Ball Thumper

Ball Thumper was just fired. Mrs. Remo caught him thumping my balls. But now, my sheets and diapers are fresh and clean. I’m sure in the next bed, my friend’s diaper’s and sheets are also clean. For a so-called “vegetable”, my story will not be believed, but it goes like this:
My friend and I exist in beds for “wet brains”. In diapers and hospital gowns we reside in this V.A. death-watch ward next to the morgue. When a nearby door is open, we hear the metallic clank of instruments and the “whump” of what can only be cooler doors sealing in bodies.
While we cannot talk, my friend and I have learned to communicate. It began quite by accident. One evening, late in Ball Thumper’s shift, shortly before the start of graveyard, I dirtied my diapers and fresh sheets. In the position with a single leg bent up to the chest, the diaper leaked. I’d tried to avoid this, but this evening I couldn’t help it. Ball Thumper discovered the mess as he was emptying Foley bags and taking out trash.
He said, “You son of a bitch. You’re trying to ruin my shift again.”
He tore off my diaper and thumped my balls. I jerked and groaned with each thump. Replacing the diaper without washing me, he left the sheets dirty.
When he was done, the man in the next bed must’ve dirtied his diapers.
Ball Thumper swore again and slammed something against the bed frame. From the sound of it, he thumped the man’s balls because the man groaned and his bed frame rattled as he jerked.
After Ball Thumper left I groaned once. My neighbor groaned once. I jerked once. He jerked once. After a few minutes, he groaned. I groaned. He passed gas and I reciprocated.
Over the weeks, we refined this primitive communication and collaborated to rid ourselves of Ball Thumper.
On Ball Thumper’s weekly five shifts, we harassed him. We held our bowels until near the end of his shift. If it seemed someone else was nearby while he tended us, we would thrash, jerk and moan. Eventually, Ball Thumper caught on. So, it became a battle of wills.
For weeks we warred. After any bowel movement, he thumped our balls. Our first victory came one evening after we’d been left dirty for the graveyard shift to clean. It began politely enough.
A voice said, “Artemus, Last night, Mr. Oldham’s and Mr. Butler’s diapers and bed were left dirty for the graveyard shift to clean.”
Mr. Butler. I’d learned my friend’s name.
Artemus or Ball Thumper said, “Those two are messing with me.”
Mr. Butler and I jerked, groaned and thrashed.
Two nights later the voice said, “Artemus, I’m reporting you to Mrs. Remo for improper attention to these patients.”
Swearing, Ball Thumper said, “I told you those two guys are conscious and deliberately shit their beds at the end of my shift.”
Mr. Butler thrashed and I groaned.
“Artemus, something about you agitates these patients. No other patient reacts this way,” the voice said.
After that, Ball Thumper cleaned and changed us as needed. But he threw us around. The pain of my bedsore shot through me as I was dragged across the bare mattress. He then wadded the sheepskin into a knot against the sore.
At the end of each shift, Mr. Butler and I signaled “goodnight” and remained silent until Ball Thumper returned. In those long, boring periods, I slipped into my own reverie and private hell.
I’d sensed my life ending because it was becoming difficult to climb the hills in Seattle. I was sleeping on the wharf and relying on friends to bring me alcohol. I didn’t care about food.
So one night, desperate, I wrote my will and instructions on a brown paper sack. I inserted contact information in my wallet and visited my friend in the Wells Fargo building. Knowing I was close to death, but before I went through detox-hell, I said, “I’m dying. You’ve got complete authority over all my affairs.”
I signed a power of attorney and gave him my debit card. I said, “All I’ve got are my writings. Please place them in a trust for my ex-wife and kids. After your costs and charges, should there ever be income, please split it equally.”
He said, “You can’t afford me, but I’ll do it anyway.”
I gave him the password to my e-mail where my writings reside.
He said, “Keep writing, I‘ll get them together for you. I got you a motel room.”
With twenty-five dollars, I left to buy alcohol. When it was gone, without medication, I started to detox yet again. Because I’d suffered seizures, without medicine, it was medically unsafe to detox but I didn’t care.
I began to sweat. Alcohol and toxins flushed from pores smell like stale, sour cheese. The room reeked of that smell and the rot of my body. My clothes were saturated and filthy and my underwear was streaked. I threw it in the trash. Stripped of my clothes, I lay in the sheets until they were soaked. Chilling, I put the soiled, putrid clothes back on and alternated between chills and sweats. Even water would not stay down. I heaved on an empty stomach. My sides were raw and my throat burned with the gastric juices. My stomach cramped.
Dante said again and again, “I come to ferry thee hence across the bar to fierce fires, endless nights and shramming cold.”
Worse, I could not sleep. Bombing my psyche were agonizing thoughts. Quaking my fragile sanity, the thoughts crashed in and tumbled over each other without ceasing or warning. I relived the pain my marriage. I cried for my little children for when they must have curled up wondering if their Daddy was dead. I cursed my neglect of them. I banged my head with my fists. Lying in the womb of sweaty sheets I endured.
There was no relief. I wanted death. I feared death. I cried for my soul and was disgusted at my pathetic late, late cry. I screamed. I condemned myself to hell and trembled that I might go. Finding no forgiveness I begged for it. Sleep terrorized me because I might drown in my vomit but craved oblivion to escape the cauldron of my mind.
Dante tormented me without reprieve.
Late on the third night, I must have had a seizure. I regained consciousness in this ward next to the morgue. Finally, although I cannot see or speak, the horror is gone and I am at peace in my diapers.
My sister visited me and said, “Dale, Mom died. Dad just stares. I don’t hear from your kids. You look so peaceful there. I miss our long talks, because you were the only person I could talk to.” Patting the bone protruding just beneath the skin of my hip, she then left.
Now, weeks later, Ball Thumper is gone. After he left, Mrs. Remo said to Mr. Butler and me, “I really get the sense that you two guys know what you’re doing. Just so you know, I think you two veterans represent the best of the human spirit. You are good soldiers. Thank you for your service.”
It is the graveyard shift. In our way, Mr. Butler and I just said “goodnight”. He jerked and thrashed and passed gas longer than usual, so it might have been “goodbye”. His breathing is shallow, so I feel he is letting go.
We’ve done a good thing for this ward. I’ll miss Mr. Butler, but believe I’ll hang around for a few days and pick up any staff gossip about Ball Thumper.

