by Harlan Ruud
'That damned boy,' I mutter. 'He could have at least told me he was leaving.'
I sit for awhile, not moving. I stare into the distance beyond the trees, then to the overgrown yard. So much of my life, it seems, is just this: sitting, staring.
So many dandelions, I think.
Eventually, getting hungry, I move into the house. As I step through the doorway, I stop. From behind me, suddenly, I hear the shrill, quick toot of a whistle. I turn, startled, and look.
At the edge of the yard, near the trees, Ulysses stands, staring at me. He is wearing overalls, stained with dirt, and a white, short-sleeved shirt. In his left hand is a shovel. He is still, silent.
'Ulysses,' I yell, 'what in the Sam Hill are you doing out there?'
He does not move, nor does he speak.
'I thought you left,' I yell. 'I saw your truck was gone and I thought you left.'
Silent, he drops the shovel and begins to walk slowly, as if in a trance, across the yard. As he nears the house, I step forward, curious, watching him, and whisper:
'Good Lord, he looks just like me.'
I raise my head and look out across the rolling field of yellow. Above me, the sky is heavy and rumbling, a rage of black of gray. It will soon rain, I think.
I look down and count the dandelions in my hand; there are eleven. I put one on his chest and one in his hand. I throw two away. I put my fingertips between his cool, dry lips and gently open his mouth.
'I pray for you, all people,' I say. 'And behold my sorrow: my virgins and my young men are gone into captivity. I called for my lovers, but they deceived me: my priests and mine elders gave up the ghost in the city, while they sought their meat to relieve their souls.'
I take four of the dandelions and, one by one, put them in his opened mouth. I close my eyes, then open them, and place a fifth between his parted lips. Holding the remaining two in my hand, I lean back and look at him.
'Goodbye, Dad,' I say.
I raise the two dandelions to my mouth and begin to slowly eat the soft, yellow petals.
I roll over in bed and look at the clock; it is 11:59 a.m. I know where I am, but still I wonder, where am I?
I pull the blanket over my head and close my eyes. My cock is hard; slipping my hands beneath the waistband of my underwear, I hold it with one hand and, with the other, cup my balls.
'Dandelions,' I whisper.
Abruptly, I take my hands from inside my underwear and sit straight. The blanket falls to my lap, and I look down at the small, round scab on my chest. I gently touch it with my thumb; it is sore, tender.
'Oh, Lord,' I say, closing my eyes.
Pushing the blanket aside, I jump out of the bed and hurry to the window. I stand, looking down into the yard and, across it, into the forest of trees that separate the house, to the left, from the barn and sheds and, to the right, from the river. I bend forward, opening the window, and lean outside.
'This much I know to be true,' I say, turning back into the room.
I look again at the clock next to the bed; it is a few minutes past noon. I leave the room, then walk quickly downstairs into the kitchen. It is immaculate, bright, sunlight illuminating its every surface and corner.
My suitcase is next to the table, opened, its contents in a jumble; on top is my plane ticket.
'Okay, then,' I say.
I slide a chair from the table and sit down. I close my eyes. The dream returns and, for a moment, I am in a field of dandelions, placing them one by one into my father's mouth. Again, I raise my hand to my chest, tracing the wound lightly with my thumb, and say:
'And my father is dead.'
I hunch forward in the chair, folding my arms, and look down at the dull, wooden floor beneath my bare feet. He is dead, I know, and I have buried him. Frightened suddenly, I sit straight and look out the window.
But how, I wonder, did he die?
The previous evening returns slowly in pieces, and I raise my arms to my chest and, as if cold, hug myself. I do not want to be here. I look at the clock on the wall above the refrigerator; it is 12:33 p.m. I close my eyes and begin slowly to rock back and forth in the chair.
'Boy,' he says, 'this is your mother.'
I look at the woman; she has the face, I think, of newly born cat.
'Oh, Permanus,' she says, giggling, 'don't tease the boy like that. Why, he's just the cutest thing I ever saw.'
