Yes It Was Wednesday

He was shuffling his coffee cup, through the dirty beam of light that filtered under the flowered drapes of the kitchen window above the sink, quietly thinking about feeding the cat when she asked.

"Uncle" she paused "When did you stop writing"?

The doctor had made him start drinking decaf, he hated the doctor. Doctor Seth, uggh. Thirty something purple scrubs. Ugggh. He couldn't bring himself to acknowledge that Dr. Seth had bags under his green eyes. No more eggs, no more bacon, your cholesterol is high.

"I can’t remember when" just barely audible, it hurt to think about it.

Did I feed the cat? he thought to himself. He glanced at the weekly medication sorter sitting by the salt and pepper shakers, the opaque Monday and Tuesday squares were empty. The other five still held the cornucopia of side effects.

She noticed, him looking at the memory cube, she scooched her chair back, went to the sink for a glass of water. His brother’s daughter, always came on Wednesdays, he thought it was nice.

He lived in the southern corner of the fourth largest state in the U.S. snow-capped mountains out his window. His two estranged daughters, with their combined baker’s dozen kids lived on the other very far dusty flat side where only antelope and gophers survived without help.

He tried to shoo the cat off the table when the water arrived.

" Will you get tabby a treat hun."

Picking the cat up she went cooing and kissing the filthy hairy lovable thing to search the cat shelf in the pantry.

Star Wars imperial march jiggled his phone. He grimaced.

"It's way too early for this."

Flipping it over stopped the tone, then back over to look. He swiped clear. Right on time and not without some irony his "SOCIAL media" always sprung alive on "SOCIAL security" day. PayPal and Zell were the links to his prodigy.

"Uncle, can we look" she asked?

The hidden answer to when he had written last, resided in two recycled copy-paper boxes sitting under the end of the dusty, cobwebbed escritoire.

Hard, sad memories had long ago urged him to stop looking at it. Oak drawers all shut, it’s now scuffed to blonde barren writing area, that place under the lamp where hand written wit used to happen, it was the coldest part of his modest existence, an unwritten tragedy. The padded chair, its sweeping curved arms also buffed more white than oak, was the memory spot, where a couple wives and a girl he actually loved, had left him numbly sitting.

Crumbling boxes in that small dark corner is where imagination now safely stayed. inside each was the answer to when and where he had stopped writing.

He popped open Wednesday’s opaque cube of different sized, off colored tablets, side effects courtesy of Dr. purple scrubs.

" I spose "you" can" barely audible. He used to Bruce Willis his med's no water, just palm to tongue, and swallow, lately it took a couple full gulp tries of coffee to get them unstuck from his wind pipe

From under an arm, she handed him the cat. He hated it, a little, his under breath ugh told her so, it purred next to his chin.

She couldn’t contain her smile as she plopped the fuller card board box of trouble on the table, then happily tromped back to retrieve the second.

His regular well metered world started to close in on him, without realizing he pulled the tabby up close, urging its purr match, maybe even slow his heart. He knew she was trying to help. The dark cloud of memories, of broken things made his heart ache brought up that clenching spasm in his throat.

He looked at the coffee cup, the sun beam, the sink, the floor, the ceiling, ...the boxes. He brushed imaginary breakfast crumbs off the table. He took a deep breath to stop the rain cloud beginning in his nose behind his eyes.

"Uncle I have always loved this one" she read the poem. Her voice changed each time it was his words then the girls. A princess and her horse, word pictures of huge tallow-colored tents, colored flags on their edges, flickering candlelit interiors, Persian rugs and tables of desert fruits. A faithful older knight.

"Like the song of Solomon only better" she shared.

"Did I know her" She asked?

"She wanted to be a secret" The pain and tears started.

"Did you know Dr Seth is allergic to cat's ?” he said to recover.

"Yes, you told me, she must have been very special".

"I gotta pee" taking a breath he escaped past the desk to the bathroom. He flicked the switch for more light. Lifted the lid. He couldn’t stop the memory, clenching his eyes shut, fought the wave of emotion back.

She would sit so quiet, so close, in that corner, look over his shoulder as he wrote, help with grammar, punctuation. Giggle or ooo when she liked the word pictures. The others never cared. He could at times still smell her, rosemary, thyme, coriander. Not the smell of young ladies. She was so frail, so quiet so beautiful. The aromatic oils for her health, she said. His heart made him not care what she smelled like or why.

