by Harlan Ruud
'YaYa,' I say, closing my eyes and shaking my head, 'stay. Please. I'm just being an asshole.'
'You can say that again,' Maggie says, taking a drag of her cigarette.
'I'm just being an asshole,' I repeat, looking at the sore on her neck. She looks away.
'Actually,' YaYa says, standing, 'I was just about to head up to my room, anyway. But I'll check you guys out when I come back down. Okay?'
'You sure?' I ask, looking up at him.
'Positive,' he says, squeezing my shoulder and picking up his belongings.
He slides his chair beneath the table and looks at us.
'Both of you,' he says, 'chill.'
He turns and leaves; Maggie and I look at one another.
'See,' she says, 'you've made him cry.'
'He'll get over it,' I reply. 'I'm sure.'
She stares at me and says:
'You're acting like an idiot, Ulysses.'
'I know.'
She shakes her head.
'What's wrong with you?' she asks. 'Did you have yet another nervous breakdown?'
I look at her.
'Is that a joke?' I ask.
'No,' she replies, 'it isn't. Because either you're a very jealous, moody person or – or you're having a nervous breakdown. And considering I've only ever seen you in one mood, regardless of the situation, it must mean you're –'
'And what is that one mood?' I ask, interrupting her.
'Your one mood is – is no mood. You call it smooth; I call it emotionless. Angry, happy, tired, whatever – one mood. No mood. And don't get me wrong, sweetheart; I like a man under control. But when things start to slip, it makes me wonder if he was ever really in control, or just good at hiding his true self all along.'
I stare at the small round sore on her neck.
'I return from two days with Jonathan,' she continues, 'and, bam, you act like – like I'm your wife and I've just returned from the arms of my lover.'
The two men at the table next to ours, I notice, are watching us. I wave my hand and they turn away.
'You're imagining things,' I say.
'I'm imagining things?' she laughs. 'That's ripe.'
'Well, you are,' I say. 'Have I ever said anything about Jonathan? Have I ever, the few times I've seen him, been rude to him? Or in any way acted jealous?'
'No, you haven't. But so what? You're like every other man; you confuse saying nothing with feeling nothing. And it doesn't work that way, Ulysses. It comes out in the end. All of it.'
'What comes out?'
'Everything stuck inside of you.'
'All I wanted to know,' I say, looking at her, 'is how you got that sore on your neck. That's what I want to know.'
She looks at me, disgusted, then stands.
'I was wrong,' she says. 'You're not crazy; you're pathetic. And I can deal with any kind of man but – but not a man I pity.'
Taking her purse, she quickly turns and leaves, rushing through the tables and out onto the street. I rummage through my pocket, toss some money onto the table, and chase after her.
Turning into the plaza, she begins to run, her long, white scarf fluttering behind her. Across the plaza and through the Medina's entrance, she disappears into the darkness outside the high, stone walls.
I follow.
Catching up to her as she nears the beach, I grab hold of her arm. She pulls away and stops, glaring at me. Even in the darkness, I can see that she is furious.
'When most women run,' she says, stepping away from me, 'they want to be followed – but not me, brother. Now fuck off!'
I stand and watch silently as she pulls away from me, then turns and walks through the darkness toward the beach. As I watch, I ask myself if I should return to the hotel, or follow her.
'Follow her,' I whisper.
I continue behind her, but more slowly now, trailing her by perhaps ten feet. She continues walking, ignoring my presence.
Abruptly, she stops and, not turning around, says:
'Ulysses, please, just go away.'
I walk up to her and place my hand on her shoulder. Suddenly, she spins around and slaps me across the face with one hand, then the other.
'Didn't you hear me?' she screams. 'Go away. Leave me alone. Fuck off. Get lost.'
'Maggie –' I begin to say.
'Oh, fuck!' she screams. 'You are turning a – a minor incident into something very ugly, Ulysses. Why don't you just leave before it gets any uglier? Please.'
Her shoulders slump, as if in defeat, and frowning sadly, she whispers:
'Please.'
