by Lance Allen
Lasting Image
Four Stories of Yielding Doubt
Copyright 2013 Lance William Allen
Table of Contents
Living in Place
Looking in the Rearview
Forget to Remember
The Station
Living in Place
Wait long enough and it will just come to you. The story of you. The story of me. Us. The blue marble speaks. We all listen. I love her. Get the right person to tell you the right story and you'll believe anything. And so it goes like this. The narrative. My name is John. Like the Baptist. As if there was any other. Don’t talk to me about the Wayne fellow. He’s just a metaphor. I'm the real deal. And this is my story. More or less.
If you gave my grandfather a few beers and hung around long enough you'd hear him fall into the way back machine and rehash his finer moments. He'd say things like, "Killing is God's work. And I was just the messenger." He wasn't trying to rationalize anything. He firmly held onto his convictions. He fought hard for his country. He lost more than I will ever be able to understand. I hope I never fully understand. His stories of combat, while filled with action and excitement are underwritten with pain, sorrow, and survivors guilt.
Horace, my grandfather, told me one day how he lost his foot. I never knew my grandfather was missing a foot. Sure he limped when he walked. But he had always limped. I never thought twice about it. He told me he had been sleeping in a shell hole, a hole in the ground created by exploding bombs. He was in a sleeping bag on the ground covered with his rain poncho. It was near zero degrees Fahrenheit. Snow was falling. Still he slept soundly. He never knew when he would sleep again, if he'd ever breathe again. He did both as often as he could.
He was awoken by chaos: mortar fire, large caliber rifle rounds, men screaming and cursing. Before he could comprehend the situation, he was stabbing a man in the throat with the bayonet on the end of his rifle. A stream of hot blood shot out into his face. He spit the salty material from his lips as he twisted his rifle free from the dying man on the receiving end.
Time passed and he expended untold rounds of ammunition. Shell casings littered the ground about him like leaves fallen from tress in autumn. Oh how he enjoyed autumn back home. But he wasn't at home. He was in the mountains of the Korean peninsula, standing barefoot in the snow surrounded by hundreds of dead and dying soldiers. Some he knew, most he only recognized as enemy soldiers. Men he had been trained to kill. Had killed. While standing barefoot in the snow.
When the action was over and the CO finally arrived at his position, he was amazed and appalled at what he saw. My grandfather had single handedly held a thousand men at bay for the better part of an afternoon standing barefoot in the snow. "Someone get this man to the rear. He deserves the use of his feet and by God I see fit to make sure he has them."
My grandfather lost his right foot, just above the ankle. But he gained a purple heart and a silver star for bravery under fire. He said to me, “I’d give back any medal to have my friends see what I've seen. To smell what I've smelled. To taste what I've tasted. Most of them were just boys, like me. Our time was too short. No one should have bared witness to what we endured. This ain't saying those who died before had any less of a bad time than we did. But this was our time. And our time was not filled with glory. We bled a lot. And then I cried. I want to stop crying. I guess my time will eventually come."
When my grandfather passed away I couldn’t help but notice a veil of satisfaction about his body, an air of ease finally bursting from his now graying corpse. I wanted to tell everyone my grandfather didn't want to be remembered as a soldier who took part in battle. He didn't want to be remembered for having earned distinction on the battle field. My grandfather wanted every one to remember how fortunate they are they never had to watch a friend perish before his 19th birthday. Dying before they ever had a chance to live. Glory is not in the waging of conflict but in the separation of differences and mutual compromise. My grandfather was adamant about this.
"Do you know what separated me from the men I killed", he asked me one day? “The difference being we fought to appease men who could not bring their selves to understand the difference between conflict and compromise. A man on the battle field is no different from the man he faces. We are all blood and bone. What truly separates us is the greed that motivates those who pitch us into conflict. He had no more hatred for me than I him. Yet I sent as many as I could off the field so as to protect my brothers. But we were all brothers. And for that I am sorry I killed so many.”
The thing about war is those with the most to gain participate the least and those with the most to lose are all in. My grandfather told me, “The gears of war turn printing presses which line the pockets and walls of those who swear their allegiance to no one short of the balance in their ledger. God works in mysterious ways. And no more so than in the killing of men. I will not regret my death when it comes. I have seen it played out in my mind a thousand times in my dreams. When it does come, I hope my next stop will be a holiday from conflict. My soul is tired.”
