Douglas Robbins's Blog, page 11

Leaves Piled High

“Please don’t go, Scott.” Diana pleads standing on the suburban street next to his motorcycle. The leaves are piled high just under the wires.

“I can’t take it if you leave me again. For how long this time? Do you even know?” Scott is zipped in his jacket, helmet and riding gear.

“Ben haunts me, Di. It’s not you I’m leaving, I swear.”

Scott fires up the bike, both of them now straining to hear.

“He haunts me, too,” Diana implores. “But you’re still alive.”

He revs the engine as a lonely tear runs down his check. She grabs his arm.

“I have to go, baby.”

“No you don’t. Come with me to college. We’ll get an apartment.”

He stares with eyes wide as if his helmet might crack in two. Neither of them wanting to part, yet he revs the engine louder looking down the block to the house he grew up in: where his younger brother no longer lives.

Shaking his head back and forth, he grabs the clutch, shifts into gear, kicks the stand with the back of his boot and says, “I love you too much,” then shoots into the night.

“I won’t die on you,” she shouts, but he had already gone.

The bike screams winding out first then second gear as the black Suzuki 1100 gets instantly absorbed by the first fold of darkness. Two breaths of cool air are all it took as Diana watches her breath dissipate into the nippy fall evening. She watched even after Scott had gone- his taillight at the stop sign, then nothing.

She tugs at the bottom of her tan LL Bean jacket sinking further into her brown boots, feeling heavier from the talk and vacuum pulling in around her. Now alone, she’s leaving for college in a few days a little more scared.

A bandana sections off her thick, curled hair as an unattended Camel burns down to her knuckles. She watched his taillights disappear and bolting taillights don’t love or sing, or leave a trace, for long.

Ever since his brother died over a year ago he’s left when things got strained and pressure built. Diana hates it. She knew he wasn’t going off to college with her, but it was worth the try.

She shrugs looking down the cold street. She shakes her head flicking the cigarette butt then watches the embers burn out on the cement. She walks onto her lawn and up the walkway towards her mother making a late dinner.

Is this Scott’s way of dealing with things? Well, it isn’t enough. She almost said it while he sat on the bike. With thoughts spinning, he also knew that it wasn’t enough, yet it didn’t stop him. It couldn’t.

He rides out of their suburban development onto the main street with a stun gun at his back, lodged in his heart. He passes the Circle K and small broken parking lot where he and Ben had walked during many a snowstorm.

Turning the corner, he thinks of destinations and the freedom of having none, of just riding mile after mile after mile.

The world mocks him. His voice is muffled in the wind and guttural howl of the bike.

            Where do you want to work, Scott? What are your future plans?

He mocks the world back with his only defense revving the bike out in third up to sixty. Everyone had been asking the same questions, including Diana’s mother, but never Diana. She knew with his brother gone, he didn’t have any answers. Not today. Not yet.

His younger brother, Ben, had been a lefty pitcher for the high school baseball team. He was a good kid, always had better grades than Scott, nicer to people and their parents. He was stabbed in NYC while walking with a couple of friends. No rhyme or reason to it, no answer as to why.

Without slowing, Scott leans hard turning the corner a few blocks from the Taconic Parkway, then instinctively turns north onto the entrance ramp, away from NYC, heading up to I-84, then it will be west into PA.

            Where do I want to work, huh? He twists the throttle harder, slamming it back, jumping onto the roadway seventy then eighty miles per hour, all in a second’s time and short breath of anyone watching nearby.

The movement of the road, the openness of thought and exploration, he needs, without walls or judgment. He drops into fifth gear taking bumps, bending with turns, absorbing dips, breaking through the walls and conventions of his mind, trying to outrun the pain that rides up fast behind him like a storm.

Coming over a small rise he passes a large family of deer eating along the grass fields, walking closer to the uneven road, now only a few feet from the lane.

 

“Where’d Scotty go, Di? I thought he might stay for dinner.” Her mother asks absently from the kitchen. Mrs. Crowley was kind-hearted but dull of wit, lacking imagination as soap bubbles float near her arms while cleaning a sauce pot.

“He took off, ma. What do you think?”

