Our Path is Paved in Echoes

by Michael Bonady

  “It’s raining out,” he said, hoping it was true, and it was.

  She walked away for a moment and came back with two matching bright neon umbrellas. He extended the bottle in his hand towards her lips and she moved closer, taking a long slow heavy swig and closing her eyes. They watered and he wondered if the tears were from the whisky or her own quiet reasons. They were for her own quiet reasons.

  “At least your car’s gonna be clean now,” spoken over her shoulder as they walked down the sad hallway with the echoes of storms overhead, past every sad door numbered 2210 and 2211 and so on, despite the place only having one floor and one hallway. In the parking lot with the rain singing on tin roofs drowning the asphalt he kissed her mouth and she kissed back with water streaming down her face and him wondering if it was the rain or tears from her our quiet reasons. It was both. They did not open the umbrellas, instead letting them fall to the ground in puddles and regret.

  I should stop, he thought, several times, as they found themselves fumbling and falling into the front seat of his car then into the back seat, old leather racked and worn but soft and inviting, their breath hot and loud amidst the wind and rain as he leaned back then forward, turning the keys and with his index finger pushing play on the tape deck, I love this song, she whispered and he sang along in his head tapping her back to the rhythm until she told him to stop, and then continued, hands fingers legs clumsy and cramped the music loud and the car hot despite the cold wind and cold rain and your car’s getting clean and faster faster until the silence between the songs was shared. Pulling clothes back to proper places and her looking in the rearview mirror, makeup down her face black and pink from rain and tears and pain and things of importance that could not be mentioned so they were not mentioned and for the first time in ages she was free. Without words she kissed his cheek and leaning forward hit rewind and waited then with her index finger hit play and tapped the beat on his thigh while he sang out loud. When the song was over she kissed his cheek again and without words opened the car door into the wind and rain and got into her car turned the ignition the music instant and loud and he could hear it with the doors closed, crawling forward to the front seat and moving his car to let her out. She was free.

  Back in the room he closed his eyes and felt young and then old again until the phone rang and knowing it was home feeling empty he turned the TV loud to drown out the ringing but still could not drown out the ringing or anything at all.

  The boy, still tired of titles describing his fast and gradual progression in life, all the while unwilling to fight any of the titles bestowed upon him, and what are titles anyway, he thought, rightfully, as he picked out vegetables and meat, the evening perfect for the grill on the whisky stained patio, the sun dipping under clouds and coloring the sky with the yellows and reds of his innocence and the oranges and blues of his fading youth, selected the steaks with calm and effortless grace, laughing to himself at the bovine brevity and then at his own, until he was pleased enough with the selections to make his way home under prophetically colored sky.

  The man of the house cooks the steaks, he thought, so that’s what he did. The mother marveled at his thorough approach while the meat seared and smoked and despite his age and local regulations she poured him a whisky over ice and took it outside to him, minding the step down, as she always did. He sipped and closed his eyes, and as they watered she wondered if it was the whisky or his own reasons, and figured it was probably both. He took another sip and did not spill a drop, it was all for him, the ants had grown tired of the drink by now anyway, so they went about their work below. He took the food inside and did not trip over the step. He did not spill.

  They had not mentioned the father for days until she said out loud, not to anyone really, “He always burned the steaks anyway,” and they laughed out loud, then fell silent with forks and knives singing workman’s songs until their plates were empty and they were full.

  Somewhere between good riddance and please come back, they watched TV with the volume at a normal level while the boy, tired of loud music for a change said “Isn’t this the one about the murderer who faked his own death?”

  “No, that was a different program,” she said, “but both had murderers who faked their own deaths, it’s quite a common trick really, no wonder they keep doing it though, it usually works.”

  He smiled, leaned back on the right side of the couch and let his body sink to a low slouch and began to appreciate her programs more than usual. The overhead lights were off and the yellow lamplight cast a quiet calm through the quiet room, empty except for them, so not really empty at all. The phone in the kitchen had not rang for a period of time which seemed longer and shorter than it was, the absence had created a new presence that required less, needed less, wanted less. The world before and the world after were not the same world at all. The boy and his mother knew this in ways they did not want to know, in the contentment of watching programs and drinking wine and buttering toast not too dark or too light, but perfect in all that it was, which was everything. When the phone finally did ring it took several moments for it to register, and since the murderer had just faked his own death and the show was not on commercial, they did not answer. On the other end, another long slow pull of a tired bottle spilling silently from the sides of his lips then caught in the rough stubble of his aging face as he leaned back on the right side of the bed and let his body sink to a low slouch before he closed his eyes and pretended everything was the same. Nothing was.

  The morning sun went through the glass and fabric, warmed and faded little by little each day, barely noticeable until finally nothing’s the same. The boy, content in age and station, was folding the covers back and humming Beethoven’s 5th symphony in key and out of key.

  The mother, downstairs in the kitchen where his voice loud and tumbling down the hall, a snowball gaining speed until melting away without explanation, fresh baked bread pulled from the oven and she would slice it just right, toast it just right, needing or requiring nothing but time and that’s all we have anyway so why rush, she thought. She did not rush. He came in and sat down his glass empty then filled the buttered toast not too dark and not too light. The mother’s hands were on the coffee pot, the first cup ready to be poured and the cup waiting patiently.

