Funeral

I watched the love of my life get married when she was nineteen years and a day old. I sat in the church and watched, watched her get married to another man. He won, I lost. She loved him more. Him and his stupid football playing arms. She said so, but not in those words. Anyway, that night I drank a whole six pack of beer and watched basic cable until it felt like my brain would explode. Or implode, as the case may be. The teletubbies will only hold one’s attention for so long before they make you want to kill yourself. Moving on, years later, though not that many, I’m sitting at home, same TV, when my mother calls. Her husband is dead, she says. I didn’t listen to how, because I was too busy picturing her there, on the other end of the line all small and wrinkled, on the old fashioned phone she refuses to replace. I say, Yes, I’m coming, I’ll go. I drain a can of Bud before I pack. She seemed to do that to me. Next day, I’m in my hometown, to find it hadn’t changed at all, none of those places ever do. So I go, dressed in black, to the funeral home, feeling dizzy from the jet lag and the incense and the crying of people around me. Then we all walk outside, a mournful herd dressed to the nines in black wool and silk, and watches the usual proceedings and there she is, all in black saying a few words over her deceased high school sweetheart. I guess once upon a time, I’d have missed him too, because he was friend, at least once. But now I can’t even conjure up a focused image of his face, and anyway I’m transfixed by how beautiful she still looks, and how even drenched in tears, she is a goddess. The coffin, small and brown, sinks into the ground and gets swallowed up by shovelful after shovelful of rich dark dirt. People leave. She and I stay. Then we walk, quiet, in silent agreement, until we come to this bench. A simple, wood and concrete thing. We sit down, her on my right. She still smells like peppermint and I think to myself, twenty-three is too young to be a widow. She says nothing, and I start to say something, but decide not to. Can’t remember what I as trying to say. Probably some bullshit like, I’m sorry for your loss. After a while, she asks what we’re doing, and I don’t answer. I look ahead and there’s this old guy by a grave. He looks at us and I think that we must look like a couple. I stay quiet, and I watch him leave, walking slowly, stooped with age and grief. After he’s gone, I ask her if maybe later she wants to grab a bite to eat. She closes her eyes and leans her head back and I notice there’s a freckle on her left eyelid. She’s considering what I’m asking, because we both know that I’m really asking to be let into her life, her heart, between her legs. The she sighs and opens her eyes, and asks if it bothers me. I ask what she means. She says, with the frantic pace of someone that needs to say it all, before the stage lights go off, the house going dim, the chance lost. Something she needs to get off her chest. “I mean does it bother you that you’re the second choice. Number two in the race. Winner by default, by forfeit.” Now it’s my turn to sigh and stew silently. I think about it, not or very long, and I tell no, because I’d rather win second place than not be in the race at all. She closes her eyes, and reaches out her hand. I meet her halfway, and put her soft pale hand in mine, and we sit there for a while. Fall is starting and some leaves have begun to turn orange. Sitting there, hunched together in shared sorrow and black clothes, a think that we must look like a real couple now. We sit there, watching the clouds, and when it’s darker we watch the stars. We feel much older than we are, and at the same time, lighter, younger. Then she opens her eyes and I see a girl in them again. She says she could go for some coffee now. She smiles, and I’m drunk on it, and life, and her peppermint smell. We leave the graveyard, still holding hands.

Red Cavalry, Day 3

I'mkind of conflicted bout the religious element in RC. On the one hand, he speaks almost respectfully of it, and of the poor ordinry worshipers, like the cook or the Jewish men that have popped up in a few stories, but on the other hand, he seems distrustful or mocking of it, like talking about the priest's betrayal, or about the drunk and messy Jews, amongst which there are "the possesed, the liars, the unhinged"(page 71). The USSR under Stalin tried very hrd to stamp out religion,which may influence the author, but I think he's trying to say that religion is like people, in a smll group of the same tye of people you find the good the bad and the ugly, as mixed up, like the unnamed Jewish journalist finds the rabbi and his congregation,which includes the apparently crazy,and the apparently good.

Red Cavalry, Day 2

I've seen that a the element of family is present in many stories, which is seen most strongly in "A Letter" where large part of the letter is dedicated to naming family members, and explores a soldier's relationship with his mother, father, and brother, as well as the relationship between soldiers. The soldier dictating the letter has no problem confiding this in the man he asks to write it, which means either he's close to the man, or doesn't care. What struck me most was he fact taht all the time he asks his mother to take care of what seems to be his dog, which I found incredibly endearing, as if the war might make him immune to human suffering and death,but he still loevs his momand his dog and wishes the best for them. He still cares, even in the most soul-killing conditions. I'm really liking this book,because while mocking, it still captures the elusive human element.

Red Cavalry, Day 1

I started Red Cavalry today, a little nervous, because I was warned about how bloody and gritty its contents is. What I noticed most when I read was the bizarre comparisons he makes like comparing the sun to a severed head. Though little wierd, this puts you into the correct mindset for the stories, all from the point of view of people living the war, and therefore seeing things in such a way. The book also somehow displays the horrific tragedy of war with a commonplace, lacksadaisical tone, which also serves to expose the psychological effect war has, shown by the solierin the first story to be rather unaffected by the fact that there was a dead body i the room, killed in front of his daughter, who as a civilian is greatly affected by this, showing the less jaded, more human loss that war brings.

