Prose

LOSING A PIECE OF HISTORY

Mathew Underwood

The old man’s bones felt akin to the weathered, ancient rocks that made up the skeletal structure of the North Carolinian Maggie Valley Mountains. As he sat down to breakfast, his joints creaked and cracked in sympathy of the aged floorboards beneath his feet. His wife Gladys toiled in the kitchen, small in stature and bent. She turned to her husband and placed her hands on her hips expectantly, head cocked slightly.

" Henry, take them." She referred to the four pills that sat on the counter in front of Henry, his daily regime of numbness, dulled wits, and illusory contentedness.

" Ah Ma, I will, I will," he replied with mild exasperation, and quaffed them down with a glass of orange juice. She smiled. " What are we doing today Ma?" he asked.

" Well today is Tuesday, today we go to Wal-Mart, you know that," she said.

" Right, right. Forgot."

She noticed these little signs of his mind eroding away. It had become increasingly worse this past year. At first she took it as the inevitable onset of old age, something she could accept. Then she began to suspect something else, a little more self-destructive than the natural progression of debilitating old age. Her thoughts registered on her face and her husband took notice.

" Well, let’s get goin’ Ma," he said with a big smile and a wink, and reached across the table to brush his wife’s cheek. Sometimes he still made her blush after fifty-three years of marriage, and this happened to be such an occasion.

They finished their breakfast, brushed their teeth, and hopped into the old station wagon.

The Wal-Mart parking lot was barren, save scattered carts and a dozen cars. The blacktop was slick with the perpetual mist that was typical to Appalachia. They crossed the lot, arm in arm for support. The air had a mean streak and insisted on tormenting their old bodies with a bone-jittering chill. As they passed the threshold of the store, before they let each other’s arms go, Henry gave his wife’s arm an involuntary and almost imperceptible squeeze. She peered up into his craggy old face and followed his pained gaze to a pile of daily newspapers that sat near the door. Now she knew for certain what was agonizing her husband. She determined herself to broach him at dinner with it. He was going to get help.

" What would you like for dinner? I was thinking a big steak with whatever you want to go along with it," she enticed, attempting to pull Henry out of his daze.

" Sounds good Ma. Did you say steak?" he asked as she smirked at him. Gladys regulated his diet like an anal drill sergeant, and this transgression of dietary restraint suited him just fine. He grinned like a fool for several minutes afterwards at the prospect of such a meal.

They picked out their cart and went shopping. They got the toilet paper, the detergent, and everything else they didn’t really need but were obliged to buy for lack of other things to spend their retirement earnings on. They reached the checkout lines and all their selections were strewn out onto the conveyor belt. And as the cashier rang up the last purchase, Henry tossed a copy of the paper down. Gladys looked up at him, biting her quivering lip and blinking her moistened eyes. He gazed back at her apologetically, and she turned her head away.

They returned home after their shopping and a long, quiet car ride. Gladys positioned herself on the couch with her book and Henry started to make himself some decaf coffee.

" I will be starting dinner at four tonight," Gladys called out.

" That will be just fine Ma, just make sure the steak is well done," said Henry as he made his way toward his den. " Please do well to not disturb me for a while, okay Ma?" he asked.

" No problem, dear," she replied helplessly, knowing too well her husband’s intent, with his newspaper tucked under his arm. He entered the room and shut the door audibly, adding an emphasis to his request to be uninterrupted. The tears that simmered in her eyes at the store now boiled over as she buried her face in her old, weathered hands.

Henry seated himself down at his desk and took a long sip of his coffee. He hated decaf, but Gladys forbade his consumption of caffeine and he was forced to cope with the affliction of heavy eyelids.

The paper lay before him as a lump grew in his throat. The lump birthed a mild sense of panic in his chest as he flipped through stories of murder, politics, and big business. His right hand reached up to his left breast and kneaded the scar that he bore there, trying to coax memories. His hand turned the final page and there his gaze came upon the day’s obituaries. He just stared at first, not reading the contents of the page. Then he swallowed hard on the lump and scanned the page. Next to nearly a dozen names there were tiny American flags. The names with flags were names of veterans, mostly veterans from WII, but there were some from Vietnam and Korea. He read the names, and recognized only one, the second to last name on the page. Terrance Holms.

