1994

Chapter 2

Ka-blunk.

                Drumbeats on a flat metal roof echoed over the sweet chaos of a dream where flowers were blooming and the sun was shining. There were rainbows and smiles and warm cookies. There were promises unbroken and moments that stretched into eternity.  And laughter, everywhere laughter.  My mind had detached and floated a million miles from my body, could’ve hung like a moon in a sky of blissful lucidity - if only it weren’t for those damn drums.

                Ka-blunk, blunk.

                KA-BLUNK.

                “Elliot, what the Hell is that noise?”

                He pulled the flag quilt over his head in response. 

                A large pine had been planted so close to the shabby tin hut we called home that the top branches hung over the back of the trailer, right over our bedroom. Maybe that’s what it was. Pinecones falling.

                Blunk, blunk, blunk, blunk.

                Okay, four pinecones. Yep. That’s what it was.

                Blunk, blunk, blunk, blunk, blunk, blunk.

As it moved farther away, the sound scraped my nerves. What, were they rolling now? No. The trailer was level; it had that much going for it. Something else must be …

“Elliot!”

Eyes blood shot and deprived of sleep buggered out of their sockets as my blushing groom bounded to life. In one fluid jump he was upright, hoisting his Scooby shorts up over boney hips. He looked at me with a desperate confusion mutating quickly into anger. Of course, it was the absence of affection that spawned the true fear in my heart.  

I made my voice small, “There’s something on the roof.”

A chill hit me just then, though I understood that it had not suddenly wafted into the room. I’d merely been dreaming it away. The dampness of spring clung to the stale carpeting and filled my nostrils with a musty stench that wrinkled my nose. Drawing my knees toward my chest, I huddled into my own quilt and blinked at Elliot with as much innocence as I could muster.

He didn’t look at me. Instead he sat down on the bed and rubbed at his temples with his fingertips, smoothing down the stress veins that had formed on his forehead.  The room was stone silent, save for the numbers peeling upward on the clock radio. Nothing ka-blunked above us, not even a patter of soft rain. I held my breath.

“I don’t hear anything,” he said.

“It was there.”

“Well, it’s gone now,” his voice was thick with morning phlegm, which he hacked up and spit into an empty soda can. If he wasn’t already irritated, I might’ve taken a moment to preach about the evils of smoking. Instead I bit my bottom lip and pushed the emerging teardrops back into their ducts.

Don’t you cry.

The flag quilt was Elliot’s. Grandma May had stitched it for her firstborn grandchild in the year of the bi-centennial.  He rolled into it like a cocoon and threw his head onto the pillow. I stretched myself out beside him, my swollen belly heaving like a dying whale with each tightly drawn breath, and stared at a stain on the ceiling.

Minutes passed. Was he asleep? Eyes cast to the right, I could see the shallow movement of his chest ring and falling under the parade of spangled stars and stripes. I fought the urge to fill the treacherous silence with my own whiny voice. Sleep wouldn’t be finding me; it was content to have enchanted one occupant of the double bed. The sun was up. Grandma May had sent bacon and eggs home, if only I could figure out how to prepare such  things.

Ka-blunk.

If he was awake, he was ignoring it.

Ka-blunk, blunk, blunk.

“Ell - "

“I hear it,” he snapped.

The tears poured over my cheeks in silence, and I turned onto my side, letting them wet my pillow. My heartbeat pounded in my ears louder than the falling pinecones  - or whatever the Hell they were " and the taste of homesickness filled my mouth like an unquenchable  thirst.

Blunk, blunk, blunk, blunk, blunk.

The right side of the bed dipped furiously as Elliot vaulted out of it, rolling me toward the center of the droopy mattress. He exploded through the doorway, yanking a pair of jeans out of the hamper and stomping down the hall hard enough to shake the floor. I sat up and let my eyes follow the sound, as if ceiling tiles might suddenly become a window to unveil the mystery of the tuneless drums.

I expected to hear the front door slam, but it didn’t. No more angry footsteps, no jingling of keys. No sound at all.

