Untitled
Wes Westfall
Allen MaChesney mopped beads of perspiration from his forehead with the front of his gray T-shirt.
"God should have the decency to make the weather nice on Sunday at least," he muttered and walked to the window for another look at the thermometer, then dropped himself to the sofa beside the reclining body of Claire Webber.
"Ninety eight degrees" he informed her, and took a long pull on his
beer.
She responded in a low voice, "mmm . .. so muggy," squeezed Allens
arm and rolled over putting her back to him.
A faint breeze stirred the curtains of the small hot apartment where the couple lived. It was their second apartment since they had been together. The first had been in the upstairs of an old womans home near downtown, but the woman had evicted them out of moral obligation when she discovered that the two were not married. Allen had been furious at her and demanded his damage deposit back, claiming that he could not afford to move without it. He did not lie. The old woman gave him the money as if just to be rid of him, but mostly because Allens large, angry presence intimidated her. Now Allen and Claire lived in a poor part of town near the river. Allen figured he was still young and he could work hard, and the two of them could move into a better place in a year, or maybe less.
In that part of town there was an old woman who wandered through the streets most of the day, humming and singing to herself. Her name was Mareen Blommer, and she was a widow. The accepted rumor in the neighborhood was that her husband had been shot near the river many years earlier, and the woman had never been right after that. Mareen Blommer seemed to be fond of the river and occasionally would spend several hours there wandering around the banks picking up bits of glass and shiny stones which she arranged in odd little piles by her home. Once she had spoken to a group of children who were playing on the banks telling them how much she loved the muddy river, and that they should love it too, because it was so patient. The children mostly laughed and ran off calling her a crazy old woman.
Allen shoved his chair slowly from the supper table. His eyes were on Claire, but hers did not look back; she had fixed a blank stare on the middle of the table. Claire was depressed. She did not like the apartment, she did not like the supper she had cooked, she didnt even feel like she liked Allen any more. She had chosen to escape the situation by sliding into day dreams and wondering if things could be better somewhere else. She did not hate Allen, or really even dislike him. She was just bored with everything in her life and she did not have the motivation to change anything. She had been bored before Allen had come, and when he talked about how great it would be when they could have their own place together and kissed her, she had thought it all very exciting and new and wonderful. Now it had all grown old and common, and Claire drifted into the hot evening like an empty boat.
Allen pulled a wooden chair up next to the window in hopes of catching some breezes on his warm face. He gazed down onto the sidewalk and took large swallows from his beer. Claire ignored him so much these last few days. People passed on the sidewalk. Allen wondered if they ever had lovers who had begun ignoring them.
"Damn it." he whispered fierdy. He wanted to go to her and put his arms around her and kiss her like he had done before, but he was afraid that she would not kiss him back. He sucked down more beer.
The old Blommer widow passed beneath the window. Allen noticed her and a half amused smirk spread onto his face. She was singing a rhyme over and over to herself. "Greed and insecurity, the wicked wings of jealousy" she sang in a thin, low voice. Allen took the last swallow of his beer and got up from the chair. There was no breeze and the old woman had broken his contemplation. He found another beer in the refrigerator and as he opened it he resolved to wait Claire out, hoping to spite her into talking to him by returning her silence. He wondered if she was thinking of another man. He wondered if she thought he was not good enough for her anymore.
The moon that night was four days waning from full. Dark shadows lay beneath trees and at the sides of buildings. Claire awoke from a dream. She was restless. She sat up and looked at the man sleeping next to her.
In her dream she had boarded a train and met a man who played a shiney saxaphone. The man encouraged Claire to sing to the rhythm of the train on the tracks and he played along on his horn. She sang a song but there were no words, only long pretty notes. She wanted to travel with the man and sing the notes along with his horn.
Claire sat in the dark and tried to imagine stealing away from Allen in the night. She tried to picture herself in the bus depot at midnight with just a suitcase while Allen slept on without her, and she thought it might be a wonderful adventure.
On the banks of the river the moon cast crooked shadows from the trees. In the pale light the thin ragged figure of Mareen Blommer swayed slowly from side to side. She sang low and quiet out across the river;
"long ago
on a cold dark night
a man was killed neath the cold moon light. . . ".
She sang over and over again hugging herself tightly with her own two
arms.
The river flowed past her very quietly, but with a strong presence, like
one who keeps many secrets and never tells them.
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