Rarely was an ancient, dusty name instantly recognizable. Seldom did a name from the distant past scorch his tired brain. His mind’s eye became inundated with visions of vain bravery, human massacre, futile endeavors to persevere, and the great deeds of normal men. Gradually the whole story played itself out before his eyes. He felt a scream rise in his throat, and panic rend his chest, and when he thought his body might tear itself apart through violent convulsions, he bit his lip and gained control.

When his breathing became regulated, he began to realize something. He had never told anyone about what had happened. Not his wife, his best friend, or his children. He had resolved to die without anyone ever knowing. But he knew now that it would be a grave and terrible thing not to share the knowledge of others’ sacrifices. He resolved himself that he would tell his story to Gladys, tonight at dinner. Over steak, he thought. I will tell her over steak.

He stood up to leave his chamber of macabre reflection when of a sudden a pain tore at his chest. His right hand reacted by ripping at the scar, while his left braced his weight up on the desk. His hand slipped of the side off the desk and his chest landed heavily on the corner. His wind left him and his vision blacked. It was only a moment, however, until consciousness returned. But the pain in his chest persisted and grew mightily as he crawled towards the door. The sound of gun shots rang loudly in his ears as he died in front of the door.

His wife had heard the two solid thumps from the den. Her pulse quickened.

" Henry?" she called as she hurried to the door. She called his name out again, this time sharpened with the edge of hysteria. She grabbed the door knob and tried to open the door, but a solid, heavy object obstructed her path. She reacted instantly and headed to the kitchen. The phone sat on the counter in its cradle. She rarely ever used the phone because her fingers were cruelly laced with arthritis and she was always at great pains to dial the correct numbers. After a dozen attempts she finally dialed 911, and for all her great pains, was only to be answered by a busy signal.

Real Things

(or "Rubies and the Wanting to Stay")

By: Kathryn N. Dorsch

There were pictures cut out of magazines and tacked to the wall. A twin bed was pushed back into the corner, and it didn’t have a head board, or a base board for that matter. A hundred different blankets in a hundred different colors were heaped up on the bed. A recliner sat in another darkened corner, juxtaposed to an old oak desk. The surface of the desk was hidden under a clutter of notebooks, canvases, loose papers, pictures, and the like. There was a snake-like desk lamp slinking up out of the mess from an invisible base. There was one clean spot - in it was a single sheet of paper, bearing a half-finished drawing. It was accompanied by an old drinking glass with the Chicago Bears insignia on it, filled with cheap colored pencils. There was no desk chair, but a high stool sat off to the side. The whole room was bathed in a soft red light, created by sunlight being filtered through the red pleated shades hanging over his window. This was it - this was Zane’s room. I turned my head to speak to him, but words were lost in his serious face and almost fearful eyes.

"Kate."

I started to tremble - he never called me that. His posture was that of a shy deer, and his voice was low and shaky as he spoke to me.

"I need to talk to you."

"Me?" I asked, my own voice breaking quietly, and I laughed to cover it up. He nodded definitely. I followed him over to the bed. Zane sat down on the edge, not getting to comfortable. I sat down a few feet from him, closer to the head of the bed. I cleared my throat awkwardly and kept my eyes occupied with a spot on the rug. As he spoke to me, his voice became calmer, as if discussing a familiar topic gave him confidence.

"My family and I, we left California just before it became necessary. We decided to leave before it ate up all our money. So my mom picked Indiana. It was cheaper than anything else. And here we are." He sighed softly.

"That sucks. I bet you hate it here." I looked over at him for the first time since I had passed through the threshold and into his room. I offered him a small, sympathetic smile. But as my eyes met with his, I hesitated. He was staring intently at me. And Zane’s gaze didn’t move off of me as he spoke.

"It did, at first. But that’s where you come in."

He went over to a large chest by the window and took out a necklace. I watched him, and if I hadn’t been so polite I would have been gape-mouthed. I couldn’t see the exact details of the necklace from my spot on his bed, but I wasn’t about to get up and go to him, either.

"Zane," I began, trying to make him turn around, and being slightly afraid of what was happening.

"Kate." He cut me off. "I want you to know how much you mean to me." As he talked his hands went about slowly and methodically locking the chest back up. Then he stood, turned back to me, and returned to his place next to me on the bed. He kept his hand clenched shut around the necklace.

