Prey

The roar outside my structure is deafening. I hate the way it makes my skull tight, my sternum vibrate. I hunker into a shell shape, plug my ears, rock back and forth. The lion is hellbent on supper—muscle, bone, marrow—mine. I am an at-risk target, neither young nor old, not even ailing. Worse, I am alone, almost silent in my vacillation: fight or flight.

            “Easy pickings,” purrs the beast. His spined tongue trips as he speaks a language foreign.

            I was informed years ago that it is good to be hunted. It means your contents, spiritual, are worth consuming, important to destroy lest you accomplish something for the other side, the other lion. It’s a comfort though not particularly substantial at the moment.

            As black becomes blacker, I formulate a list of things I long for: a shield, a sword, a stronghold (or wood and nails to build one). A circular boundary replete with knife-like thorns would serve me well.

            An hour later, searching through the one book I have in my possession, I realize I am Thomas. Daily I long for something I can see, something I can touch. I am the father of the possessed boy as well, begging, “Lord, I believe; help my unbelief.” I am Jacob even, my hip aching from midnight’s wrestling match.

            The canvas gives as the lion brushes it.

            “Be gone!” I tell the cat. “You can’t have me after all for I am not alone, not anymore.”

            The whisper of paws in sand moves away. After a minute I hear my breath leak out, notice my shoulders freefall. My flesh feels loose, raw, and at the same time full of power. I find a stone to serve as a pillow and finally I am able to sleep.

            The morning is silent when I peek out my tent. Ten feet away, lying on his side, back to me, is the lion. I snap my fingers. Wait, watch. He doesn’t move. I approach him, encircle him slowly, noiselessly. He sleeps the slumber of Sheol. His eyes are shut but his mouth is not, cannot, for it is wedged wide around my pillow rock.

            I shake my head and marvel. “So that’s who I am,” I tell the morning. “Of all people, how did I manage to forget him?” I stare across the desert to where a knuckle of dawn light, mango-colored, rises out of dry stubble. “I was, I am, Daniel, in an earthly tent instead of a lion's den, but still.”

The Woman in Red--Part V

I waited on the shore with the others, as Dan had instructed. Thankfully there was no one I knew. No one with a pointing finger to shout, “Unclean! Unclean!”

            When the boat appeared on the horizon, a shout arose from the crowd.    

            "Rabbi!"            

            We pressed forward, a solid mass. A single, throbbing creature. For a moment, I considered flight. In the other direction, toward hill country and home. After a life of loneliness, the assault on my senses—shouts and creature calls, manure and perspiration, jabbing shoulders and elbows—overwhelmed me. Plundered the very air from my nose and mouth. In a panic I searched the faces of those nearby. Could they hear the pounding of my heart? Should I flee before my condition was revealed? I shook my head, almost violently. No, I hissed under my breath. Be strong and courageous. This is the day, possibly the only opportunity I will ever have, to accomplish the one thing that might bring me joy. I reclaimed my breath and set my face like flint. Forced my shoulders back and made my way toward the water’s edge.

            As the boat drew near, some entered the lake, no doubt desiring to plead their case first. The noise level increased and nearly deafened me, more cries of distress than anything. Blind were led. Lame limped or were bolstered or carried. A filthy boy, his eyes wide and roaming, his mouth ringed with spittle, twisted and writhed within the circle of his family.            
            Finally the boat came to rest on land with a gritty sigh. The horde of humanity converged on the vessel at all its points.
            "Master! Teacher!" the people cried.
            "Over here, Sir," a woman's voice said. "Please. If you but—"
             "Step away," one of the men inside the boat said. "Back off so we can disembark. Make a way for Jesus."
           I focused my gaze on the greatest healer the world had ever known, or so Dan's  note had said. He looked like any man. Could he possibly be different? Special? I considered the throng, pawing and pushing to get close to him. How might I, a woman alone, create an opportunity to speak with him, to tell him my plight? I bit at my lower lip. There were so many ailments represented here. Everyone of us needed him. Every one. Why would he listen to me?
             Suddenly the group parted. A man in pristine robes stepped through.

            “It’s Jairus, from the synagogue,” someone noted.

            Up ahead I watched the man collapse at the rabbi's feet. The hands he raised to the teacher were both elegant and trembling. Tears rinsed his contorted face.