The mirror showed his age, every crease, every crow’s foot, sad frown lines where smile lines used to be, of course she didn't stay, why would she, his eyes leaked.

He sat for a long time, thirty years of habit forced on him by wife two, now alone he could admit it was cleaner less mess. Up, flush, drop the lid to complete the lie.

Thinking inside I wish she hadn't come.

From the bathroom door.

"Do you think Dr. Seth actually knows how much coffee I drink?" he splashed his face wiped his eyes before going back.

The cat was squatted in front of the chrome bowl, she swished her question mark tail left then right at him as he entered the kitchen.

She smiled. "I don’t think so, but he probably knows how many eggs you eat".

She was right, god damned LDL-HDL puzzle, modern math, common core gobble-dee-gook that seven out of every five doctors believed in.

"He's so young, he must work very hard, his eyes show it" he reminded her.

She remembered "Yes they do".

"Do you have pictures"?

"Some, somewhere maybe online".

"Will you take Tabby if I die?" trying to change the subject.

"May I have the boxes too?"

The secret of it all made him pause, could she have the boxes? Would the memories stay safe, the stories stay safe? What if everyone found out what he wrote. He had never shared any writing out of fear of ridicule, the girl was different she read over his shoulder. What if she found out about the other stuff

" Yes you can have the boxes" paused added "and the cats bowl, the cat "uhh" sure they are a set, can't break up the set I guess ".

Would it change anything now if the girl really knew.

He had never been able to express it. He had always wanted to be able to just talk about his feelings but it was only through stories could he make it all feel. But just like the others she took, then left. He was sure she had no idea how deep the scar would be, how unhealing the wound.

She kept reading as he walked over to the coffee pot, poured another "cup of coffee" into the three cup "Grandpas can FIX anything" container. the ever colored well used inside held almost a pint of beer when it didn't have coffee in it. He turned pointed the carafe at her. Not looking up she held out her "I spent your inheritance" sipper. Her head was going side to side in an OMG my heart feels this, as he took the coffee dregs to the sink to pour and rinse.

The sigh started the question.

"When did you write this". "The Abyss" ?

He didn't turn around. Kept rinsing, grabbed the basket from the maker, grind and paper into the basket under the sink.

"When she left" saying it out loud was too much for him, all the words of the short story flooded back, a story completely undone, incomplete, just like he had become.

"It was hard huh?" she begged, then a quiet "still".

His nose had begun to run, drip into the sink along with the tears. He didn't want her to see the break down, men don’t break down.

" Did the kid bring the paper" hiding behind a new subject. He walked around behind her toward the other room.

I wish she hadn't come he thought.

He could tell she was watching him, the door jamb protected him enough to sleeve wipe his eyes, he rubbed the nose goo into the other sleeve.

The cool breeze through the open front door calmed him a bit. Container of coffee in one hand through the squeaky screen door, out to where there was air to breath. He stood for a minute head down dizzy, chest tight, fighting tears, one hand on the rail. It’s the coffee he argued to himself. Just what he needed a real soul cleaning heart attack would be the cure.

He looked up and down the street as he walked out to the blue box. He knew there wasn't a paper but he put his hand in the slotted cover just in case she was watching, he looked into the red flag mounted mail box, also knowing there would be no mail. "Did anyone ever use the please pick up my mail flag" under his breath.

He started back. Even the porch had memories attached. The first wife had absolutely needed the furniture for the porch. She never sat in or used it. The second wife wouldn't sit in it because it was the first wife's idea. He liked it, loved it, sitting with a can of beer in one of the big chairs, after he had mowed, listening to all the other lawn mowers going up and down the street. That fresh smell washing over the porch.

The girl would sit with him. Sometimes in the swing with a blanket. Mostly in the chairs pulled up close. Drinking glasses of wine, promising a future, where she would practice her violin in the front room so she could watch, make sure he was writing. Oh, her smile, and her laugh, it started to dizzy again as he went up the steps, it was going to be a long morning.

The screen door screeched and slapped closed behind him.

" Paper yet" from the kitchen she kept up the facade.

" No mail either". "Grass needs mowed".

"I'll do that after lunch if you will start the mower" she offered.

The cat bounced between his legs as he crossed the room keeping his mind off the desk. He could see her smiling reading the next twenty pages. She had scootched back, with legs stretched under the table, coffee cup out of reach. She put the leaves in her lap and looked at him.