She bends forward and touches the back of her hand to my cheek. She is fat and light-skinned, and her short, straightened hair is the color of straw; she is wearing a pale blue, knee-length dress. She is not my mother, I know, but still, because she is a woman, I like her.
'What's your name, little boy?' she asks.
'Toussaint,' I reply, looking down at the floor.
'Too-saint?'
'Toussaint,' my father says. 'As in L'Ouverture.'
The woman looks at him, then again at me.
'But everyone calls me Toot,' I say.
'Well, that I can pronounce. How old are you, Toot? Nine, ten?'
'No,' I reply, giggling. 'I'm six. But I'll be seven in two weeks.'
'Only six and so big already? Are you telling the truth?'
I nod my head, smiling.
'Well,' she says, 'this much I know to be true: you are just the spitting image of your daddy here.'
I look up at my father and think: No, I'm not.
My father is leaning against the counter; he is drunk. His eyes are red and narrow, and his mouth hangs loose on his face. When my father is drunk, he is nice; he is as nice as he can be.
'Well, Toot,' the woman says, smiling, 'my name is Ruby. And I'm very pleased to meet you.'
She holds out her hand, and I look up at my father.'
'Go on,' he says. 'Don't be a baby.'
I put my hand in hers and, softly, she squeezes it.
'Well, good Lord,' she exclaims. 'That's just about the strongest handshake I've ever felt, Toot. Stronger even than your own daddy's, I bet.'
I look up at my father and giggle. He leans forward, ignoring me, and grabs Ruby around the waist. He pulls her backward to his chest; as she pretends to struggle, he cups both of her heavy breasts with his huge hands.
'Oh, Permanus,' she says, giggling, 'not in front of the boy.'
'It's nothing he ain't seen before,' my father replies.
He looks at me as he lowers his head into the crux of her shoulder and kisses her neck. Behind him, on the wall above the window, is the clock; it is 11:59 p.m.
'Oh, really?' Ruby laughs.
She raises her hand, rubbing the back of his neck, looks at me and says:
'Maybe you better run along, Toot. Okay, kitten?'
My father's eyes are closed; he kisses her neck and shoulders, running his hands from her breasts down to her hips. As he begins to pull up her skirt, he opens his eyes suddenly and looks at me.
'Go on, boy,' he says. 'You should've been in bed a long time ago.'
I stand for a moment, watching them, then turn and walk upstairs to my bedroom. At the top of the stairs, I hear Ruby yell:
'Good night, kitten!'
I don not reply.
I am sitting on the steps of the porch, still in my underwear, staring into the yard. The morning is warm and sunny, windless.
I try to remember but I am able, it seems, only to forget. I close my eyes, pulling each image, each moment, together, then apart. As in an old movie, the images disappear like pages torn from a calendar; the passage of time no more than fluttering pieces of paper.
I see myself. I see my father. I am talking with him, and then I am burying him. I am wandering through the house, drinking the bourbon; I am in the bathroom, naked, staring at my reflection in the mirror. I see my chest; I see a razor. I see – what do I see?
I see a cigarette.
I am bathing him. I am in the bathtub; I am next to it. I feel a hand pulling back my foreskin. I see a wound on his chest – and mine.
I look up, staring out across
the yard and down the driveway. I lightly touch my chest and, shaking my head, I whisper:
'It's nothing he ain't seen before.'
I see my grandfather with my father, at the kitchen table; between them is a book. I see a light-skinned woman with hair the color of straw; next to her is my father and my grandfather. I see a glass of milk, an empty field, a dead dog. Again, I see my father; he is naked.
I look up toward the path that leads into the trees and, further, to his grave. He is in there, I know, wrapped in a sheet and buried in the ground.
I am not a poet. I am a dancer.
Remembering something, then abruptly forgetting it, I stand and walk quickly across the yard and along the path into the trees. Nearing my father's grave, I slow my pace, then suddenly stop. Softly, I say:
'One hundred and seventeen.'
I turn and look back down the narrow, shaded path, not moving, then return quickly toward the grave. Rounding the bend into the small clearing, I stop and look at the mound of dirt.
I remember digging it, but surely it took longer to dig than I remember. It looks so big.
