Rosary

I sat in the hospital hallway waiting for the battalion of nurses to leave Jonah’s room. The shiny white linoleum floor was cold. I dropped my head into my hands. My brain hurt.

“Excuse me,” the nurse said, tapping my shoulder.

I looked up. My eyes were so blurred with tears I could no longer see her beautiful crucifix I’d noticed when she’d drawn Jonah’s blood.

“He’s asking for you.”

“Thank you.”

I stood, wiped my face with a shirt sleeve, and did my best to smile as I entered Jonah’s room.

“Hey you,” I said.

“Hey baby,” he replied.

Jonah looked so small. He had shed over 50 pounds and the telltale lesions of his disease were visible on his chest and arms. He looked like a survivor of a concentration camp.

“How you feeling?”

“Just another day in paradise.”

With that, I cried. I’d brought him to the emergency room and now this was the last place I wanted him to be.

We’d returned that afternoon from a weekend trip to Wisconsin. Jonah was tired from the drive and laid down for a nap. After unloading the car, I joined him in bed. His chest rumbled like my great grandfather’s old John Deere. His face was flush with fever. It was time to go.

“I’m going to be fine. A round of steroids and some antibiotics, and I’ll be ready to go.”

“You think?”

“I know. Now come here.” Jonah patted the bed beside him.

I crawled in beside him. He adjusted his IV and draped his arm around me.

“You’re tired. Go home. Go to bed.”

“Don’t know if I can sleep alone.” I snuggled in closer.

“You’ll manage.” He kissed my nose.

“Alright, I’ll see you in the morning.”

“No, you need to go to school.”

“I want to be here.”

“You have a chem. test tomorrow and there are several lovely ladies ‘round here getting paid to take care of me.” He smiled with twinkling eyes. I knew he was looking forward to harassing the nurses.

“Okay, but I’ll be here tomorrow afternoon.”

“Go. Go to bed.”

“I love you.”

“Love you too.” He kissed my forehead and shooed me out of bed.

I stood and turned to leave.

“Wait,” he called.

I turned back to face him.

“Will you say a rosary with me before you go?”

I smiled. “I don’t have one with me.”

“Look in my jacket pocket.”

I went to the corner where his jacket hung, reached into his pocket, and pulled out his mother’s rosary. It was a simple silver crucifix with amethyst glass beads. Although his parents turned away from the Catholic Church, his mother still supported his faith.

Jonah took the rosary in one hand and my hand in the other. Together we said the prayers that had given us hope in the past.

“Our Father who art in heaven.”

Burning

The day had been sweltering and nightfall did not provide much relief. Thunderheads to the west pledged a night of fireworks.

I drove up to the house after an exhausting day at a family reunion. Jonah’s car was parked by the barn and the front door stood ajar. I walked into the house closing the screen door behind me. The house was quiet except the hum of box fans in every window.

“Jonah,” I called. No response.

The living room floor was a disarray of books, torn paper, and broken pencils. In the kitchen, the back door was stood open. I heard crackling and hissing from the back yard. I ran outside. Jonah was standing over the flaming burn barrel, tears streaming.

“What happened?” I asked.

Jonah looked away from the fire. “I checked the mail today.”

“Okay?”

“I haven’t checked it in two weeks.”

“And?”

“All of my envelopes were returned.”

Jonah had sent out several portfolios to publishers.

“All of them?”

“Seven returned envelopes, four rejection letters.”

“That’s okay. You hear all these stories about writers who could paper their walls with reject slips.”

“I’m done. I don’t have time to collect rejection letters,” he said squirting lighter fluid into the barrel. The flame danced higher.

I could see envelope corners poking up amongst the flames.

“What are you burning?” I asked anger heating my ears.

“All of it.”

“Everything you got in the mail today?”

“All of it, I don’t want to look at it anymore. Just another failed dream.”

“That was stupid,” I said heading into the house.

Jonah’s makeshift studio he’d set up in a spare bedroom was barren. Posters had been stripped from the walls. Piles of sketch pads were missing. Jars once holding pencils, pens, and markers were sat empty. The drafting table was folded up and stuck in the closet next to the story boards that once hung around the room like a wallpaper border. Shelves of art texts were empty except for a small stack of favourite novels.

I ran into the living room, gathered several of my journals off the shelf, and headed out to the fire.

