the parrot

The beach was empty, except for the winter Texans, who began arriving, even though winter still is a far bit of a piece around the corner. A few children played in the surf. A few surfers surfed in it. The seagulls stalked about the catfish beached by the so-called red tide, which wasn’t really red, but hot, all the same, what with the pepper in the air that scratched at the throat and stung the eyes. In a few hours, the municipal, beach clean-up crews would gather what was left of the catfish. He observed all of this and none of it, the scene passing before him as though it were there one moment and not, another, which is the way time works, actually. Besides, he was not so much thinking as he was wishing – wishing that the empty spot in his life weren’t so, well, empty. He knew it would take more than wishing to make that so, so, instead, he finished his walk and drove to Dirty Al’s and ate some deep fried shrimp and blackened chicken until he was full. For the moment, anyway. When he left the restaurant, he found a wild parrot perched on the hood of his car. He took it for an omen. It wasn’t.

they walk the line

There is a line
they do
not cross.
They dare not
cross. They
cannot see the line
but they know
where it is:
It bifurcates
(look it up)
and makes things
safe. Or at least
safe-er.
Sometimes, they see how close they
can come
to crossing the line without, with
a nod, or a smile or
a wink
or a whisper, which she did the
other night and he held himself back.
But
he got close.
Maybe too close.
And it wasn’t
the first
time.

soul searched

Where to be.
What to do.
How to do it.
Where.
And why.
For what reason.
And for whom.
When.
Is it possible.
Yes.
It is.
Or:
Is it?
Really.

a baby

She got the message from her sister and, now, she needed a place to sit and think, to compose herself, to figure out what she needed to say, to do, to think, really. She headed to the lounge, much as it was, down a flight of stairs, nearest the basement pharmacy. She felt her feet grow heavy, her steps, too. The father, the baby’s father, was newly listed as KIA in Afghanistan. Maybe if she’d aborted the baby the news would be no more than painful a reminder. of a thoughtless indiscretion But it wasn’t that now, anymore. It was more, bigger, different, at the very least. Her head was spinning. Whom did she need to call? Anyone? Everyone? Mary Wolnert was sitting in the lounge, nursing a large diet Coke. Behind her back, everyone called her “Hairy Mary.” She did have a bit of a moustache, not that it seemed to bother her. “You ok?” Mary asked, now. Becky nodded. It wasn’t near time, yet, but she felt something move in her belly. She’d swear to it, even though the doctors would later tell her that it wasn’t possible. “I’m a little tired,” she said. “Well, sit,” Mary said. “I can make you a cup of tea.” And she did. And Becky decided, as Mary tinkered near the sink, in her own mind, by herself, that she would call Ron’s mother and tell her that she would be a grandmother. It was the best thing she could think of, given the circumstances.

the dog

They named the dog Hazard, because in a way it – he – was. He didn‘t come home from the pound named Hazard. His first given name was Doug – Doug the Dog. But he ended up underfoot so often as a pup that he was soon re-named “Hazard.” Hazard was blackish brown with an orange nose. Yes, orange. He had floppy ears and feet that were made for a much larger dog so that he sort of “sluffed” around, as Mary would say. The best thing about Hazard was that he didn’t smell, even when he got wet. Celeste called that “a miracle.” Hazard was Harry’s dog, really. And that was OK with everyone. Harry needed that sort of companionship. He was an odd sort of kid. Loveable, but a bit distressingly so, especially to a parent, odd.

a mother

She was too sick to nurse when the baby was born, so they took the infant and placed her in an incubator. It was a good incubator, nothing wrong with it. It was a good hospital, one of the best in the area. But she still felt the guilt. She’d held all her other children. She’d pulled them close, against her soft, tender breasts and held them there, passing on her warmth, her living, her breathing to them. And as the years went on, she’d recall that, how it was, what she hadn’t done, and the fact that she’d been emotionally low, not physically – she didn’t feel the connection with this child, even while inside her – and that’s why she’d feigned her inability to the nurses. She would spend a lifetime trying to make it up, make up for something that no one else knew, or even suspected, not even her husband. Problem was, she knew she never could. And only a mother could know that.

roger

Roger is the husband. He’s not a bad husband, which means to say, he isn’t a very good one, either. If truth be told, he never was sure what it meant to be a husband. He knew how to be a boyfriend. He knew how to be a lover – at least in his own mind. But this husband deal was more confusing. His father would say, “You just work, then come home and work at it,” which was his father’s response to most questions, though not a response to a direct one about husbanding from Roger, who would never think to ask his father’s advice. It was something his dad had said once, out loud, during a movie about a married couple. He didn’t say it with malice or contempt, but more with a fatigue. But maybe that was even worse. Who would know? What Roger did know was that Celeste was different, lately, changed, somehow, and it puzzled him, because he didn’t feel at all different. He noticed it mostly in bed, at night. Not the sex. That remained a battle of wits and temperments and desires and need. Always had been. No, it was after, when they went to sleep. Celeste was further away, now, and not just literally. He didn’t spend a lot of time thinking about it, but when it did cross his mind it seemed especially troubling. He had no time, now, though. He was busy at work. He didn’t know it, but his world was about to implode. Not literally, but in the way far worse.