            “Please, my Lord,” he said, his voice coarse with grief. “My little daughter is dying. I beg you. Please come lay your hands on her so she will be healed and live.”

            I whimpered. His little girl? Is dying? Oh, Lord! Go with him. Save her. I will . . . I do not . . .

            I watched Jesus do as I said. He moved away from me to follow the man called Jairus. In that moment, I felt hollow.

            Soon after, I was swept along as the crowd surged in pursuit of the Master. As it carried me with it, a thought occurred to me. It is not necessary for him to see me or know who I am. If I but touch the hem of his tunic I will be healed.  I stretched out my arm toward his cloak but fell short. A moan escaped me. Again the crowd heaved so that I was pitched up and forward. Suddenly one of the tassels affixed to the edge of his prayer shawl brushed my fingertips. Immediately it stopped—the fountain of blood from within me. I’m healed. Everything inside me knew it, felt it, declared it.

            I held the fingers that touched his garment to my lips, then my chest. I am free. I dropped to the dust. Hid my face in my hands. Wept and worshipped. It is finished. I reached upward. Attempted to hold heaven.

            All around me people pushed and shoved, crushed against, and grabbed at me.

            “Move it, woman. Get up!”

             “Who touched me?”

            Through the din I recognized his voice. Deep. Commanding. My breath caught. I cowered. Watched his disciples survey the area. I straightened. Hurried to the Master. Groveled at his feet. I clutched the edge of his garment. Laid my cheek against it.

            “My Lord, forgive me,” I said. “It was I. Sir, for twelve years I have bled without ceasing. I spent all I had on many physicians and yet my condition grew worse, not better. Then I heard . . .”

            When I dared lift my gaze to his, I gasped. At the depth of love and familiarity in his eyes.

            I gestured weakly toward Jairus. “I saw that you were going to help his . . . And surely her need is . . .”
          I covered my mouth, to stop the words, but the rabbi nodded for me to continue. 
          “Sir, I have not touched anyone in . . . And no man would ever . . . I thought, if I could only . . .”

            My words dried up even as my eyes and nose ran hot. Sobs convulsed my frame.

            The Lord rested one hand on my shoulder. Stilled my shaking. He cupped my face with his other. Warmed me through.

            “Take heart, daughter,” he said. “Your faith has healed you.”

            He extended his hand to help me up, then disappeared with his disciples.

            I spun around. Attempted to locate him again, to no avail. Frustrated, desperate, I labored to keep in the front part of the group. I cringed when I felt the packing between my legs loosen and fall away. I glanced behind me, at the bodies, at the road, but I saw nothing. The evidence of my suffering had vanished—trampled by sandals and bare feet. With a sigh I moved toward the edge of the group to take a sip from my wineskin.  I stood on tiptoe and shaded my eyes to see if there was any sign of the Master in the distance. That’s when I thought I saw— Indeed it was— I bunched my tunic with one hand and waved with my other. Broke into a run.
          "Ada! Dan!" I shouted. "Wait for me!"

Black Lungs

I’m dying.  The doctor said it, standing there in the hall with my x-ray films, so it must be true.  Now the kids crouch beside me and talk loud, as if I’m deaf.  Coddle me.  Bring me cases of Ensure.  Their whispers are like buzzing flies when they think I’m asleep.

The grandkids beg me to give up cigarettes.  “So you’ll live longer, Gramps,” they say.  “We want you with us forever.”