Alfie

In forty seven years of good clean, obedient boy next door by the book living, I committed one single criminal offense, and this was aided by my cousin Alfie. You know the kind. That one relative that was always just no good. The bad apple, the one that woke up the family with ate night calls from the sheriff’s department. The one that would cause cop three counties over to say “I pulled over someone with this name before…” and you’d know instantly who he was talking about. Any way, the day my cousin Alfie called me, I was sound asleep in bed at four in the morning. I was twenty-two at the time, just starting up my law practice and just recently married. And you know how relatives just have to tank things like that. Early that week, I’d been invite o dinner at my Aunt Ida’s house, with Sue, my wife. Ida was Alfie’s mother. Sue and I went over, even though it was in the sticks. The house was on farmland that hadn’t been farmed in three generations. That particular branch of our family had always produced the Alfies of the clan. The house was old and rundown. The floor was muddy, and they kept a large hog in the front yard, called Walter, as a pet. Now, I have no problems with pigs, but it is a bit off putting to drive up to a white bleached sagging farmhouse, surrounded by wild growth, and find yourself staring at a large pink pig, splattered in mud, chewing something unrecognizable. My wife made a disapproving sound, but nothing else, because she also had a bad branch on her family tree, and that particular evening had included custody disputes and people pulling knives on each other. He evening itself as actually uneventful, Ida was still her robust homely self, Alfie his usual rambunctious self, and my uncle Bud was not present, as he was back in jail. All in all, it was quiet night; all we had was a small fire in the den and an altercation with a raccoon in the garbage bins. Quiet. A week later, the phone rings at four am, and when I pickup and when I pick up, my immediate response is to ask “Alfie?” because I knew he was in town. Not even my clients would wake me at such ungodly hours. But anyway, my cousin was on the phone, and needling me, and how he needed my company. Now even a boy like Alfie is also given his share of God’s gifts, and the boy could persuade the moon to come down from the heavens. Soon, I was agreeing with him, and then I was making arrangements for him to pick me up in ten minutes. He showed up soon, and he’s got this car, a little old and dented, but still running. I hop in the front seat and then we're riding towards the coastline, a good forty-five minutes away. I fiddle with the radio, then I go “So, Alf, man, why’d you need me to come?” he mumbles something about not liking to ride alone, but he’s too focused on the road and I start thinking something’s wrong. “Hey, man, this isn’t anything illegal is it?” “Naw, man. But who better to bring than a lawyer is it was, huh?” he chuckled, but I didn’t. “Aww c’mon, man. But seriously. We’re blood, we’re kin. We owe each other from first breath to last. I just didn’t want to be alone. Just got to run an errand.” I protested “Kin don’t owe each other. We just help each other when we feel like it, and it’s the truth. Relatives make you feel like helping more often, that’s all.” We sat in silence. At the half hour mark, we stopped for gas. Alfie went inside to the restroom and I stay with the car. I step outside, and I see something leaking from the trunk. I got to check it out, and there she is. A dead hooker in the trunk. Surprise, surprise from cousin Alfie. So I’m freaking out, and Alfie comes back. “Awww shit. Didn’t want you to see that.” “See what? The dead bitch in your goddamn fucking trunk?!” “Well, yeah. But it doesn’t matter. We’re fifteen minutes from the coast. Fifteen minutes in this goes away bro.” “What the fuck?! What I should do is call the police, then let you sink or swim, “bro”. But I’m already accessory. Therefore fucked. Now I don’t care who she is, or why she’s here, but what the fuck do we do?!” remember how I said Alfie could talk the stars from the sky? Well, four minutes of haggling later, he’s got me in the front seat, and we’re running for the coast. He dumps her in, and a few bubbles, and she’s gone, for good. The ride back is quiet. When I get home, I just stumble in. my wife is there, in her dressing gown, her eyes full of question. “My cousin just made me accessory to murder. Can I get something to drink?” wordlessly, she moved to the tap and drew me a cool glass of water than I drained in one gulp.