The week before he died, a letter came to his house. It was from an old friend named Hobson, he lived in Iowa. After the war, Hobson returned to the family farm and became a farmer. He tilled his fields and planted his seeds and harvested his crops. Year after year after year. Then one day, he heard from Cash. Cash was from Detroit, he was a UAW member. He had cancer. He wanted to see Hobson before he died. He wanted to tell him something but he wanted to do it in person. If he was well enough to travel Cash would have gone to Iowa, but his doctor told him it wasn't a good idea to travel but he could have visitors. Cash sent a round trip plane ticket and arranged for his nephew to pick Hobson up at the airport.
Dustin, Cash's nephew picked him up at the airport in an old pickup truck. Johnny explained his uncle had owned it for years but gave it to him when he could no longer drive. He filled the hour long trip with stories about his Uncle. Some stories, the ones about war, Hobson had heard before, even lived. But some he hadn't heard. Some were softer more intimate. One was about Cash playing catch with a young Korean boy, thinking he might never get back to see Mickey Mantle or play catch with his own son. Cash had been the consummate tough guy. Hobson hadn't thought a compassionate side existed.
Cash was seated in a recliner in the living room of his modest home. There were several black and white pictures from time, some family, some soldiers, one of JFK. The room was some what of a time capsule but when you live a full life, this tends to happen. You forget about the things that don't matter and surround yourself with those pieces of the past that best represent the journey, your journey. Your life. And by all accounts Cash had enjoyed his trip.
Cash was slight of frame and still had a full head of hair. Hobson had a slight limp due to a tractor accident some years ago. A few strands of grey were all that remained of his once proud demeanor. Cash seemed strong even though the cancer had ravaged his insides.
Hey there fella
Hey yourself
It's been a long time
Sure has
Life been good?
Can't say I got much to complain about. This bum leg perhaps. But had I been more careful. Shoot what's the sense in complaining. I'm fine. Been a fine life. Ever the better since I met so many kind and generous men like yourself. If I wasn't fortunate I'd be in the ground already.
Well I reckon I gotta say I have done about all I set out to do. Seen my share of good and bad. This cancer though has really set in and I ain't sure how much I got left. I feel pretty good for the most part. Most days. There's days I'd just rather sit and watch a ball game. And still others I just lay in bed. Those are the worst. And they been coming around more regular.
I guess we all get into those
moments. I know for me, when the first snow comes I just want to fall asleep and never wake up. The flakes pile around me and rest assured I will lumber in a frozen dream.
Can I get you a drink or something? Are you hungry?
I'm good for now. We can have something later. You flew me out here. I gotta think it was something important. Maybe you get something off your chest and then we have that drink. I know I'm a little anxious.
Cash sort of falls into a slight trance, a look sparks in his eye, like he is no longer in the room but is staring through the walls at something not quite there. Tears well in his eyes. It starts as a quiver in the corner of his mouth, a slight tremble, his speech catching in is throat. His chest heaves and he coughs into a handkerchief; he wipes a spot of blood from the corner of his mouth. Mopping the tears from his eyes with the bloodied handkerchief, he says:
After the war I hit the ground running. I tried to put as much distance between myself and that time as possible. I was kidding myself of course. That time was me. I was not going to lose any piece of what happened. It had become my life. The scar on the side of my head. The missing teeth. The periodic uncontrollable trembling. The urge to scream at random times. I was sick and I didn't know why.
I would get up and go about my life with the constant harassment of the past. A nagging tug to bring me back to where I never wanted to return. I had to fight through that because it wasn't supposed to be that way. I was supposed to be a war hero. I was supposed to carry the mantle of battle and cherish it forever as some rite that I alone possessed.
And to some extent I did cherish the memories. I did long for those days. But they had nothing to do with battle; they had nothing to do with being a soldier. That was an unfortunate lot I drew. The memory of the soldier I was and the warrior I became were the things I wanted to stay buried. My friends, my buddies, you. Hobson. Johnny Baels. Frank. Tom. The guys. That's what I wanted to get back to. But they didn't all come back. I didn't want to remember battle. I wanted to rehash old times. I wanted to relive card games, and dirty glasses of warm beer and food so putrid you wouldn’t have fed it to your dogs yet we ate it so we didn't starve.
When people would come talk to me they just wanted to hear about what I did in battle. No one ever asked about killing, well not directly but that's what they were after. They wanted to know what it felt like. They wanted to know the sights and the smells. People have this insane curiosity for the most disturbing things. I can't blame them all. It's how we are. It's everywhere. Death and destruction. Yet the kind they see doesn’t exist. Mine. Yours. Ours did. We witnessed it. Saw it. Smelled it. Tasted it. Felt it. And its cheeky to say but I wouldn’t' wish that on anyone. I wouldn't.