Diana knew on their suburban street that he was leaving before she could, which gives her some solace. Both tried to hold on once more as it slipped away. Neither said a word about that as life pulled their already unraveling threads. He had to leave because it got too serious. First his brother, and in some way, now she was leaving him.

“I thought he might stay this time or go with you.” Mrs. Crowley shakes her head, placing the pot into the dry rack. “Such a shame.”

Diana looks outside the living room window after a car pulls up. Cracking the blinds with her finger, it was Pete Hurley from the football team who lives across the street. Good old All American Pete slipped a Roofie into her drink in junior high and almost raped her. She shivers trying to forget that night, what she can remember. Good old Pete’s dad, All American county court judge, helped him get away with it.

“Di, did you hear me? I thought Scott might go with you.” She says raising her voice across the room.

“I did hear you, ma. Guess you were wrong.”

“He’s gonna have to stop running sometime.” Mrs. Crowley says attempting to comfort her only daughter.

“What do you know? Maybe he doesn’t.” Diana’s words drop knowing she’s being nasty to her mother. Mrs. Crowley continues with the dishes, trying not to push her daughter further, knowing she’s leaving, and scared that Diana will forget her and leave her alone like Mr. Crowley does on many nights.

Di switches back to thinking about Scott who had been her protective blanket.   Whispering to him across the winds, down the roads, through all the bullshit of this world, “Be safe my love. Benny, protect your brother. He needs you now.”

 

Earlier yesterday walking past Ben’s room flipped a switch and set Scott off. While his father was at work his mother cried all day trying to hide it, thinking no one was around. When Scott asked, she denied it, and went back to cleaning and cooking.

“Talk about Ben already, Ma!”

She shook her head weeping. Her thinning hair shifted with watery sobs.

“I can’t. I worry so much about you, now. Can I make you some lunch? Please?”

“No mom. You can’t.”

Scott couldn’t take the silence anymore. His parents are quiet and unassuming. Now they seldom speak, and if they do, it’s usually surface discussions about food, weather, ballgames, but never about Ben. The thought of him lingers in the air of their living room like a toxin while they sit silently watching crime shows on television. They had adopted the two brothers after their parents had abandoned them. They had not been able to have children.

Suffocated by his brother’s death, the growing demands of the world, and his adoptive parent’s inability to talk about it, Scott had to leave. No one else was his family. Yet Scott is old enough to remember vague images of another lifetime.

His head tight in the helmet remembering the cruelty all of them have suffered losing Ben. He revs the Suzuki up to ninety then a hundred on the dark empty road checking his side mirrors for what may be closing in behind him. His helmet and head bounce from the wind and road.

 

Two days ago he and Lady Di danced in the Rite Aid parking lot off North Avenue after a day at Jones Beach with the open air and after a seafood dinner. They danced slowly to the Muzak pumped blandly into the parking lot for sedate shoppers.

Her eyes twinkled with love. “You think you don’t have anyone now, I know.”

“I have you, Lady Di.” He smirked slyly.

She nodded. “Good, I want to be your family.” then stared at him seriously.

She unzipped her white and pink motorcycle jacket, moved closer to hold him once more, but equally so he could hold her. As they embraced swaying to the music with her head on his shoulder, she sighed the words, “I’ve always been.”

 

This image slides into Scott’s head on the road in front of him against the black road surface. Scott releases the throttle slowing the bike.

Doing 80mph in Pennsylvania off I-81, Scott takes the exit for the next rest stop and pulls into a spot. He can’t go another mile. He can’t leave her. Ben won’t let him as he hears Ben muttering in his head to go back. To stop. To stop running.

He gets off the bike and paces the almost empty parking lot. A few cars with towels and shirts hang from car windows blocking the light. He paces the spot some more, looking down the straight stretch of road that leads into the darkness ahead. Nowhere. He turns to where he has come from then stares up into the vast night sky. He wants to keep riding but can’t. He looks down at his legs that feel heavy like wood posts buried into the earth.

The phone rings at the Crowley residence waking up the household. 3am.

“Mr. Crowley, it’s Scott. I must speak with Diana. I know it’s late and I’m sorry.          But I must speak with your daughter right now.”