Not looking for an answer, "My dad used to read, well tell "The Owl" to us when we were little, ugh thirty years ago", "ugh" again. "Am I really this old?" "It’s such a great story".

" I did embellish some, it was almost like my great aunt July told it to us when we were kids"

" I wish I had known her, I just love that name" "July" she repeated out loud

At least one good memory this morning he thought.

"She would tell it just like that, Cassiopeia is the two teepees the big side the father's, little side the son's. They were there off in the corner of heaven first".

Every time he remembered the story he wondered how far south you could go until you couldn't see Cassiopeia? July was Assiniboine so it was always in their sky.

"And then" he continued " each animal was made, and every one had a special skill.

"The owl was scary" she intoned.

" I had to be careful with the owl, in different cultures the owl can be good or bad". My animal is the owl".

She chastised him "No it’s not, you are neither mean or scary".

"In some tribes the owl is a good omen, strong, wise, quiet, good vision, able to see through the darkness of the world" he finished. Saying the words out loud struck him, some off the darkness in his heart lifted, it described who he remembered he was.

She pondered out loud "Huh I never thought of it that way".

The memory made him feel much better. He went to open up the drapes in the front room. The cat followed, jumping up on the lazy boy in front of the first corner window.

"I had to look up the Assiniboine or Sioux names for the animals; I couldn't remember most of them, I wanted to be authentic".

He pulled on the string to lift the first blind.

"It did get published".

He went to the big window to pull back the curtains, windows needed cleaning. Tabby wandered back and forth on top of the couch. He watched the abomination; he paused, thought to himself, she may have never seen those windows. He pulled the sash up on the one closest to the door, the mouse catcher came over glanced back and forth through the screen, butt up on the couch, front paws on the sill to inspect and sniff the dusty crevice where the window had been frozen shut.

"In the book my dad has" from the kitchen.

"He has one of twenty free copies, scattered among family" the other thirty were in a box in the garage, publishing advance money had just barely covered printing.

On the way to his bedroom, he peaked in the kitchen to see, she had started on the shorter never seen odes, poems, and scribbles. After getting fresh air into the front room, he could now smell the bachelor grandpa who mostly resided in the small cluttered room. Blind and window open made him feel better.

The noise of him pulling dresser drawers open made her get up and come around the corner, with a small bundle of script in her hand.

"I need to do laundry, sheets and stuff".

She grinned.

She never came in this room, knowing he lived in just two spots of the whole house, never upstairs where with its door to the left the master bedroom and bath, not in the two very small guest rooms book casing the tiny sea shell papered bathroom. His whole life was mowing the yard, sleeping and dressing in this now airing out room, reading the mail and the paper in the kitchen.

"I know where it’s all at, I’ll start it ok" as she hugged him.

He took a couple deep sad breaths through the hug. The sadness returned, no crying, no drippy nose, just burdened.

The girl gave him something he had desperately needed. This little room had become his prison. His second wife had gently moved him into the small space as she took over the house. His small Knick-Knacks boxed up, all his clothes squeezed into the dresser and closet of this room, it wasn't long before her life was the only life. Like a caged circus lion, he ate alone, woke alone, home from work he found himself in the garage or in bed. His friends stopped coming, they couldn't put up with her. He did what he was supposed to. He was just a paycheck. She found affection elsewhere. He couldn’t remember the last time they had slept in the same room.

He vacationed alone, camped alone, fished alone. He had become like the leper in the bible, a lifetime of not being touched or loved, shunned, scorned. The amount of relief, joy that man must have felt when Jesus reached out and gently touched him. It was where he had been when the girl touch him, her promises of life together, her making him, fully believe he was worth something, that he was valuable, lovable, not just a paycheck, for him she was that touch.

He didn't remember getting to the kitchen. The cat had found its way to his lap; he could feel the purr under his hand. He could hear the washer lid clang, the dial ratcheting, to warm-cold, the pipes under the floor rattled. She stayed in the laundry room.

Then an excited "Uncle you have to fiinnnissh this one about the boy’s trip to the coast, it’s about Sacajawea. I didn't know all of this" a long pause " Pleeeese do"

The sun shone into the front room, the washer chugged, the cat purred, his eyes welled, he sat cat in lap and looked at the pile of papers.

She shouldn't have come.

He came to again when the dryer started.

"Beds made, can I vacuum" as she placed the stories on the pile.

The fridge door open already. "Can I make a sandwich?"

