Sitting above a seat of steel

I watch the sun as it spills

Through the clouds

To the ground

Shining on the pitcher’s mound.

Summer heat’s not half as bad

As years passed

When I were a lad.

Yet, they still sweat and wipe their brow.

With shirts untucked

And with some luck

Should head for shelter

With a third out.

Count them one

Count them all.

Count them nine to chase the ball.

There’s a pitch.

A swing.

A miss.

The bat cuts the air

With a wicked hiss.

Sit down and bring yet another

Batter to the plate

To swing and hack and take some cuts

To make contact

On a swinging bunt.

Pitcher and catcher

Both converge

On the ball as it bounces.

The batter runs

With strides so full

Just to reach the base

Before the throw

To be called “safe.”

It was not to be

As ball hits glove

The third out is called.

The game is at an end.

One team cheers

While the other one cries

But on the ground

There he lies.

The last out in a game of bat and ball

Tears streaming he begins to crawl

Away from the crowd

To hide in shame

For being the last out

In the Big Game.

As time moves on

Fade does the pain

But it replays itself

Time and again.

As each time I sit

On this cold steel seat

And look out on the field

Where the loser was me.

The sun has gone down

And the time has arrived

For me to finally say goodbye

To the field

Where took place that great bout

Where I became the final out.

It was a normal morning. A coffee breakfast, chased with dry toast and orange juice, a shower, a shave and a bathroom break. All normal. Work out clothes on, an early morning jog and another shower after. See? All normal. Dressed for work and out the door on time. It was a five block walk to the office, and me in my pressed shirt and pants and nice shoes and a blue tie to offset the lack of color in the shirt, would be there in short time. By my watch, I had half an hour and I had never been late to work.

Everything was normal.

The boardwalk bustled with people already selling their wares in the storefronts and center kiosks. Most every day folks paid no attention to them, but the tourists … ahh those tourists ate up the sales people and their pitches, especially the ones with the Hollywood smiles, perfect hair, dazzling eyes and plastic bodies. On the beach just beyond the boardwalk, people already gathered and milled about, some on blankets, some in the water and some walking hand in hand with a lover, or holding a leash of a dog. Oh, such a normal, normal morning.

Until I met Kathy and David.

They were a cute couple, he with his disheveled hair and horn rimmed glasses and stubbled chin, and she with her pulled back red hair, green eyes that seem to sparkle and rosy cheeks. He couldn’t have been a day over twenty. She might have been sixteen. Maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe it did. You didn’t have to know them to see the love they had for one another in their eyes. To me, that is what mattered most.

He pushed a stroller, one almost completely pink and white, and she carried a diaper bag on one shoulder. It was the same pink and white pattern of baby rattles and hearts as the stroller. The top of the stroller was pulled up, possibly to shield the baby (a girl I presumed) from the sun and little old ladies who liked to squeeze the cheeks of babies. The wheels were big, made for going over just about anything.

An all wheel stroller, I thought and couldn’t hold back the smile that formed on my lips.

I think it was the smile that changed my day. It’s not that I don’t smile. It’s just the young couple saw it.

They exchanged a glance and then she nodded tentatively. As we passed each other I gave them a “good morning.” Yeah, that was probably another thing that attracted them to me. I smiled, I nodded, and I spoke, making eye contact with him as I did so.

Just passed them, he called back to me, “Excuse me, Sir?”

I turned. He looked hopeful with his raised brows and a nervous smile on his face.

“Yes?” I asked.

“Hi, I’m Dave,” he said and put out a hand. His fingers were long and thin. I had a brief thought that he might have played piano at some point. I took his hand. I gave it a good pump and released it.

“I’m Kathy.” She extended her hand, just as he had, and I took it, just as I had Dave’s.

“We were wondering,” Dave picked back up, “do you have a minute?”

Uh oh. Salesmen? Religious folk peddling their religion? Con artists? All of these were normal thoughts, and all of them were wrong. Thinking on it now, I don’t think I would have minded if they would have been all three.

I guess the look on my face and the hesitancy to respond said I wasn’t sure about them.

“I’m sorry,” Dave said. “We’re not trying to sell you anything or want any money. We just want you to take a picture of us and our baby.”