Remember that kid that came on just after Inchon. That kid from down south somewhere. Chappy they called him. Do you remember him?
Sure I remember Chappy. That was a hard kid. He should have made it.
Should have, maybe. What's to say but to know he held his focus that much longer than the rest of us and absorbed all the shock on himself. I've replayed that over in my head a million times. I can still taste his blood. And people want to know that stuff. I'd trade it all to not know.
Anyway, I get into this routine but I can't shake the war no matter what I do. Over the years it still gnaws at me. I lose my wife. My kids move away and don’t call much. I got friends here. But they don't know what I know. I can't seem to get past whatever it is I picked up along the way. Then the bottom falls out and I see it all for what it is. I ain’t never said none of this to anyone but I decided I am about to pass on to whatever awaits and I want to do so with as clear a conscious as I can. That’s why I sent for you. I'm not looking for anyone's approval or forgiveness; that's long in the past. I want you to listen and help me understand for myself how best to clear this up. Do you think you can do it?
What ever I can do old friend. I'm here. Let's have it.
I have these dreams. They used to be nightmares. But the older I got the more they became a part of me. I feared them but knew they were there and learned to tolerate them. Not at first though it took a long time. Some things you just can't get past. The screams men make when they're dying. The smells that come from them shitting their pants or the vomit and the piss. The body does things when it is traumatized. Awful things. No one talks about that. There is glory in murder on the battle field. Yet the indignities that come along with death are left untouched. However the action is glorified, the indignity of the frailty of life is left untouched. Even the most inhuman among us can somehow grasp the individual suffering and hide from its ugliness. And those who swear they don't care are lying.
I spent many years trying to figure out why I lived when so many others had died. Why I was left to toil alone with the memories of those days we spent carrying the mantle of honor. The privilege as having served our country, our God, our people on the battle field. It literally tore me up inside. I fought with myself and all I knew, all I had learned over the years. How could I fully represent those who had fought and died without sullying their participation, their achievement, their sacrifice? I am not so much sorry for who I am and what I have done as I am for those who will have to repeat it. I am sorry for those yet born or those just starting out who will have to learn what I learned, experience what I experienced, live and die with what I know.
Joe Baels was a comedian. A farmer. A lover of his wife and children. He stepped on a mine and watched his life spill from the gaping hole left when his legs were torn from his body. I held his hand and watched his eyes flutter, blood gurgling from his lips. There was no time for tears; no time for words. Just enough time to realize he wasn't going home alive. I know what that did to me. I don't know what it did to Joe. But his eyes told me he was sad and scared and mad as hell. I wouldn't wish that on anyone. But how can I tell this to someone so they will listen and understand.
I took off screaming for days after Joe died. I fired my weapon at anything that moved. I shot at birds and stray dogs. I shot at rocks I thought moved. I shot at people. Not soldiers. People. I never checked to see. But I killed people I shouldn't have.
But it's war right? Nothing makes sense. When it's not your backyard everyone and everything is a target. That's just the reality. Anyone who says otherwise is lying or worse ignorant to war. The only choice in war is kill or be killed. Outside of that is negotiation and that is not performed on the battlefield. These are not excuses or rationalizations. These are cold hard truths. And most folks won't accept them. They'll commit to the idea but they won’t commit to the effort. War is all in. If anyone says otherwise they have no business being in the conversation.
Cash pauses for a moment and stares at Hobson. The understanding captured in Hobson’s eyes makes Cash choke up. All this time living with a burden of such magnitude finally let out of the bag. Sudden warmth rises in his belly as his emotions bowled him over, filling him with a sense of relief. He leaned to his left and spat into a trash can. Wiping his mouth, his continues.
Do you remember the 29th November, 1950?
I remember the time not specifically the day. We were near The Chosin, somewhere around Hagaru-ri.
That's right. This is where you and I met. When they matched up our regiments due to the losses we sustained getting around The Chosin.
That was one hell of time. Never been so damn cold in all my life. There are times, even in the summer, when I can still feel that cold. My feet go numb. My hands start to tremble. I can almost feel my heart freezing up.
I was part of an attachment on the road leading around the reservoir. The Chinese had more than one advantage and they took it to us real hard.
You were part of Task Force Faith?