The Dancer

The flashing red signs beckoned David and punctuated his return to West Texas. After hours of driving across the charred desert, he approached El Paso from the east. Blinded by the sun as it slipped below the deep red western horizon, the darkening sky and lights brought him back from long miles of reminiscence of his recent African service.
The assignment in West Africa was welcome after Virginia amputated his dreams. In fact, time and the Dark Continent had helped bridge and heal the pain of her rejection. But now, approaching the city of their goodbye, his two years of solitude seemed crushing. Dreading the inevitable encounter with her, he drove the car under the bright lights and parked near a sign which said “Dancers - Nude.”
In the narrow, dimly lit entrance, a poster read, “Personal, Intimate Dancing - $30.00. Absolutely NO touching.” In the back of the room were ceiling to floor red velvet drapes. David took a cushioned chair near the drapes. Bump and grind music vibrated and pulsated the room. Through the heavy smoke and reek of cigars, mirrors reflected a woman gyrating with a smudged brass pole near the edge of a stage. A patron put his face between the woman’s legs and howled. His two companions moaned and brayed. She clutched one, five and ten dollar bills in her fist. The patrons draped three fives over the g-string that secured a silver patch of cloth between her legs. She moved across the stage to perform for a man in paint-stained denim overalls.
In the stench of spilled beer and cheap perfume, a Latina stepped through the haze and approached David. She wore skimpy, lace-fringed lingerie, black like her shiny hair and dark eyes. Tinted a shade of purple, her eyelids matched her finger and toe nails. Wearing open-toed black patent high heels, she swayed like a Mende tribeswoman walking to market and balancing a heavy pot or log on her head. In Africa, the tribeswomen wore only wrap around cloths from the waist down as they walked on the tarmac roads.
Barely audible above the ear-splitting music, the Latina asked, “Would you like a table dance?”
David was silent and the dancer began a slow dance at half beat. She turned her back to him and indicated that he undo the lingerie’s clasp at the nape of her neck. He did so and in a fluid motion, she draped the garment around David’s neck. Picking up the pace, her dance matched the pounding rhythm as she undulated and contorted. In time, the woman, now nude invited David to return her subtle, private touch. He noticed that around the room, patrons grasped women’s buttocks. Every sexual gesture and movement was performed except for the act of sex.
The touch of the dancer’s silken skin aroused David’s desire. From the pores of her skin, the lingering, pungent smell of her garlic diet overpowered her strong lavender perfume. David’s excitement flagged. He remembered that Mende tribeswomen also glided to market, oblivious to rotting fruit and the smoke from roasting monkeys.
David laughed. Near tears she snarled, “Look, asshole. I got two kids, right?” His fifty-dollar bill mollified her. Continuing to dance to the music, with a single movement, she snatched her garment from David’s neck and stepped through the red-velvet drapery.
David remembered the poster and reflected that, save for undoing the clasp at her neck, he was in total compliance.
Alone, he drove to the distant lights of El Paso.

The Hallucination

The visit progressed well. My old Dad’s anxiety was barely contained under the surface, but I was polite and restrained. Dad regaled me with the day’s version of his dad, “Pop”, and the survival techniques he employed to feed his family during the depression. Pop had a mill and ground farmer’s crops, keeping a percentage to sell or to feed to his own animals. The story meandered on to the drought year farmers ground soap weed roots and burned thorns off cactus to feed the cattle. That was the worst of the dust bowl years when Oklahoma blew into Northeastern New Mexico in billowing clouds of dust. Dad implied that if I’d sat on a tractor for sixteen hours as he did, perhaps I would have stuck with something. Success, in his mind, was duplicating his life.

He then talked about the sess pool they dug when Fred Carter stopped by and helped, the way they did back then, and Ott Kenan brought over a heavy bar to break up a stubborn rock. I’d heard this story so my mind wandered and glimpses movement in the back yard out of the corner of my eye.

Odd. This was a townhouse and the only access to the narrow back yard with two fruit trees and a pine tree was through the house, unless someone stood on a bucket or ladder and climbed over the fence. A man in a red plaid shirt and a Wilder Well Service cap nodded at me through the window as his companion in Levis carried a tool box past the window. The Wilder Well Service cap nodded and I nodded back.

“Dad,” I asked, “You got somebody doing something out back?”

“Huh?”

“Who are those guys in the back yard?”

My father was extremely fit for an eighty-seven year old man, having farmed and worked physically for most of his life. He hopped up and went outside to check.

“There’s nobody out here, Dale,” he said.

I checked and saw the two men moving through the neighbor’s identical yard. I said, “Must be a utility crew moving on down the street.”

Dad said, “Dale, there isn’t anybody back here.”

“Right Dad”, I said in the patronizing tone I’d used earlier when he couldn’t remember if it was 1932 or 1933 that Pop had ground feed for the Mock brothers. I said then, “Dad, yesterday you were sure it was 1934.”

He looked sharply at me. “Dale, you been drinking that mouthwash again?”

I snorted, “You know I don’t do that anymore, Dad.”

“You’ve got to get a handle on that. We can’t have you around here like this. It’s killing your mother.”

“Dad, yesterday she told me it was killing you.”

“Naw, I’m okay, but you aren’t gonna stay around here and drink anymore.”

I said, “I agree, Dad. And it isn’t a problem. I understand.” I caught another movement in the back yard and said, “Dad, is that realtor out here again?” A trim brunette in a sharp, tan business suit was notating something on a clipboard. She waved and I waved back.

“Dale, you just go back and lay down before your mother gets home. You’re seeing things.”

I said, “Sure, whatever.”

I started to get out of the chair when Mom walked in from shopping. She looked at me and immediately said, “Dale, you’ve been drinking that mouthwash, I can tell. It’s killing your Dad and I’m not having you stay here anymore. I don’t know how many times we’ve told you that.”

I said, “I know, Mom. I wish it were different and I hadn’t put you guys through so much. I am moving into the Vet Center tomorrow morning, though, if you didn’t mind me staying in that back bedroom just tonight. I’ll be out first thing in the morning.”

“Well, what do you think Aubrey,” Mom said. She suddenly looked old, old.

Dad said, “Dale, you got any stuff hidden around here?”

“No, of course not.”

“Well get something to eat and get back in that bedroom. Be in the center first thing in the morning.”

I said, “Thanks Dad. I really appreciate this. You really shouldn’t put up with this and just kick me out on the street. You don’t deserve this and I could survive out there. I have before.”

Mom said, “We are just too tired and old for it anymore, Dale. We both have had small strokes and we aren’t able for it.”