I relaxed. A breath escaped me, one both full of relief and embarrassment. Not everyone is crazy in this world, after all.

I glanced at my watch. I had twenty minutes or so. “Sure. I can do that. I have a couple of minutes before I have to be to work.”

Their faces lit up with smiles and he stuck his hand out for me to shake with a “thank you, we appreciate it,” on his lips.

“No problem,” I said.

Kathy set the bag on the sidewalk and rummaged around in it for a moment before bringing out her cell phone. She handed it to me.

“Just press and hold the button for it to focus. When it does, a green square will appear on us. Let the button go and then press it again and it will take the picture.”

Normal. See? Everything was normal.

She lowered the stroller’s top with her back to me. I admit I had to look away because the view from where I stood was pleasant. When I looked back, Kathy and Dave stood by the black steel rail that separated the boardwalk from the beach. He straightened his shirt with the palms of his hands and she held the swaddled baby in the crook of one elbow.

“Are you ready?” I asked.

They both nodded quickly, but their smiles looked nervous, almost forced.

I held the phone up, the camera facing them. I looked into the display and watched as the view zoomed in and then locked on the happy little family.

That was when things got weird.

The phone’s screen showed Dave and Kathy standing side by side with smiles on their faces that looked strained. Kathy had removed the blanket from near the baby’s face.

I shook my head and lowered the phone. From that distance I could barely make out the child, but when I turned the phone back to them, it was clear the child was dead and had been for a long time.

My hands shook and I tried to still them so I could take the picture.

“Is everything okay?” Kathy asked.

I lowered the phone. “Umm … yes. The camera is just having a hard time focusing. Give me one more second.”

“Okay,” she said, but her tone told me she didn’t believe me.

I held the button she had told me to and the phone’s camera zoomed in and focused on them. The square turned green, and yes, that little child was dead, and what I saw was her bare skull. I released the button, then quickly pressed it again. The camera gave a ~CLICK~ and the screen blinked several times. Then it stopped and what appeared on the screen was the stilled image of Dave, Kathy and the baby.

I looked at it for a moment, just as anyone taking a picture would, but I didn’t check it to see if I took a good shot. I checked it to make sure what I thought I saw was real. The image on the screen was of a skeletal baby being held by parents too grieved to let the child go. Dave stood next to his wife, his arm around her. Kathy leaned into him and held the baby chest high. Their smiles were clearly forced. I’m not sure, but I think there were tears in her eyes.

My mouth went dry and my legs weakened. I looked back at them and they hadn’t moved, but their smiles had faltered.

“How … how is this?” I asked, not knowing what else to say or do.

Dave took the camera and looked at the image. He frowned at first.

“Kathy, what do you think?” he asked and showed her. At this point she had already put the baby back in her stroller and pulled the top back up, not to keep the sun off of her or the old ladies from pinching her cheeks, but possibly to keep anyone from seeing the child in it.

She stood and took the phone from him. “Oh, that is beautiful. That is a great picture.”

They both shook their heads in what I took was satisfaction.

“Thank you,” Dave said and put out one of his pianists’ hands.

It was everything I could do to stretch my hand and take his. My skin was cool and the thought of touching his hand made me shiver.

Like Dave, Kathy gave her thanks and extended her hand to me, and like earlier, I shook it gently. Then they both walked off, he pushing the stroller, she with the baby bag slung over her shoulder. As I watched them go, I honestly didn’t know what to think. I stood there a while longer before taking a seat at a nearby coffee shop. My heart broke for the sad couple with the dead baby and the inability to let go, not for the child, but for themselves. And then I was crying with my face buried in my hands. After a few minutes, I composed myself, wiped my eyes and made my way to work. I was late for the first time that day.

“What can I give you that you do not already have?” William asked as he stood in the white glow of a street lamp.

She stood in the dark, just outside the circle that surrounded him. “Your heart,” she whispered and it carried like a soft breeze to his ears.

“My heart?”

“It is all I ask.”

“It is everything I am.”

“Then I want everything you are.”

“Someone else already has it.”

“Yes,” she said, dragging the word out in amusement. “Is she the same one who left?”

William looked down at the shadow that trailed from his feet, forming the silhouette that was his body. He nodded as tears slipped from his eyes. Then he turned and walked away. A moment later, the street lamp winked out.