"My grandmother got this from an old lover, when they were young, who died in the war. She died a while ago, right after my dad left. But my grandmother gave this to me, right before she went, with some specific instructions. And now... now I’m giving it to you."

He opened his hand and dropped the necklace into mine, and I knew those rubies were real. The stones sparkled darkly in the dying sunlight. My eyes grew large and the rubies glittered like stars in my trembling hand. There was a few minutes of silence. My gaze lifted from the necklace in my palm to his face. He was smiling warmly, assuringly, but his eyes were rimmed with an urgency that made my heart flutter. I suddenly realized what I meant to him.

"Zane," I said, shaking my head and holding my hand out to him. "I can’t - "

" - Kate. Please."

I grabbed him by the wrist, open palm up, and pressed the necklace into his hand with my own. "I can’t. I mean, it was a gift from and for a lover. And you - "

" - And I what?"

I swallowed with some difficulty, but kept our hands pressed tightly together. My fingers wrapped tightly around his wrist. I knew I was maybe fracturing the bones in his wrist, but the grimace of pain originated from a different source. I continued, but with less excitement than before.

" - And you prefer men."

The words came out of my mouth with a strange emptiness, and I cringed as they did.

"Yes. And I prefer men." He used a sassy tone with his words to cover up his hurt. I quickly diverted my gaze over to the hibiscus tree sitting by the window. It was flowering, and the blossoms were large and white, but tinted lightly red by the filtered light, like everything else in the room.

"I have a hibiscus tree too," I said, smiling. " ‘Cept mine is peachy-pink. You must take good care of it, to get flowers that size."

"Yeah," Zane said, finally looking away from me. "It almost didn’t survive the move. It’s still a piece of work."

My grip on his wrist had loosened, and he pulled away from me, turning his face. My heart sank into my gut, and I couldn’t stand to look at the back of his head. He stayed on the bed as I got up and found a place over by the hibiscus, and I held back tears as my fingertips gently danced over the soft pure petals.

The distance between us could have been years for the loneliness that loomed about us. The flower shivered in the grasp of my trembling hand, and I sighed. I looked out the window to watch the sun sink below the horizon line. The sky burned a rich red: the same color red you find in a ripe pomegranate, or in the roses on a rose bush. I thought for a long time, never turning around to look at him. As the awkwardness consumed me, instincts kicked in. I closed my eyes and smiled to myself. In order to control the fear and discomfort that teemed through my body, I made my voice quiet and strong, and my words were frank.

"You are one of the most symbolic people I -"

Once more, I was cut off. This time, it was by the feel of his hands on my bare shoulders. His thumbs rested against the straps of my tank top; his palms rounded, emollient, around my shoulders. I inhaled sharply, and my head snapped up as I jumped with surprise. But his hands didn’t move. A strange feeling crept through my body. The insides of my body were on fire, churning with more emotions than I could comprehend, and made me feel like running. But the flesh about my body felt soft and relaxed, like an experiment in functional background music.

And Zane remained silent.

We must have stayed like that for an hour or more; when my gaze returned to the outdoors, the sun was long gone, and the sky was a sea of black, sprinkled with the sea foam of stars. We sighed in unison, and I lowered my face and eyes to the windowsill. He was still standing behind me, in the same position. It was black as pitch in his room; neither of us had moved to turn on any lights. I drew away from him, turning to my right and slipping out of his hold. His hands fell lightly from my shoulders, like feathers falling from the sky on a breezeless day. I could feel him turning with me, to watch me as a moved away from him. I wandered over to the night stand next to his bed and reached to turn on a lamp.

"Don’t."

I stopped with a jerking motion. I straightened and turned to look over at Zane, who was standing next to his cluttered desk and bookshelf. He was lighting candles, and I almost didn’t recognize him in the pale illumination of the flame. He was no longer the fairly pudgy, almost short, always laughing psychopath I had met four months earlier. He was taller now, and slimmer, more muscular. I figured my eyes were just playing tricks on me, that these tricks were due simply to the candlelight. But one thing was absolute - he was much more serious-looking.