“Yeah, I am so sorry. I, for the life of me don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’ll be out first thing.”

I looked out the window to check out the real estate lady’s legs again. In the bedroom, loud music came through the wall’s from the adjoining townhouse. Willy and Waylon’s song, “….let’ get to Luchenbach, Texas, Willy and Waylon and the boys,…this successful life we’re livin’s got us feudin like the Hatfields and McCoys…” I sang along for awhile, but the two middle aged women kept playing it. I banged on the wall several times until they turned it down to an acceptable level.”

Stretched out on the bed, I watched a Texas A&M versus Texas game on the wall television. It cut away to a car commercial about Dodge trucks and the Houston Rocket’s center drove away in a double cab Ram. Closing my eyes, I rolled onto my side and tried to sleep. I then sat on the side of the bed and watched the ballgame on the television on the carpet. It was the same play I’d just watched. I guessed that it was on two different channels – unusual for a Texas college game being watched in Albququerque. The same commercial played.

I left the bedroom and went out the front door. Mom called out, “Dale, what are you doing.”

I picked up my shoes and brought them back inside. “I’m just getting my shoes.” I held them up for her to see.

She said, “Your Dad found that bottle of mouthwash hidden behind the plant.”

I said, “Oh, I wondered where that went. I must have left it there last time week when I was out here and forgot about it. I was pretty crazy then. Sorry. Know you can’t believe me. I’m just getting my shoes.”

“Just get back in your room.”

“Okay, Mom. And thanks again.”

In the room, I took the stolen bottle of mouthwash from the toe of my left shoe. Smith’s Food was about two blocks away and I’d “shopped” there three times that day. I’d pay for some vegetables or something cheap and slip a small bottle of Listerine in my coat pocket. I’d become very skilled at this.

I drank half the bottle and gagged. I hid it under the mattress and waited for the nausea to subside. Throwing up was a waste of that precious liquid. One time, I’d gone so far as to save my urine in some Diet Coke bottles and recycle the unused alcohol. I reasoned that if cops could detect blood alcohol levels from urine and breath, there had to be some value to saving it. I hadn’t figured out how to recycle my breath. Remembering this, I was appalled, but, I must have been crazy then.

I lay curled on the bed. My stomach was just calming when Dad came in. I’d forgotten to lock the door. His unannounced entrance always annoyed me because my boundaries were violated.

“Dale, what are you doing? Are you sick?”

I said, “Gee, Dad. I was just praying.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Are you sure you are alright?” He asked as he quickly backed out the door.

In our family, a person praying is respected and his privacy is not to be disturbed. Our family doesn’t pray ostentatiously but if observed, the relationship with God is to be honored.

I said, “Dad, please knock first.”

“Sorry, Dale. Just checking on you.”

That scenario would give me the rest of the night undisturbed because I was praying and that was evidence I was concerned about my soul. If I was concerned about my soul, I could be trusted until morning. I retrieved my bottle from under the mattress and downed some more. My body was somewhat more accustomed to the mouthwash so I didn’t gag.

Between the room and a small atrium there is a window. From the atrium, I heard loud talking. Peeking through the shades, I saw a sister of my brother-in-law giving Dad a haircut. How rude of my sister and brother-in-law to bring his out of town relatives to visit the folks at this hour! Mom and Dad were not able to have company that late, what with their strokes and all. But then again, it was their house and if they were happy to be bothered that late, why should I get my underwear knotted.

I saw the visitors looking through at me. I knew the shades were pulled, but just in case, I crawled over and tightened them. They were probably just looking at their reflection.

The nausea returned, so I slipped into the kitchen to get some milk and ease the urge to vomit. Returning, I looked through the crack of their bedroom door. Mom was propped up in her bed reading.

I asked, “When did Jody and Arlo leave?”

She said, “Nobody was here Dale. Just go back to bed.”

I looked past her through the window into the back yard. In the dark, I could make out an old woman kneeling and cutting up apricots.

I went outside and said, “What are you doing?”

The old woman held her finger to her lips for me to be quiet. A couple in long, black trench coats hid behind the pine tree. I yelled at them. “Get out of here, or I’m calling the cops.” I glared at them and got right into the man’s face and found myself looking at a pine cone.

Mom and Dad got me to bed.

Watching the game, I finished my mouthwash. It wouldn’t be enough to avoid a terrible withdrawal before morning so I went to the kitchen for food to help with the detox. I mistook the barroom type swinging doors for the back of a chair and fell across the table and split my head open on the terrazzo floor. Blood spurted everywhere. I refused to go to the hospital. Mom bandaged it up. They discussed what to do. I reassured them that it wasn’t all that bad. Certainly not as bad as the time I drank windshield wiper fluid and Arlo called the ambulance. I could have died that time because I had to have dialysis. This was nothing. I was crazy then, what with the divorce and that stuff.

Mom said, “Dale, the divorce was eight years ago.”

I asked, “Just let me sit up in the recliner. I’ll get out first thing.”

I still don’t understand why, but somehow they agreed. I was the game some more. I saw crawling things. I heard music through the walls. And I slept.

I woke. My old Dad was curled up asleep on the couch. The chimes from the grandfather clock indicated it was about dawn. Music played until the refrigerator shut off. Smith’s wouldn’t be open for two hours. I would have to tough it out until I could shop. Why did Dad have to find that bottle behind the plant? I pulled the blanket up around Dad and slipped out through the garage to start, yet, another day. Would they ever end?

Journey to the Sea

I sit at an abyss that I cannot plumb or cross or gauge. It is the second watch at the darkest, coldest moment. The waning moon has completed its traverse of the sky. Moisture soddens my clothing and skin. I remember a day, as if it were yesterday.

In that day, we celebrated our youth at a spring. We dangled our toes in the water and planned our lives together. It was to be one life, complete and full. Was it love? It seemed so. Our senses were heightened. Our thoughts were common. Her look was adoring and I adored her.

The spring poured into a brook and we followed it. Along the way, we waded in pools of love and passion and moved along as it flowed. Our hands clasped. We walked, each on our side of the brook. When the water widened into a stream, we walked arm in arm on the banks.

We paused along this steam. The banks were muddy and slippery, so we moved higher and built a nest. We brought babies to the nest. She brought completeness and adorned the nest with beauty as only a woman can. I struck out from the banks and across the stream to acquire things for the nest, for the babies and for her. I returned at night to chattering little faces and the music of her voice. I loved that sound, whether happy, angry or sad.