“What are you doing?” Jonah asked as I tossed two of the small books into the fire. He didn’t know that they were empty. I grabbed the lighter fluid from his hand and sprayed the fire.

“Stop it,” he said.

I pitched another empty volume into the barrel, dropped the rest on the ground, and began skipping around the fire.

“What are you doing?” he screamed.

I stopped skipping. “What the fuck are you doing? Why are you giving up?”

“I’m not giving up. I’m … starting over,” he said.

Photo: LexxyThirteen

Fireworks

We pulled up to the house. The yard was brown and in need of mowing. The window flower boxes were empty. The scrubs flanking the sidewalk were wild and needed trimming.

“Has your mom been sick?” I asked as Jonah put the car in park and killed the engine.

“No. Why?” He asked

“The house looks sad like no one lives here.”

Jonah surveyed the house and yard as we walked up the flagstone path and rang the bell. “You’re right.”

Maureen answered the door in black suit pants with her pale blue silk blouse half untucked and a snifter in one hand. “Hey guys,” she said pulling us both into an enthusiastic embrace. The smell of liquor seemed to seep out of her skin.

“Wow. What’re you drinking?” Jonah asked stepping into the foyer.

“Just some of your dad’s cognac,” she said. “He won’t be home for awhile.”

“Where is he?” Jonah asked.

“At work. Where else would he be?”

We entered the parlor. The coffee table was a mess of magazines and empty wine glasses. I settled into an armchair moving more magazines onto the floor. Jonah sat on a nest of pillows on the floor. Maureen stood draining the rest of her glass.

“How rude of me. Would you like a drink?” she asked walking over to a roll-top desk she’d made into a make-shift bar.

“No thank you,” I said.

“Come on, Brigid,” she said refilling her glass from a Hennessy bottle. “You can’t let an old woman drink alone.”

“Isn’t that dad’s good stuff?” Jonah asked.

“Yeah, he was saving it for his first grandchild. And well … that’s not going to happen. You sure you don’t want a glass? He’ll be really pissed when he realizes it’s all gone.”

“Are the sprinklers broken?” Jonah asked.

“No. The lawn looks like shit, doesn’t it?” Maureen giggled settling into a sofa and cupping her glass to her bosom like a beloved child. She propped her feet on the coffee table digging a heel into the walnut finish.

“Mom, are you okay?” Jonah asked.

“What? Can’t a girl relax? It is a holiday.”

“Do you want to go see the fireworks, Maureen?” I asked.

“First of all, call me Mom,” she said leaning forward and staring at me.

“Okay,” I said holding her gaze. “Do you want to see the fireworks … Mom?”

“Fuck the fireworks.” With this she flicked her glass spraying cognac on the sofa and pale rug. Jonah jumped up and headed to the kitchen.

“Leave it,” she yelled at him. “It’s all your dad’s stuff anyway. Who cares if it gets stained?” She swirled the glass and sniffed. “This is so much better warmed up. It fills the palate.”

“Mom, what’s going on?” Jonah asked sitting on the couch next to her.

“Well, let me see. My son has finally met the love of his life and now he’s dying. My life has been spent being the trophy wife for a complete asshole who happens to be Xerox copy of my dad. Fucking abusive bastards. I think it’s high time that I have a little fun. Since I’ve married my father, I should turn into my mother, right?”
Maureen looked to me for an answer. Stunned, I was unable to offer her the affirmation she was looking for.

“Brigid, did you know my mom was an alcoholic?” she asked.

“No, I didn’t know that.”

“Alcoholism is the fate of Irish Catholic women with cocksuckers for husbands and they’re all cocksuckers. You can take my word on that one. I’ve got to use the restroom. Please excuse me.”

Maureen stood, wobbled, and headed for the bathroom. Jonah dropped his head.

“Is there anything we can do?” I asked.

“I don’t know. I’ve never seen her like this,” Jonah said as he stood and began pacing. “I’ve always wondered when this would happen.”

“Why’s that?”