'What happened to your neck?' I ask. 'Tell me that and I'll leave.'
Suddenly, she begins to laugh.
'What happened to my neck?' she says, still laughing. 'Listen to you. Just listen to you. What the hell do you think happened to my neck? What?'
'I think you burnt yourself,' I reply.
'I told your I burnt myself,' she says, no longer laughing.
'I think you did it on purpose.'
'And? So what if I did?'
'Did you? Or did Jonathan?'
'Jonathan? What makes you think he would –?'
She stares at me. A look of terror passes across her face like a blush.
'Let me ask you something,' she says.
I am silent, watching her.
'Would you rather have a father who never said he loved you,' she asks, 'or one who crept into your room every night and fucked you?'
I raise my hand, putting it against her warm cheek.
'Answer me,' she says, pulling away.
I shake my head.
'Love,' I whisper. 'You said it was about love.'
Parking my truck in the driveway, I turn off the ignition and open the door. As I step out of the truck, I turn and look at my luggage on the seat. I'll come back for it later, I think. Slamming the door behind me, I walk slowly toward the house.
It is a warm, sunny late-afternoon; the only sound is of the soft wind rustling through the leaves. It is my favorite sound. Stepping up onto the porch, I stop and look into the trees that separate the yard from the river. It is as if I never left.
Opening the door, I step inside. It is warm and dark, quiet. The curtains above the sink are drawn. On the table is a coffee cup. Standing near the door, I look around, then turn and walk upstairs.
In my bedroom, I sit on the edge of the bed and look at the rows of books, then out the window. I think briefly of Maggie; immediately, the thought vanishes.
I leave the room and walk slowly down the hallway to my father's room. The door is closed; I look for a moment at the faded, peeling red paint.
'Is that you, Ulysses?' I hear my father call.
Opening the door, I look into the room; he is lying in his bed, the sheet pulled up to his chest, staring at me.
'Who else would it be?' I reply.
'Where have you been?' he asks.
'Out,' I answer.
'Well,' he says, 'you could've told me you were leaving. I saw your truck was gone and – well, you could've told me.'
'I'm sorry,' I say. 'I should've told you. I know. But I'm back now. Do you need anything?'
'No,' he says. 'I can take care of myself, thank you.'
'Alright, alright,' I reply. 'I was just asking.'
I look at him for a moment, then say:
'Well, if you do need anything, just call me. I'll be downstairs.'
He nods his head.
'Do you want the door shut?' I ask. 'Or opened?'
'It was closed before you opened it,' he answers.
Shaking my head, I turn, shut the door, and go downstairs.
'It was never about love,' she says, taking my hand from her face. 'It was about the loss of love. There's a difference, Ulysses.'
Letting go of my hand, she turns and walks slowly toward the rolling ebb and tide of the ocean. I do not follow.
'Didn't you hear me?' he asks.
I look up from the stack of pictures on my desk. He is sta
nding in the doorway, staring angrily at me.
'I'm sorry, Dad,' I say, setting a picture atop the pile. 'Were you calling me?'
'Why are you taking like that?' he asks, looking at me as if I have spoken in a language other than English.
'Like what?' I ask.
'Like that!'
'And how is that?' I reply, irritated.
'So slowly,' he answers.
'Dad,' I say, 'what can I do for you? I'm not in the mood to –'
'You told me,' he says, interrupting me, 'to call you if I needed anything.'
'Okay,' I say. 'What do you need?'
'Why do you keep looking at those pictures?' he asks.
'Is that what you needed? To ask me why I'm talking so – so slowly, and why I'm looking at these pictures? And I don't keep looking at them.'
'Yes, you do. And it's pathetic.'
'Dad,' I say, 'unless you actually need anything, why don't you –'
'Every chance you get,' he interrupts, 'you sit there looking at those old pictures like they were – that was a long time ago, boy.'
I peer down at the picture of Maggie; she is smiling, dressed in red, smoking a cigarette. In the left hand corner of the photograph, I see Jonathan's arm and hand resting on the cluttered coffee table.
