together with Mariette as she takes her vows at the holy cloister in Upstate New York, I hear the foghorn cries of a train in the early hours of morning. The track is roughly a mile south and its whistle is frozen in place, wailing like a dying animal in shapeless dark. I imagine a car stalled at a crossing or switchman holding a lantern as he changes course at the turnout or, still being the boy galloping ’round the living room, two-thousand head of ghostly longhorn on the Goodnight-Loving Trail, flooding past the engineer who waits as hooves trample ballast, sleeper, and rail spark to pulp. I close the window, catching the faint hint of cherry blossom, and now, back among the sisters, Mariette performs the Litany of Loreto in amity with a dozen pink and white weightless chaplets piled high for Christ’s newest bride.
Sergio arrived at First United Methodist before eight o’clock in the snow. He stood in line for a hot meal with some of the guys from 62nd Street and asked if they’d seen Georgie. They hadn’t. The men sat at small lunch tables donated by a nearby elementary school, their knees touching the rock-hard gum stuck underneath, and spooned steamy chicken noodle soup with their elbows on the table and warmed their hands over the bowls like burning trash cans under the overpass. Sergio watched the front door. He went up to a woman serving soup and asked for a second helping and she smiled and said of course. When he finished he sat against the wall and waited. In came Lonnie from El Paso Avenue who once stole Sergio’s shoes at knife-point several winters ago. They had since patched things up over the discovery of garbage bags from food trucks after last call throughout the city. Sometimes the food trucks set aside covered plates for Lonnie and Sergio, who then made sure there was enough for Georgie, which there always was. Lonnie hadn’t seen Georgie either and Sergio began to worry.
“His mind wanders,” Lonnie said, “and his feet like to follow.”
“Never thought he’d miss a hot plate though.”
Lonnie shrugged. “Could’ve grabbed one elsewhere.”
They helped one another put on their coats and stepped into the cold, windy night. Sergio sunk his neck down to his shoulders and pulled the collars up on his coat. Lonnie breathed moist air onto his bare hands and rubbed them together. A digital clock in a storefront window read quarter to nine which meant the shelter would run out of beds soon. “It’s going to be a cold one,” Lonnie said but Sergio wasn’t listening. He inched along the icy sidewalk with his head down, arms rigid, hands stuffed in his side pockets. Lonnie watched for a moment before heading in the other direction.
Sergio had the sidewalks to himself. He could’ve walked in the middle of the street if he wanted to. Just a few cars out. Office building and high rise apartment windows were yellow and white and Sergio figured most were bunked in for the night. As he rounded corners to buildings the wind took his breath away for a second like jumping off the dock at his uncle’s place in early spring, so cold the dogs wouldn’t follow him in. Swarms of snowflakes fell in the glow of streetlights. Sergio thought they looked like junebugs. On a night like this he wished they were. He passed a newspaper stand and a vendor named Pigeon handed him a stack of yesterday’s paper. Sergio said thanks and wadded the paper into his deep coat pockets. “Be smart tonight,” Pigeon said, pouring a cup of coffee and handing it to Sergio. “I got storage space if you need a roof tonight. Knock on the door and I’ll give you a key, alright?” Sergio nodded and said thanks. “And you’re sure you haven’t seen Georgie?”
“What’s that you got there?” Sergio sat against the concrete wall next to Georgie. His friend was quiet and stared at the paper in his hands and folded it and placed it inside his coat pocket. “Just an old picture,” he said.
“Can I see it?”
“Not right now.”
Sergio nodded and pulled his knees to his chest. “Well, I guess I can’t tell you where I’m going tonight then.”
“Where you going?”
“Since we’re keeping secrets and all.”
“Oh, come on.”
Sergio smiled and took his ballcap off, revealing his bald head. “A guy that works at the drive-in gave me these after I washed his car for him. He didn’t have any cash but said to come by during his shift and he’ll get me in to whatever I want to watch. Popcorn and drinks included.”
“You’re going to the movies?”
“We’re going to the movies.”