In those years, often, I returned muddy and wet. The rainy season brought the waters high, eroding the banks. The banks became rugged and steep. Sometimes, I could not cross, and, if I did, the mud that clung to me dirtied our nest. Her passion for the nest equaled my passion for lands beyond.

The years blurred. The young ones flourished. Often I cleaned up across the stream, rather than soil the nest. Many times, I could not or would not cross. I inhabited a world far from the nest where the weather was turbulent, and the relentless, torrential quest consumed me. One day, desperately ill, I returned, determined to cross, and could not. I realized I could never cross again.

We spoke across the stream. We discussed the plans for our lives, and, she believed. I spoke sincerely. She was patient. But the stream, now a river was swollen and it frightened her, and swept me on a journey to the sea. We kept hope, for there were miles of mountains and deserts before the river reached the sea.

We shouted. And across the torrent we threw messages attached to stones. She lingered on the western bank. She brought ropes, as did others, but in the turbulence, I never caught them. I spoke often, but my words drowned in the crash of the river and the wail of the wind. At last, she became impatient. She moved the babies and the nest westward, away from the roaring river. The rocks we then threw fell short into the foam.

Now the river flowed through a canyon. I hiked down the canyon trail, far down, past mules and hikers, to cross to the western side. Along the way were different climates where plants could grow. I grew small amounts of food to carry across the river and up the canyon wall. But the season changed and the rapids intoxicated me. I climbed the trail back up the eastern wall.

One day, at the top and weary, I gazed to the western side, where she was a mere speck. Another moved closer to her, and together they planted a garden. It grew and greened but abruptly dried and browned in a tragic flash of lightning. Again, she moved alone with her colors westerly in the remaining light.

I whispered, “I love you.”

I waved and looked for her wave. But I was only returning her wave of years ago. So I remained on the eastern side, across a canyon, across a river I would never cross. Shadows of night darkened my portion of sky.

I inch away from an abyss between my portion of earth and the sea. I remember my home, my former life. The raging river, which some navigate with wild abandon, has battered and wrecked me. The river has arrived at the sea.

Now I sit at an abyss that I cannot cross or plumb or gauge. It is the second watch, the coldest, darkest moment, when the waning moon has completed its traverse of the sky. I wrap myself in my blanket, for it is now my home. I know, but do not care, that morning will come.

Buddy Done It

Buddy would rot in jail the rest of his life. Unshaven, he smirked and slouched his three hundred fifty pounds of fat in front of the bailiffs. In the hot, airless county court room, his parents, Will and Clara, were dwarfed by the oversized oak chairs. They waited, shriveled and alone in the front row.

Soon Judge Holmes would end the nightmare of Buddy’s trial. The onlookers’ eyes stoned Will and Clara. Morning heat mugged the court. Sweat droplets escaped on Will’s pasty, hairless head only to be exposed and dried by the overhead bulbs. Will’s feet just touched the floor. He gripped the armrest and braced himself. Towering beside him, his wife Clara fussed with an errant wisp from her braids, grayed and tightened against her head. Her thin skin seemed to almost crackle like butcher paper when their hands brushed. She stiffened, honoring an unspoken truce. They crossed their arms. Will tensed the muscles of his shoulders, arm and face. Those muscles once carried heavy weight over oilrigs and pummeled men twice his size.
An overhead fan rattled off-balance in the otherwise silent room.

Clara blurted, “Gonna cage him like a badger.”

Clara had spent long years alone on her ten acres, gnarled with trees and rocky soil. Cats and chickens were her closest companions. She’d learned to feed her hunger for conversation with spurts of words.

“Cain’t do nothing, Clara. Just a different cage. Your skirts trapped him. Any scrape and there’s mama, soothing him. Like when he about got drafted. You made him watch that loony brother of yours till he learned to act crazy and fool the draft board. Sorta funny Lester Homes and Sharkey Goldberg were on that draft board. Lester being the judge today and Sharkey the jury foreman. I should of run your brother off when I paid off your mother’s debt on that land. Was making good money then.”

“You’re cold and mean, Will. Can’t run anybody off. Mama left that land to me. Brother came back after he fell off that windmill in Oklahoma and he wasn’t right till he died. You’d never corral Buddy even when you were around. If he’d been drafted, he’d have got shot. Ten Slaughter County boys got killed by the time Buddy turned eighteen.”

“Got shot anyway, didn’t he? They caught him twisting that little Missouri kid’s nipples with vise grips. Besides, you were tickled pink that I was away in the oil patch. Just another damned cat. Come and go, long as I wasn’t in the house. ”

“More like a drunk tom cat, Will.”

“Just hush. Lester Holmes is gonna talk. Something finally got him off the golf course to play judge?”

Judge Holmes spoke. “In the sentencing phase of “The State of Arkansas vs. J.T. ‘Buddy’ Cole", I have reviewed the jury’s guilty verdict on counts 1, 5 and 8. I have also read the renderings of counsel. Occasionally, Mr. Cole, I am particularly struck by unseen victims of crime. These victims are your parents. They will be reminded of your sordid deeds each time they come to this town. They will be ostracized and shunned. Your mother and your father did not commit these heinous acts and it is you who must repay society. I hereby remand you to the Arkansas State Department of Corrections to serve in accordance with sentencing guidelines. The Arkansas Sentencing Commission allows this court voluntary compliance with guidelines and this sentence is not subject to appeal. The following incarceration is accorded you with no parole: Count 1 – twenty years, Count 5 – twenty years, and Count 8 – twenty years. These sentences are to be served consecutively. Court is adjourned.”

Buddy sneered and flipped off the judge as he was led away.

“How long is that, Will?”

“Sixty years, Clara.”

Will scooped his hat from the floor and stormed to the door. Clara shuffled behind. She called out to Will.

“He’ll die, Will. And we’ll be dead. Buddy would’t even look at me! Why won’t you look at me, Will?”

Will barged on, fifteen steps ahead of her. He rammed his compact body through the exit door. The walls shook and the door slammed. The few onlookers moved from the foyer.

What red paint remained on the 1955 International Pickup had faded pink. The pickup grumbled alive and Will waited for Clara. Clara’s braids stuck up above the high, rear, side by side window as the truck roared from the cold, marble courthouse.

“Will, I need to sell my eggs at Bogart’s.” Clara’s chickens had gotten them grocery money for twenty two years.

“O.K., I’ll get my tobacco at Beckner’s.”