I stand next to the grave. Here he is, I think, a few feet below the surface, naked, wrapped in a sheet, his huge, dark body losing its form and taking another. He is becoming, has become, something different, something rotten, soft: a host.
He is, I realize, no more.
'There are certain things,' he says, 'that a man must never do. And what you won't do is more important than what you will do. Do you understand?'
'Yes, sir,' I lie.
He takes a drink from his coffee cup; it is filled, I know, not with coffee but with whiskey.
'Now,' he continues, wiping his mouth on either side with his thumb and forefinger, 'the most important thing it to never lie. But don't get me wrong. I'm not saying to always tell the truth, because there's a difference. Okay?'
I nod my head, watching him.
'Don't just nod your head, boy,' he says. 'I'm trying to teach you something here.'
'Yes, sir,' I reply.
'Okay. Good. Now, the next thing is – well, maybe you're too young to understand this yet, but what you'll learn as you get older, Ulysses, is that you must never, under any circumstance –'
He stops. I watch him, waiting.
'Well,' he finally says,' if a woman ever marries you for your money, just make sure she gives you your money's worth. And don't ever hit her.'
He takes a drink from his cup, then says:
'Or love her.'
He laughs.
Why, I wonder, is he laughing?
Belching, he leans back in his chair and rubs his belly.
'And always use your fist when you pick something up. Doesn't matter what it is: a bottle, a pillow, a glass. Hold it like a man. Grab it. Do you understand?'
'Yes, sir,' I reply.
'Don't ever go on a diet,' he continues. 'And don't ever buy anything if you can't pay cash for it. On the spot. Oh, and don't ever trust anyone who's worse off than you. You can like them; just don't trust them. You got it?'
'Yes, sir.'
'He takes another drink from his cup, then says:
'Good, then go to bed.'
There has been an accident, I am told.
One of two buses carrying ninety-seven freshmen from the State university has crashed; thirty-three of the students are dead. The entire trip has been postponed and, thus, I am one of only eleven remaining passengers on a flight, first to Frankfurt, then to Casablanca.
'They took a vote,' I hear one of the flight attendants say, 'on whether to continue with the trip; only half, minus one, wanted to go. Can you believe it?'
'I would've voted to go,' another flight attendant says. 'I mean, all that planning and money gone to waste because a few kids couldn't make it. It seems unfair.'
'You are such a bitch,' a third flight attendant exclaims. 'God, have some compassion. Besides, now we have less work to do.'
They all laugh.
I look out the window into the darkened sky. Briefly contemptuous of the women's remarks, I realize suddenly that I see the students' death not as a tragedy but as a warning, an omen, of what will happen to me. Ashamed, I close my eyes and lean back in the seat.
The flight attendants separate, and I listen to the conversation of a couple three rows ahead, on the opposite side of the airplane. They are arguing.
'Oh, please!' the woman exclaims. 'You only think it's sad because it was in the newspaper. If it was some lounge singer from Savannah, you wouldn't think it was so sad.'
'If it was some lounge singer from Savannah,' the man replies, 'I wouldn't have heard about it. You can't expect me to feel sad about something I don't know.'
'You're missing my point,' the woman says. 'Let's just say that you do read about some lounge singer found dead of an overdose, okay? Let's pretend. You wouldn't feel sad; you'd feel pity. I know you. You'd think he was some pathetic loser, and you'd feel superior to him. Admit it. But because it's Elvis, you think it's, God, almost Shakespearean. That's pathetic. Really, it is.'
'You don't have to exaggerate,' the man replies. 'I didn't say it was Shakespearean,. I just said it was sad.'
'You did not just say it was sad. Don't lie. You said it was a tragedy almost symbolic in its depth. Okay? God, you are so pathetic.'
I open my eyes and watch as the woman stands and, grabbing her purse, walks quickly toward the restroom. She is thin and white, with short, brown hair and masculine features. I imagine my cock in her mouth; her mouth is cool, dry.
My thoughts are interrupted abruptly by one of the flight attendants. She smiles, asking if I would like anything to drink.
'A glass of red wine,' I reply.
