A Song for Carmine

by M Spio

  I try not to, but I think of that dead brown flesh often first thing in the morning, how I silently agreed with what was happening and how I’ve hated myself for it since. I can’t be here in Eton, see old familiar faces, his kin, and not think of him and how Pa made it seem all right. Does this have to stay the same? Will it always look like this?

  I head north toward that old church. The morning air is cool. I pick up my pace and feel the gravel of the street twist beneath my feet. In the hills behind me, I hear a rifle shoot; up the street, the long exhaustive sigh of a school bus.

  Pa’s cancer is getting stronger; it multiplies and he sleeps a lot now, and I’ve gotten used to his moans now. In the back of my mind it is muffled the same way Dallas traffic was, or the planes flying overhead from Dallas-Fort Worth; I hear it but I don’t.

  It might not be right, but I want to say good-bye to him after he’s already gone, when he’s just a thought, not a body, a slab of marble on a piece of dirt, a few forms I need to sign, a couple of details to take care of. I’ve been thinking about the mind full of things he’ll die with, wonder if he longs for anything, wants a chance to do it over, or if he’ll die the bastard he always was. Does a man keeping running long after the race is over, like Diego, or do some stop and look back?

  Does he miss the old fish fries we used to have on Friday nights back in the old days in East Texas? Does he remember the smell of the corn batter, the Dixie music coming from someone’s parked truck, the smell of wet fish on our clothes from work on the boats? But when I get my nerve up to cross the threshold of that bedroom door, to have a real conversation with him, an image of him, violent and unpredictable, comes running through my mind, pushes the backs of my legs, and I run again.

  When I get close to the clapboard building, the sun is still low behind it, the sky a cornflower blue. I walk up the steps and open the door and smell the coffee brewing somewhere in the building; I can even smell the Styrofoam cups and the disinfectant on the floors and the Pledge on the pews. I hate the way it takes me right back, makes me small again, my brain just an organ with a memory, not my own to use.

  The altar looks different today. The wooden cross seems bigger, yet less foreboding. Why would anyone want to stare at something so gruesome and call it life? Instead of going to the front, I sit in an empty pew at the back of the room and stare at the vaulted ceiling, run my hands across the glossy wood of the pew in front of me, listen for sounds around me.

  Pa used to hold my hand as we walked from home to church every Sunday; his leathery skin felt like a big baseball glove holding mine’ I remember looking up at his face, squinting in the sun, following his jawline, and hoping to make it right somehow, to read the secret map well enough to be able to find the meaning of the myth, the location of the real treasure he wanted me to find, to save myself.

  I hear him mumbling prayers under his breath; his speech tired, he mumbles through it.

  I watch each word take form in his mouth. The syllables are sweet and whole like a pregnant belly. He squeezes my hand, says, “say it with me, boy,” and starts again. He wants to believe it. My mouth begins to move with his, I whisper, put one foot in front of the other, fill my chest with air and chant with him.

  I don’t hear the preacher walk up behind me, but when I turn around, I get the feeling that he’s been there awhile.

  “You came back.” In the early morning light, his skin looks lighter, his black hair shinier. He reminds me of a cleaner version of George Jefferson, his voice much softer and calmer.

  “Good morning. I know you said I needed to make an appointment, but the thing is, I just woke up this morning and walked out the front door and here I am.”

  He walks closer to me. I hear someone in the hallway to the left call his name.

  “I’ll be right there.” He keeps his eyes on me, tender, tolerant. I feel a sense of panic within, but I stay seated in the pew.

  “I’ve got to take care of a few things. If you’ll wait awhile, I can sit down with you this morning.” His eyes are a deep almond brown; he doesn’t blink, but doesn’t penetrate either—he is just there.

  “All right, I will.”

  He turns and walks away. I see him disappear into the hallway, a mixture of voices fade, and then all is silent again.

  I sit in the pew and close my eyes again, and after a few minutes, I am a boy again, about age ten. Ma sits beside me. I can smell the nicotine hanging on her bones. She reaches over and grabs my hand; I pull away. I don’t trust her anymore.