They don’t know what it’s like to only have one comfort left in the world.  Well, maybe two.  My easy chair in front of the big screen tv consoles me.  Sometimes.  I bought it with money I won gambling.  They tell me to give that up too.  They probably think I'll blow their inheritance on a slot machine.  What?  Do they think I have piles of gold somewhere?  Ha!

~~~

My oldest boy, his wife hired some gals, not much younger’n me, to come and scrub a lifetime of smoke—mine and hers—off the windows.  I tried to tell ‘em—the kids, the gals--I like it there.  Sometimes I press my hand to the coolness.  This was in her body.  Write her name on the glass with my pointer finger.  This grey veil came out of the mouth she kissed me with.

At night when everyone else on the block is sleeping and I can’t, I go room to room.  Hold onto the walls for support.  I guess I’m looking for her, or a trace of who she was. 

She used to bring me coffee in here, when I shaved.  She’d sit on the commode and giggle when I dabbed her nose with shaving cream.

In here, the kitchen she had me paint the color of butter, she cooked my favorites--country ham, red-eyed gravy, fried potatoes.  Orange peel was the secret ingredient in her strawberry rhubarb pie.  I could polish one off in a day, but she never let me.  No one made stuffed pork chops like my Nancy.  No one.

This was the room where we made love and children.  Every Friday night.  She never had a headache.  Not once.  Her tinyness fit into my hands even though I’m not a big man.  Saturday mornings her face would look rashy—razzed by my whiskery, over and over kisses.  I’d brush her cheeks with my knuckles and apologize with my eyes.  I swear, she could still blush, even at 60.

Four children started out in this corner bedroom.  She called the color, Parakeet Green. Looked more like split pea soup to me.  I can still smell the Lysol she used in the diaper pail.  I hated that sharp scent.  Seemed more angry than clean to me.  If I shut my eyes and don’t move, I can hear her croon, “Rock-a-bye Baby” to each hairless, slate-eyed child.  And that one night?  Crap!  I hate this kind of remembering.  She shook me awake.  I thought her fingernails would go right through my skin. 

“Harry!  Get up!  Something’s wrong!  The baby’s not—“

I dug the grave.  Hardly bigger’n a bread box.  I knew the guys at the cemetery.  They let me go over the hill alone with a shovel, to mutilate the red, West Virginia clay.  I swore out loud.  Took the Lord’s name in vain.  Only once though.  She never let me do it at home.  After awhile, my knees hit the frozen sod.  Crushed the silvered grass.  I hollered at the clouds.

“The child was ours—mine and hers.  Yours too.  Why’d you take her?  Why?”

~~~

After we buried little Elaine, Nancy got out her baptism dress almost every day.  She’d press and press it.  Iron and iron it.  She seemed to think if she got out every last wrinkle, she’d get baby Elaine back, or maybe see her again.  Just one more time.  But that dress was Irish linen, passed down to Nancy from her older sister.  I don’t know much, but I know linen is a pain in the ass to press.

When Nancy went in the hospital, she begged me to keep ironing the dang thing.

“First thing, Harry,” she’d say.  “When you get home, try one more time.  For me.  Please?”

So I’d get it out of the closet in the baby room.  Take it down to the basement and try to get it as smooth as when it left Ireland.  Crazy cloth.  I’d get one wrinkle out and wind up with two more.  There at the end though, I got it perfect.  Made every single line go away.  I hung it on its padded, satin hanger and laid it on the back seat of my Buick.  When I showed her, her face became radiant, like--  Like she was already gone.  Somewhere else. 

I felt my face collapse in on itself.  Oh, no!  What have I done?  I jerked it from the hanger.  Balled it up.  Squeezed it smaller, tighter.  Punched it.  Maybe it wasn’t too late.  She tried to yell, but her voice came out sounding like a baby bird’s.  She acted like she was gonna come after me, after the dress, but she couldn’t lift herself more than a couple inches.  Dehydrated as she was, her tears were a flood. 

The doctor called that night, right after I brushed my teeth.  I knew before I answered the phone.  Before I left the hospital really.

~~~

Every Sunday I drive out to the graveyard.  Take her daisies from the fancy new grocery store out that way.  Sometimes I get our little Elaine a sucker.  I unwrap it and stick it in the ground by the bronze Beloved Child marker.  The candy’s always gone the next time I go.

The kids got me some kinda folding chair contraption to take to the cemetery, so I don’t sit on the ground.  My knees lock up these days if I get down low.  Sometimes I do it anyway, ‘cause it feels closer.  To her.  To them.

I don’t smoke when I go to see her.  When she was . . .   There at the end, she made me promise to stop.  It’s the only promise to her I didn’t keep.  The thing is, I want to die.  The living, the young, think dying’s a bad thing.  Not me.  I’m ready right now, this very minute.  So at home, I sit in my easy chair and light up, over and over.  Try to smoke more today than yesterday.  Newsflash, grandkids.  I don’t want to live forever.  The way I see it, the sooner I die, the quicker I’ll be with my two little gals.