Wayfaring Waters

            Even on these days when the rain comes down like wet warfare, I find myself smiling. The highway splashes. I listen for the sound of my tires making waves, and I daydream of sea foam. I miss the expanse of a great, deep blue. I miss the way the air wiggles in the summer heat; the mist napping on the beach in the morning. I even miss the hurricanes. I miss these things all the more knowing over half my life was spent wading in warm waters with my wife.

-- ~ --        

                When Connie passed, my devastation ate me alive. My face locked up in anguished positions, and my cheeks were always shiny with saline. I cradled various possessions on the floor, lurching back to forth until a new item caught my eye. I wanted most to be standing naked on the deck of our first place. I would have been white-knuckled around a bottle of gut-rot. I would have been yelling at the frigid October night. I wanted to feel as cold as her lips were to my kiss. This time of year, home would be quite chilly. In this beautiful delusion of mine, my mind would have been betting on hypothermia, but my skin would start to sting long before it ever overcame.

               It was the different sting of a scolding shower which brought me back to sanity. Two days after Connie refused to wake up, I left Florida for home.

               As much as Connie and I felt privileged to be in paradise, we yearned to go back to old stomping grounds. Between her writing and my teaching, there seemed to be no time for nostalgia. We had vacationed with the kids in 89', but never made it back. A few months ago, Connie suggested we visit since the kids had been grown and out of the house for years. We both acknowledged our approaching golden age, and started making plans. Connie was more excited than I'd seen her since her in ages.

               After ice cream in bed, Connie kissed me and held my hand for the last time on a quiet Thursday evening.

               This woman was my absolute tether to life as I knew it. Without her I felt like I might blow away. I wanted to be home with her.

-- ~ --         

               As we merge closer to our childhood, the sky splits open. By the time I see a glimmer of sun for the first time today, I'm well within the borders of Canada. Seven hours have disappeared since I left my hotel in Kalispell, and I have only stopped twice. My thermos is as empty as my bladder is full. I reach for my sunglasses on the passenger's seat, notice my hand, and wonder if I've developed new liver spots over night. Once on, the shades make the sun seem less important. Right now a urinal holds more meaning..

               A sign depicting a telephone, a pick-nick table, and a toilet tell me to merge right in two miles. When I pull in to the rest stop, I see one available space. Canadian Thanksgiving has brought out more hoards to the highways than usual. As I turn into the space, a skinny, young man with an untrimmed blonde beard sits on the curb. He stands up out of my way, waving. I wave back to gesture my thanks, put the truck in park, and turn the music down. I step out holding my thermos, lock the door, and I'm ready to stretch when I hear an abrupt hello.

               “Sir, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you won't be needing that thermos.” The young man from the curb stands crooked holding a vintage suitcase, and an army duffel bag is strapped to his wiry frame.

               “Pardon me son? Why would that be?”

               “Well, there's no coffee here. I've been hanging 'round here trying to catch a ride for like four hours now, and I'm guessing close to a dozen people have asked me where the coffee is. Not sure why they ask me...maybe it's the friendly face?” He smiles and points out his chin as if to ask my opinion. He holds out his hand to shake. “Name's Jim. Just thought I'd save you the trouble, you know?”

               I take his hand in a hardy grasp. “Thank you Jim. Much appreciated. I'll just have to wait until Princeton.” I backpedal towards the bathrooms saying, “Thanks again for the advice.”

               “Sir, I wonder...well, was wondering if I could possibly hitch a ride with you? I don't need to go too far, just to the next town where I might find a truck stop. I've been asking people all day, but I'm getting a lot of cold shoulders, even from the people who asked me for coffee. And I haven't seen a single semi stop here at all. I won't be a nuisance, and I could ride in the back since you've got a topper.” His eyes shoot to the ground and back to mine with nervous anticipation like he already knows my answer. Poor boy looks like he hasn't eaten in three days. “I swear I won't be any trouble.”

               I think I surprise him when I say sure. “Why not.” I shrug. He immediately catches up to what, I'm positive, is his usual level of charisma.

               “Thank you, thank you. I knew I'd catch a break eventually. People just don't like hitchers these days, you know. Which, I get that, and this isn't a regular habit or anything. Just headed to Vancouver after running out of money in the states.” He takes his duffel off and picks up his suitcase; dead-set to make his way to the tailgate.

               “Oh, hold up there son, a dinosaur like me can only lug so much water. Why don't you just wait here. I'll be right back.” I give him a pat on the shoulder as I make my way past him. Too cautious, he sets his luggage back down. I tell him in passing to let me worry about his stuff. “I've got a few things cluttering up that truck bed. Let me do some rearranging first.”

                Feeling lighter, I walk back to the parking lot. I watch Jim light a cigarette, and I'm relieved. “Ah, good. You're a smoker yourself. That will make this more fun. I could actually use the conversation. I'm headed to Vancouver too, so we'll have some time to get to know one another.”