Worms

When my father got out of prison, I was twelve years old. Growing up in a small sleepy town in Alabama, everyone’s father was either normal a drunk, or in the war. All other were dead, usually due to being the third kind of father. My father was gone by the time I was two, and I dint see him again until I was twelve. I didn’t think about it too much, because I never really had need for a father. My mom was great, not too strict, and a cook the gods would be envious of. I had two older brothers, and one married older sister, so I had plenty of guys to talk to or play football with or whatever. They did all the fatherly things. Beside, my father’s absence wasn’t too conspicuous, because growing up in the time of world war two meant most fathers were gone too. It was only later, when the war had been over for two years, making me ten, that I realized that everyone’s father was either back or dead. I asked my brothers, Louie, who was 13, and Joey, who was 16. They said not to ask. Finally, I cornered my mom in the kitchen one night, turned off the radio, and looked her straight in the eye. I asked one question. “Is my dad dead?” she sobbed, and I thought the worst of it, but she said “no, honey. He’s not dead”. She hugged me, tight, and kept crying. Then I asked again, “where’s is he then?” then she cried some more, and said she didn’t know how to tell me. Then she said to go to bed. I would’ve argued but she had that look in her eye, so off I went. He came back when I was twelve and we were worlds away. At first I didn’t know it, but I would find out later he’d just been in jail. Ten year sentence, for murder. The exact circumstance escapes me, but I know it involved the mob, which had some influence over us, though not much compared to its reach over our two sister towns, but enough to cause crime. When he came back, my mom said he was different. It made no difference to me, cause I didn’t remember him. For me, it was the same as meeting a stranger. I kept coming and going as I always did, and though at first my dad tried to discipline me, and tried to establish a new order, he soon gave up and took to the bottle. One morning, around eleven or so, I trotted up the front steps of my house, having dumped my bike on our lawn, to find my father drinking on our porch. I immediately stopped my fast, noisy pace, and tried to tip toe into the house. I had a fairly good chance, the porch was shadowed, n my dad probably in a stupor. I knew better than to just brush past. he would find offence in that and I’d catch a backhand, his preferred form of punishment, especially on me, as I got in trouble much more often than my brothers, and the fact that I didn’t care annoyed him all the more. Truth was I did care, but never showed it. He never used full fore, and the sting wore of quickly. Besides, I had come to term with my father existence and the fact that he as a felon by avoiding him as much a possible, and my existence continued much as it was before. That day, I nearly made it to the door when “Dean! C’mere.” I went, reluctantly. I sat net to him, the white wicker chair to big for me. We sat and he drank, and suddenly his head lolled and I thought he’d fallen asleep. I was about to go, when, “You know, I’m hard on you Dean. But you boys, you grew up lawless. We did too, my Pa did time too. You know, in jail, you get to thinking. Especially in solitary. Did most of my time in solitary Dean, did you know that?” I stayed quiet. This talk was giving me an uncomfortable feeling, that sort of flipping in your stomach, when something’s about to go wrong. We were finally acknowledging the elephant in the room, and I was scared. In fact, it was probably the longest conversation I’d ever had with my father. “You know how that happened? Probably my second year in, I got in fight Dean. With some bad guys. My being Italian, our being Italian, made it worse, ya know? I’ve always been proud of it though, so has your ma. Don’t you forget boy, you’re an Innocenzi. But, to keep me safe, keep my alive, I got sent to solitary. You think a lot there sons. The thought, their like maggots. Worms. In your brain. And they fall on your face, all wet and nasty and they suffocate. For those long, long years I tried to keep ’em at bay, but God, it was so hard and I was so tired. And I thought, when I got out, when I got back to my family they would go away. But they don’t. They fester, and burrow and consume.” We sat in silence, and I heard him breathe heavily. I was afraid he would die. The day turned to night before us. I never understood why he told me what he told me, but I think he needed to exorcise his demons. In the humidity of the early hours of the night, I heard my father whisper for the first and only time “I love you, son”. Then he passed out and I went inside to sit with my mother.

The Date

When they reach the restaurant, it is only eight, but the night life is going strong. It’s the way of the city, always on, all the time, lights flashing, girls dancing. They’re going to some fancy new French restaurant, because he really likes her, and he tries hard on second dates. First dates he think, are destined for failure. Both parties are like the Titanic’s captain, bravely staying at the helm even thought there’s no way the ship won't go down. There are silences, and awkwardness, and verbal blunders. But eventually, if things go well, something might click. Something worth exploring, which is why date number two happens. So he for this second date, though he’s nervous, because she isn’t talking much. But she’s got a nice laugh, and a pretty little body, all golden and Asian, and straight black hair and a nice red dress and diamond earrings. They get to the door and the annoying guy in a tux at the door informs hi they have no reservation in his name. “What?” he says. He’s sure he called. They wont be let in. he argues, and the girl shifts her weight from one foot to another. “Well…Mr. Wolf did call for a reservation, and he is late. Very late.” “Good. Well if he doesn’t come well…I mean stuff happens. Sometimes you can’t make it.” the doorman says he’d gladly take Wolf’s reservation, for a price. The man flushes deep red, but takes the deal. They sit, and order, and an uncomfortable silence soon descends on the table, like a buzzard on a cactus, an ominous sign in old Westerns. They eat, silent, and next to them, a flambé trick goes horribly wrong, and the dinners stare dully at the burning table cloth. Then comes dessert, and he think second dates might be worse than first one. In the kitchen, it seems a cockroach was discovered, and people run, shrieking and tripping, and the chef runs out, met cleaver n hand, wailing “Come back! Come BACK!” He stares down at his dish. He’s blown it. Her hand slides across the tabletop and lands on his. She smiles, and reveals perfect tiny white teeth. “Thank you, Paul. I’ve had a great time.” He smiles back. Next to them, the charred remains of a table are still smoking.