Can You Hear Me Now

I can barely conceive of a type of beauty in which there is no Melancholy.

Charles Baudelaire

Foster’s Creek

Few mourned when Clarence Findley died. He did not live a life that endeared him to many people. Clarence Findley was a hard drinking, mean spirited cuss of a man, and you could count on one hand the number of people who weren’t glad to see him go. As the news of his death made its way around the town of Foster’s Creek most were heard to mutter, “Finally.” A few, like Reverend Gibson, were a little more generous with their public sorrow, but in the privacy of his own mind even the good reverend was thankful he would not be seeing Clarence again.

Mary Findley, his widowed wife, met his death with the same stoicism she’s shown for the past 45 years. She called the mortician and made plans for Clarence’s funeral as if she were buying 15 yards of cloth to make new curtains. And like those curtains, the casket she chose was modest and plain. Mary Findley was not one to throw good money at something that would soon be rotting six feet under the ground.

The funeral itself was as sparse and unadorned as the simple, wooden box Clarence was laid to rest in. Reverend Gibson read the Bible verses one would read for someone you hadn’t much to say about. Not much good, that is. “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” In the end that pretty much summed up the entire service and sadly, Clarence’s life.

When the casket was finally lowered into the ground and the few relatives and friends who attended the burial said their final goodbyes, Mary Findley stood alone at the grave and looked down at it expressionless. It was a late autumn day and a cold wind blew through the cemetery scattering the leaves that lay at Mary’s feet. She gathered her coat close to her body and pushed her gloved hands deep into her pockets. After a few minutes she turned to walk to her children who were gathered at their cars. Two steps later she stopped, turned back towards the coffin and in a near whisper said, “It could have been so much more.” Seconds later she added, “It should have been, you old fool.”

Mary Findley turned again and returned to her family to hear her oldest son, Jacob, talking about how he planned on planting a few acres of sunflowers next year. Although she couldn’t exactly say why, this seemed to be the most profound thing she’d heard in a long time.

Bela

Bela stood on the porch and gazed across the snow covered fields. The night air was so cold that breathing hurt his lungs. From inside the house he could hear shouting. Once again his father came home stinking of whiskey and was running through his nightly litany of complaints against the world. His boss was an ass, his coworkers were morons, and his wife a nagging bitch. Bela had heard it all before and despite the freezing air, he stepped out into the yard to find a little peace.

The night sky was free of clouds and the stars seemed particularly bright. When he was younger, Bela would imagine that some of the stars were actually spaceships hovering high overhead. He would concentrate as hard as he could in hopes that one of the space aliens would pick up his brainwaves and recognize his call to come take him away from his house and family. As a teenager, Bela now outwardly laughs at such childish thoughts, while the inner reaches of his mind continues to send out cries for help.

A loud crash erupted from inside the house jarring him from his daydream. Bela stood frozen in anticipation of the next explosion, but none came. Returning to the porch he peeked through a break in the curtains to see if both his mother and father were still standing. He breathed a white, steamy sigh of relief as he saw his mother stoop to pick up the pieces of a broken plate as his father stormed into the bedroom. This was often the way their fights ended and he knew that his father would soon be asleep and snoring nearly as loud as his shouting.

Bela turned towards the frozen fields and the sky that seemed so low as to kiss the snowy ground. He knew he was too old for such silly games, but he looked up in the hope of seeing one of the stars start a slow and deliberate descent to earth. There would be no running for cover – no cries of terror. He was ready to go. Bela closed his eyes and sent out distress signals as far as his mind could reach.

William the Conqueror

William Harper had gotten to the point where he could no longer count the number of affairs, dalliances, and stolen kisses he’d had over the 25 years of his marriage. Occasionally he would try and run their names through his head, but he would always lose track somewhere along the way. Did he already count Carol? Did Mary come before or after Joanne and what was the name of the dark haired woman in Chicago? He thought about writing their names down in chronological order, but that was more than he was willing to acknowledge. Names in his head seemed less sinful than names on a piece of paper.

He was pretty sure that his wife, Karen, knew he was less than virtuous, but it was unknown to what extent she was aware of his indiscretions. Every so often in a fit of guilt he thought about breaking down and telling her everything, but where would he start? After so much philandering how could he possibly explain that those women didn’t mean anything to him? If she came to him with a similar confession would he even begin to understand? The dishonest half of him said “yes,” while the truthful half knew that he would call her every variation of the word slut he could come up with. As he pondered this he realized that besides perhaps “gigolo,” he couldn’t come up with a single male equivalent.

The ironic thing is that those women didn’t mean anything to him. Yes, he told a few that he loved them, but it was more of a guilty love. By saying, and perhaps thinking, that there was love, William felt less dirty – less of the cad he knew he really was. If there was love there was a purity that didn’t exist in a simple physical relationship. With love you can justify the money spent, the lies told, and the integrity squandered.

But it wasn’t love and any real emotion ended at the tip of his penis. He was in love with the chase, the conquest, and the vanquishing, and immediately after his sexual climax he was ready to go home to his wife and kids. It was only then that he felt any remorse over his actions. Prior to ejaculation he was a train running full steam down the track and there was very little anyone could do to derail him from his chosen destination.

All this passed through his head as he sat at the bar trying to catch the eye of a tall, dark haired woman sitting all alone four stools to his left. As he told himself he wouldn’t make the same mistake again, he pondered what sort of opening line might work on this one. He took perverse pride in being able to size up a woman and in the rare case of a misguided choice in words, he was always able to turn on the charm and work his way out of a jam.

The bartender wiped down the bar. New patrons arrived and those who were ready to call it a night left. Someone dropped some money into the jukebox and country music filled the air. As he said to himself, “never again,” William Harper picked up his drink, put on a smile, and rose from the bar stool.

I could blame it on my parents
and their loveless marriage with six unloved children
Dad’s perpetual anger and Mom’s failure to run
I could count out the times I was ridiculed
abused
and left to fend for myself

But for what purpose
Dad is dead
Mom has been forgiven
and I am a child no more

Still, I have to wonder
and ask myself how I of all people
finds himself alone in the Viking Resort Motel
crying on the bed
once again