'So what?' I say, looking up at my father. 'A long time ago is sometimes just around the corner. You should know that, if anyone should.'
'What do you mean by that?' he asks. 'And stop talking like that, damnit.'
I look around the room, at the floor, the walls, the ceiling. I look at the rows of books, out the window, and again at my father. When, I wonder, did he get so old? Though still big and broad, he now has the posture and gait of a crippled workhorse.
'Why didn't you do anything, Dad?' I ask.
He stares at me, then turns to leave.
‘I'm talking to you,' I say.
He disappears silently around the corner.
'Dad,' I yell, jumping up and walking after him, 'I'm talking to you!'
I follow him into his bedroom. He sits on the edge of the bed and stares down at the floor. Standing in the doorway, I look at him, remembering when he was young, younger – when we both were.
'Why didn't you do anything?' I ask again.
'I don't know what you're talking about,' he replies. ‘You’ve asked me that question before and, for the love of –‘
'Oh, yes, you do, old man,' I say. 'You know damned well what I'm talking about – about the past being right around the corner.'
I speak slowly, without emotion. I am empty.
'Now answer my question,' I demand. 'Why didn't you do anything?'
'I don't know what you're talking about,' he repeats, still staring at the floor.
'Yes, you do.'
'No, I don't.'
'Oh, really?' I say. 'Well, let me remind you, Dad.'
'No!' he suddenly yells, looking up at me. His voice is deep and loud, and briefly I am a boy again, frightened.
Still I continue: I walk to the bed, standing above him.
'It's a lie,’ he says. ‘You're lying.'
There is a moment of complete silence.
'How could I be lying?' I finally reply, 'I'm not even speaking.'
Slowly but roughly, I grab my father by his shoulders and push him back against the bed. Simply, quietly, he lies there, looking up at me.
'Why?' I ask, bending over him, my hands pinning his shoulders to the bed. 'I want you to tell me why?'
Passive, emotionless, he looks up into my eyes and says:
'I don't know what you're –'
Before he can finish, I move forward, up, rising onto the bed. With one knee on his chest, the other at his side, I put my hands around his neck. He begins to resist, but soon stops.
It is, I will later think, as if he wanted to die.
He dies quickly.
I relax my grip, and he coughs once. A fleck of blood lands on his upper cheek. I tighten my grip. Soon, his dead eyes stare up at me, and still I strangle.
Letting go, I turn, then step onto the floor, staring at him. His hands are at his side, his feet resting on the floor. One of his slippers, I notice, has fallen off.
'The thing about taking ourselves so seriously,' I whisper, looking at him, 'is that so many before us have done it better.'
I step forward and, lifting his legs, pull him up onto the bed, slowly, deliberately. Propping his head on the pillow as if he is merely asleep, I begin to undress him. I do not know why.
When he is naked, I fold his clothes and put them in the top drawer of his dresser. I take a dark red blanket and put it across his feet. I turn, walking slowly downstairs and out of the house. I go to the barn, find the shovel, and walk into the woods near the house.
In one box, I place his head. In the next, I place his left arm. Like Pandora, in reverse, I place each piece in a separate wooden box, then nail it shut. It is my gift, I think, God's gift, everything where it belongs, hidden stored. I will take these seven boxes, and I will bury them. Head, right arm, left arm, right leg, left leg, torso, and privates.
'Privates,' I whisper, smiling, as I nail the final box shut. 'Not so private, old man, huh?'
Stacking the boxes, one on top of the other, I stand back and look at them. In each, I think, is a bit of ugliness, a bit of pain: seven wooden boxes that together make a man, the memory of a man; a father.
Turning, I face the darkness behind me. Like a curtain, the darkness slowly pulls itself in a circle around me until, finally, I am lost, alone, within it.
Stepping forward, I raise my hands and shuffle hesitantly through the blackness.
'Ye are of your father, the devil,' I hear a voice whisper.
I stop.
