21
The Wind Cries Mary
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Maybe I sort of regretted not letting Danny drive me home. I'd forgotten how crappy Gilmore Park public transit was. The idiot bus drivers were always off schedule.
Bus A was late, so Bus B had already dipped from the terminal. So I ended up waiting, like, an hour for another Bus B to come on by. Although, I guess being seated on the bus with only Homeless Josh and Matilda (she just looked like a Matilda) made sense because they were from my "world."
Matilda crocheted the entire time, even though we ran over like six hundred potholes, and Homeless Josh just kept staring at me. Not in the creepy I'm gonna rape you way, but as an outsider looking into a world he's never been a part of, kinda way.
Days went by without any signs of life from Danny. I hadn't seen or talked to him since that day when he'd lost it on me. It wasn't like I had a cellphone, and Danny didn't call my house phone. Which was probably a blessing in disguise, because my heart skipped not one, but two beats, every time the phone did ring because Jim didn't leave the house all week.
"What are you doing home?" I asked, surprised to see him loafing on the couch, watching TV in the middle of Monday the following week.
He waited until whoever was on the TV to finish speaking before answering me.
"Lester had a heart attack."
It took me a minute to remember who Lester was. He was an old friend of Jim's from years ago. They didn't see each other very much, or at all, really. Lester had been to a few of the barbecues Jim would throw back in the day, and I remember going on Lester's sailboat once at Port Milford when I was a kid. That day on his sailboat had been particularly memorable because I still remember how cold I was watching a bunch of old fat people jumping into the water, and wondering if I would ever get fat and old and enjoy jumping into cold water.
"Oh," was about as much of a reaction I could muster upon the news of Lester's death.
What? I didn't actually know him. I wasn't gonna pretend like I was all bent outta shape over his heart attack. Ol' Lester had been sort of an asshole anyway, and more than likely would've tried telling me that he was my uncle if I were ever alone with him.
Jim was zoned in on the TV, and it didn't look like he was gonna get his ass up and off the sofa anytime soon. I didn't dare bring up anything Danny had told me. Instead, I kept my head down and walked down the hallway to my bedroom, and when the voices on the TV stopped again, I heard Jim say, "Yeah."
Jim, the TV, and I were soundless. I anticipated more. Then chattering cued up again on one of those afternoon talk shows that Jim usually had no interest in watching, and I continued walking down the creaking hallway to my room.
I really should get my own stall on the boardwalk as Madame Mary (no, you freak, I mean as a fortune-teller) because my prediction came true; Jim did not get up from that couch for almost a whole week. Whenever somebody he was close to died (passed away) he couldn't handle it. He couldn't even handle it when his favorite old bar from high school closed down. Hell, you'd had thought that his beloved first-born son died in a tragic accident when he had to sell his Trans-Am.
So, I guess it wasn't just death he couldn't handle; it was change. He didn't like anything changing, not that floral print couch, not that barbecue on the porch, not the cabinets in the kitchen. Nothing. He wanted everything frozen in time, exactly how he wanted to remember it.
When my grandma died (I was too little to remember living with her), Jim let his life go for so long without moving on, neglecting everything, including me, until our hydro was eventually cut. That I do remember.
It was the same thing with our house. It was a prime piece of real estate that Jim could have easily sold. He received offers on our house from eager developers all the time. Half a million dollars? Okay, Okay fine, Jim you say? How about a million dollars?
A whole fuckin' million-dollars! But, it was his parents' house, and apparently, his grandfather purchased it when Danae's Bay was a shipping port, and he didn't want to let that go. So, it wasn't really Lester dying that was devouring him; it was the fact that there was now one less person around from the past.
And that tore him up because Jim liked the past better. If I had to guess why, it was because the past was a time before there was me.
Two days later, when I was walking home from work, I felt a speckle of something moist land on my tank top exposed shoulder. A moment later, I felt more drops on my arms. When I looked down at the ground, I saw that the sidewalk was spotted with what looked like tiny gray holes. So, it could only be the sky, not somebody, spitting on me.
Earlier at work, Danny had walked in.
"Hey," he said.
"Hey."
It didn't take long after the first spit-fall for the air to smell soggy, but right then, the only thing on my mind were the few short words we had said to each other.
"What are you doing here?" I asked him.
A gust swept my hair into my mouth.
"I think we should stop."
I had to reach my finger into my mouth about three times before scooping all the hair out.
"Stop what?"
The concrete bled into a darker shade of gray with each bullet of rain that pelted against it.
