by Tiana Laveen
I wonder if this is the original version?
Sloan turned the book in his palms, studying it, flipping from front to back. He gave it a hesitant sniff, as if the odor emitting from the moth bitten pages would somehow tell him the age of the thing. Smiling sheepishly, he turned back to his last page read, and before he took note of how much time had passed, he’d read half the thing. He got to his feet, packed up, and exited the office, closing and locking the door behind him. As he stood in the large, dim foyer area, he realized the night was already encroaching, swinging her dark shawl in ombre colors of cream, gray, and navy blue.
Tucking the book under his arm, he hastened to his bedroom and sat on the new bed that had arrived a few days prior to continue the good read. He hadn’t been this hooked on a book in quite some time, and his first go round with the novel had left him wanting more. In a way, he felt as if he were reading it again for the first time, and what joy it gave him. Jones had an addictive way of writing, and Sloan had forgotten about that until that moment. The man was a horror genius, and though horror wasn’t Sloan’s chosen genre, he appreciated the craft all the same.
He kept reading until he couldn’t any more…
Later, his eyes fluttered open as he awakened to the oddest noise…
No, that’s not noise. That’s music…
Relaxing, he leaned forward, releasing a stiff yawn. He set the book down on the nightstand and made his way out of his bedroom, down the lengthy stairwell. He slid open the heavy double doors of the office, bellowing yet another loud yawn, and stomped towards the radio to turn the thing off, only to discover that it wasn’t on at all. His chest tightened as he glared down at the thing. Yet, he could distinctly hear the music—it was definitely coming from that room. His arm muscles suddenly jerked when an icy chill came and sucked the warmth from his flesh.
“What the hell is going on here?” He looked about, trying to concentrate as hard as he could to find the source. At that moment the name of the song that played registered in his mind: ‘Mack the Knife’ by Louis Armstrong. His father had enjoyed that song back in his day, so much so, he could almost envision the whopping, tall man placing the old LP with his big hands onto the player and bouncing about in his giant oaf of a way. The man didn’t smile during his seldom seen jigs; that must have been a way for the guy to blow off some steam after working late hours at the small crackers and cookies factory he oversaw and managed before he’d became a firefighter.
Shaking the memories out of his mind, Sloan dashed out of the room and headed straight into the kitchen. Perhaps the music was truly coming from there, and his ears were playing tricks on him. His search proved futile, so he checked the living room, the newly renovated bathroom on the first floor, and back to the office, the place that refused to grow warm and make any damn lick of sense. The music continued to play on low volume, and a surge of anger rushed through him.
“Stop it!” he yelled out in a fit of rage. His deep, booming voice echoed, and then, just like that, the music came to a screeching halt. His temples pulsated and, after taking several deep breaths, he convinced himself there had to be some reasonable explanation. He opened and closed his palms, digging the short nails into the flesh as his anxiety began to climb once again. Emotions of all sorts, ones that felt foreign, not his own, took over his being. He suddenly felt deeply disheartened, living a type of misery, a level of sadness he’d never experienced in his entire life.
Oceans of sentiment drowned him in a vat of insanity, yet, he couldn’t move a muscle to escape the prison of his thoughts. He just stood there barefoot in the dark and cold, facing the black window that let in no light, the fireplace that refused to be lit to his left, the burnt out chandelier that swayed even with no breeze above his head. He simply stood, feeling pressure, strain, heartbreak, absurdity and pain.
Just walk out… you’re exhausted… just leave.
He turned his back to that scene, mustering the resolve, and headed out of the office, once again locking and closing the door behind him.
As he climbed the steps, he dismissed a crawling wave of distress that began in the center of his twisting gut and radiated out. The sadness stayed, too, and didn’t let up for several hours; yet, he managed to stay up the rest of the evening, reading that book, page by page, until he reached ‘The End.’ He sat quietly for some time after that, his mouth desert dry and his thoughts clogged with self-reflection.
For the first time, he saw himself in that book, ‘The Water Fountain.’ In many ways, it seemed to display the last few years of his life. Death of love, death of hope, death of dreams; and all the while, his popularity and wealth rose. It was almost as if he’d made a deal with the Devil, but had been slipped a roofie when it all went down so he could not recall a damn thing. The water did run with blood, a sacrifice of sorts. Sloan stayed in the bed for several hours—quiet, still. He ignored his phone, didn’t open his laptop, and had no appetite or even a desire to get up and take on the day.
Had he drowned in the realization of the words he’d read? He’d fallen headfirst inside the water fountain, realizing it wasn’t merely a book, but a prediction of the future that symbolically took root in his past. A mirror was placed up to his face, the reflection comprised merely of words…
“But we went to church…” Joel sat across from him, taking him through another agonizing Saturday afternoon of crap. The young man was relentless.
“And?” Sloan poured himself another cup of coffee and made his way back to the kitchen table, his bones and eyes tired from an all-nighter.