***

“Love is a treacherous thing,” William said into the empty glass in front of him. A scrim of froth clung to the bottom of it.

“What are you on about?” the bartender asked as he took the glass and replaced it with another, this one full with William’s choice of drink.

He looked up to the tender, an older man with a bald head and hair in his ears. He had a dirty dishrag slung over his shoulder and his white shirt had a stain just below the left breast pocket.

“Love,” he said. “That’s what I’m on about.”

“A sticky subject there,” the tender said. He pulled the towel from his shoulder and wiped down the bar between them. He didn’t seem to notice the wet spot it left behind on his shirt.

“I guess so.”

“Broken hearted tonight?”

William shrugged. “I guess you can call it that.”

“Your lady friend leave you?”

William took a deep breath as tears formed in his eyes. He swallowed the knot in his throat. “No. I mean, yes. I mean, not exactly.”

The bartender slipped the dishrag back onto his shoulder and put his hands on his wide hips. “It’s either she did or she didn’t.”

William licked his lips. That knot tried to form in his throat again. Instead of swallowing, he coughed, forcing it away. “She did, but it’s been months since she left.”

The bartender nodded. William picked up the glass and took several deep swallows. It was cold, but not refreshing. He doubted he would ever feel refreshed again.

“You need to move on, Mister,” the bartender said. “You only have one shot at this life. Mourning the loss of a relationship will only bring you down. Find you another woman to give your heart to. One who won’t leave you this time.”

William laughed, a sound with no joy or humor in it, but one that wept. “That’s the sad thing about all this.”

“What’s that?”

“I did find someone.”

The bartender let go of a smile that showed he was missing one of his lower front teeth. “Then why are you here, drowning yourself in booze and not out with her?”

William ran his index finger along the top of the glass several times before answering. “She wants my heart.”

“Every one wants someone’s heart.”

“You ever give your heart away?” William asked his finger still running the edge of the glass.

“Once or twice, I reckon.”

“How’d it work out for you?”

The bartender shrugged, a simple up and down of the shoulders. “The first time, not so well. The second, well, we’re still together, so I guess that one turned out okay.”

“Second time was a charm?”

“You could say that, Mister.”

“I should probably leave now and go find her—the second woman, not the first one—and give her what she wants.”

“What are you waiting for? Give it to her. It’s not like it will kill you to do so.”

William stood from his stool and placed a five on the bar. He gave a knowing nod. “Thanks for the ear, man.”

***

William heard her calling him even before he made it to Itsover Lane.

"William, why won’t you come to me?"

Her voice was haunting and hypnotizing, and was that desire he heard? He wasn’t sure—he hadn’t heard that sound in what seemed like years. Still, he listened to the pull of her voice, to the seductive promise in it.

"We can be together forever, William. Just give me your heart."

William stepped into the road. Just as he did so, the streetlamp came on, lighting up the very spot he stood.

“I’m here,” he said, a quiver in his voice.

“You came back.”

He nodded.

“Are you going to give me your heart, My Dear?”

“Yes,” William said and slipped the gun from his waistband.

“Just take my hand and I’ll take care of the rest,” she whispered as she stepped from the shadows in a black robe, and a hood that concealed her face. She stretched out a boney hand.

Tears fell from William’s eyes. His chest was heavy and he was suddenly very tired.

“Do you give me your heart, William?”

“Yes,” he said and took her hand. As he did so, he saw the blade of the scythe …

… and the gun went off.

A moment later, the streetlamp winked out.

#heart #love #depression #suicide #Death 

We lived off Red Brick Road, a little patch of a path the county never saw fit to pave, and no, there were no red bricks anywhere on it. Our house sat in the middle of the woods, just off the beaten path. Oaks, elms, pines and cedars surrounded us on all sides. Wild animals roamed about our eighty acres of land, but Daddy didn't seem to mind.

“They’re part of nature,” he would say from time to time. “And nature is just fine with me.”

It was just fine with me, as well.

The old log house we lived in wasn't too big or too small. Since it was just the two of us, I always thought it was kind of just right. If Momma would have still been around when we moved in—I believe I was about four at that time—then maybe we would have needed a bigger place. But as it stood, Momma was dead, killed in the city by some drunk driver with no conscious. The driver walked away with a couple scratches and some bruises. Momma didn't walk away at all.