"Hanging out," he said, after a slight hesitation. I repeated the phrase because I didn't quite grasp what he meant by "hanging out."
"Yeah. Hanging out," he said again. And then he mumbled something about how everything's been difficult lately or something like that. And to save him the effort of breaking up with me, I just said: "Okay."
"Okay?" he repeated.
"Yeah, okay."
"Okay," he said and left.
And then the next thing I knew, I was ringing through a customer's jug of orange juice like he'd never been there, and like, breaking up with me at my work. I didn't even know we were dating.
Soon enough, the sidewalk was one solid shade of dark gray, like it had never been another color to begin with. The pouring rain steadily pummeled my back, and when the weight was too heavy for the leaves that caught their fall, they broke down on me, all at once. At first I was angry that I was soaking and that my hair, which I had spent all morning straightening, was stringy. But like always, I got used to the rain. Once the world exhausted all of its steam, like a breath it held on too, I felt cold for the first time in weeks. It felt sorta pure. Clean. I realized I wasn't surprised that it was storming. I just should have prepared for one.
By the time I made it home it was dark; the cloudy day had cast an early night. The wet and black roads were bright with the glow of the orange streetlights. And from the bay below, the ocean sounded violent despite the momentary lull in the rain. The cold wind still came about in senseless circles, stretching over the puddles made in the depressed pavement, shredding water off the surfaces.
While passing Jim's truck and then staggering up the front steps, all I could think of was the warm shower I was so looking forward to taking after that long and drenching walk home.
Though hardly visible through the yellow porch light, I was surprised to see that the front door beyond the screen was wide open. I figured that Jim must have finally gotten up and left the house for the first time all week.
But out of the fear that he might have still been home, and desperate to avoid any torment or interrogation because I was not okay, I pressed my thumb into the metal handle, and so slowly, so gently, pulled the screen door open towards me, afraid of making any noise. Afraid that something would stop me from just going straight to my room so I could cry my eyes out.
After I had crept through the door opening that was just wide enough to slip my body through, I slowly inched the screen back into the frame to avoid the clicking of the latch. The house reeked of cigarette smoke.
In the dark entryway, I tripped on Jim's construction boot laid out flat on the ground. Losing my footing, I scurried to balance myself and slammed my hand against the wall. Almost hitting the sailboat painting again.
"Who's there?" Jim called from around the corner.
"Who else would it be?"
I hung my purse on one of the coat hangers next to the front table. In the dark, I stepped on another shoe.
"Who's there?" Jim asked again as if he hadn't heard me.
"It's me, Dad," I said, kicking off my shoes, contributing to the pile of footwear.
"Who would that be?"
"Me. Mary."
I didn't know what he was up to, but whatever it was, I was seriously not in the mood for it. I took a step forward, towards the living room. The air was warm and musky with smoke.
"Mary? Who's that?" Jim asked, still masked from sight behind the wall. "What are you doing here?"
His facetiousness began to bother me. But sometimes, the only way to avoid the bullshit was to bullshit back. So I walked into the hazy living room where he was sitting on the floral couch in front of the TV.
"I am one of the two residents that occupy twenty-two Bayview Avenue," I had said, giving him the sarcastic answer he typically respected. I then turned and took a step into the hallway, determined to avoid another fight.
"No, you don't." He coughed. "My daughter does."
I froze. Then taking a step back, turned to face him. From his side profile, Jim's eyes reflected the amber light blazing from the TV. And without a flinch in his posture, he then said looking straight ahead, "And you're not my daughter."
"Who's Wendy then?" I asked. "I'm pretty sure I'm her daughter?"
The anchor on CNN went on talking about the latest presidential scandal. Jim shifted. Laughed. And then as he slowly twisted his neck to look at me, a wry grin emerged on his face. "Yeah, yeah." He turned back to the TV. "Sure, you are. But she was a whore, right? You could be Chuck McGilvery's daughter or Tommy Gurd's. She, your mother, was sleepin' with 'em both."
"Oh shit. You're right," I said, walking towards him. "How the hell would I know that? It's not like you've ever bothered talking to me about my mom."
Spoken low, with his chin dug into his chest, Jim grumbled, "Shaddup, Mary. Don't you speak to your father that way."
"Well apparently you're not even my father! Maybe I should be speaking to Chuck Mc-Gliv or whatever then?"
"Well, he was the one givin' your mother the dope that got 'er all fucked in the head. So maybe you should." Then instantly distracted by whatever claim the anchor made, Jim pointed his open hand at the TV. "I can't believe all this fake news. Makes me sick."