"DYa-antun?" like her dad would say, "Ham-O-Cheese" all one word.

She looked so much like his brother, and his mom, blonde hair (sometimes green, or purple). Striking blue eyes, married a native feller. He really liked him, full blood, Blackfoot, Salish. The man doted on the family and loved, loved, loved their two girls. His only fault was fixing the cars they had that weren't broken. Having grown up and escaped from the reservation he knew fixing perfectly good cars was part of the genetics.

"Beer" not a question.

"Sandwich too" she knew he hadn’t had breakfast. She popped two bottles open.

"Glass" as she quaffed hers.

"I'll cowboy it" she put the glass away.

"I love The Rodeo story too I don’t remember hearing it before, mustard? Mayo?" she ripped open the ham.

Knowing the answer, "Did you and dad really shout buck him off at the rodeo"

He smiled their family was a big rodeo and horse family. Her great grandad stole her great grandma's heart while rodeo performing in Wisconsin. Along with roping calves, his dad was a jump off of speeding horses onto full grown steers rodeo-er. Two second cousin sisters were trick ride rodeo hall of famer’s; she had a bareback riding auctioneer uncle. Her dad rode bulls and went to rodeo clown school. He played along knowing her dad and his dad had told all the kids about bucking stock and how the horses and bulls got a percentage of the purse. Good stock that bucked off the cowboys, and cowgirls, would move up in the ranks just like any athlete, and if they were really good would make it to the national finals.

"It would make the drugstore cowboys in the audience cringe" through a little smile. "It was a teaching experience for them too. Sometimes we would get a whole row or two yelling it" more smile.

He pushed the boxes and paper to the far side of the table as she sat the sandwiches down. She gave him a side look, seeing he had already finished the beer.

"What" in surprise "there's a full well-rounded meal in ever pint, or something like that. Sides Dr purple scrubs says beer is ok" he added, as she grabbed two more from the fridge. He side looked her back as she finished number one.

A couple bites in and a wash down got Tabby to mewling for shareseez she stood up seeing a delicacy was on its way, he tossed a small chunk of ham and mayo at her. It stuck to the floor, a sniff and a small lick, this was not five-star fare, she mewed, the let out a huff, took an about face back legs shaking in a let’s bury this motion brought out snooty cat.

She took the plates over to the sink. "Its all so good uncle did you get the others published"? He looked at the beer

"Horses", "Chaos", "Sailing a broken Heart"? The washer dinged.

"I’m going to go check the mower".

He sat at the bench in the garage and wept, he used to love being in here. He got up to close the big door so she wouldn't hear him sobbing. The ache in his chest made him believe they would find him crumpled on the garage floor happily gone, safely hidden from the grief. Friends would ask him if he was going to remarry, an abrupt "They are all the same" was the standard and completely true answer. It had been ten years and the ripple effect of her saying goodbye still moved his life around like a ship without its rudder. He paced back and forth in the empty space, wiping his nose on his sleeve, trying to walk off the pain.

Horses running free, worrying only about themselves, a heart cracked like a dry lake bed, the never-ending chaos of bad nights, bad mornings and bad days. All those stories mirroring him now, all of it changing him into a sad defeated incomplete man. It had started to affect his demeanor, his actions. He longed to have his old self back, the happy self, gregarious, humble, loving, joyful self.

"Uncle, are you ok? Laundry's in the dryer" he forgot the man door was open.

"I’ll mow tomorrow" through the ache

"Don’t forget Dr Seth on Friday” she waited she knew..." I’ll call later, ok? love you" faded into the house.

"love you too" unheard. He waited, could hear her car start out on the street.

"I wish she hadn’t come" under his breath. He waited a few more minutes, pulled the man door shut. Not locked, nothings locked, kids can fight over it they can have it, he thought. He pulled the back door shut, dishes done, papers all back in the boxes, he gulped the rest of his beer. Wish she hadn’t come. The stupid cat followed him through the house, chittered at him as he pulled the strings and let all the blinds fall. Pushed the window closed and shut the curtains. The cat raced down the hall to the back room, up on the bed before he got there. So so tired, the cat curled under his arm as he laid down.

I wish she hadn’t come, I wish she hadn’t smiled, hadn’t laughed, hadn’t been so kind, hadn't sat on the porch, laughed over wine, smelled so good, hadn’t come at the right time, hadn’t touched his hand, touched his heart. He wish she hadn’t come.