I was. Poor bastards; all of us. They called us cowards afterwards. They said we ran. We just wanted to live. But that's not a choice in war. Especially from non-combatants. It's one thing to say someone heroically gave their life in the line of duty. It's quite another to expect every man in every situat
ion to act in a similar way. And I say men. We were hardly men back then. I still carried a picture of my mother. I cried for her often.
Those were bad times. Real bad. No one in a position otherwise should suggest they know the specter of war. The only glory was in coming home and that too had its limitations.
I'd been sick. Like with a cold. February. Chills. Aches. All the misery. Yet I was in the field and it was 15 below. I didn't need to get shot. I was about to die anyway. I could barely move. When the mortar round went off I was maybe 30 feet away. An old lady in a feathered cap would have easily taken me down at that point. The shrapnel jut made it official. When I came to I was bouncing around in the back of a deuce and a half. I still felt let like shit but it was some what warm. Anything greater than 15 below zero is going to feel like summer in Paramus. The next time I remember anything a bullet is tearing through my shoulder.
I awake with gasp. A loose sense of fever and sickness shakes me free from the bliss of dream. I scan the darkened canvas. Eruptions litter the void. My gut trembles. I shut my eyes and roll to my right.
I hear voices. They're everywhere and no where. I don't understand. The Chinese are all around. The voices get closer. They're outside. They’re inside. I hear words without reason. The first stab pierced my shoulder. I wince. The second one grazes my lung. They're searching. The third slices past my femur. They're covering themselves. I hold my breathe. The next one finds some one else. The whimper. Several more follow. I hear his bowels let go. He cries. A gunshot. No more voices.
I could never tell how long I remained in the back of that truck. The cynic says I waited forever. It could have been 15 minutes. I remember crawling over St.Angelo and Trax. Grayson had been the one who cried. He wanted to go to Portugal. He said it was warm by the beach. But people didn't really care. They were Portuguese, and proud of their country.
I could smell diesel and shit at the tailgate. I pulled myself out into the open, hitting the ground with a crunch falling 4 or so feet to the ground. I rolled back under the truck before registering the three cracked ribs. I was out in the open. But I still didn't know the whole story. Where was I? Where was my unit? Where were the Chinese? My stomach ruptured and I vomited a mixture of blood and stomach froth. I should have died. But I eventually rolled out from underneath that truck and slowly and painfully made my way over The Chosin and to the Marine detachment.
From there I made my life into what sits before you right now. And up until a few weeks ago I carried the burden of those that died in that truck. I awoke every day and went to bed every night for almost 3/4 of a century with the sounds of the dying in my ears. I could have avenged my brothers. I could have taken it to the enemy and sacrificed myself for that moment and I did nothing. I wanted to live. And because I chose to live I had the weight of guilt, several times over, clasped round my neck.
Why did I live? Why did my body hold out after being victimized in such a horrific way? Why didn't I pass out and freeze to death like so many others did? For so many years I had questions for which only I had the answers. It’s almost as if I’ve been living in place all these years. I survived but I never moved past all the shit I escaped from. Only I could pull together all the horror, all that hardship, all that murder and death. I needed to see that I was a part of the process and due to my participation could make the connection that I was there and could choose to make that decision. I chose to live. And it took me a life time to figure that out.
When I first wrote to you, I was in an incredibly low point in my life. I’m sick, tired and alone. My brain was eating away the remaining defenses I allowed myself to shelter my self from my past. I decided I could die with dignity or I could just die. Thank you for coming. It may not seem like much but you saved my life. Again.
Dear Horace,
I hope these words find you well old friend. Every day our numbers get less and less. Soon the ranks will close and only our memories with remain. I haven’t done such a good job over the years trying to tell my story. I wasn’t all that much into the attention or praise that comes from talking to people who don’t know any better or just listen to humor me.
Recently I had the chance to go and see Cash. The cancer has really taken a toll on him, but his spirit remains strong. He flew me out to see him so he could tell me about what the war had done to him. Sitting in his living room listening to him recount his experiences, some I knew, others I didn’t, and I saw a man stricken with not just cancer but the debilitation of many lives lost, not of his doing. I came to see in someone else what I had spent my whole life trying to push deeper and deeper into the unknown.
Cash felt he had let his buddies down by not dying with them. He spoke about his escape from the battlefield and wondering if he too should have perished. He took a lot of the war and internalized it, like we all did. I never gave my inner turmoil any legitimacy until I heard Cash’s story. I don’t know if it was the cancer or something in him just woke up, but my visit with Cash set my mind at ease about a lot of things. Most importantly, though, it wasn’t our fault.