“Scott is that you?” He says with agitation. “What do you want?”

“Sir, I must speak with your daughter. I’m sorry to wake you, but I must.”

“Ok. Ok. Hang on one moment. Jesus, Scott.”

Diana picks up the phone with sleep in her eyes. “Scott, why are you calling so late? Is everything alright? Do you need me to come out there? Please tell me you’re safe and not hurt.”

Scott sits down on the parking lot curb smiling at her warmth and love pouring through the phone. He shakes his head and smiles in the moment knowing what he must do.

“I’m coming home Lady Di and I will never leave you again. In fact, I’m taking you to college and am living with you. Maybe I’ll enroll. But there’s no way some college A-hole is getting anywhere near my girl.” Diana lays in bed speechless smiling up at the ceiling. Scott hops back on the bike and finds the first illegal u-turn “For Emergency Vehicles Only.”

Barbeque Dinner

“I know there isn’t any money left.” Stuart shifts the phone from ear to ear talking to his accountant.

“I’ve moved expenditures, taxes, and write offs, Stuart. There’s nothing left to do. I’m sorry.”

“We both are, Jerry. Your help has been appreciated. And your friendship.”

Jerry sits in his office across town shifting coffee stained papers frustrated he can’t help.

“We might need to close her up.” With thin black hair Jerry shifts in his seat while his sport coat is wrinkled from sitting too long.

“Let me work the numbers again. One more time won’t hurt any.”

“Thanks, Jerry. We need to have you and Sue over again.”

“She would like that. I’ll call you tomorrow if I find anything. Heck, I’ll call you either way.”

Stuart depresses the lever gently releasing the black phone as if it were a circuit he needed to disconnect from slowly. The sun pours through the window behind him illuminating the hanging plants. He sits in his brown chair rubbing his bald head after seeing the plaque on the wall about being a community leader for the past eight years; a fact he is proud of. His name is etched in the community: donating to Little League, breast cancer walks, parks. His round brown eyes close wondering if he should have donated a little less. In his late forties and not sure what else to do, he will now probably have to go back to snaking people’s toilets if his business fails: getting calls day and night. The new Home Depot two miles away is putting him out of business.

He shuffles papers looking for checks that might’ve come in, answers he may have overlooked, but nothing.

Leslie, his wife of two years, calls a few minutes later.

“Plymouth Plumbing.”

“Hey, honey.”

“Oh, hey.”

“Don’t forget to pick up the ribs for tonight. Pete, Jocelyn and her friend will be here. You have the list of things we need, right?”

“How many mouths are we feeding, Leslie?”

“My two kids and Jocelyn’s friend. Are you ok?”

“No hon, I’m not, but gotta go, real, real, busy.”

“Good sweetie, I’m glad it’s picking up. We’ll get through whatever it is. Love you.”

“Ok, love you too.”

He looks at the insurance papers for the car, the pink letter saying termination if not paid full in one week. She doesn’t know any of this he thinks. He goes through ways in his mind to tell her- that she will need to work more, possibly use her degree, and all of the ideas fall short. She only works part time while he is sinking. They are sinking and all the ways he has thought to save them have sunk.

At 5 pm closing time, he walks through the showroom and looks over the bins and supplies. He totals out the register for the day, counting the cash and credit receipts. $600. Not enough. He has two employees. John is the only salesman when Stuart is not on the floor, and Shauna is his part-time stock help. They walk out as he locks up saying their good nights. He feels responsible for the failing business. I wish I could have paid them more, he thinks. He watches them walk toward their cars in the parking lot.

The grocery store has too many lights as he lifts package after package of pork ribs, all expensive, too expensive. He mutters to himself while standing next to a nosy old lady, “I thought she said they were on sale.” He calls but Leslie doesn’t answer. He picks up the 4 pounds dictated on the shopping list, almost $30 worth. At the checkout counter the total with everything, ice cream included, comes to $60- 10% of today’s gross sales. He shakes his head picking up the bagged items and thanks the bagger with his slight case of cerebal palsy.