  She stands in the hallway and watches as Pa makes me read lines of scripture from the Bible until late into the night, until I can’t keep my eyes open, until I’m crying and slobbering onto the brittle pages of the Book and Pa becomes angrier.

  He pulls my head up by my hair and looks at me hard. “Start again, son, start again. Redeem yourself!”

  I push back the tears, see Ma put her head down when I look at her out of the corner of my eye, lift my face, and breathe in deep. She leaves the threshold and goes back to her room; I hear the clink of her liquor bottle, and then the door closes.

  Pa paces the kitchen and reads from his tattered Bible. “Listen, boy, listen to me,” he tells me as he points to the book and recites over and over again.

  Matthew 24:12-14: “Because of the increase of wickedness, the love of most will grow cold, but he who stands firm to the end will be saved. And this gospel will be preached in the whole world as a testimony to all nations, and then the end will come.”

  The kitchen light above our kitchen sink burns bright; I stare at it until everything turns black.

  I think I fall asleep, because when Pastor Stanley comes back, for a second I think Pa is above me again. I sit inside myself with a handful of sins and wait.

  CHAPTER 9

  A FEW DAYS LATER I’m sitting in a café on Main Street eating a club sandwich looking at the want ads in the Eton Gazette. I think I could pour coffee here or load lumber at the old lumberyard or sell cars or mow lawns; it doesn’t matter, I know. I think of reinventing myself, of taking a low profile, of disguising myself and starting all over.

  I listen to the voices around me, hear the long, drawn-out drawl of the locals and how they’re fixin’ to do this and fixin’ to do that. I put my head down and pretend not to notice. People know I’m not a complete stranger; they recognize something about me, but they look at me closely just the same: their eyes pierce me, take apart my clothes, try to count the dollars I have, if I get forty-dollar haircuts, if I’m just passing through or planning to stay awhile, wonder about the places I’ve been and the stuff I know. I feel them looking. I return the gaze, wonder the same things about them, if they want to put their feet on another part of the world, if they want to see what’s around the mountain’s edge, if they want to change things like bigotry and hatred and poverty, if they really love their lives or if they’re just spending time. And then we both look away.

  I stare out the window and watch the cars pull in and out of parking spots on the streets. The motions are so slow here; the cars back in and out like there’s nothing in front or behind. I tap my foot under the table.

  Across the street, I see Pa’s old truck. The license plate hangs off the back, the muffler sputters loudly, but the motor is strong; there is no mistaking it. I am surprised to see them, both of them out of the house at the same time. I didn’t know Pa could do it, that they could manage. I’ve been sleepwalking. I don’t know what goes on.

  I pick up a wedge of sandwich and watch my mother pull into a parking spot in front of the doctor’s complex across the street; the big white steering wheel makes a circle, and then she straightens the wheels and turns the truck off. Just like that.

  I am a stranger watching a scene from a movie. I chew on a piece of bread, pick up a French fry, watch. A kid puts a quarter in the old jukebox near the door, and Randy Travis starts singing. This can’t all be backdrop.

  Someone walks up to the truck, and I can see Ma’s mouth mo
ving. Her long fingers pointed down the street at something; then I see her looking down and messing with something in her lap. In the front seat, Pa’s head sags to the right and he leans on the doorjamb; I am not sure if he’s actually still in that body. His long arm hangs out the door, his fingers slide across the faded paint of the door. He always loved that old truck. I remember him washing and waxing it every weekend, shining the interior, even hosing the engine. He even kept driving it after the ignition failed and he had to start it with a screwdriver. I can’t believe it is still around.

  I watch my parents, hear the clang of dishes and silverware in the diner, take a long drink of my Coke and rattle the ice around in the cup. How is it that I’m in this place at this time with this window?

  I see Ma walk around the truck to Pa’s side and open his door. He holds his body in and waits; he’s wearing a button-down sweater with his pajama bottoms. Ma’s hair is pulled back into a ponytail, but strands of it stick to her face as she struggles to get him out and standing.