You and I haven’t spoke much over the years but when we have we shared a unique understanding of our circumstances and an unspoken bond regarding what happened to us. I need to ask you a favor. I need to ask you to forgive yourself. Find a few minutes to reflect and cry, remember the good and the bad, take stock in what you were and then allow yourself to let go. Good men don’t come along often and great men differ only by shades of gray. Allow yourself to let go of a past that was yours by matter of happenstance and not through blind ambition. The good in you deserves it.
The rightful resting place for your soul is in the heavens above and the hearts of those who truly cared for you. I hope you can understand my meaning and know that it is from the heart. Allow yourself to set free the loneliness and pain of a life yet lived and breathe your remaining breathes a man free of burden and shame.
You’re a great man Horace. May the sun fill your days with peace, the Lord fill your heart with kindness and a steady breeze always blow at your back.
Hobson
I found the letter while I was going through some of my grandfather’s things. I began to piece together the story of my grandfather. On some scales it was epic in proportion. In others, it was a short story, a poem, an editorial, a eulogy. My grandfather was a part of history but he learned to internalize his place in it. The system cheated him and all of his fellow men and women of their rightful due; their true place in history.
Because what is history if we continually repeat the mistakes of the past. Who are we and what have we become when we choose not to listen to those who have a truth to share? We are a self absorbed, narcissistic, self-loathing, betrayal of what we all would like to believe in our hearts. We are not the land of the free and the home of the brave. We are the smoldering remnant of a society in complete ruin. We are the tattered flag left limp on the abandoned hill. We like to say we are exceptional. Exceptional people don’t allow these things to happen. The specter of the fallen twenty tells me all I need to know.
Try and tell your story.
I dare you!
Looking in the Rearview
His slowly numbing hand reach’s for the fan switch on the heater and moves it to three. The temperature outside has been dropping all day. A chill finally creeps in. The radio is currently on scan, randomly skipping over the few stations available this far from the city. The intermittent chatter doesn’t dislodge him from memories racing through his thoughts. It’s almost supper time. He’s not hungry enough to stop.
Frozen fields of corn pass by endlessly along the state highway travelling west towards the sun. How many water towers with town names painted on them has he passed without giving any thought to the people who live in those towns? Are they proud people displaying who they are to all the travelers or are they trying to tell the world this is who they are and to stay the fuck out? They don’t do that back east much he thought to himself.
A lo
ng sweeping corner through the vast cornfields yields to a wide river and a steel span. Boulders, tree stumps, brush, old washed out pilings litter the path of rushing water. He thinks of warm summer afternoons and swinging from ropes tied to trees. He remembers sitting under sagging branches fishing in dark spots, catching the biggest fish on offer. His mind turns to her, as it often does. She wasn’t at the river with him fishing. He wished she was. She wasn’t swimming either. His memory shows him one thing, compares it to another but can’t make sense of the mishmash. His belly rumbles. It isn’t hunger.
High beamed headlights cut through a heavy mist and thick ground fog. Dampened grass runs off from the gravel path in both directions lost in the moisture of the early morning air. Her head rests on his shoulder a red jacket with blue leather sleeves wraps her in slumber. He’s already feeling the nagging tug of melancholy as he approaches the front porch of her parent’s house. He shuts off the lights and slowly pulls to a stop, placing the truck in park but leaving the motor idling. The early morning is chilly and he doesn’t want her to wake just yet.
Green eyes, before sparkling in the moonlight outside the gates of the field, now lay hidden, buried in restful contentment. He catches sight of her in the rearview mirror, pausing a moment to take in the moment. As he stares in abject admiration he glimpses a slight turn, a twist in the corner of her mouth; smiling while sleeping. I will remember this forever he thought. Forever is a long time.
Chrissy grew up miles from where he first met her. She moved to town with her mom and two sisters. Her dad was serving concurrent sentences in Lawrenceville. She seemed distant about that part of her life. Maybe that’s what drew him to her. She was beautiful, that played a part. But the quiet sweetness, the tender underpinnings of her shy responses, the way she looked off in the distance while speaking, turning back every so often to see if he was still listening. She seemed drawn in but behind a blind, cautious. He just let it happen. She intrigued him.