“You’ve got two tickets?”
“I’ve got one and you’ve got one.”
Georgie laughed. “What are we going to see?”
Sergio shrugged. “I have no idea.”
They took the bus to the drive-in theater and the man at the ticket booth recognized Sergio and waved them over. “Starts in a few minutes. Here, take this to that girl at that register there and she’ll get you set up with snacks and stuff. You guys will have to sit toward the back since, you know, no car, but there’s speakers back there so you won’t miss anything. Enjoy the movie!” Georgie and Sergio carried their buckets of popcorn and soft drinks in between cars and pick up trucks until they found a concrete picnic table near the back fence. They were offered candy bars but they discussed it and politely declined since neither could remember the last time they brushed their teeth, which left them embarrassed, but the girl winked and said, “Jeremy said free refills, he’s the manager after all.”
“I can’t remember the last time a woman winked at me,” Georgie said, sitting at the table.
“Almost forgot what that felt like,” Sergio said.
“I can’t remember the last time I was at the movies either.”
The big parking lot lights dimmed and the coming attractions started on the giant screen at the front of the drive-in. A few cars honked back and forth and people laughed. Georgie too. He nudged Sergio who had his hand buried in popcorn and said, “Here.” He handed him a crinkled photograph of a man and a woman, both very young, on their wedding day.
Georgie’s usual hangouts turned up nothing. Jefferson Park was glossed over with ice, park benches with pillows of untouched snow. Madison Park was the same. The library across the street from the I-498 overpass was closed and the side alley empty. There was an old librarian that knew Georgie’s father and let him stay in the basement on hot summer nights, but the librarian passed away toward the end of autumn. Georgie still liked to stop by to smell the books, said it helped clear his head. Sergio walked to the overpass and asked around. One of the guys, Leonard, said to check back in an hour. The shelter tended to fill up before ten o’clock and everyone else would be turned away. Sergio stuffed his hands deep into his pockets and moved forward. He knew the newspaper ink was rubbing off on his skin. A police officer slowed next to him, rolled his window down, and said that it’s too cold, the wind chill is supposed to get negative ten tonight, that he should head for the shelter. “By the time I get there, there won’t be any beds left,” Sergio said.
“Hop in,” the officer said. “I’ll take you.”
“I’m looking for a friend.”
“Maybe they’re at the shelter. Ever think of that?”
“No, I didn’t but he could be out looking for me too.”
“Suite yourself.”
Georgie and Sergio sit in the sun with cold bottles of water on a bench outside the dog park. A small group of Christian teenagers were handing them out with enthusiasm. The dogs ran and chased one another, picking up toys, shaking them madly. The two watched with joy.
“Ever have a dog?” Georgie asks.
Sergio shakes his head. “My uncle did.”
“My parents brought one home when I was eleven or twelve years old, around the time we moved to Rhode Island. This little two-story about a five-minute walk from the shore. I told you about it. The house where my brother Brian became paralyzed. He named the dog Bandit. Grandma would call Brian that when she was alive and for the life of me, I can’t remember why. One of the few words she knew in English. But the dog. When she died no one else called my brother Bandit so he passed it on after Dad found that dog wandering around some parking lot, begging for food. I think my brother meant to honor her in his own way by giving it that name though we all knew she never liked dogs. She’d been bitten as a child a few times by strays in the old country, or so she said. But Bandit the dog was a good dog for the most part. He fetched well and didn’t bark a whole lot. Sometimes at birds. Finches and sparrows liked to dive in just over his head and he’d jump and try to catch them, but they were too fast for him. They enjoyed pestering him and I think he did too. When Dad built a fence to the yard Bandit started digging himself out and I’d have to fill the holes back in. Dad usually found him down the street wandering around or going through a neighbor’s trash can. Once we found him at the beach lying in the sun after a fisherman fed him a bunch of oysters. Ever heard of that? Who would give a dog oysters? Some nights after he ran away, we’d hear him barking somewhere in the neighborhood. I always liked hearing that. Then one day he left and that was that. I cried myself to sleep every night for a week. Well, another week or two goes by and one night my brother goes to the window of our bedroom and gets all excited. He says ‘Look! There’s Bandit!’ and I hop out of bed and run to the window but when I get there, he says ‘Aw shucks, you just missed him, he was there under the tree.’ He did this several times. I caught on eventually but always played along. He was looking out for me, I figured. Couldn’t fault him for that.”