                “You don't want me to hang in the back?”

                “No, no. Now why would I make you do that? Boy, I'm not afraid of hitch-hikers. I hitched all around the provinces before I met my wife. Couldn't do it now, of course. Varicose veins, gout, and laziness get the best of me these days.” I chuckle. I'm amazed at my mood considering the week's events. My decision, it seems, was a healthy one. I look forward to another voice disrupting the sounds of weather while I finish my drive west. “Almost forgot, it's good to meet you Jim, I'm Percy.”

                Jim and I settle in our seats after I load his things in the bed, and we leave the coffee-less rest stop behind. The stereo's volume is as faint as the light still trying to sneak its fingers down from heaven.

-- ~ --       

                “Kudos for Dylan.” Jim slices through a moderately uncomfortable quiet.

                “Well surprise, surprise. A young man who can appreciate good songs. You and I, we're gonna get along just fine.” I really am pleasantly surprised.

                A nod of affirmation slides by my peripheral. “Oh, yes sir. I like all kinds of music, but I respect the greats as my primary influences.”

                “Let me guess, you're a musician?”

                Jim laughs and says, “I suppose that's a word I should use more often to describe myself.” I get the sense he's his own worst critic. Most artists are. I can relate.

                “I used to feel that way when I painted.”

                “You paint?”

                “Used too.” I correct.

                “Why did you stop? If I can ask.” I can tell his interest is genuine.

                I think about his inquiry for a moment, and only one appropriate answer comes to mind. “Oh, I suppose for the same reason you have trouble calling yourself a musician.”

                A rank smell accumulates quickly in the cab without warning.

                "Damn, that's a good one." One look at my passenger, and I know the fumes need to escape. I put our windows down to keep the stench away from Jim as to avoid observing his curled-up facial muscles.

                The onslaught eventually decays from the cab and flies out into the Canadian breeze. "My god, that was putrid. Didn't smell like any skunk I've ever hit. Jesus, I think my nose hairs have been singed off." Jim's reaction is worth at least a smile. So, I smile some more.

                Jim glances a few times at Connie's picture on my visor. Black threads of thick hair cascade and look unnaturally dark in this picture. I can feel him eying it. I wait for the next question with the patience of a father.

                “So Percy, you mentioned your wife. Where is she on this road trip of yours?” There it is.

                “Well Jim, she passed away just last week.” That sounds so strange to say, it wrestles on the way out and almost pins my tongue.

                “S**t. Percy, I'm so sorry...I...I didn't know...that's none of my business. I shou...”

                “Awe, now don't you worry about that. It's fine. I'm taking her back home. That's the plan, anyway.”

                Jim sits so still and quiet, it's like he's resting on a mine and knows it. He finally speaks up. “I'm sorry for your loss. I mean it. You were kind enough to pick me up, and I go and run my mouth.”

                “Jim, don't you worry about it. We had a blessed life together." I try and think of ways to describe Connie's unadulterated beauty. Instead I sound as if I were talking about a dead pet bird. "She went peacefully. Not much more to say about it.” I look over to see Jim with his hand propped up on his elbow holding his forehead. His eyes are closed. He looks incredibly disappointed in himself.  “Why don't we smoke another cigarette and converse about something else. Tell me more about yourself, Jim. How old are you?”

-- ~ --     

                Jim says he's twenty four. He goes on to tell me about his studies in music theory, and our discussion delves deeper into subjects less dramatic than my dead wife. At length, we begin a banter, name-dropping bands and song-writers left and right. We compare the weather from different climates we've lived in. Some of these places we share in common, such as Florida, Oregon and Montana. We talk about good times for the most part. Some s**t days do come up here and there, but they evaporate in the laughter-glow.

                For every story of public intoxication he throws out, I have four more far more spectacular than he could fathom. I mention a handful, and we yuck it up for miles down the soggy road. We talk little about the grand topics like life, love and the pursuit of happiness. We don't speak much about the weights of the world either; no politics or religion, and we only have need for tiny bits of personal detail. Jim and I both are content with comedy; content enough to forget about a coffee refill. A few more squished skunks berate us enough to chain smoke and keep the windows down.

                Our traveling-time flies through jest, but I've still found time to reminisce. I think about my wife in between sentences. The good news is Jim has turned out to be an entertaining fellow with which I find common ground. We seem to be fond of each other.

                We're almost home; all three of us.

-- ~ --

                Dusk creeps up in leaps. The temperature drop is drastic, and a robust headwind kicks in. All but void of engine noise, the tread-less highway darkens like an ambush. It happens so fast, Jim says it feels like night is coming after us.