For months on end they were inseparable, not clingy adolescence, not joined at the lips. They shared a general comfort and unnamed connection that allowed them to be friends who cared about one another while also allowing for teenage intimacy. They held hands a lot and talked about what was going on in each of their lives and where they saw each other going. He tried to get her to talk about her father. She seemed indifferent towards him, neither hating nor loving. She understood she had a father we all do to some degree. She just wasn’t concerned about him. He wasn’t and wouldn’t be part of her life. She accepted the fact at face value. Who was he to question a girl about her jailed father? Everything else between them was fine he didn’t need to stir the pot. Maybe he should have.
The cold day on the road changed to a frigid night some time ago and still he continued down the interstate. Overhead the highway lights cast shadows along the dash board, like tiny suns rising and setting. He stole a glance at the rearview and spied only a tired expression from a weary traveler running from something not so far in the distance. His eyes waiver a tick longer, stealing a glimpse of the dealt hand for all to see with no chance to call. He drops his gaze and realigns his focus on the road, headlights cutting through darkness, slowly approaching nothing and no one.
Time went on as it has a tendency to do and they became closer and more intimate. He held a soft spot in his heart for the warmth from her head, her soft hair, laid across his bear chest. They would lie about sometimes and just enjoy the quiet company of each other's adolescent yearning. They didn’t have much else but they did have each other's undivided attention. She would speak quietly of things, this and that, and he would listen. He wanted to be someone in her life, someone important, someone who cared. He wanted to care for her. He was falling in love with her. He never said.
When they weren’t together they were working. He did odd jobs around town. Anything he could get his hands on. Times were what they were and he didn’t have many options. He did what came his way. She waited tables and cared for her sisters. Her mom, stuck on the fact her husband was locked up unjustly, drank a lot and ate pills out of an orange bottle. She stayed in her room a lot. The dishes would pile up.
Darren wanted to help Chrissy. He wanted to share the burden with her. They talked about it but she kept it casual, almost neutral. They really had grown together, intertwined like branches reaching through undergrowth, stretching towards the sun. Her family though, seemed an after thought, not for him. She never said so. She just excused away his offers and changed the subject. He didn’t think to push the issue at first. When he did it was already too late.
He'd been offered a job on the other side of the state. It wasn’t great work. It paid better though. Darren figured he had to give it at least a chance. He thought she would be excited. He thought she’d be happy. The tears in her eyes crushed him. Her response left him devastated. He wiped the tears on his sleeve and hung his head in sorrow. He stopped and turned, he wanted to say something, anything, but nothing came out. She was looking out into the yard, wrapped tightly in her own arms. That should have been him. He walked out into the night.
The interstate continues to roll underneath as he pushes deeper and deeper into the night, lost in a memory he cannot escape. Her eyes glare back at him and he shudders against the cold grip of the past, the raw emotion of loneliness. Tears well in his eyes as frustration grows in his gut. Instead of screaming 'why?’ he pummels the steering wheel with balled up fists. The road has become slick and the truck begins to slide out from underneath him. Fear wrings Chrissy from his thoughts as he fights the truck to a stop. Winded, he collapses on the seat.
Dear God, I ask you now as a soul lost and alone to keep watch over her and fill her heart with peace and warmth. I lost her once I found her and sure wish I stayed. I’m so tired. I wish I could rest. I miss her so much. Please keep her safe. I miss you Chrissy.
A floral print bedspread. Throw pillows. A rabbit, soft, stuffed, ratty around the edges, worn by love. A dresser and a mirror. A picture of two people, smiling, one more so than the other. A jewelry box. A black and white framed photo of a young girl and a man. Chrissy sits on the floor, arms holding tight against legs pressed up to her chest. She’s sobbing. A tissue lays crumpled on the floor. Several pieces of paper also lay crumpled upon the floor. A notebook lies open, spent tears stain the pages, now drying by the light of the lamp.
Why can’t I just tell him? He wants me to tell him. Why can’t I just say it? It seems like such an easy thing to do. He’s not my father. He didn’t leave. He wanted to do the right thing. I miss him so much.
Her eyes puffy and red, lead her to a place in her past, back to when she knew what to say to him, what to tell him. None of it was very important but all of it was true and from the heart. She found him to be handsome and sweet and kind. She told him she cared for the softness of his touch, the carefree spirit that brought them to ice cream parlors and hayrides. She grew to expect long standing embraces, she in front of him as they stood together watching the sun set. All nagging memories of a past about to become permanent.