Daddy was a strong man with big arms, broad shoulders and rough, calloused hands. A lot of folks were intimidated by his size, a size that was deceptively big—he wasn’t quite six feet tall, but being stacked like a brick outhouse and having those piercing blue eyes caused a few folks to reconsider crossing paths with him. I think they were also afraid of ‘the stare.’ It was cold like ice, his lips cutting a thin line across his face, and his brows stitched in toward his nose, with those blue eyes squinted as if he could see right through you. I only got that look once in my day, when I skipped out of school in the eighth grade to go see Bessie Mae Hallerin. When Daddy picked me up at her house, he looked madder than a pit bull with rabies. Bessie Mae's daddy wasn't too happy about it either.

"Get in," he said and thumbed to his truck. As I went, I could hear Daddy talking with Mr. Hallerin. It grew heated and Mr. Hallerin got to yelling. By the time I reached the truck, Daddy had growled something about it takes two to make a baby. I didn't really know what that meant back then. Yeah, kids know a lot these days, probably more by the age of five than I knew by the time I was ten. Back then it wasn't like that. Kids were kids and in the eighth grade, making babies never occurred to me. Sure, I wanted to kiss her and all, but I didn't know much about sex, except what I had heard at school, and I didn't rightly believe any of those stories. But all that is really beside the point. Bessie Mae's daddy kept yelling and my daddy finally grew tired of it. I looked back as I crawled up into the truck to see Daddy standing over Mr. Hallerin, who was on the ground holding his jaw.

Daddy didn't say a word as he drove home. I glanced over at him a few times and he was chewing—not tobacco or gum or a toothpick. No, Daddy chewed on nothing when he was mad. It was like he was grinding his teeth together, trying to keep his mouth shut so he wouldn't get any madder.

I knew I was in for it when he got me home and I was suddenly wishing the truck would get a flat or the engine would blow, even though I knew it would make him angrier. At least that anger would be directed at the truck and not me.

"Go to your room, Jessie," he said when we got home. He went inside and sat down at the table.

I learned years earlier that you didn't argue with Daddy. Though he never laid a finger on me in anger, I had seen him lay more than a couple of fists on some unfortunate men who had balls enough to disagree with him. Including Mr. Hallerin earlier that day.

I went straight to my room and lay on my bed, more nervous than I had ever been, waiting for Daddy to come in and lay his leather strap to my backside. A couple of hours later he knocked on my door. I tensed up. Tears formed in my eyes. It was time and I knew my bottom would be sore for a few days when he was finished. He didn’t wait for me to respond, and entered my room.

"Dinner's ready. Go eat, do your chores, get your shower and go to bed."

That was it. No beating. No yelling. No nothing.

"Daddy," I said in the middle of dinner, "aren't you going to whoop me or something?"

"You're too old to be gettin' whoopins, Jessie," he said and put a spoon full of stew in his mouth.

"But, aren't you mad?"

Daddy shoveled another spoon of stew into his mouth, chewed what little meat was in it and then set the spoon in the bowl. He put his elbows on the table and folded his hands just below his chin. He rubbed the knuckles on his right hand. I could see where the skin had torn free when he had hit Bessie Mae’s daddy. He must have struck teeth.

He spoke softly.

"Jessie, I'm disappointed. You know better than skip school. You need to get your education, and you ain't gonna get it messin' around with that little girl."

"We didn't do anything. Honest, we didn't."
"I didn't say you did—I'm just disappointed. You know better, and I'm going to tell you this right now, and you had best perk those ears up: if it happens again, I'm gonna lay a beatin' on you right in front of the little lady friend your skippin' school for."

We sat in silence for a long while. My dad seethed in his anger, which I could handle well enough. But him being disappointed bothered me more than anything ever had, more than any beating he could ever give me. He took great pride in me and I thought I had let him down. It played on my mind as I finished my dinner and cleaned the dishes and the bathroom and took my shower. Just before going to bed, I went out onto the porch where Daddy sat, smoking a pipe and looking off into the woods.

"Daddy,” I said when I stepped outside. It was a little chilly out there. “I'm sorry." It was all I could muster.

"I know you are, son," Daddy said and stood. He stepped over and gave me a hug and did something he hadn't done since I was little. He kissed me on the top of my head.