Still smiling, she asks:
'Merlot or Cabernet Sauvignon?'
'Ripple,' I reply.
'Ripple? I – I don't believe we –'
'I was kidding,' I interrupt. 'Merlot will be fine.'
'Oh,' she says, smiling. 'Okay.'
As she turns, still smiling, and walks away, I am struck by the sudden, strong desire to follow her. Why, I do not know.
I watch her as she returns. Nearing my seat, a tray in her hand, she smiles.
'Here you go,' she says.
I take the glass and small, green bottle of wine, and I thank her.
'If you need anything else,' she says, 'you just let me know.'
'I will,' I say, unscrewing the bottle's cap. 'Thank you.'
Upon arrival in Frankfurt, I am told that the connecting flight to Casablanca has been delayed by seven hours. The clerk, a short, muscular German with sideburns and a nearly flawless command of the English language, offers me a food voucher that is redeemable, he says, at any one of the airport's fine restaurants. I decline the offer, thanking him, and walking to the waiting area.
Along the way, I notice a theater offering pornographic movies. At its entrance, instead of a door, is a red velvet curtain. Passing it, I see a short, thin German soldier walking toward me. He is, I imagine, no older than seventeen. He nods his head at me; I nod in return.
In the waiting area, I sit and read Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee. I read three pages and then, unable to concentrate, set the book on the seat beside me. I close my eyes; my grandfather and father stand watching me.
I open my eyes.
I move forward on the seat, resting my elbows on my knees, and clasp my hands. I stare at the pale, gray carpeting and listen to the soft, steady hum of the airport; it comforts me. I have lived much of my adult life, it seems, in airports and train stations and bus depots. They are, I think, my home; I am at home.
'Your grandfather is dead,' he says. 'In his sleep. He died in his sleep.'
'I know,' I reply.
I turn, looking at the man using the telephone next to mine. He is black, with dread locks, wearing a dark blue suit. Flipping through the pages of a date-book that he holds in his hands, he looks at me and smiles; I nod my head, looking away.
'Well,' I hear him
say, 'if me can be dere by noon, den me afta cancel. Ras.'
'Ulysses,' my father says. 'Ulysses, are you there?'
'I'm here,' I say, moving the receiver from my right ear to my left ear.
'Well, then, answer me,' my father demands. 'How did you know?'
'Know what?'
'You said you knew that Granddad had died. How? How did you know?'
'I dreamt about it,' I reply, 'the night before last.'
'He died this morning.'
I am anxious, irritated; I want to hang up the phone.
'Well,' I snap, 'I dreamt about it on Friday. I guess I'm clairvoyant, Dad.'
'Don't talk to me like that, boy. Do you hear me?'
I look out across the busy terminal, through the huge windows, at a Boeing jet moving slowly onto the runway.
'I hear you, Dad,' I reply.
He is silent for a moment, and then, softly, he says:
'Well, I wasn't going to tell you 'til you got back, but, seeing as you called, I figured I might as well tell you now.'
'Okay.'
Again, there is silence.
'Dad, listen,' I finally say, 'I better get going. My flight's about to leave and I can't miss it.'
I am lying; my flight does not leave for another hour.
'That's fine,' he replies. 'Just – just call me when you get there. Let me know where I can reach you. Okay?'
I hear the man next to me hang up the phone, and I turn, looking at him.
'What can a brother do?' he says to me, shrugging.
He picks up his briefcase, then turns and rushes into the shifting, steady stream of people. I look down at my wine-colored shoes and think, I need to throw these out.
'Okay, Dad,' I say, 'I'll call you.'
Waiting for him to reply, I realize, slowly, that I am listening to a dial tone; I hang up the phone.
The waiting area is quiet, its few occupants either reading or sleeping. From somewhere around the corner, I hear the drone of a vacuum. I sit in the chair, my arms folded, and look at the waiting area on the opposite side of the terminal; it too is silent, still.
I watch a young white man with shoulder-length orange hair and a beard slowly, carefully, pick what I presume to be lint, or hair, from his fuzzy, green turtleneck sweater.