"Katherine," he began, "I brought you up here for a reason. No one has ever been in my room before. It is my sanctuary. It has always been the one place where I know I will be safe, where I can be myself. I’ve always felt that letting someone in was dangerous; maybe they’d see something here and use it to exploit me, or maybe they’d jump to conclusions about me. But... but I trust you. I don’t know why, but I do. More than I trust my own mother. It isn’t that I don’t trust her; she doesn’t know me. My mother and I don’t communicate very well. You’re the closest girl I have. I feel like I could tell you anything, and it wouldn’t change the way you treated me, or it would only make you treat me better. I... I love you. Not passionate, lust-love, but like a sisterly love. Or maybe it is more than that. I don’t know. But what I do know is that I owe you more than you know. You were there for me when I felt most alone, and you came to me when I felt like I had pushed everyone away. I hated you. And I loved you. And I still love you. I want you to stay with me forever."

I blinked a few times in disbelief. I drew back and could feel the my cheeks burning with a crimson glow. Was Zane really saying these things to me? He loved me? He loved me. I had never thought about caring for him like that. But now that I mused on it, it seemed to have more appeal than I thought it would. In fact, it began to seem perfect. I stared at him, more than a little taken, and backed up into his bed. "You really don’t need to tell me this," I said.

He blushed faintly, and for a moment, I thought he’d look off. But his stare was constant.

"I do need to be telling you these things. These are things that I feel you have the right to know. I need to tell you, or I’ll explode." The pause that followed seemed to last forever, and I could feel myself start to tremble in the wait. A myriad number of futures raced before my eyes, and when he spoke again, there was a more hurried and definate tone to his voice. "I want you to stay with me forever. I want you to be at my side, taking care of me. I’ve been alone for a long time. I thought I’d be alone for the rest of my life. I thought I’d never find someone who I could live with. But then I stumbled on you. I don’t ever want to lose you. I’m not asking you to be my lover, or marry me. I prefer men. But you can be to me what they aren’t. Stay with me."

My breath caught in my throat, and I was suddenly very angry. What the hell was going on? Hurt and embarrassment coursed through me like the biblical flood. How could he do this? Get my heart racing, only to trip it over a cliff. I furrowed my brow with rage, held back a growl, and turned to face his bed. I tore it open, and clambered into his bed. Shuffling myself under the covers, I made a few curses out loud, then yanked the covers up over my head and sulked. There was silence from him, and I bit back tears. His covers smelled like him; his warm, gentle smell seeped into my nostrils, and filled my every pore. I felt so safe, so untroubled, like being on a tranquil sea. My body felt as if it was floating under the protection of the heavy blankets. I was trying as hard as I could to hold back the sob that was gathering in my throat when I felt some scuffling at the foot of the bed. I turned my face in that direction, to see Zane wriggling up next to me under the covers, from the foot of the bed. I watched him until his face was even with mine. Although I could barely see him in the dark, he was back to looking as he had this afternoon.

"Kate," he said, "I’m sorry to do that to you. It was uncouth. Unfair to you, too. I won’t say it isn’t the truth, but I maybe spoke too much."

I sighed lightly. "Zane, it’s all right. I’m really very glad that you told me. I’m flattered, but... hurt. Ask me again sometime."

He laughed quietly, and I couldn’t help but smile as the sob dissolved back down into me. We stayed that way, across from each other, staring like children, for a long time. Then, the maturity melting away, he giggled and moved. In a quick precise movement, he slid towards me, kissed my lips delicately, and returned to his place. I blinked repeatedly, and brought fingertips to my lips. Although it was dark under the covers, I knew the flush coming over my cheeks was intense and deep. I heard his boyish, foolish giggle, and stammered over words.

"But I thought you preferred men," I said. He reached out and wrapped his arms around me, pulling me close. I let myself be pressed to him, still in shock from the previous motion. My body tensed a few breaths later, and then relaxed against him. I felt his long fingers slip through my hair, pulling it back off my face and neck. Then I felt him brushing against my neck, and then the slight chill of metal against my skin. I smiled faintly; he was fastening the necklace around my neck. While one hand roamed downwards to rub my back, his other hand came up to my head, and began to gently stroke my hair. His lips pressed softly to my forehead, and his breath was an inviting warmth against my skin. His voice was barely a whisper, and I knew what Zane was saying more from the movement of his lips against me than from the sound of his words.

"Yes. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have room in my heart for you." A small smile tugged at my mouth, and I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

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