  The tired keys at the motel were thrown on a tired desk at check out time. The man, head full of spirits dancing, the old tape deck and a new song, a piano number, he didn’t know the name but it made him feel happy and free so he drove home and walked in the front door with the smell of whisky and regret and sat down on a wooden chair warmed and faded by the sun and without words a cup of hot coffee was poured, perfectly blended and balanced and he knew everything was the same.

  Everything was different.

 

  8 the good doctor

  “I could go skydiving, sure, that’s one thing right there, I could swim with sharks, no reason not to, I suppose I could laugh at bad jokes and mean it too, that’d be a novel idea all right,” he said.

  Current mental state- positive, optimistic, light hearted, bordering on delusion, use of sarcasm. She hand scribbled the notes on her notepad as he spoke. “Will that make you happy,” she asked and he laughed, then said, “Look, I just accomplished the third thing on my list, not bad at all, now I just need a plane, a parachute, and an ocean, thanks doc.” She scribbled more notes on her notepad. Using sarcasm as a coping mechanism, then wondered what she would do in his place. Maybe the same, maybe different. She’d never really had a good sense of humor anyway. Under the circumstances he was doing okay, one day in. Everything had been in lost speed since he found out, couldn’t keep his feet on the ground, things were blurry around the edges.

  Their conversation was running together, from the point when she told him…I have some bad news,  What is it, It's worse than we thought, How much worse, As bad it as can be, What does that mean, It means we can't cure it, And wha
t does that mean, It means, What, Well it means you don't have much time, How much time do i have, 6 weeks we think, You think, Yes it's hard to be sure on cases like this, so it could be more, or it could be less, Wow, I'm sorry to be the bearer of this, I know, I'm sorry to be the bearee.

  After that he went outside and the air felt different, colder, warmer, sharper, rounded, nothing made sense, like watching a movie about someone who just found out they were dying, insert the line “Aren’t we all dying, faster and slower, each of us on our own road to the same place,” then insert a beard scratching ponderous gaze with eyes wispy and pure, “Aren’t we all, my friends, aren’t we all?” This time, with earnest contemplation, the kind shared over vanilla lattes and pumpkin spiced macchiatos, “What is this thing we call Life,” the statement floats through the air and into the park where people sleep on tired benches and children chase pigeons, for one a wonderful game, the other a minor annoyance, or in rare cases of exaggerated mischief, the end, dogs bark and babies roll by with contented drivers, people sleep on tired benches and children chase imaginary friends.

  He overhears a conversation as the distance from the news grows, two old friends talking, or so he presumes,

  “I’ve never been one to employ sarcasm.”

  “It is a recession after all; I say no one is employing it right now.”

  “True, tough job market. Even literacy devices are out of work.”

  They look like professors, with glasses and patches on the arms of their jackets, the way professors look when someone hears the word Professors and then creates an instant mental image, he finds himself filled with envy, they are so free to speak of nothing and everything, with all the time in the world, then he goes to the car and turns the key, it starts without issue, a small grace granted in unexpected places, the engine had received a similar sentence years ago, There’s not much left on this old girl, I’d say 5000 miles, tops, but did it subside? Did it give up? He drove home and took the key from his left hand and moved it to his right, it was easier to open the door that way, he never knew why, then moved it back, and opened with the left. Walked inside and sat on the couch, sinking in the way men who work on skyscrapers or iron factories must after a hard day. He closed his eyes and found, for a short time, quiet.

  *

  The doctor calls her mom, as she does every Wednesday, a simple reassurance that life goes on as usual, we are all still children aren’t we, the phone rings long enough to raise uncertain thoughts, however brief, of her absence. She answers, finally, the world is normal, How are you, Good, Your brother’s at it again, At what, His usual tricks, What now, Some new project, it’s a real mess, What happened, Nothing happened, Then how’s it a mess, It’s a mess that’s all, I can’t guess mom, Okay fine, Well what is it, A real jam that’s all, What kind of jam, Blueberry, C’mon mom, No really it’s blueberry on canvas, he says it will sell like hot cakes, or pancakes, or something like that. She laughed, first at her mother’s game, always one to draw these calls out as long as possible, then second, at her brother, the artist, always seeing how far he can go and still get paid to do it, blueberry on canvas would test that limit, but like usual, it would work. Always. She had put jealousy in the corner years ago, but every once in a while it turned around, asking, Is the time up? Can I come out? She’d say no, back to where you were, but those little remembrances could last. There’s a pause in conversation, then, You sound stressed, Just a long day at work mom, Do you want to talk about it, You know I can’t mom, Oh confidential this and that, who am I gonna tell? I’m an old lady, I don’t have enough time left to spend it gossiping about your patients Julia. You’re not that old mom, don’t say that, (we’re all still just children), Never mind, let’s just talk about something else. They did, until words were exhausted, Goodnight darling, Goodnight, mom.