“She’s too good for him. She’s smart and beautiful. She’s right. She’s turning into my grandma.” Jonah stopped pacing at the roll-top bar. He picked through the bottles shaking his head. “Nana was fine, leading the life of a lady, then one day she lost it. First she started drinking the cooking sherry, then cough syrup finally she knocking back bottles and bottles of Jamison whiskey. My mom’s too classy to drink cough syrup, so she picks two-hundred-bucks-a-bottle cognac.” Jonah picked up the Hennessy. It was a hefty glass bottle with the graceful curves of a Porsche traced by etched grapevines. He uncorked the top, sniffed it and winced. “Yuck.”

Jonah slid the roll down, locked it, stuffed the key into his pocket and peered out the window. “Shit, my dad’s home. Will you go check on my mom?”

“Sure.”

The guest washroom door was half-open. Maureen knelt on the floor, resting her head on the toilet seat: the alcoholics’ confessional. The aromas of whiskey, Thai food, and bile conspired to gag me. Stomach acid rose to the back of my throat.

“Maureen … Mom, David’s home,” I said kneeling beside her. She lifted her head and heaved. I rubbed her back as she puked. She put her head back down on the seat, snuggling with the porcelain.

I stood and searched the vanity’s drawers. A box of Alka-Seltzer hid under washcloths in the bottom drawer. I dropped the tablets into a Dixie cup and went back to rubbing her back as the medicine dissolved.

“Mom, you gotta drink this,” I said.

Maureen looked up at me, her eyes were dilated and bloodshot, vomit clung to her long chestnut hair and dripped from her patrician nose. She shook her head.

“Plop, plop, fizz, fizz,” I sung snagging a wad of toilet paper and wiping her nose.
She sat up, snatched the cup from my hands, and began drinking it. She stared at me like a child who’d finally been talked into taking her vitamins. I imagined Jonah sitting in this same position as a child fighting his Flintstones.

I grabbed a hairbrush and stroked her hair into a loose ponytail. I knew this was the wrong thing to do. I was an enabler, one of those people who help someone hide their alcoholism. I was pretending to be someone who would soften the resounding thud of an addict hitting bottom.

“Get up! David’s home,” I said lifting her to her unsteady feet.

“You mean my good for nothing, shithead husband,” Maureen said her breath smelled like a sewage treatment plant.

“That would be the one. Here rinse your mouth out,” I said.

She took the mouthwash from the cabinet: rinsed, swirled, and spit. I helped her tuck her shirt back in and we walked to parlor.

Photo:

Mud Slinging

“Jonah, where are we?” I asked.

“I’m not quite sure,” he replied.

It was the fourth of July and we were hiking Ledges State Park twenty miles from our house. We walked among the sandstone cliffs rising 100 feet above the floor of a streambed within the Des Moines River Valley. Thirteen miles of trails lead up and down steep slopes to overlooks. We’d forgone the traditional trails and followed the stream bed next to Pea’s Creek’s shrunken trickle.

“Do you think this is smart?” I asked hopping over a dribble heading to Des Moines.

“Don’t you trust me?” he said checking a compass against the topo map. “I am an Eagle Scout.”

“Okay, where do we go?”

“I think we should just follow the creek.”

“I think?”

“Come on, where’s your sense of adventure?”

“I left it back at the car,” I said pointing behind me. “About three miles back.”

Jonah smiled, ruffling his charcoal locks, causing his cowlick to stand up like a disgruntled rooster. “Let’s just keep going.”

“Alright, lead the way.”

“I prefer to walk behind you,” he said slapping my ass.

“Very funny,” I said taking the lead.

We continued trudging. The mud increased exponentially. My sandaled feet slopped and slogged through the mosquito breeding ground. My U2 tee and khaki shorts were no competition for the swarms. There was nary an inch on my body without a red welt.

“My mom wants us to stop over tonight and watch the fireworks,” Jonah said.

“Are we going?” I asked.

“I’d like to stop by.”

“Will your dad be there?” I asked. We’d crossed from deciduous forest into the flatlands of a cornfield leaving the park borders. We continued to follow the stream although it was now just a shallow ravine of irrigation run-off.

“Is he ever?” Jonah asked.


“Your dad hates me!” I said turning to face him. We were deep in a cornfield, locusts singing in the stagnant heat. The tree line of the park was no longer visible; nothing was visible but cornstalks and a dwindling gulch.

“And your parents hate me,” he yelled quieting the locusts. “What’s your point?”

“I’m not going,” I said looking around for any sign of a house or road. “I can’t face him again.”