The day he came to tell her about his new job, the day innocence lost to the virtue of wages, compensated by heartache, she failed. He wasn’t leaving. He told her as much. But he didn’t understand all of it. He couldn’t. She never said. She should have talked about what it meant to have a convict for a father and a serial abuser for a mother. Chrissy had all she could do to take care of her sisters. Darren was the most important thing in her life and she let him walk out the door. Her heart remains restless and broken. She misses him.
Chrissy picked herself up from the floor, it’s late and she is tried. The stress of planning the wedding has brought her to the edge and she trembles as she looks into the abyss below. For so long she has been working under the assumption he would have come back by now. Surely they had the strength to figure out how to bridge the gap separating them.
She crawled into bed with the tears of her past long sodden. Drifting between here and there as m
ight be the case when stress pulls you under before sleep finds its rightful hold, she sees him in the distance. A setting sun is slowly sinking to the horizon. He is bathed in gold and the water shimmers as if littered with diamonds. His hands are hidden in the pockets of his red jacket with blue leather sleeves. Chrissy approaches from across the beach, coming upon him from his right. His gaze is fixed on the horizon her presence next to him has not aroused his attention. He seems transfixed on something. Maybe he too is sleeping.
Will you hold me, she asks
I’ve been waiting, is his reply
What are you looking at
Happier times
Where I don’t see anything
You have to open your eyes. You’ll see
My eyes are open. I don’t see what you see
I know
She pulls away from him and turns. Darren is gone. She’s standing in the yard of her parent’s house, it’s raining she’s soaked through to the skin. A police car is driving away. She sees the outline of her father in the back of the car, highlighted by the barred petition. Her mother is leaning over the fence vomiting into the garden. She turns her head, swill drips from her lower lip. Stuttering she garbles, he’s innocent. Do you hear me? He's innocent. Chrissy get me a drink.
Go to sleep Ma. Dads gone and he isn’t coming back.
In her bed she tosses and turns fighting the images roiling in the chaos of her slumber. Right, wrong. Guilt, innocence. Love, loss. Guilt. Fright. Happiness. Eternal struggle. Surely this can’t continue. What would be the point. The alternative. A gasp. The alarm.
The cluttered darkness of nighttime’s revolt begins to burn out, sending streaks of light in all directions. The day begins anew with nothing promised nothing lost, yet also nothing gained. A sense of purpose sits creased upon his brow, the determination of a climber on a peak. All signs point east. He checks his watch. Plenty of time.
Miles click click click on the odometer. A voice in his head, maybe two or three, hurl lines of verse, declarative statements, tender mercies, pleas, apologies, thanks, forgiveness. The splattering of words begins to fill the canvas in his head as if a painter splashed cans of paint upon a white wall. The vibrant tone taking shape fills him with hope. He looks in the rearview the state line is behind him. Coming into view is a chance at redemption. His watch says there’s still time.
Two young girls position the train for the ceremony. The bride is stunning in her white gown carefully sequined, buttoned just right, trimmed to perfection. A soft glow radiates outward from the groom, tall and stoic, perhaps uncomfortable in his rented handsomeness. She smiles. In her position she is happy. She really feels it this time. The preacher carries on with the ritual.
Outside, Darren breath’s slowly. He arrives outside a rustic looking church with a tall bell tower and a single spire. A breeze ruffles the paper bells hanging from the trellis leading into the sanctuary. Two tall reddened wooden doors stand closed, keeping the inside in and outside out. The voices are still talking through in his mind what he is about to do. Although he has bared witness to what he is about to do before he still can’t come to terms with his emotions.
What if he misread her letter? What if she was being contrite because of nerves? The what if’s were at the forefront and currently slowing down the process. He closed his eyes and remembered the prayer.
Dear God, I ask you now as a soul found and not so alone to keep watch over me as I try to fill her heart with peace and warmth. I lost her once but now I found her and all I want to do is stay. I’m so alive. Wish me luck. I don’t want to miss her ever again.
The reddened wooden door creaks as he steps through the threshold, a rush of cool air hits him in the face. Muffled voices carry from the alter as the preacher converses with the couple dressed for the occasion. A woman with a crumpled tissue in her fist casually acknowledges Darren's presence in the sanctuary and then returns her emotions to the guests of honor. Darren takes a final breathe and then speaks.
I drove away one day and discovered there isn't anything down the road from here. The cities and towns are all empty; the lights are not on in any of the shops or homes. Pictures I have of you made me realize this is where I belong. The memory of you took me away from this place and now it's those memories that have brought me back.
Holding up a folded sheet of paper in his right hand he continues.