  My feet won’t move me, even though I see Ma’s purse fall to the ground as Pa steps out of the truck and his weight leans on her. My feet still don’t move when I see Ma wedge Pa up against the truck as she opens the tailgate and pulls out the old wheelchair and pushes him into it.

  * * *

  Later that afternoon, I’m walking around town, making big circles around the tavern but not going in. The next thing I know, I’m at that old clapboard church again, staring into the dark eyes of the pastor. I can’t seem to stay away.

  “The thing is, pastor, I just don’t know what any of it means. I don’t know if it means anything, this life, this earth, family, careers, how we spend our time, or if it all means nothing, if it’s just empty space, if I need to worry more about living or dying.” I put my head in my hands and run my fingers through my hair. I pick up the glass of water on the table and take a small drink. It’s warm, like the air.

  He sits across from me in the old meeting room of the church, his hands folded, one leg over the other. I remember this room. We used to have Sunday school in here. Sometimes Pa held Bible study; other times he used it to store some of the furniture he was hoping to sell to the church members.

  The room is square, walls covered in dull floral wallpaper, brown, the corners of it peeling. I think it was always like this. The big window in the room lets in so much light, it’s almost overpowering; you’ve got to squint unless the shades are drawn.

  I tell him about my whole life. My youth. My career. My money. All my nice things. The chaise in Dallas and the women and all the alcohol I’ve consumed and that I’m a mean person. I tell him about Pa, how he sat in this very room, a bigoted hypocrite, how I promised myself I’d be better than him. How I followed in Diego’s footsteps but don’t want to be like him either. I start to tell him how I watched a boy be killed without helping him, but it’s too much. I stop, look away.

  “Carmine, success and power are relative terms. They can mean many things to many people. Your ideas of success and power and material things have come to mean many things to you. For you, these things have become your life, define you as a man. But there’s more to the story, and we can change the details anytime.

  “For a lot of people, success often becomes a drug, or another form of alcohol, a means to escape something they feel is chasing them, something they don’t want to feel. We also seek influence, fame, or success as a means to give us purpose and make us feel valuable. Then when we do something wrong, fail ourselves or others, we live by that guilt. It’s the wrong way to do it.”

  “Yes, pastor, I get what you’re saying, but if life is not these things—being mean or climbing or whatever—what is it? I mean, what actually matters?” I can feel myself start to sweat behind my ears; my heart beats faster. I want to know something. Somewhere in the distance a clock ticks loudly. I tap my feet, listen.

  “Ultimately, the meaning of life is not found in how we’ve defined ourselves or what we’ve done. Those things are just extensions of the things we believe. The meaning of life, the real crux of our existence, is found solely in our relationships. When the relationships are meaningful, then success, power, influence, a cause, life, death, a legacy, and sacrifice for others all become meaningful and purposeful.”

  He tells me a little more about scripture and what it says about success and power and how man was made, but I don’t hear him. I want to ask him what you do when you have no relationships at all, but I don’t.

  I leave the church, and for the rest of the day, I walk. Search. Make an effort to connect dots, find meaning in the space between this thing and that, the soil beneath my feet, the women I’ve been in bed with, the parents I’ve hated, the deals I’ve shaken, the last time I felt anything close to love.

  I walk until my legs feel weak and I come around the corner of our street. The long leaves of the sidewalk trees lean down and touch the top of my head; the locusts scream. I see the old blue truck parked in the drive.

  * * *

  “Carmine? You there?” I’m stepping out of the shower when I hear Pa’s voice down the hall. I freeze.

  “Carmine? If you’re there, please come…”

  I can barely hear him, and his voice trails off until it disappears completely. Panic comes over me; it feels like electricity in my bones. The bathroom mirror is foggy, and I use my forearm to clean it off. I stare at myself in the foggy mirror and wait to know what to do next, wait to feel the next instinct point me in a direction. Nothing happens. The house is so quiet, still; my hair drips down my face.