“When Michelle and I were growing up, you and Mom took us to church practically every Sunday. You sang hymns; you read the scriptures even. I don’t understand this.” The boy, now a man, shook his head incredulously. “How can you believe in God but then say you don’t believe nothin’ happens after we die? That’s been really bothering me, Dad.”
“So you’ve been thinking about that this entire time? Look, Joel, why is it so unconscionable for you to consider that we could be created by a higher source, but then, that’s it?” He tossed up his hands before resting them on his thighs.
“Because I think there’s more to it than that.”
“What proof do you have? Why does there have to be this elaborate celestial plan? Just like that damn juice you threw in the wastebasket last weekend, telling me it was sour.” He pointed towards the trashcan. “Why can’t you believe we all have an expiration date, and then, that’s it!” He smacked his hands together as if ridding his palms of philosophical crumbs.
“Dad, your cynicism now is worse than ever, if that is even possible.”
“Do you tell your mom that, too? Give her the same third degree and quiz her about her beliefs?”
“Oh, now I get it.” Joel smirked and nodded his head up and down as if he’d figured out a great mystery that had baffled mankind for centuries. “This is about Mom and you splitting, isn’t it? It’s always about Mom, Dad.”
“How did we go from expired juice last weekend, to ghosts, to Peter Jones, to life and death, to the afterlife, to God, and to my and your mother’s divorce? Besides, God and your mother are opposites. Ohhhh! I get it now! You want to play a game of opposites.”
“Not funny.”
“Oh, it’s funny…it’s damn funny.” He chuckled, though a kernel of indignation nestled inside of him as he sensed the initial burn of irritation.
“You’ve lost faith because of the divorce. Just admit it.” Joel’s fist clenched and unclenched as if he wanted to throw down, go toe to toe and have a fight to the finish.
“Don’t even go there.” Sloan’s eyes narrowed on the fucker, and he pointed at him. “You’re the one who insisted on coming up this weekend, and then, as soon as you hit the door, you jumped right into the same argument we had last week. I don’t want to talk about your mother and me, so just drop it.” He took another leisurely sip of his coffee, wishing it were strong enough to make the whole damn morning fade to black.
>
“You never want to talk about it, Dad. You’re not the same anymore… If it’s not Mom and the divorce, then what the hell happened?”
Sloan did little except stare into his son’s eyes, now a little more glossy than they were previously, as if he were holding back angry tears. He hated how emotional Joel got sometimes, not because he found his son pathetic for being in such a state, but because it must’ve been quite freeing to allow himself to feel so deeply, a luxury he was never afforded. Regardless, he felt uncomfortable when people cried around him, especially if he believed he was to blame.
“Nothing happened, Joel.” He sighed, barely able to get the lying words out.
“Oh, something definitely happened, Dad. Your attitude over the past year is proof that you are upset every second of the damn day. When are you gonna go back to normal, huh? When will the sulking and anger stop and let you get on with your life? When am I goin’ to get my dad back?”
All right, you fucking brat, you asked for it…
“You know what’s funny to me, Joel?” A thick meanness stepped within him like a tea bag in hot water. “Your complete lack of a grasp of reality. You act as if I have time to entertain fairytales in my day-to-day life.”
“I never said—”
“When I’m not writing, I’m paying your bills, making public appearances and doing what’s needed in this thing we call life. Ever heard of it? Not the afterlife, but the right here and fucking now!” he roared, pressing his fingertip onto the table. “Your life is like my books, but I just don’t have that indulgence to dance along the arch of rainbows, okay? I have no time for myths, only certainties.”
“So now you’re attacking me because I’m standing up to you.” The young man’s voice shook as the words curled out from between his lips. It only angered Sloan all the more.
“You’re not standing up to me, you’re trying to make me conform to what you want and believe! It’s like we’ve reversed roles right this second, and you think you can be the father and dole out advice while you put your hand out and keep askin’ for money! You can’t be dependent and independent at the same goddamn time!” His voice echoed throughout the place, and Joel jumped a bit as he raged on.
“Joel, you think easy street is a choice, like a bunch of us choose struggle versus a good time laughing and partying, right? The good life is a neighborhood, a place we all could live in if we just give it the ol’ college try!”
“No I don’t, and I never said that.”
“Yeah, ya do and ya didn’t have to say it. Unlike my son here, who lives his life in a kid’s strawberry scented bath bubble, my bubble of joy burst years before you were even born. It’s called the cold, hard fuckin’ facts of life.” Joel grimaced and rolled his eyes, but kept his lips sealed shut. “I have to deal with real things in my life, in my own way. Like wellness… and to answer the question you posed to me last week, that’s why I’m here, in this house.”
“You’re here to deal with real things in life?” Joel’s lips twisted to the side as he crossed his arms over his chest, a look of disbelief tattooed across his face.
“No, for my mental sanity.” He took a deep breath. “I needed to leave, to start over. I’m stressed tha hell out. My new fame I wasn’t prepared for and I’ve got a publisher who reminds me about timelines every five fucking minutes.”
