Shorts - Still

"Billy? You awake? I want to talk to....”

I watched him, wondering if he slept, or if he played at sleeping, unwilling or unable to talk. He lay so still, so quiet except for the faintest hint of a snore. I step into his room.

A used paperback copy of the Scarlet Pimpernel lies open face down on his desk, its pages tattered and dog-eared and yellowed with age, its black spine cracked and creased with white lines. A copy of the Cliffs Notes I bought for him still lies in the plastic bag, the receipt sticking out like a bookmark.

Several scented candles line the top of his desk, their wicks burnt black, cooled drips of bulbous wax clinging to the sides. An empty box of Ohio Blue Tip matches lies on the floor next to a coffee can covered with a lithograph of Currier and Ives: a snowy scene with couples skating on a frozen pond, mounds of fluffy snow surrounding the shiny blue gray surface of the pond. The can holds the ashy remnants of matchsticks and paper. I imagine it to be love letters or the teenage equivalent of state secrets, read then destroyed. Lipstick mars a wall mirror with the words ‘love you’ in garish red. Notes, pictures, cut out comic strips of Calvin and Hobbes and Garfield and a blue and black bumper sticker with the words Fleeting Youth frame the mirror.

A copy of The Lord of the Rings trilogy, with the movie poster art on the cover sits alone on the small bookshelf over his bed. A pair of Levi blue jeans, the little red tag the same color as the lipstick on the mirror, lies crumpled at the foot of the bed along with a white T-shirt. My son lies sleeping in a tangle of forest green sheets and a comforter, with several pillows pushed to the side and on the floor, his face flat to the mattress. I turn off the lights and pull the door closed.

I leave the house feeling old, trying to think back to when I was his age, when that might have been me and my most important worry was reading a book for Sophomore English. Was it ever that easy?

It is dark out but I am able to make out the shadowy branches of the towering trees against the black velvet sky, dotted with so many stars and lit by a low hung moon which glimmers in the dew.

The Chevy Lumina is cold and quiet. For the umpteenth time I look at the visors overhead, the question in my mind the same. The car starts on the first try and Bryan Adams is singing Summer of 69. I sigh to myself, wishing it were so, wishing that Five and Dimes still existed that summers did last forever and that I could be young and restless all over again. In the dark street I watch a cat scurry across, its eyes afire. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"How ya doin' Johnny?" I look at Johnny Mac sitting in his old dilapidated easy chair; its faux leather cracked and split, revealing stringy cottony strands. He leans forward in his chair spitting a string of tobacco juice into a brass spittoon at his feet. He coughs, quietly first then louder. He waves me to sit and wait until the coughing passes. An uncomfortable second or so stretches by as his face shades to red, his coughing harder, and his face a grimacing mask of pain. Then he quits. "You been to a doctor?"