  *

  She hangs up the phone with Julia, her only daughter, by blood, and sits, quiet and still. (The other, Elle, always more like her than anyone else she had ever met, had been part of a package deal when a dear friend fell ill. Elle, along with a cantankerous Yorkshire terrier, had been with her for two years, and had been gone for so much longer. But that was in another life. Years go by as whispers and fragments until gone, tiny bites consumed in haste until nothing is left.) Her kids had been everything, when they left the emptiness was vast so she filled it up with anything around, a crochet needle or a puzzle, 5000 pieces inserted in dim silence over the television, permanently on mute, the dog’s breathing the only sound in the room, she preferred it that way. When she was married she would watch her husband pull at his cuticles, refusing nail clippers, bleeding when a hangnail got the best of him. Still, he would not yield, continued his process, stubborn until the very end, then acquiescing, death was no hangnail after all. Her son, the artist, was just like his father, pressing his will onto every project before he even started it, bending the conventions the way artists do, then not giving a shit about any of it while observers lauded and applauded, critics critiqued, shook his hand when they passed him in Brooklyn while he walked, looking glum but full of glee. He had always been able to play any role he wanted. She turns on the television, permanently on mute, inserts a new piece into the puzzle in dim silence, the gentle hum of the dog’s breathing the only soundtrack to the evening. Julia had bought her a new stereo the last Christmas in hopes of adding a little music back into the mix, but she preferred the silence, easier to be melancholy in silence.

  *

  Julia had been in the middle of her class at NYU, which is still saying something, but the average results garnered from hours of study and passion deep like canyons for the craft left her feeling empty, a failure. Didn’t matter that her friends and family bragged about her often in conversation, Yeah, Julia’s out there at NYU, she just loves the city, takes the subway everywhere, she always had a gift, you know, people love telling her their problems, smiling, I know I always did. She wanted to be more than a passing topic over cocktails, more than the granular, specific difference of her clients, she wanted a book with catchphrases and a spot on Oprah, healing the nation with her own brand of new wave psychology and neurology, dreams that never found solid ground when waking, the daily routine became enough, as it often does. Still, she had a gift, just like they all said, over whisky sipped with regret and hope, glasses clinking to her name, to her absence. There was always her brother and his brilliance in the background of every memory, blurry and slightly out of focus, just enough to make him out, the same kid who failed every college course he ever took and stopped trying because it was easier, producing vacant works and not giving a damn, capable of so much more but never wanting anything enough to try, his gift was in under utilization. Then again, it worked. Caught between admiration and disdain over the way he lived, she chose to keep all opinions on the subject to herself, except on special occasions, rum soaked holidays in particular. After college she found home at a small practice, became okay with simple victories and the languid pace of social change. Things were normal, and rarely would a session end with her feeling the way she did that day, rattled. She’d had terminal cases before, the stages of death and all, but she played them by the book and helped as much as she could. What did she know about dying anyway? She’d never done it, always laughed to herself and thought, first time for everything, like losing your virginity, only maybe it didn’t hurt so much, then felt bad immediately for trivializing such serious things. The guy that day, given a few weeks to live, out of nowhere really, he’d thought he had the flu, it shook her. Or maybe it was him that shook her. His eyes were so alive, his words sharp and biting, funny against all odds, sparkling. This is all beautiful, isn’t it, he said it as he walked out the door, though she wasn’t sure whether he was asking a question or making a statement. He wasn’t sure either. He just didn’t know what else to say, figured that sounded good, like he understood life now that his was over. Queue the moral of the story, and end scene. A leaf glided
down in front of him, touching his shoe before settling on the cobblestones underneath, like a movie.

  He probably wouldn’t do anything drastic.

  9 the size of your clothes

  The size of your clothes breaks my heart. Makes me want to feed you cheeseburgers and cheese-steaks and cheese cubes on toothpicks with tiny pieces of salami on the top draping over the sides. Your shirts are folded and look like swaths of fabric yet to be assembled. The size of your clothes makes me mad. Makes me want to open up your mouth wide and fill it with peanuts and almonds and avocadoes and “healthy fats” then squeeze it shut and open again and again til it all goes down and then I want to watch you while it digests and becomes a part of you that your fingers or your throat no longer owns. I want to watch your belly and ass swell and take you shopping for new things to wear, the old ones in a goodwill bag somewhere for children not people your age who should be full grown with full lips and color in their cheeks and light in their eyes. The size of your clothes makes me hang dry every last piece, I can’t risk them getting smaller in the dryer, not just a little bit or I’ll break I just know it, I’ll break.

  The size of your clothes makes me leave you a little bit every day, in my mind. I need some distance in case you just waste away and I can’t find you. I need to put one of those little microchips in your ear so the satellites can find you when my eyes can’t see you.

  The size of your clothes makes me hungry for something more than this and the size of your clothes makes me bite my lower lip til it bleeds while I fold them or hang them or touch them. The hamper it just keeps them in waiting for me, lets me forget for a few days, sometimes a week but then it throws them all out at once and in my face. I want to rip them to shreds and put them back together as one big piece and drape it over you and wrap it around you until you’re warm and I’m happy.