“But you—”
He put his hand up like a stop sign. “I have to worry about making sure Michelle graduates college and that her tuition and books are paid, and that she’s in a safe car that can get her from point A to point B, so she and my grandson are safe…because that’s what a father does. I’m not a martyr, but you’re so damn ungrateful sometimes, it’s like you forget what I’m tryna do here.” Joel lowered his head and looked away, as if ashamed… but Sloan knew better. “I work hard and bend over backwards for you and ya sister, so excuse me, Joel, the great noble one that dances along the dew covered leaves of four-leaf clovers, if you can’t have me for every damn minute at your beckon call and I’m not exactly what you want me to be!”
He swallowed a glob of spit that had formed in the back of his throat while he drowned in fury. He could barely make out his son anymore; he seemed miles away, as if something were blocking his view, standing between them. Taking a deep breath, he grasped at the withered strands of his composure, trying desperately to piece something together that would calm him down, reel him back in.
“I think you’re being rather unfair with your analysis, Dad.”
Sloan looked at his son for a moment, and then another. Joel sounded pulled together, as if his manipulative fit of sorrow hadn’t just occurred.
“My analysis? My life isn’t a scientific study. I’ve come to terms with myself. Joel, I suggest you do the same. You wanted to talk so…” He shrugged. “Now we’re talking.”
“And I’m glad we are. I know you’re mad, but at least you’re opening up and discussing this stuff with me. I appreciate it, believe it or not.”
Sloan ran his hand real slow across the kitchen table, back and forth, back and forth as he began to relax.
“What have you been thinking about while here so far?” Joel asked. “I mean, besides work of course.”
“I needed time to look at my life and sort things out. Life is not a playground where I just happened to fall off the swing; no, I was pushed the fuck off.” The peaceful reprieve he’d mustered was short lived. “But I’m tryin’, contrary to your perception; I am trying to get things together, Joel.” Taking a long, deep breath, he once again attempted to control his strange emotions. He hadn’t felt such anger and despair in a long while. It was rather debilitating, and yet liberating all the same.
“Obviously not,” his son stated smugly. “You haven’t smiled in months and now you’re bitter…a bitter middle-aged man who—”
“And I’m allowed to be!” His voice echoed in the place; the walls grabbed it, absorbed it, and stored it for safekeeping. “For once in my life, I can feel how I feel and not say sorry about it or hide it altogether. No one can tell me to put on a happy face and be done with it. I’m done pretending to be okay, Joel, and you can’t have it both ways. You want me to smile through it all, and let it out, too. You tryna make me have a damn split personality.”
“You already do.”
“And what the hell is that supposed to mean?” Sloan slouched in his seat.
“You know what it means… you’re either the best or the worst.” Joel’s brows bunched, while Sloan scowled at him, his anger filling the room.
“And so are you… so what’s your damn point?”
Sloan hadn’t planned to duke it out with his eldest child, his only son. The visit was supposed to be pleasant, a chance to catch up and re-do the previous weekend that had been chock full of arguments. They’d intended to throw back some beers and enjoy one another for a few days—best laid plans that never materialized.
Joel got up slowly from his seat and walked away. The man-child leaned against the wall and simply glared at him, itching with indignation. He felt so detached, broken.
Sloan didn’t want to hurt his son. He’d been avoiding such a skirmish for months, but it was happening, and there was no turning back now…
“Why can’t Nikki call more, huh? It ain’t even right for her to be in the military in the first place,” Sugar protested into the phone as she gnawed noisily on the end of a pickle. Her smacking grated on Emerald’s nerves.
“You’ve said that a few times now and I’m not sure you think that because you’re protective of her or because it has something to do with you thinking Nikki can’t handle the responsibility.”
“It ain’t for either of those reasons.” The old woman swallowed hard, then continued, “It’s because that’s no place for a lady.” Emerald sighed and propped her legs up on her bed, praying that they’d soon stop aching. She’d been on her feet for six hours straight due to three back to back root canals. They were swollen and red, tender to the touch. She
couldn’t fathom the thought of standing on them for even a second longer.
“Sugar, women are in the military, all right? All branches, positions, doing everything, and they do just as good of a job as anyone. Nikki has been described by her superiors as exceptional. I happen to agree.”
“Exceptionally silly! The military ain’t no place for no woman, Emerald.”
“And why’s that Sugar? Tell me why you’d think such a thing?” She bent over to run her fingers along the balls of her feet.
“For one, you can’t be on the front line havin’ no period. What she gonna do? Wave her arms around and say, ‘Cease fire! Hold on a sec, Mr. Foreign Man with a gun in my face. I need to change my sanitary napkin, den we can get tuh fightin’ again.’”
“Sugar…” Emerald fell back into her pillow, emitting a weary laugh. She massaged her forehead, trying to ease a budding tension headache with a gentle touch. “It’s too late in the day for this and I’m tired.”
“Before you go, let me ask you something.” She could hear the woman take a long, hard swallow of her warm milk, which she prepared ritualistically each and every evening before bed. The thought of that mixing in with the pickle she’d just eaten nauseated her.