At home he tries to maintain a sense of normalcy grabbing a Heineken from the fridge. Leslie makes the salad and pours two cans of beans into a pot. His one job is to be the man of the house, drink his beer and barbecue the ribs. Jocelyn and her friend are chasing Peter around. All is as it should be. He relaxes a little kissing Leslie on the back of her auburn head.

“What’s that for?” She turns.

“Just glad we’re together.”

“Me too, Sweetie.”

He lightly bastes the ribs then walks outside to fire up the propane grill. Stepping back inside, being with his wife relaxes him.

He leans against the counter waiting for the grill to warm up. He waits the 5 minutes soaking up the love from his wife. He then goes back outside and gets to work prepping for cooking and the satisfying final act of eating. He places the tongs parallel to the two pronged barbecue fork, next to the knife on the oversized plastic platter resting on the small grill shelf. The barbecue is now at the appropriate 400 degrees for optimum cooking. Anticipating the primal taste of meat over open flame, he places the two racks of ribs equal distance apart, turns the burner to low and programs the alarm on his watch for twenty minutes, then closes the grill.

Being the man of the house weighs on him, so a nice meal will help calm his nerves- that all is ok, at least at home.

After the plate settings the other food comes out slowly from the kitchen. The chasing stops. The family sits and waits. The alarm on his watch goes off as the ribs are the final piece to an outdoor summer meal together.

Opening the lid, smoke pours out, flames rage charring the meat. The ribs are overcooked. His brow furrows. His eyes bulge. He doesn’t know what happened as he looks at his watch then at the temperature setting. He quickly dives over turning off the burner grabbing the tongs.

“Whoa, nuclear fallout,” his sixteen year old stepson says. Stuart looks him over. He attempts to remain calm placing the two racks of rib on the plastic serving tray to see if they are salvageable. He drives the two pronged fork in but the knife struggles skipping off the bone and tough meat. The ribs shift and slide until a portion hangs off the side of the plate attempting escape. Stuck on the cooking fork he drops them back on the plate and stares down in frustration.

“I’m hungry,” young Jocelyn exclaims.

“What are we going to do, Stuart?” Leslie asks.

He looks at the table with the nicely displayed salad, beans, and corn bread.  Looking his family over, it all looks so nice to him. He appreciates what it means having them together. He turns to go inside.

“Where are you going, honey?” Leslie inquires.

He doesn’t say a word, but walks through the kitchen into the garage on the other end and rummages under his tool bench, shifting boxes of pipe fittings and washers.

A minute later he walks back onto the patio through the sliding glass doors with a circular saw in his hand.

“Stuart what are you doing?” Leslie asks as he bends plugging it into the outside outlet.

“You’re being ridiculous.”

With strained love, holding himself together, he says, “I’m cutting the ribs, Leslie. She’s hungry.” He nods to Leslie’s nine year old daughter.

“We have to eat tonight.”

“Stuart they’re burnt. There’s plenty of other food here.” The one food he was responsible for tonight, with everything else going on, is too important for him to let go.

He says again quietly, “We’re eating the damn ribs, Leslie.”

The young girl inquires, “Did daddy just curse?”

“Yes, dear,” Leslie says, watching him closely.

To her son, he says, “And Peter, please no smart comments out of you.”

He plugs in the saw, holding the ribs beyond the edge of the plate and one by one cuts clean through the four pounds. Without a word he throws them onto the tray in neatly stacked rows.

At first the family just looks at each other then at the ribs then each other again. Stuart sits down at the head of the table closest to the barbecue and doesn’t look at anyone. He pauses then grabs a few ribs and bites into one. Tearing flesh without looking up, he then grabs for the beans as if he were alone. He simply needs the ribs to get eaten.

The son grabs one and starts to eat. “They’re actually not too bad.” He glances over to the circular saw next to the house then back at Stuart while taking another bite. Others take food slowly. Leslie, about to say something, asks her daughter to pass the salad instead.

The son pours a mound of barbecue sauce on his plate, dips, bites, chews a few times, then swallows. He dips again getting even more sauce on the rib.

“A little barbecue sauce is all it needs” he says, handing Stuart the plastic container with sauce dripping down the side.