Will parked in the delivery space by Bogart’s General Store. He walked two blocks to Wool Street. Beckner’s Pool Hall was a narrow room next to the green bank clock. Beckner’s sold the Kentucky snuff that Will had chewed and spit since he was ten.

Clara pulled off the tarp shading the eggs and carried them to Bogart’s store counter.

“Good morning, Mr. Bogart.”

“Good morning, Mrs. Cole.”

Herzel Bogart was a brute. The khaki short sleeved shirt wrapped his bulging biceps like a tourniquet. From his command position behind the ornate, hand-cranked cash register, he glowered at Clara. For years, he’d bullied Clara and refused to speak to Sharkey Goldberg since the draft board declared Buddy Cole unsuitable for military service. Sharkey was chairman of the draft board. A year after the decision, Herzel buried his own son.

Near Da Nang, Herzel’s son, walking point on a night patrol, had fallen into a pit carpeted with sharp bamboo sticks saturated in human feces. The infection killed him in three weeks. Herzel buried him facing west in the extra family plot in the Slaughter County cemetery. Herzel refused to bury his son in the traditional position facing the rising sun. Religion was a moneymaking scam and Herzel tolerated no religious convention.

After immigrating, the Bogart family had continued their German merchant tradition. They bartered and sold an ever-changing array of merchandise including foodstuffs and dry goods. The store also sold large bales of hay and sheep feed in heavy burlap bags. Sweet alfalfa mingled with the odor of motor oil and rotting fruit.

“Only brought eight dozen eggs this morning, Mr. Bogart. This heat is making my chickens lazy, I guess.”

Clara was formal in business matters, but this morning, she giggled at her joke. She tried to avoid Herzel, but his wife was not in the store. As he’d done long ago when they swam with other teens, Herzel leered at Clara every time she entered the store. That day at the pond, he’d tried to take Clara from her slender, bookish, boyfriend, Sharkey Goldberg, now owner of a restaurant. Also swimming was Lester Holmes, now a judge, and Will Cole, a drifter with a wad of oilfield money. Will saw an opportunity to fight. When Herzel made his move on Clara, Will bloodied him near the black lava rock that served as a diving board. That day, he stole Clara’s loyalty from the younger boys. Desperate, with a dying mother and brain-injured brother, Clara married Will the following month.

“We don’t need eggs this morning, Mrs. Cole.”

“Mr. Bogart, I’ve sold eggs here every week for twenty-two years. I sold them to your father.”

“Well, we just don’t need them any more, Mrs. Cole.”

“It’s my grocery money! What do I do with them?”

“Well, you might take them over to Willow Creek.”

“Mr. Bogart, that’s eighteen miles!”

“That is about all I can suggest, Mrs. Cole.”

The egg cartons shook as she replaced them under the tarp. Back in the hot pickup cab, she slumped and waited for Will. Forty minutes passed while Will finished his beer at the pool hall and played a game of snooker. He learned snooker on a British Petroleum/Shell oil platform in the North Sea. Every week, he bet two or three dollars with those who didn’t know his skill. Sometimes a snooker game paid for the beer and Kentucky snuff.

Spewing tobacco juice, Will returned and pointed the truck home.

“How much you get paid, Clara?”

“He didn’t buy them. Said he didn’t need them anymore. Said I could sell them at Willow Creek.”

Will swore and spit. “Willow Creek is eighteen miles! Besides, your mother used to sell eggs to Bogart’s old man.”

“That’s what I said, but he said he couldn’t think of anywhere else to sell them.”

Will braked the truck to a stop at the intersection of Wool and Main. He chewed and spit. He swallowed the wad of snuff, jammed the truck into grandma gear and spun it in front of a Cadillac with Texas plates.

“Will!” She grabbed his arm.

When Will fed the sheep, he used this grandma gear, a low ratio gear that moved the truck at a snail pace. He’d walk to the back, and toss the feed as the truck moved. Then, when finished, he’d walk to the front.

Engine roaring, but moving slowly, Will honked to announce his arrival at Bogart’s store. He backed the truck and parked on the sidewalk, blocking all but a small space in the entrance. Bogart looked up and gripped the old cash register.

“Good morning, Herzel. Clara brought you eight dozen eggs. Under the tarp in my pickup. My back hurts, so you’ll have to get them from under the tarp. I am gonna shop for a thing or two.”

Bogart’s tendons strummed his reddening neck. His grip flexed the massive forearm muscles.

“Will, I already told Clara we didn’t need those eggs.”

In a single move to the counter, Will crashed the cast metal machine on Bogart’s fingers.

“Damn, Will.”

“Herzel, while you’re getting your eggs, I gotta find a thing or two back there next to the ice cream.”

Bogart stood to his fullest height. His split fingers spurted blood. He towered above Will by twelve inches. Will strolled back around several aisles and puttered in the cloth and liquor sections. Sweating and white, Bogart steadied himself against a keg of fence staples.

Will came back to the counter and said, “Now eight dozen eggs should be twelve dollars for Clara. Take this five dollar bill and give me a brown sack for this stuff and we’re square.”

Bogart’s color returned. He swore, but took the bill and pushed a sack at Will.

Will set the eggs on the curb. He clinched the sack between his legs and drove to Wool Street.

“Did you get my money, Will?”

Will pushed snuff between his bottom teeth and lip.

“Yep. Had to break Herzel’s fingers again. Like when he undid your top at the swimming pond that time. Used your money for something, Clara.”

“Hope you’re not gonna drink it up again, Will. I need flour, and my calico cat cut her ear. Need ointment.”

Will spit.

In silence they drove to the wooden gate at the ten acres. The place was fenced for sheep, with small squares of interwoven wire. As sheep do, they grazed with all heads pointed towards the barn. Will splintered the gate and drove to the barn.

“Will, Buddy’s horse will get out. He’s all I have left of Buddy’s”

“No, he won’t, Clara.”

“He always rushes for the gate if it’s open.”

“I shot him this morning. Buddy never took care of him.”

“You’ve always been mean, Will. Has this thing with Buddy ruined you?”

Clara’s eyes clouded and teared.

“That horse was gonna starve anyway. Plus he was costing me whiskey money.”

Will slammed the truck door, jammed Bogart’s sack in the bib of his overalls and flung open the barn door.

“Have to get my gun,” he said over his shoulder. He spit again.