You sent me this letter. But I was coming anyway. I couldn't bear to hear you say ‘I do’ before I had one more chance to convince you otherwise. Chrissy, before anything else, you and I were the best of friends. That means something. Or at least it did. I love you!
The congregation stare at Darren, some aghast, most puzzled. From the alter the bride raises her veil, tears streaking her face.
I don't know who Chrissy is but she sure is going to be disappointed she missed out on this.
Nervous laughter scatters through the pews. Darren's heart sinks.
Darren’s thoughts hit the gas, full throttle. Wrong church? But the letter said. It was very specific. Time and place. I checked it twice. How could I have gotten it wrong?
He turns towards the door and freezes, his eyes lock on a shadow in the vestibule.
I couldn't be sure you'd come but you found the way. I needed you here. I wish I hadn't given in to selfish ways so long ago. I can't remember the last time I was this happy. I'm sorry Darren. For everything.
But, what you said. In your letter. You're boyfriend? I don't understand?
I broke it off with Scott a week before I found the nerve to write you that letter. I always kept a picture of you on my dresser. It was behind a picture of my father, when I was a little girl. Scott found it and asked who you were. I couldn't hold it back anymore. I told him. About you. Everything. Then I told him I couldn't marry him. I gave him the ring back.
For the next few days I walked around in a fog, one foot in reality, one foot out. Like doing the insanity hokey pokey. I can laugh about it now. It wasn't funny at the time. I was in real agony. Once the shock lifted and I allowed myself to breath again, I knew I had to get in touch with you.
Darren reaches out and takes her hands in his and they stare into the eyes of each other. The world around them ceases to exist. All the colors, the sights, the sounds, blend into a grayish haze creating a sanctuary within a sanctuary. The sands of time stretch out each grain of sand allowing for the reliving of a lifetime in a fraction of a moment.
In Chrissy, Darren sees the comforting force she is in his life. The guiding light which draws him from peril and conflict, diverting his cares to her caressing shores. A constant light in a dark sky, she beckons him home to the warmth and comfort of her tireless embrace.
For Chrissy, Darren brings tender strength, a kind and sweet metal, the type that hones steel into tender mercies, carves love from the bone of antiquity. He is the safety swirling in the chaos, the lagoon in the tempest, her shelter from the storm. The roiling seas of change and uncertainty will not unseat him from the helm of her ship.
As they stand in the vestibule of the church holding ceremony for two lovers from a different story, a new beginning washes them with hope and certainty. Their eyes exchange vows of a different kind, those said among God and not before God. They don't repeat verses laid out before them from a book but from their heart each to the other and as original as the first lines in the bible. Their love is their own and will not be shared by others. Not in the spiritual sense. This time will be the last time.
A final embrace leaves them lightly weeping in each other's arms. Gone are the tensions, the maladies, the wondering thoughts of what if. Together they have drained the love lost from the treaded path and drank from the cups that ran over with the emotions of the day. A different energy now courses through their veins, both vibrant and aware. Like stepping from a famed fountain, they are reborn.
With his right hand clutching her left, he reaches for the reddened wooden door and an exit into his new life. Their new life. The ques
tions from yesterday have been answered the wonders and worries have become a thing of the past. That which once was is again.
The cool dry air of the sanctuary is replaced by a warm afternoon sun and calm cooling breeze from the north. They step down through the trellis and pause upon the sidewalk. He turns towards her and pulls her tight his arms twitch his legs tremor. Soft green eyes of perilous beauty engage him as if on the front lines of some epic battle pitching lover against lover. Her tremulous gaze cleanses his senses and he buries his face into her shoulder, relieved to be in her love again.
I knew you'd come she whispers
I couldn't not come he replies.
A carefree spinning fills their hearts as the world whirls about them. Cars pass by on the street, birds chirp from the trees, clouds meander through an otherwise clear blue sky. If ever a time had been born to be right with the world, they were standing in that moment, sharing the virtues of being together, with loves sweet reminder of how luck has nothing to do with it.
Forget to Remember
It never occurred to me that I might actually have to drive home. Drink after drink. I never thought about the end. How would I get home? I had another drink instead. I talked to Sally. She was real pretty. Blonde hair and blue eyes. I remembered her that way. She was fat and had bad breathe. But her hair was blonde and her eyes were blue. I fucked her. I wish I hadn't. But who am I? A sad sack of shit. A loser. And I took my misfortune out on Sally. She only wanted to be loved. Don't we all?