  I put a towel around my waist and lean out of the bathroom door.

  “Ma? Ma, you home?” The hair is cold and I feel goose bumps on my skin. I close the bathroom door and wait, towel still around my waist. I sit down on the stool and tap my foot.

  I look up after a few minutes, and the fog has cleared from the mirror. I get a good look at myself then, notice the crow’s feet stretching around my eyes, a few gray hairs at my temples.

  The house is still so quiet, except for the passing of the train in the distance, a delivery truck on the street.

  I put on my jeans and T-shirt and step out in the hallway slowly. There is no sound coming from Pa’s room, not even the squeak of the bedsprings or his cough. I feel afraid. I’m not ready to deal with this, I think, as I walk slowly down the hall toward my parents’ room.

  I stand at the doorway quietly and wait. The room is filled with the white noontime light. I see him laying on the bed, motionless, and I can’t tell if he’s alive or dead. A few thoughts pass through. First, a sense of euphoria, a real glee in the seat of my pants, then utter terror, as though I’m spiraling in outer space without the cord that holds me to the ship. It all happens so fast.

  I walk closer to the bed, and then I see him breathing, but his chest barely swells, barely raises the blanket he’s covered with.

  “Pa? Pa, you awake?” I touch his arm and his eyes pop open.

  “Carmine, Carmine, son, I can’t breathe… I can’t breathe.” I see a single tear roll down his cheek and his hand reaches for me, tries to grip my arm. I pull away. He gasps for air.

  I stand there looking at him. His lips move again but no sound comes out, except dry, throaty air. It sounds like something being dragged across a concrete floor.

  “You can’t breathe, Pa, is that what you said?” My stomach flips.

  He nods his head. I see beads of sweat forming on his brow. I look around the room just then, notice that it looks much the same as it did when I was a boy. There is a layer of dust on everything, and Ma and Pa’s old wedding photo still sits on their dresser.

  I look back at Pa again. He stares at me and breathes so softly I can barely hear him wheeze. He searches my face like I once did his.

  “I don’t want to watch you die, old man.” I pull the covers up close to his chin. I can’t feel him breathe beneath my hands.

  His eyes close for a while, his palms unfold, he seems to relax, to give u
p something inside. The color begins to leave his face, and he seems to sink into the bed.

  “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do here,” I say to the room. An old song comes back to me—“we all got blues.” I feel so mad all of a sudden, like I could burst right out of my skin, paddling my chest. Pastor Stanley is wrong. Why would anyone actually want to love someone when it comes to this?

  “Boy, I don’t want to die…”

  He’s crying now, so softly, like a boy; his face looks like a version of myself. I feel my heart beat faster in my chest; my legs grow weak. I lock my knees and stand up straighter.

  “What’s it like, Pa? To be in this place? In this room like this?” I pull a chair up to the bed and sit. He doesn’t have enough breath to answer me.

  He shakes his head, stops crying, stares at me.

  “I watched someone die once, and I’ve never forgiven myself. But this is different. It’s time we have a talk, don’t you think?” I pull the chair closer and pat the edge of the bed.

  “Did it make you feel better to hurt me? To tear me down? I hear that people hurt others because they hurt; that the hurt had to start somewhere, otherwise it wouldn’t be. Do you believe this, Pa?” I look at him and wait for an answer.

  His eyes pool, but he doesn’t say anything, saves his breath and keeps looking at me.

  I am up on my feet now. I circle the room and pace, run my hands through my wet hair.

  “Old man, I’ve been wanting to repay you all of these years. I’ve been wanting to see you suffer; my whole life I’ve waited to have you on your back.” My fists clench and I move my feet back and forth, rock in place. I am afraid of what I might do, if there is something evil that still resides within me, if it ever did.

  The sun reaches into the window above their bed and casts a shadow of myself on the floor in front of me, tall and lean. I am small and big at the top, monstrous. My feet are as firm as they’ve always been. I can do what I want with this moment; it stands in front of me, the past finally immobile.