Clara remained in the truck. Finally, she summoned strength to trudge to the creaking front porch. She slumped into the wooden swing. Her weight broke a slat. Gray paint flecks curled on the swing and waited for the wind to blow them away. She stared, unfocused. Her damp, faded blue-green flowered dress hung on her bones.

Later, Will tossed the sack in her lap, cradled the gun and rolled a bullet between his thumb and forefinger.

“I don’t want your liquor, Will.”

She tossed the sack aside.

“Now Clara, I am gonna say this once. Only once. Buddy done it. I didn’t. Buddy done it. You didn’t. Now it is Saturday tomorrow and I want us to go to Sharkey’s for a steak. ”

“Sharkey won’t serve you, Will. You can’t pay.”

“He will serve me. Herzel goes in there on Saturday and when Sharkey sees those fingers, he’ll serve me. In fact, Lester Holmes eats there on Saturday, and he will see them fingers. Sharkey was on that jury, remember? Besides, I didn’t buy Jack Daniels today.”

Will stood, leaned against a porch post and stared at the fat sheep in Clara’s pasture. Their heads were lowered to the ground headed away from him. He whistled at them, but they ignored him.

“Clara, I got your cat ointment and a yellow dress in this sack and I want you to wear the dress. Come with me to Sharkey’s every Saturday and have a steak."

He tore open the sack and held up a canary yellow dress. A lace-fringed scarf fell into Clara’s lap. She moistened her lips and buried her face in the scarf.

Finally she said, “You never bought me anything before, Will.”

The Flute

“Oh Daddy. Look. A flute. Let’s go in and look at it.” The street lights had just come on and Amy and I were rolling past a stop sign next to a corner pawn shop with a well lit window where a flute was displayed in a black-lined velvet case. I was tired and felt melancholy, but I parked. I wrapped Amy in blankets to protect her from the cold and drizzle, and lifted her into the wheelchair. I pushed her into the store.

The store man retrieved the flute for Amy and told us it was a Gemeinhardt. She fingered the ornate keys and delicate tube. The polished silver reflected bright lights into her gray eyes. She blew across the opening of the flute and for about three seconds, sounded a pure perfectly pitched note. The mere fact that she could make the sound was remarkable for an asthmatic that struggled each night for breath. The note bled away. Breathless, with a happy smile, she replaced the instrument in the case and handed it to the man. She said, “Thanks for stopping, Daddy. Let’s go.”

Amy’s happy look changed to one of concern as I asked the man the price of the flute. As I handed him our rent money, she gasped.

I said, “Don’t worry, Baby. That was the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard.” I hadn’t been able to shelter Amy from the many collection phone calls from hospitals, doctors and creditors, but this was the one thing I could do. Silent, she clutched the case as I rewrapped her in the car and lifted the wheelchair into the back.

Conflicting me, over the long months as Amy deteriorated, were Amy’s needs and the demands of my job. Amy was attended by home nurses and tutors, while my job forced me to spend daylight and evening hours away. As other children entered junior high school, Amy was trapped in a crumbling apartment, furnished with breathing apparatus. Most times, a nurse was her only playmate and company. Sometimes late at night, after she left, I noticed Amy caressing the keys of her flute, but most evenings it remained in the case beside her bed.
We acknowledged Amy’s condition, knowing it was terminal. That lightened our times some. During those long nights, as she fought for air, we shared thoughts of fear, hope and mortality.
She said, “Daddy, the nurse said that at the end, narcotics will make it less painful and I won’t feel panicked. But she said we need to talk now, because then I will be sleeping a lot.” So we played games, read books, made up stories, and talked. I sensed my daughter becoming a parent.

One evening, she asked to go and hear an upcoming performance by the civic orchestra.

I said, “Baby, you know what happens. You choke up in cold air.”

She said, “It’ll be okay, Daddy. My nurse said so. Besides she already bought the tickets.”

The following week, when the evening arrived, I was startled at the elegant formal dresses of Amy and her long-term nurse. The nurse had carefully arranged Amy’s long brown hair in an elegant bun with a silver comb. Attached to a silver chain around her neck, a purple pendant fell midway between the high neckline and waist of the gray velvet floor-length dress. The nurse said, “A daughter of my friend outgrew this recital dress and gave it to us. Amy and I altered it last week.”

At the concert hall, as prearranged, the usher escorted us and pushed Amy’s wheelchair to the front of the middle aisle. The nurse and I were seated in the first two seats next to Amy, seats normally reserved for notable patrons. Amy shivered. I asked the nurse, “Should you sit next to her?”

She said, “I think it’s okay as it is, sir.”

Amy’s eyes glistened and she squeezed my hand. I eased the oxygen tubes in her nostrils and her breathing eased. Then, from the orchestra pit, came a cacophony of plucked strings, horns and drums. I was braced, somewhat for music, but not for that. Until that moment I hadn’t realized how angry I was at was losing Amy. I wanted to smash windows and scream. Brass horns blatted. An oboe honked. Finally, the lights dimmed.
The sunken stage rose slowly. Gradually, the scrolls and peg boxes of bass strings, the podium and the tuxedoed, gowned and somber orchestra came into view. All was silent except for Amy’s faint wheeze.

With military elegance, the white-haired conductor strode to the podium. Applause erupted, but just as suddenly, stopped as he bowed and then raised his arms. With flair, he did an about face, turned the tails of his tuxedo to us, and stepped onto the podium. Suspense lingered until a kettledrum thundered and the orchestra exploded.

Amy drank the sound. Hands folded under her white lace shawl, she smiled at me with each emotional rise and fall of sound. How had I been blinded to this girl’s love for music? Familiar confusion and the new fury overwhelmed me. I remained in this state through several musical numbers. Then, I became aware of Amy watching me. I tried to mask my feelings behind attentive gestures. I straightened the oxygen tubes and smoothed her shawl. Not fooled, she noted that the next piece was the last before intermission. We had agreed that we would leave then.

Amy’s eyes closed as the conductor guided the strings through a song of tender love and the orchestra through a passion. For the first time in my life, this music awed and consumed me. I was lost in Beethoven’s lush garden of harmony. The conductor moved hypnotically. Slowly, my guilt and fear drained away. I wanted the moment to last forever, but the sound slowly diminished to a whisper. Then a statuesque, gowned flutist rose and the orchestra paused before beginning the final melody.