'And the lusts of your father, ye will do,' the voice continues. 'He was a murderer from the beginning and abode not in the truth, because there is no truth in him. When he speaketh a lie, he speaketh of his own: for he is a liar and the father of it.'
I turn and walk slowly to the end of the hallway. If I think of anything it is of the need to think nothing, aware of only that which is before me: the dark red walls, the wooden floor, my movement past, upon.
My grandfather’s bedroom door is open; passing, I glance inside the small, windowless room, but I do not stop.
At the end of the hallway, I stand before my father's bedroom and slowly open the door. He is on the bed beneath the window, his naked body stretched out in the dim, early-evening light. The room is warm and small, shadow overlapping shadow, with a bed, dresser, and desk. I step through the narrow doorway and walk to the bed.
His hands are at his side, legs together, his face tilted up and to the left, as if, upon death, he had been looking out the window. His eyes are closed, as is his mouth, and on his left cheek, just below the eye, is a single drop of blood. I look up at the ceiling, then down; across his feet is a dark red blanket.
His body is nearly hairless. He is a big man, tall and broad, muscular, with huge, worn hands and feet. Like me, he is uncircumcised. His cock is big, coiled like a snake between his thighs, but his balls are small, like a young boy's or a bodybuilder's, and briefly I am embarrassed. I raise my head and look out the window into the clear, dark sky.
I close my eyes, whispering:
'You can think of a whole lot of good stuff to tell a nigger when you're –'
I open my eyes and reach for the edge of the dull gray bed sheet on which he lay. I pull it up and over him, then walk around to the opposite side of the bed and do the same. I wrap him with the thin sheet, as if in a cocoon, then knot its ends. I do this as if I have done it before.
I move quickly and lift him up, over my shoulder, holding his legs with both of my arms. Staring down at the wooden floor, I step forward, and say:
'One.'
Though not as heavy as I had imagined, his limbs are stiff, awkward, and I stumble with the body out of the room, down the narrow stairway, through the kitchen, and out of the house.
&
nbsp; 'Thirty-one, thirty-two,' I whisper, 'thirty-three, thirty-four, thirty-five.'
I move slowly across the yard and through the trees, staring at the ground as I walk.
'Fifty-two, fifty-three, fifty-four.'
The path through the trees is narrow and sloping, winding; I move with caution.
'Eighty-nine, ninety, ninety-one, ninety two.'
Reaching the empty grave, I take a final step.
'One hundred and seventeen.'
Kneeling, I lean forward, then lay the body by the side of the grave. I stand. Breathing deeply, slowly, I rest my hands on my hips and look around.
From deep in the shadows that rise up around the small clearing, I hear the quick, lone hoot of an owl. Above me, the sky is clear and dark, darkening. I am tempted briefly to return to the house for a lantern. I do not.
I kneel again, take the end of the sheet, and slowly, carefully, lower my father into his grave. Satisfied with the body's position, I stand, grab the shovel, and begin to fill the shallow grave with dirt. I move quickly, thoughtlessly.
I work non-stop until I am done. I am done sooner that I had expected. An hour, two hours, three? Twenty minutes? I do not know.
I drop the shovel at my side and look into the darkness. I am sweating, trembling. Across my back, from shoulder to shoulder, is a sharp pain. My left hand, between the thumb and forefinger, is raw, bleeding.
Like a door opening, then abruptly closing, a thought begins to form and, just as quickly, fade. Staring into the trees, I whisper:
'She belonged to you. Watch.'
Turning, I step away from the grave and walk through the trees to the river. I take off my boots and undress. I fold my clothes and place them neatly in a pile next to my boots.
Naked, I step slowly into the cool, black, slow-flowing water and swim to its center. A breeze flutters across the surface, causing me to shiver, as I look up into the night, close my eyes, and let myself sink.
Feeling the soft, cold muck of the riverbed with my feet and hands, I rest, motionless, then push myself up out of the water, blinking, and look into the warm, dark night. Above me, like a round window, the moon glows, shining, its soft, blue light illuminating the shadows beneath, between, the darkness.
'You can stop now,' I whisper.