                Our throats are soar from gurgling funny monologues and Parliament smoke, so we agree to stretch our legs in a town about three-forths the way between the rest stop and our fabled destination.

                As we pull in to a station, my lit up gauge shows a few slashes above a quarter tank. With an index and a middle, I hold down the "up" buttons for both of our windows at the same time out of habit. Jim and I step out to immediately dig our knuckles and thumbs into our aching kidneys.

                "Key-lime pie." I hear Jim whisper with wonder like a bulimic at a pick-nick. "Percy, Percy. My new found friend, I know we're close, but if we don't take advantage of $1.99 slices of homemade key-lime pie...I might never forgive you."

                Big, doughy, puppy-dog eyes guilt me into saying yes. "I could use a cup of coffee anyway." I really could too. Just one will help me along this last stretch of road to home.

                After what Jim and I both considered mediocre pie and muddy coffee, we are ready to see Vancouver. We're in the diner for no more than an hour, only to return to an awful odor inside the truck.

                "Wow. Okay, we gotta have some remnants of run-over road-kill stuck to the tires or something. Man, that's bad." Jim must have one hell of an over-sensitive olfactory perception 'cause I've been sniffing in this stuff for hundreds of miles, and I'm not complaining.

                "Let's just get on with it. We'll air out for a while. It'll pass. I need a smoke to make me forget about this regrettable lime taste in my mouth, and that'll help." I see no reason to make a big stink out of a little stink.

                Thirty minutes into the final leg, the scent lingers. Jim swears it's getting stronger. He might be right.

                "It smells like it's right in here with us...like it's seeping out the walls, man." He's gonna ask me to stop soon. "Seriously Percy, is that not making you want to throw up?"

                "No, I mean...It's a little bothersome, but what can we do. I'm honestly more concerned with putting my feet in some ice." I can feel them swelling.

                "I'm fearing for my sanity right now. It's so, so bad." Jim holds his stomach casually and tries to focus on the countryside out the window. But he's tapping his fingers on the armrest. He's making me antsy. "Percy, buddy, we gotta stop. I mean, something is either clinging to your undercarriage or some fluids have ruptured under the hood...I don't know. Unless you've got an irritable bowl you're not telling me about, something has gone funky with your truck." Jim decides his head is better served hanging out the window.

                "The truck's fine, Jim. Now let's just sit back and relax for the next hour and a half, shall we?" Jim looks concerned. "More Dylan's what we need."

                I put Blonde on Blonde on and leave the rest up to chance.

                "Oookay, stop the truck Perc." Jim distorts into a fetal pose and begins rocking with his arms crisscrossed around his guts. He looks like he's giving it all he's got to keep them from spilling out. I'd rather his vomit be outside my truck, so I veer right with patience, and at about five miles per hour, Jim erupts out the door and out of the mouth almost simultaneously. Some orange-ish spray spots my inner door paneling, but I'm glad to hear the chunks meet the pavement with a splat.

                I ask Jim if he's okay, and he pulls the door closed shaking his head and wiping his mouth.

                "Not really Percy. We've got to figure out where this smell is coming from. Don't you think?"

                I'm presented with a reasonable question from a reasonable man, but I have no reasonable answer to give. "I'm sorry Jimmy. There's nothing we can do about the smell. I've tried to keep everything as aired-out as possible. I've tried to make this trip with haste, but it's just time for it to catch up. It's only natural." I try to look as a-matter-of-fact as I can for him.

                "Wait. So, you know what's causing it?" He asks me with a mystified raise of the eyebrows.

                "Well sure, that's my wife."

                Jim squints, and his eyes beg for explanation. "Alright. Now I'm serious Percy, we might have a real problem with our ride here. Stop joshing around. You got a flashlight anywhere?"

                For some reason, I can't help but smile. "Nah, I'm not trying to pull one over on you, and I'm telling you, Connie would throw a fit if she knew you could smell her. Poor thing'd be so embarrassed." Jim says nothing. I say nothing. Neither of us speak for a good minute; just watch Jim stare at my sincerity with utter curiosity. "Come on out here, and I'll show you."

                I step out of the truck and make my way to the tailgate. I hear Jim unlatch his door and shut it with the timid softness of an advantageous skeptic. His footsteps stroll around to me. I can tell he's nervous by how deep his hands dive into his jean pockets.

                When I lift the back window up from the gate to show Jim my wife's temporary resting place, I'm not surprised to see him spatter more bile on the pavement.

                "Holy s**t." Jim stands back up from his bent-over position and peers inside for a closer look. He must be shocked to see an emaciated corpse on a mattress covered by hand-crafted quilts. He must think I'm dangerously insane to have a copy of Hamlet resting on her chest and open to a specific scene. (The scene was Connie's favorite. It's the scene where Ophelia goes ape-s**t over her brother's death and rambles on about flowers). I wonder if her typewriter or the family portraits make him uneasy. I start to wonder how Jim is feeling about any of these personal effects I've used to decorate. The hairbrushes; the clothes and shoes; how 'bout the tulips I've hung and dried on the roof? I only wanted to keep Connie comfortable. I thought it was enough to bare, just dying in the first place. Her face was pruned up, stiff and darkening with rigor mortis, but she still looks at peace. Good old Jim must see me as a loon for never closing her eyes.