Angered by the blatant change of topic, I slashed my hands against the sides of my jeans. "Maybe you're the one who got her fucked in the head?"
"Whatsa matter with you?" He turned back. "Some twerp got your box busted up and now you think you can speak to me like that?"
"What's the matter with you? You think 'cause you lost your job you can sit on the couch and do nothing 'cause you're sad and miserable with your life?"
Jim howled. He was absolutely hysterical. The TV flashed with a change of footage. And then as Jim eased out of his coarse laughter, ending on a high wheezing sigh, he said, "Mary, you're fuckin' stupid. You're not 'llowed to leave the house unless its for work for the res' of the summer. Git t' bed."
"Wait. Who are you to tell me? Apparently you're not even my father? So what the hell do I do? Do I listen to you because you're my father? Or?"
"I say's shut the fuck up and get to bed."
"And I say's wasn't it my father's fucking job to tell me about my dead mom!" I yelled and dashed out of the living room.
"The fuck you talking 'bout?"
Scattering and tossing up all the clutter and all the shit on the front counter, scathing through the endless piles of papers, I found the rain-wrinkled letter and ran back.
"Not some letter in the mail!" I cried as I shoved the letter in his face. "Not some fucking letter in the mail!"
Jim's eyes widened as he began reading the letter and then erupted onto his feet; knocking the ashtray off the coffee table in a charcoaled cloud. "Gimme that!" he yelled, tearing the bottom half of the paper as he stripped it from my hands.
Jim's eyes reigned over the letter as he read the telling details.
"She's dead? No, no. NO. NO. Not my Bimba! Please, God, NO! NOT MY LITTLE BIMBA! SHE'S DEAD! WENDY'S DEAD! WHY IS SHE DEAD?"
"WHY DIDN'T YOU EVER FUCKING TELL ME?"
"HOW WAS I 'SPOSED TO KNOW? You—You killed her, Mary! YOU KILLED HER!"
"I DIDN'T KILL HER! YOU KILLED HER! YOU HEAR ME? YOU KILLED HER!"
When the black fog lifted from my head, I was on the floor and holding my face. Everything was quiet and heavy. A long, hollow moment passed before I removed my hand from over my eye. Blood ran down the inside of my palm.
"Oh my god."
Suddenly my face exploded with a hammering pain that punched through to the back of my skull.
Jim choked on a sob. I looked up. Two damp streaks ran down Jim's face as his mouth hung open. My mouth hung open. I thought he was going to cry sorry, but instead he just screamed, "GET OUT!"
Grabbing me by the wrists, Jim scraped me off the floor. "GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!" he roared, pushing me out. I tried resisting, burning my legs on the rug as he dragged me across it. "YOU'RE NOT WENDY'S DAUGHTER! GET OUT! GET OUT!" Hauling me across the hardwood floor, my hip smacked against the corner of the living room wall. And then lifting me up by my armpits, he shoved me against the screen door, striking it open. I thought it was going to break off.
In my socks, almost slipping on the wet porch, I caught the railing before my body fell back onto the steps. The front door slammed. And with a heavy thud, I heard it lock. I jolted towards the door, whipped open the screen, and twisted and rattled the knob, trying to yank it open. It wouldn't budge.
I started banging on it. With one fist, and then both fists. Over and over and over I kept banging on that fucking door. I kept hammering it until the sides of my fists started to feel pained and bruised and throbbing.
Then dropping my shoulders, I took a few steps back until I was standing on the edge of my porch. After allowing a few seconds of silence, freezing in the wind, I ran back to the door, screaming, "FUCK YOU!" as I bashed my fists into it one last time. After a minute of nothing, it hit me that it was pointless. My knees smacked against the rain-soaked wood, skinning the flesh.
Surrendering at last, the stinging came back to my cheek and the hammering in my head was worse than before. My eyes clenched in the reflex to cry, but the pain was greater than the need to weep. The blood began to harden on my face.
Eventually I got up, seeing double, and stumbled down the front steps and off the porch. My head felt sapped. My vision flickered in and out with my consciousness. Surely I was concussed; brain-damaged even. One of the neighbors on the opposite side of the street, two houses down, stood on his doorstep with the light on and stared at me. He didn't say anything, of course. He just stared.
Shivering, I walked down my street in a daze. The wind came in circles. Random and unreliable. I crossed my arms to keep warm, and then followed the pattern of the wind deep into the night. Drifting in and out of consciousness, and feeling like nothing more than an adrift piece of wood floating in the vastness of an endless black ocean.