Sergio caught the bus headed uptown. The driver let him on without paying although Sergio had enough for the ride. “No one’s out tonight anyway,” the driver said. “I’d rather you be inside here than walking in the damn cold.” Sergio got off the bus at Highland Park. The driver poured a cup of coffee from a tin thermos into a white plastic cup and handed it to Sergio as he thanked him for the ride. He didn’t like coffee, even though people were always giving it to him, but it would keep him warm, at least for a little while. He vaguely remembered the upscale neighborhood surrounding the park, Pacific Heights. His father used to deliver milk to these houses when Sergio was a boy and on occasion, he’d accompany his father as he went door to door, leaving small crates of sweating jars of milk on welcome mats. He walked the sidewalk as snow crunched under his boots. He let out a “Georgie!” but felt embarrassed in doing so. He sipped the cup of coffee which was quickly losing its steam and admitted it tasted alright and wondered what brand it was. Steps to condominiums were salted and Sergio heard the scrape of shovels, but he didn’t see anyone. He liked the way sound traveled with snow on the ground. It was like being in the woods at his Uncle’s place and he wished for anything to be there now, skipping stones across the placid lake in twilight, the ripples widening forever and forever. He imagined being there with Georgie but as boys building tree forts and fishing and Georgie’s brother is there and he’s not paralyzed and he’s running with Bandit who leaps and catches sparrows in his mouth softly but lets them go without hurting them. In this cold-stricken daydream Sergio’s parents are there too, his mother with dinner on the table calling the boys in and his father poking at embers in the fireplace as he often did before building it back up again. He wanted to cry but his feet were cold and damp and growing numb, so he kept moving up the block of staccato and brick buildings, Christmas trees aglow in the windows. Just ahead he saw the bus stop bench he’d found Georgie once before, during a “season of melancholia”, as Georgie put it, not long after the night at the movies, and Sergio knew the score when Georgie, still as the Forty Martyrs of Sebaste, came into view. Sergio wanted to cry out. He wanted to tear at his clothes and fall to the ground and beg for a miracle. He wanted to run and embrace Georgie and hold on until life returned. But he just stood there. He looked up into the sky and let the snow touch his face before melting onto his skin. He then dusted the bench next to Georgie and sat down. He couldn’t feel his toes. He took a glove off and put his hand in front of Georgie’s mouth, then grabbed his wrist for a moment before putting his arms around his friend and sobbed. “I’m sorry I couldn’t find you,” he said, “I’m so sorry.” He leaned in and whispered in George’s ear: “Please, Saint Anthony, would you come around? Someone is lost and cannot be found.” In Georgie’s hands was the folded photograph from so many years ago. Sergio saw movement in the window across the street and a woman he thought he knew stepped outside in her bathrobe, white as her mother’s wedding dress.
Sergio stands in the sun and waves at cars passing on the freeway. He waves till someone honks and he smiles. Georgie lies on his back looking up at the clouds. There’s a taco truck in a parking lot below. “Smells good,” Georgie says.
“I’ve got a couple bucks if you want something now,” Sergio says.
“Nah,” Georgie says, “you go ahead and keep it. I can wait.”
“We’ve still got awhile till they close.”
“I’m okay. Go ahead if you want.”
“I can wait,” Sergio says.
“We’ll eat like kings,” Georgie says, his eyes closed. “In due time.”
The sun falls between skyscrapers miles away. Glass sparkles and shines in the late afternoon. Sergio sits next to Georgie and opens a warm beer. Foam spills over his hands and he wipes it with his shirt. “We’ve got it made, don’t we, Georgie?”
Evening Panoply 