Suddenly, from my right, a series of breathy precise notes emerged from Amy’s flute. Somehow, the usher had slipped her the flute and supported her as she stood. I shivered at those few crystalline notes. They continued for just a few bars. The conductor turned to the audience and folded his hands. The flutist remained poised to continue. In that moment Amy, eyes closed, became a woman in the caved body of an invalid. At a delicate musical moment of tension, Amy opened her eyes and smiled at me. With the usher’s help, she leaned into my arms and shivered. The flutist finished the piece and the conductor brought the orchestra through the concluding bars. He then turned and bowed. Amy sat. The overhead spotlights reflected on the flute and flashed into her brimming, gray eyes.

Carefully, she set the flute in the black-lined velvet case, smoothed the coverlet and snapped

Brima and Bullock

“I say, Brima, where the devil is Alie?” John Bullock huffed and inquired in Oxford tones. Alie was head cook.

The West African mining camp was far into the bush where the climate was enervating and tempers were on edge. In the dining room, the clacking ceiling fans did little to cool the stifling heat. Screening on the outside veranda, where the linen covered table was set up, kept out bugs but trapped the stagnate heat inside. At camp meals, Bullock often appeared to suffer from heat strokes. He sighed often, and looked as if fermented lemons exclusively constituted his diet.

“He’s not here, suh,”

Brima, the round Mende server and cook responded with nervous, broken English. Even Brima must have noticed the heat. He’d removed his floor length gown and the hat that looked like an inverted cereal bowl. He wore an American-made T-shirt and shorts. He filled Bullock’s teacup.

“Precisely, Brima. That is, of course, what prompted the question at hand? So, Brima, you must be serving up chop, tonight?”

Bullock examined a teacup with stern concentration.

“Yes suh, and I cooked.”

“Brima, am I correct in assuming that you also set the table for the gentlemen? Eh?”

“No suh, I stand all day and cook. I just set at break like Mr. Foday says and never set on the table.” Brima grinned.

“In Uganda, we dealt with house boys with firm direction,” Bullock told the other diners. “Before Idi Amin disbanded the agricultural mission, I, as Chief Scientist was provided a full cadre of household help. I must say, however, with Margaret away in England attending to the boys schooling and her doctoring, four houseboys are a bit tiresome.”

Margaret Bullock had left the camp the previous week with a vague medical concern. Peter Oates, an engineer, speculated it might be related to living with Bullock.

Brima continued pouring coffee for a German insurance agent at the mine site to adjust an accident claim. Two of the company’s three mining scrapers had collided that week, effectively shutting down the mine. They were the world’s largest and two of the three in Africa at that time had run into each other.

“Brima, did you bring this tea cup,” Bullock asked.

He pinched his nostrils in Brima’s direction.

Brima said, “Yes suh.”

“Brima! This fine china cup is cracked. Cracked china is particularly disgusting.” Bullock raised the cup between his thumb and index finger. Extending the remaining three fingers to the heavens, he dropped the cup to the blue-painted concrete floor.

“I say, Brima. I must have dropped the cup, for it has shattered. Not to worry. Cracked china is obnoxious and unsanitary.” When irritated, Bullock used the word “obnoxious” to clear clogged nasal passages.

“The cup broke, sir, ”Brima said and scurried to retrieve china fragments.

“Indubitably.” Bullock often used this word.

Peter Oats said, “Ah, the great white hunter again strikes fear to the savage black heart. Their sole recourse is to wreck Caterpillar scrapers and thus indirectly vomit out colonialism.”
The Royal School of Mines had failed to rid Peter of a Cockney accent. In Bullock’s company, somehow, he sounded more upper class. He said, “It was extraordinarily hot today. I ducked myself in the stream near the wrecked scrapers.”

Bullock said, “The Mende wash their clothes and piss in that stream, Mate. Have you heard of Bilharzia?”

Without pausing for a reply, Bullock taught his company.

“Bilharzia is a parasitic disease found in tropical climates. It is contracted through the skin from host snails found in unsafe drinking water or by wading or swimming in urine and feces contaminated water. The parasite courses its way through one’s intestines and eventually attacks the liver resulting in bloody urine and stool. Nigerian boys are said to have passed the rite of manhood when blood appears in their urine. A quite unsavory stench and lifestyle, I must say. I opt for something more civilized. Prostate surgery given the choice, of course.”

Bullock flared his nostrils.

At that moment, however, coursing its way through the ample intestines of Robert Faverty, was Alie’s noon meal of corned beef, cabbage, potatoes and Star Beer. Star Beer was a Sierra Leone brand tasting like swamp water. The three hundred-pound geologist from Nebraska had joined the mining company after six years in the Peace Corps among the Temne. He enjoyed mealtime and any unclaimed morsel found itself in those intestines. He gulped his third bottle of mineral water in four noisy swallows.

His faced puckered, Bullock said, “My, Robert. You must be very thirsty.”

“Yep. Hot. Three pits dug today.”

Having completed its journey through Faverty’s intestines, Alie’s meal and the beer asserted themselves. The extended relief resonated against the metal chair and echoed throughout the room.

Peter Oates quoted Shakespeare. “All the perfumes of Arabia….”

John Bullock sniffed. Immediately, he redirected the conversation to another pressing, local medical issue.

“Lassa Fever is also troublesome, particularly in these contemptible parts of the planet. Fortunately, the disease has finally been traced to rodents under homes or huts, if you will. Many natives and missionaries have died. Like rats, I might add.”

Peter supplied additional information. “Sister Anne, the doctor from the Catholic mission, indicated that rodent urine contaminates water and food.”

Robert Faverty now comfortable said, “Boy, speaking of piss, I was in deep shit Monday. I was in a dense clump of trees and undergrowth. There were a million monkeys in those trees. Colybus. They get mean! They started throwing leaves and twigs and fruit. Man! Anything. They were screeching and then it started raining piss. Millions of gallons of monkey piss. I had to beat it out of there. Barrels of piss. ”

Bullock flinched. Brima served him sliced roast beef.

“This meat was obviously procured from a Fula man,” Bullock said. “They move through the countryside with a small herd of cattle. A cow is often seen with an egret or two on its back, ridding the poor animal of insects. Fair exchange, I would say, for the transport.” Bullock clanked his fork down on the plate and removed the partly chewed meat in his mouth with the linen napkin.

Peter asked, “Aren’t the Fula men considered wealthy?”

“Precisely. They alone can afford both cattle and wives. The market for a young wife is four cows. An old starving wife can be purchased for one. Brima, did you sell your old wife for this cow?”

Bullock blew his nose.

“No sir. My old wife is not for sale,” Brima said.