Still dressed in yesterday’s clothes, I unfurled myself from the bedding and followed Elliot’s trail. The bathroom door stood half open, as did the door to the baby’s room. The living room was as gray and devoid of life as every other, still cluttered with boxes that hadn’t been unpacked.

Three day old beard and unlit cigarette dangling, I found him in the kitchen putting his boots on. Caked dirt flaked from the soles and landed on the gray indoor/outdoor carpeting that someone had efficiently used to line the floor of our entire home. Black grease marked the rungs of my cheap white chairs, which grieved even his modest weight. He was a troll in a paper castle.

“Outta coffee,” grumbled the troll.

“I’ll make some.”

I moved toward the pot my father had conveniently deemed unusable the week I’d moved out, and subsequently replaced with a brand new model. Ignoring the dried puddle of brown gook that had formed under it, I lifted the plastic lid.

“I just told you, we’re out.”

“I thought you meant the pot was empty,” I let a trace of irritation slip into my voice, “I pulled a double shift at the restaurant yesterday, so I didn’t get to the store.”

“Great.”

“I can get it with the food stamps.”

“Not before I have to be at work.”

“You want me to go right now?” I asked with an absurdly placed tone of threat, “Cause I can get in the car and go to the damn store right now.”

“Whatever.”

Then he was gone. For good this time? I closed my eyes and waited for the sound of a motor revving, but it didn’t come. A car door slammed somewhere. Not our trailer. Most likely that s****y girl across the road who was always coming over to borrow sugar, flour, and other items she didn’t know what to do with. She’d be leaving to take the next shift at the mini mart soon, in painted-on jeans and blue smock with a nametag over a tank top. She never wore anything with sleeves that might cover the crudely inked butterfly on her left shoulder.  I wondered if Elliot was watching her.

When I opened my eyes again, I noticed his carabineer keychain was sitting in front of me. Something had spilled on it. The keys were stuck to the glass tabletop. Oh, Hell. I pried them up and ran them under warm water, scrubbing at the ridges of the “ick” with my nails.

Still no engine noises. He probably just went outside to smoke, he’d been doing that since we found out about the baby. Elliot was - could be - a decent guy. I’d written a mile of poetry about him when we were first married and stashed it under the bed for safe keeping. When I pulled it out again, a pile of girly magazines spilled out with it. Carefully, neatly, I had put them all back. I threw the poems away.

                Why did I care if he came back at all?

He wasn’t the only guy in the world. Lord knew, I’d never had trouble finding a boyfriend. Even with this inflated beach ball under my uniform, plenty of guys hit on me every day when I came to take their order.  I’d lose the weight soon enough. My hair was growing out faster than I’d expected, it nearly reached my chin already. I could get some make up. I could be pretty again.

I tore off a paper towel and patted the keys dry with shaking hands, mind racing. The electric wasn’t much, but the gas bill had been high over the winter. No insulation in this tin can. But it would be probably be ok. I could afford the lot rent with what I made in tips alone, and once the baby came Elliot would be ordered to pay support.

My stomach churned as a vision floated through my head of my future-self lugging an infant carrier up the rickety porch steps and entering a cold house. Tucking him into the crib Grandma May had bought… Would she let me keep it or would it go with Elliot, wherever he went?  I fought to swallow the lump that was left of my heart as it ascended into my throat.

The front door opened and shut again with a bang so loud I felt my heart skip. He didn’t leave. He didn’t leave me. I was suddenly nauseated by a backwash blend of relief and disappointment.  Or maybe it was just morning sickness.

Elliot filled the tiny doorframe in his flannel and work boots, head nearly grazing the low, crooked arch that separated living room from kitchen.

                “Squirrels.”

                I looked at him blankly.

                “On the roof,” he said with a faintly apologetic smile. He kissed my cheek and took the keys from my hand, “Squirrels.”

Reviews

[Cari Lynn Vaughn]

Wow, this is very detailed and vivid. Definitely something I would pick up at the book store or library. I could easily see the characters and felt for them immediately. You captured the angst of not only the era, but many young relationships. Great job! Keep up the good work.