Sunshine breaks over the hardwood horizon. Maple syrup slowly rolls over pancakes. Soaks them through. Puddles all around on the plate. My stomach rumbles, but I can’t bring myself to lift the fork. Instead, I stare through mist at a short-eared owl that sits atop the rusting swing set in the backyard. This is new. A blip in the cycle. It stays, staring at the house, for as long as I am at the table. Waiting for something I cannot see. I walk to the kitchen to scrape another morning of uneaten breakfast into the trash. Mix a drink. And when I return to the window, it is gone. If it was ever really here at all.
∞
I stumble outside at midday. Barefoot and buzzed. Into blinding white light. A black garbage bag of tiny clothes in one hand, pink plastic dollhouse in the other. To add to the growing pile. Dozens of stuffed animals. Puppy puzzles and mystery books. A purple dresser. Box spring. Twin mattress wrapped in Scooby Doo sheets. All of it mixed with waste—food scraps, unopened mail, unread newspapers, and empty bottles from ibuprofen, antacids, vodka, and B12. I stand staring at my feet. Moving my blue toes in the snow. Trying to remember how long I’ve been at this. In and out. Filling a gray dumpster with the wreckage of my life. Then I see it—sharp, crisscrossing talon marks, patches of gray fur, and red specks staining the snow. My belly tingles with warmth. I feel a flash of normal.
∞
Back inside it isn’t long before I’m crazy again. Hidden away. Blinds drawn. Sipping Sobieski and 7UP. I pace the hallway past their empty bedrooms over and over until I no longer feel the need to look. I close their doors for good. Mix a drink. Settle into the couch to watch It’s a Wonderful Life. And fall for Mary Bailey. All over again. She’s devoted. Sings and dances. Never ages. And she always waits. Through idealism, selfishness, drunkenness. Great Depressions. And Christmas Eve tantrums. I see now why George reached the end of his rope in Martini’s Bar and pled with God—desperate, teary-eyed, and trembling. I’d launch myself off a bridge too, simply to earn her forgiveness.
∞
This must be fiction—this loss. And this lack of reality is rooted in all I’ve been taught to believe. There is no magic, no sorcery, no talking with the dead. That’s what the Good Book says. And as far as I can tell, all of this is scripted and proper. We are all, indeed, bitched from the start. And everything, no matter what, gets put where it’s supposed to be. Me, remaining in
place—a beast in my den. My wife, three states away, living in a city high-rise with a Bank Examiner. And my ten-year-old daughter in an orange urn. On their mantel.
∞
I drink myself so deep that I miss the change to dark. I’m startled awake by sound. Not the movie that’s started again—stuck in a loop, like me—but a rumbling, then a thump, and pounding. In my head, my chest, the walls, the ceiling, and the floor. I rise, bleary-eyed and heavy, and stagger to the door. I open it and there is a man. Long hair, mustache and beard. Feminine build. He’s wearing a Schwan’s uniform. Says he’s new on the route. That he’s been
waiting, was just about to leave but saw the flickering of the TV. He gives a spiel about holiday specials—spiral ham, roast turkey breast, green bean casserole.
“No,” I shake my head. “Five boxes of buttermilk pancakes. One vanilla cup. Please.”
A nametag hangs over his heart. Jesus, it says.
He smiles. I see a gold tooth.
“$34.18,” he says with a barely perceptible wink. He turns and walks to the truck to fill my order.
The moon is white and full in the dark sky. Far too bright for me to handle. My eyes struggle as a gazillion stars pour light through the big, black canopy above. I rock side to side in the doorway.
“Thirty-four-eighteen, sir.”
He sets the bag of goodies at my feet. Takes my credit card. Sticks it into and pulls it out of his machine.
“$34.18,” he says.
My stomach flutters.
“Why do you keep saying that?”
I feel weak. Steady myself against the doorframe.
“It’s just the total, sir.”
“No. No. I recognize it.”
He smiles.
“I remember it. People said it would help. Bring peace. Understanding. I tried reading it like a novel front to back. That didn’t work. Then in reverse. Back to front. Nothing clicked. I felt worse, but that...the 34:18. Which one is that?”
He offers nothing. Stares. Eyes blazing like fire. I feel myself faltering.
“From...from your book,” I say.
Snowy wind blows up all around us. He hands me the receipt, but I let it fall and it floats off and away, like a moth into the night. I’m afraid I’ll never have this chance again.
“Come on, man!” I shout. “I know you know! It’s Psalms, right?”
He puts his hands on my shoulders. I close my eyes. The air turns woody and sweet, like Frankincense.
“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted,” he says, then leans to whisper in my ear. “And saves those who are crushed in spirit.”
When my eyes open, he is gone. Already climbing inside his chariot of treats. And when the door opens and the cab lights up, there is my little girl. She’s in the passenger seat. Safe and warm. Smiling. She waves to me. I wave back. And for the first time in months, I glow.
KJ Stevens has published work in Short Stories, The Adirondack Review, The Lascaux Review, december magazine, Great Lakes Review, Temenos, and BloodLotus. Black, a novella, was published by Red Raw Press.
Absolutely beautiful 😍 Fantastic writing.
That pulled me right in.