                "Connie made those quilts herself. She's made so many over the years, I don't know what to do with them all. I made the bed the way she liked it, and I covered the windows, hoping the dark would keep it cool back here. I figure I'll just cremate them right along with her." Now I shove my hands in my pockets too.

                "Percy...wh...I don't know what to say." Jim just held his hands behind his head so his elbows pointed out. His eyes refused to meet mine. I suppose at this point in our relationship they were less alarmed by the tar on the road. He stood, biting his lips and shaking his head looking passed me. "So what? What would possess a person to take their dead wife on a road-trip to Canada? Why wou...I can't believe they let you do this."

                "Who's they?"

                "The police; the hospital; the f****n' funeral home, for Christ's sake. And what about the rest of your family? Huh? How do they feel about this?" Jim finally looks me in the eyes.

                I wave my hand down to signal 'no matter', and I burp more key-lime up, almost gagging. "Aw, they don't know quite yet. Actually, know one does but you and me, partner."

                Jim cackles, slaps his knee, and stomps his feet all while leaning over. On is way back up, however, I'm bewildered to see him crying. "You mean to tell me, your kids have no idea that their mother is dead, and you, their father,  are on your way to take her rotting body back to, what? Her childhood home? And, and you just took off without telling any authorities? I mean, Percy, you really have got to be kidding. Tell me you're kidding."

                I can't tell him that. "I am in fact doing just that, son. My children don't need to know just yet. They have very busy lives, and I need to prepare them for this. My wife was...well, she was a gift. She was the glue for piecing their world together; the drug to keep me from tearing mine apart." I understand perfectly well why Jim is disturbed. What I do not understand is why I should be disturbed. I would do anything for Connie. She knew that.

                Jim seems to recollect his train of thought, but even being less frantic, I can see I've lost his trust. He may even fear me.

                "How do I know you didn't kill her yourself? How do I know you're not running?"

                "I suppose you don't. Not for sure. But I can give you my word."

                Jim peers for eons into my soul without seeing what he wants. He reaches in the bed and pulls out his suitcase and duffel with a hurried anxiety. He's adamant and abrupt. "I can't do that Percy. Sorry."

                While walking backwards, Jim glares at me like a prey animal would a potential predator in the high grass. Before he turns his back, he's roughly thirty yards progressed in the wrong direction. I light up, stand there watching him leer his head around with rapid repetition while my mind wanders to a firm mattress with clean sheets. I decide to shove on. "Almost there, baby." And with the rear shut and locked, my knees whine at me for bending on my way into the driver's seat. My brain disappoints me with a ting of regret for running off my only external stimulation.

-- ~ --

                It's really too bad Jim was so judgmental, but I most certainly don't blame him. He was only reacting the way he thought he should. He's a good kid. I believe he's awakened more affects of my pathology than I care to concentrate on, but in a way, Jim's presence happened to scatter the shining light upon my wife's life further into color. I'm reminded of long drives and trips with Connie; many times with the kids. Much of our life before them, Connie and I often found solace on the road, traveling somewhere we were afraid we'd miss. When we were still wet behind the ears and making love enough to madden, we could romanticize any trip. We could morph an errand to the market into some fantastical excursion of which would be recollected time and time again as our wrinkles set in. I was alone with her.

                 Right now I miss the conversation. I miss the humor; the laughter. I've still got the cigarettes, but I only bother with my window. The passenger's stays up. I drift in the road from drowsy eyes, and my memories commandeer my thoughts like a virus in a ruptured host. All and every one of my sensory perceptions is slurped up by a nostalgic renaissance. I miss the lapping of the tide along the Straight of Georgia. I miss the way the mist blankets the napping shores. I miss the icy northern breeze spitting snow down my collar while I kiss her under a streetlamp.

             On wintry nights far inside my soul, the deep blue turns black to keep the waters cold.  I wade into murky shallows and find her beckoning me. Young in form and shape; vibrant as an aurora. Her elegant hands grasp each side of my jaw with angelic tenderness to guide me to supple, ruby lips. We lag in the sea air as our weightless bodies retreat into the pitch, slowly tipping backwards; toppling over like a pair of dominoes until we disappear. We make no sound; no splash. We barely break the surface tension.

                While we wait for the ripples to radiate outward and calm, my life staggers back onto the highway. And as the tie-dyed horizon of home peeks above the trees, I taste saltwater draining down my throat.