"Get off to bed, son—you've gotta lot of work to do tomorrow."

As I went inside, Daddy called back to me.

"Jessie.”

“Yes sir?”

“That Bessie Mae sure is a pretty girl." He gave me a smile and then waved me on.

That was my dad—he never let the sun set on his anger. I went to bed that night knowing it was all okay. I made for certain to never get that look again; to never disappoint him again.

Daddy was all about lessons, but he was also good about making sure I knew about the world and my surroundings, and that he would always be there for me if I needed him. He talked to me about life and love and Momma, who I barely remembered. Most of those conversations took place as we walked on the wood paths on our property, but they always ended on Red Brick Road.

"Come on, boy, let's go for a walk," he would say.

I knew the walks meant we would talk. It was always the mundane stuff at first: How's school? Are you playing sports this year? Do you still have your eyes on Bessie Mae? You know, that kind of stuff. Then he would start pointing things out to me. The trees, the ground, the sky, the animals. Then, as we stepped onto the old dirt path that was Red Brick Road, he would talk about how things were when he was a kid and how I had it tougher than he did, especially since Momma was gone. He would say 'your momma' like she was still around and not dead, as if he didn't want to mention her name for fear of me maybe asking more questions than he had answers for. Like, why was Momma dead?

When we would reach the end of the path, Daddy would look out at the world, at the beautiful land around us and smile. Sometimes there would be tears in his eyes. I pretended I didn't notice them, just like he pretended they weren't there.

That dirt driveway became a path of lessons for me, and after a while, I longed to take that walk. Reaching the end of it was always the highlight, even during some of the sadder talks where Daddy mentioned Momma and got all sentimental and quiet.

My first day of school, we took that walk and Daddy told me it would be okay and that I would get through the day, even though I was terrified. I didn't much believe him, but he had been right. When I went off to college, Daddy walked me down that path and we stopped at the edge of the road leading out of the woods, and by extension, out of town. He looked up at me and smiled. Again, he told me it would be okay and that I was welcome home anytime.

I got a little adventurous in college, but I always made my way home. When I graduated, instead of staying in the city, I went back to our little town; back to the log cabin in the woods; back to Daddy and those long walks we shared.

"Let's go for a walk, Daddy," I said to him one day after coming home from work.

"Everything okay, Jessie?" he asked.

"Yeah. I just want to go for a walk."

For the most part, that was the truth. I wanted to walk with my dad, but I wanted to tell him something important; something I thought would change my life forever.

Like all the other times, we talked about the everyday stuff we could have discussed over dinner. When we reached the end of the driveway, the sun was setting and Daddy turned to me.

"So, what's this all about, Jessie? I know you didn’t just bring us out here to chit chat."

That was Daddy. Always a step ahead of me.

"Daddy," I said, a smile forming on my lips. "I asked Bessy Mae to marry me."

Daddy's ears perked up. His eyebrows lifted. One corner of his mouth started to turn up, but then stopped, as if he were driving and had seen a yellow light and needed to slow down. "Well, what did she say?"

"She said 'yes.'"

The smile fully formed then, the yellow light having turned green and Daddy sped right through the intersection. He clapped me on the back and gave me a hug. "Congratulations, Jessie.” When he pulled away, he nodded one quick time and said, “I'm so proud of you."

"Thanks, Dad," I said. It was a far cry from the day he had told me he was disappointed. "I have a favor to ask of you."

"What's that, Jessie?"

"I want you to be my best man."

Daddy’s aging eyes filled with tears, but like always, none of them fell. "I'd be honored to be your best man, Jessie."

The day I got married Daddy walked with me again. He told me things about my mom I had never known, including how she died and that's why he moved us away from the city. For the only time in my life, I saw a tear actually trickle down his face. All those years of him fighting back the water works finally gave way to a single tear tracing from one blue eye down the side of his face. Daddy took off his wedding band and then reached into his bib-alls, pulling out Momma's.

"Here, I want you to have these," he said and placed the rings in my hand. "I want you and Bessie to have them."

I was stunned and honored all the same. It would be the greatest day of my life. I had both the people I loved most with me—Bessie Mae and Daddy. Bessie wore Momma's band and I wore Daddy's. I would never be happier than on that day.