He waves the question away. "Somethin' ta drink?" He pulls himself up and out of the chair, his clothing draping him like drop cloth. "I got soda, orif'n you want something stronger. I got that too." "I'll have what you're having." He nods and disappears into his dark little home. A small amount of light manages its way out of the kitchen. His shadow crosses in front of the window and when he opens the refrigerator, the light silhouettes him through the sheer curtains. I hear his slippers slide across the old wooden floor, getting quieter and then louder again. He holds two ten-ounce bottles of Coke, the green glass glistening with condensation. "Ain't too cold. 'Frigerator's not workin' too well. I had someone out last week ta look at it, but..." he shrugs his shoulders, the care insignificant. He turns and puts the head of one of the bottles to the windowsill and gives it a quick jerk. The metal lid flips away and rattles onto the wooden porch. He offers the opened bottle to me as he opens the other bottle. "So?" He takes a drink. "What's it you want?" I smile. He is a man of few words, direct and to the point. "Come on out with it. I ain't getting any younger sitting here like this." His mortality shines in his eyes as he nods knowingly. "How's the boy doin? He doin' okay in school?" The psychologist had told us both that if it had affected him in anyway, it would show up in his schoolwork first. It seemed too early to me. I can only nod. "You talk to him about it?" I shake my head and take a drink; happy I have something to do. "You know, just cause he's a child, don't mean he cain't talk about it. He's feelin’ what you're feelin’. What we're all feelin'. Mayhaps even more. Was his mother after all. This here is something the two of you will have ta talk about. The sooner the better." He pulls himself forward and grips my shoulder for support, but I wonder if it's for me or for him. "You gone to see her yet?" I can only look down at the Coke in my hands, studying the condensation as glistens in the moonlight. He claps me on the shoulder and nods. "You go on and see her. Talk to her. She'll straighten things out better'n I can." I look at him. His eyes are a piercing blue, almost out of place in his aged wrinkled face. I reach for his hand and hold it, gripping it as strongly as I think possible. He smiles and nods again, his eyes glistening. "Go on now. It's past my bedtime. Gotta get my beauty sleep, ya know." He primps at his gray wispy hair, like he's looking in a mirror. We laugh together because it's easier than the alternative. # The cemetery is quiet, except for a soft breeze shaking leaves and rattling the small branches in the trees overhead. Outside the cemetery, a few cars whisper by along the freeway and in the distance a train whistles its approach. The horizon hints at dawn as I look at my watch wondering how long I've been standing in this spot, doing nothing but staring up at the hill. With a sigh I step forward. The grave still looks fresh, the mound of earth still settling, and the grass greener than the surrounding turf. I kneel and look at the headstone. Jessica Elizabeth Melbourne Beloved Wife and Mother We love you Still 1978 - 2014 "I went to see your father today. He won't go to the doctor. I guess I see where your stubbornness came from." My voice startles me in the dark and I smile and in my mind's eyes she smiles too, mischievously with light in her eyes. I fell in love with that smile, with those eyes, so deep and searching and sitting here, I couldn't understand how I would live the rest of my days without her. I ached for Billy. "Billy is doing fine." My voice faltered. I felt like I was trying to put her at ease. "I think. I haven't talked to him yet." I shake my head and close my eyes. "I don't know what to say to him. It would be easier if you came back to us. To me." It's funny how I hear her voice. " I know. You're not coming back." I look down at my hands and laugh. "Who's going to shade my eyes when I drive into the sun? I guess I'll have to get new visors." I laugh again and I can hear her laughing with me, visions of her struggling with the Lumina’s defective sun visors and then giving up and raising her hand to deflect the light from my eyes. On long drives she would reach into her purse and hand out sunglasses, a pair for each of us. On Sunday mornings on our way to church we looked like the FBI. Every little thought was one more loss. "I guess I should get going." I hear my voice, a whisper. Maybe tomorrow, I'll bring Billy. After we talk. # Pulling into the driveway, the false dawn is brighter. The kitchen light is on in the window. I grab the paper from out of the bushes on my way in. Billy is sitting at the breakfast table his hands wrapped around a steaming cup. On the table in front of him is a wooden picture frame. I know what the picture is. The three of us sitting in the log ride at Six Flags, me in the front, my hair dripping wet and plastered to my skull, Billy in the middle and Jessica at the back her arms wrapped around Billy, but one hand straying to my shoulder. Our eyes are wild with excitement, our faces, masks of joy, our laughter captured for all time. It was less than a month ago. Billy looks up at me. I notice suddenly that he has his grandfather's eyes. "I had a dream about her. She was singing in the kitchen like she always does when she makes breakfast. Trying to wake us up. I came in to see her. But she wasn't here." His voice grows softer. His eyes are shining and deep, the questions I can't answer so prevalent within them. He grips the picture frame for a moment. "It's like she still here. But I can't find her anymore." He rocks back and forth, his cup forgotten, his eyes red and wet. I sit down next to him and pull him to me. "I know.” I whisper. “Sssshhhh. I know. I know." Like him I can only rock back and forth, listening to him sob into my chest. All the words I want to say how it was going to be all right, how she is better now and happy, anything that I wanted to say sounded hollow. But I knew his dream and had had it myself, waking with a start, my heart hammering at the possibility that the cancer had been the dream. That she was downstairs in a kitchen smelling of waffles with maple syrup and melted butter and crispy fried bacon. The kitchen is a blur to me. And my struggle to support my son is not near as great as the struggle to stay and keep from running from the room, wishing I had someone who would rock me back and forth and let me cry in their arms. She was already dying before we knew. It was that same day, the day we drove to Six Flags, sunglasses in place, the windows rolled down, the wind through our hair like in a million songs of summer. It would be the best day of our lives together. So close to the day I saw her and knew I loved her, to the day that we married, to the day that Billy was born, all nine pounds of him. But this day we each knew it was the best day, all three of us. It was a conscious understanding that I could see in their eyes and in my own when I looked in the mirror as I drove home after. Billy was asleep in the backseat. He still wore his giant foam hand that declared him to be number one. He won it in the ring toss; a game I was certain was fixed. Jessica sat next to me. She held my hand, her thumb caressing the length of my index finger. And she looked at me. She was always beautiful to me. Always making my heart stop when I saw her. I hated to say she was most beautiful that night, but she was. She looked over her shoulder at Billy asleep and then back at me and in that instant something inside of me knew what was coming. Her smile faltered as she contemplated the words she had to say. "I went to the doctor yesterday." Her eyes glistened which scared me and I felt the car slow as I reacted to her words. "It was only supposed to be a checkup. I've been tired." Her grip tightened around my hand. "Everything looked good." Her words were coming softer and softer. I looked in the rearview mirror to make sure Billy was still asleep and caught the headlights of a car far back in the distance. Loneliness overpowered me. "Dr. Barnard called this morning before we left." She shook her head. "I couldn't tell you." She was suddenly wracked with sobs. I pulled the car over and pulled her as close to me as I could. She felt fragile. The car that passed was just a blur of red lights. We sat there in the dark along the freeway, her whispering the details, me holding on for dear life and my son oblivious to he sudden end. I looked over at the picture, the still life in it vivid. I could hear the screams of glee as I splashed water back at them as our log bobbled in the calm part of the ride. It had taken three short weeks before the cancer took her from us. Three weeks filled with her determination and strength to make sure we would carry on when she was gone. I felt her with me, as if my arms around Billy were covered with her arms around both of us. She was gone. But she was with us still.

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