“Brima, my point is, this meat is terrible. Is it rubber?”

“Mr. Bullock, I did not cook rubber all day while standing.”

“Brima, the meat is tough. It tastes like boot leather.” Bullock raised his jungle boot. “Do you eat boots, Brima?”

“No sir. I did not eat your boot. I polished your boots and they are in your closet.”

“Brima, marinate the meat in wine or steak sauce,” Bullock said. “Soak it many, many minutes. Then take knife. With dull side, pound the steak. Then cook.”

“Yes sir. Cut the meat to one pound with a dull knife.” Brima stood, attentive and with his hands folded behind his back as Foday taught him.

“No, Brima! Hit the steak with the knife. Chop, Chop, Chop.”

Bullock made karate chops on the table.

“The chops chew the meat first. As a young wife chews for her baby. Eh? Makes it easy for the baby to eat. Eh?”

“Yes sir. For all chop, hit with dull knife. Then chew steak.”

Bullock’s face turned red and he started to speak. Before he spoke, Brima said, “Sir, I must go spit. It is Ramadan and I must not swallow until sundown.”

Bullock yelled, “Brima, always beat the meat.”

Silence prevailed. Bullock left the table. Faverty ate Bullock’s portion of the Fula man’s cow.

“Africa retches colonialism once more,” Peter said. “Poor Brima. As he was resetting bowling pins last night, I didn’t see his legs in the dark pit of the alley. I nearly bowled him over.” It was the only bowling alley in West Africa.

That evening, Peter noted Brima’s young daughter and second wife balancing loaves of bread on their heads. They walked toward Gbangbama, their village half a mile away. Responsible for the accounting of food, Peter neglected to report the theft.

In Gbangbama, Brima, an elder, was considered wealthy.

My Friend Bobby

I knew he was ok. I never lost a minute of sleep.” Bobby spoke incessantly and it was generally about her son Ron. She said, “One night I was reading and listening to the radio, back before Larry King was on all night talk radio, like he is nowadays. The army or someone called. They said, ‘Your son Ron is missing in North Vietnam.’ I said, ‘Oh, he’s ok. I’ll be hearing from him.’”
I wasn’t sure I believed that Bobby could be that confident, but she was a very self-assured woman. She was twenty-five or so years older than I was and seemed to know, or think she knew, something about most matters. She cleaned up a pile of work soon after I hired her. She saved my job. Work and unpaid bills stacked up and I was in over my head - responsible for tasks I knew nothing about. I was too proud and ignorant to admit my own deficiency. However, one of my gifts is to identify people who get me out of binds. Bobby, a chain-smoking, six-foot woman, missing several teeth, seemed to fit the bill. She taught me how to do my job, as well as how to do hers.

I said, “What happened to Ron?”

Before she could answer, a retired marine sergeant who was the purchasing agent interrupted and loudly complained about “office B.A.M.’s”. Bobby charged out of her office and pinned him in a corner next to a water fountain.

“Listen, Buster, I was married to a marine and I know a lot more about big-assed mamma’s than you’ll ever know. And don’t forget it.” They both laughed.

She came back in and started another monologue about Ron’s baby, a hemophiliac. She said, “Ron’s wrapped every piece of furniture, every door jam and every cabinet in foam rubber. He bought it in Reno at the Army Surplus Store and sewed it together. There isn’t a single corner or edge where the baby can possibly hurt himself.” Of her two sons by two fathers, Ron was the only one she ever mentioned and that was frequently.

I coughed and brought her back to Ron being MIA. I said, “So Ron obviously got back from Vietnam. What happened to him?”

She said, “Oh, I always got up at 2:00 or 2:30 a.m. and listened to the end of late night radio. I only sleep about three or four hours. So one night I fixed some coffee and the phone rang, and Ron said, ‘Is the coffee on?’ I said, ‘Sure is Ron, I was just waiting for you to call.’ He said, ‘They’re checking me over. I’ll see you next week.’ The next Thursday morning I fixed extra coffee and he knocked on my door.”

I asked again, “What happened to Ron?”

She said, “He never talked about it. We didn’t have to.”

Bobby and I became friends. In the fall I needed a cord of firewood and she said, “Ron’s cutting firewood out of the Washoe Valley burn area. I’ll have him bring you some.”

It was cold that October day and the sleet, driven by the north wind stung our faces. I helped Ron unload and stack the blackened wood. The outer bark of the Ponderosa Pine was scorched, but the rest made excellent firewood. I said, “Ron, your mom told me she knew you were okay when you were MIA. If you want to, I’d really like to know what happened.”

He stared at me for a long time and said, “Give me a few minutes. Do you happen to have any coffee?”

We washed the black soot off our hands and I fixed a pot of coffee. We sat at my kitchen table. While I got out my checkbook to pay for the wood, he smoked a cigarette. Then, in a husky voice he said, “I gotta say this fast. We were dropped far in the north. My partner was shot in the stomach and we couldn’t stay with our unit. My partner and I headed south - slow, at night, ’cause he couldn’t move for more than a couple of hours at a time. We ate roots and stuff, like lizards. We weren’t spotted. Finally, in about eight days, my partner collapsed and couldn’t move. His wound smelled rotten and oozed. He said, ‘They’ll cut off my dick and choke me with it. And skin me. Take care of me.’

I looked at him and asked, ‘Are you sure?’
He said, ‘Do it.’ I took my M-16 and stared at him. My partner smiled and nodded. I did it - in the heart. I couldn’t shoot him in the head. I didn’t have a shovel so I left him under rocks and brush. Then I headed south, at night.”

Ron’s hands shook. Finally, he said, “I’ve never told anyone that.”

He had the last cup of coffee from the pot and smoked two more cigarettes at my table. I handed him the check and haven’t seen him since.

Years later, I was sleepless in Houston and turned on the T.V. to a rerun of “Larry King Live”. I thought of Bobby. I called her and said, “Hi, Bobby, is the coffee on.”

She said, “Sure is, Dale. Larry’s on TV nowadays. Did you know that? I never call in anymore, ‘cause I never get through like I did years ago. Your marriage isn’t going well.”
I said, “How do you know that?”

She said, “I know.”

A few days later a package arrived. In it was a hand-crocheted afghan. Attached with a safety pen was a note. It read, “Friend Dale.”

Now, in my studio apartment, I’m often awake in the wee hours. On cold, late October nights, I unfold the off-white afghan at the foot of my bed and wrap myself up in it.