On my 38th birthday I took Bessie and James, my son, to see my dad. James was still too young to know him as much more than the old guy that gave him treats, but he enjoyed being at the cabin and traipsing through the woods with me.

I knew something was wrong before I got out of the car.

"Dad," I said and ran up the steps to where he sat in his old rocker on the porch. His pipe lay on the floor next to him and he didn't seem to notice me. Panic gripped my chest and my breaths were hard fetched to come. His eyes were distant, though he stared right at me. I shook him and said, "Dad, what's wrong?"

He looked away and when he looked up, something hit me. Dad was no longer the man of steel like he was when I was a child. Age and life had caught up with him. His hair was gray and the blue in his eyes had faded to gray. He blinked several times and he was back from whatever wonderland he had been in when I drove up.

"Jessie?" he asked, his voice full of confusion. "What are you doing here?"

"I brought the family by," I said. "Remember? I called you last night and told you we were coming."

"That's right," he said and tried to stand.

"Dad, don't get up," I said.

"Son, let's go for a walk."

"What?" I asked. I was dumbfounded. My dad looked like he could barely stand and he wanted to go for a walk.

"Let's go for a walk."

"Dad, I don't think that's a good idea—I think I need to get you to a hospital."

"You'll do nothing of the sort," he said, his voice suddenly strong and defiant, and very much like my dad. "I want to go for a walk. Is that too much to ask?"

"No, sir," I said and reluctantly helped him to his feet and down the steps. I motioned for Bessie Mae to go on in the house; we'd be there in a bit.

We walked our normal path, though a lot slower than ever before, making small talk as we always did. When we reached the driveway, Daddy looked up at me. Reaching a hand out, he took one of mine and we walked the length of the driveway, stopping at Red Brick Road.

"Dad—"

"No, son," he interrupted. "I don't have much time left and I didn't want your kid seeing me like this."

"Like what?"

"Dying."

I couldn't believe I had heard the word come out of his mouth, but it had and it echoed loudly in my ears.

"Dad, don't say that."

"It's okay, boy," he said, fighting back tears once again. "Don't be afraid. It'll be alright."

"But, Dad, you can't die—not now. Not ever."

Tears began to fall from my own eyes as I begged him to stop talking such foolishness. But it was true—Daddy didn't have much time left. I had known that when I drove up and saw him sagging in his rocker, his old pipe on the floor and that distant look in his eyes.

"Jessie, I love you, son," he said and put one hand on the back of my head. He pulled me forward and kissed the top of my head, just like he had done when I told him Bessie Mae and I were getting married. He then wrapped his once strong arms around me.

"I love you too, Daddy," I said and embraced my father. I held him tightly, even as he began to sag. I felt one last breath on my neck and Daddy was gone. I struggled to hold him up, crying like I was four again and missing a mom I hardly knew. I couldn’t let him go no matter how much his sagging weight threatened to pull us both to the ground. I pulled him toward me and we fell. He landed on top of me. A twinge of pain screamed up my back, but I held him. I held him…

Eventually, I laid him on the ground and sat beside him, cradling his head as I grieved the hardest I ever had to that point. At some point I heard Bessie Mae's voice somewhere in the distance, and then a while later, the emergency folk were there to take him away.

Long after the police and everyone else had left, I remained sitting on the ground at the end of the driveway. As the sun began to set I thought of how beautiful it was and that Daddy was with Momma. I hoped and prayed he was finally happy.

Every week I come back here, back to the cabin where I was raised. When I do, I sit in Daddy's rocker, holding his pipe in my hand, wishing he were here. Before I leave, I take a walk, always stopping at Red Brick Road to watch the sunset.

Today's a little different, though. You see, yesterday we buried Bessie Mae. After 48 years of marriage, she passed on before me, just as my momma passed on long before my daddy. I know now what Daddy went through all those years without her. I don’t know how he did it. It’s unbearable…

…

…

James will be here soon to take me home with him. I don't much want to leave, but he's concerned about his old man and wants to be there for me if something happens. I can't say I blame him; I've been in his shoes. Before he gets here, though, I think I'm going to take one final walk and have a talk with Daddy. If I'm lucky, I'll get to see the sun set one last time from Red Brick Road.