“What is it?”

“Nothing,” I said hiking again. “It’s nothing,”

“You’re lying to me,” he said grabbing my hand spinning me around. I stumbled, broke a sandal strap and fell into the muddy creek. My left side was covered with black sludge.

“So fucking what,” I said flopping around in the mud. “You’re lying to yourself.”

“What?” he asked.

“Your father hates you too.”

Jonah turned from me and started plucking leaves off a nearby stalk.

“Why else would he deny you? Why would he push you out of his life? Why does your mom have to sneak around you?”

“Enough,” he said turning back to me. “I can’t help it. There’s nothing I can do.”

I stood up, wiped mud splatters off my face, and attended to my broken sandal. One of the straps pulled away from the foot bed. There was no hope of reattachment.

“Are you okay?” he asked reaching out to wipe muck off my arm. I pulled away. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Well, Mr. Eagle Scout, got any duct tape on ya?” I asked indicating his back pack.

Jonah looked at me for a moment before guffawing like a hillbilly cartoon character.

“What are you laughing at?” I screamed.

He continued laughing like a buffoon. Fury rose hot in my cheeks. I grabbed a handful of mud and slug it at him. His eyes were closed, the mud hit him mid-chest. Startled, he slipped and fell in the mud beside me, spraying me further. He was crying with delight.

“What’s so funny?” I asked beginning to giggle.

“Look at us!”

“Yeah. We’re lost and covered in mud.”

“Exactly,” Jonah said. “We’re both irritated but the only thing we have to fight about is our parents.”

“And?”

“I think it’s ridiculous that while fighting about their petty arguments we sound just like them.”

“You’re a real shit. Ya know that?”

“Yes, but I’m your favourite shit, aren’t I?”

“I guess so.”

“You guess?” He asked tossing mud at me. “You’re my wife, I’d better be your favorite.”

“Since I have no choice,” I said leaning into to kiss him. With lips-locked, I scooped up some more mud and slathered it across his cheek. His lips turned up in a smile, then pulled away mid-giggle. He flung more muck at me. It degenerated into a mud war.

“Stop! I hear something,” I said.

“What is it?”

“Singing.”

“I don’t hear anything,” he said dropping the wad of muck in his hand.

“Amazing Grace,” I whispered. “Come on, we must be close to a house or something.” I helped Jonah to his feet and we followed the creek. The singing got clearer and louder as we walked.

“I wonder where it’s coming from,” he said as there was a pause in the music between songs then laughter.

We climbed up a long hill to a break in the corn. A small house about a quarter mile away seemed to shimmer in the heat and shake with the band.

“This is surreal,” he said grasping my hand.

“Yeah.”

“We were lost and fighting only to be saved by Amazing Grace.”

“Seen any doves lately?”

“I think we’re about to,” he said staring at the house. “You okay to walk in those?”

My sandals were sodden in mud with broken straps. “I’ll be okay.”

We stood on the steps waiting for a song break. Jonah knocked. A grandmotherly woman answered the door in a flag tee-shirt, flag earrings, plus stars and bars Chuck Taylors. “Oh my goodness, are you alright?”

“We got lost and then found some mud,” Jonah said. “Could you give us a ride back to our car?”

“Yes, of course. Please come in,” she said opening the screen door wider.

I could only imagine how we looked: sweaty, sun burnt, eaten alive by bugs, covered in mud, and exhausted. We entered the dark, cool house and were greeted by a full bluegrass band: banjo, 2 acoustic guitarists, drummers, and a host of singers. Every one of them smiled as we entered.

“These two got lost hiking in Ledges,” Grandma announced.

“Hi, I’m Jonah and this is my wife, Brigid,” Jonah said wrapping his arm around my waist.

“I’m Betsy and this is my husband Clyde,” Grandma said indicating the banjo player.

“Come on in and join us. We were going to play a few more and have dessert,” Clyde said. “Ya’ll love the Lord, don’t ya?”

“Yes sir, we’re Catholic,” Jonah whispered the Catholic part. He’d grown up in Boone amongst fundamentalist Christians who learned fire, brimstone, and that all Catholics were going to hell because we supposedly worshiped statues and prayed to Mary, not God.

“Son, we don’t care what house you go to as long as you believe. I’m Al and that’s my wife Melita,” the drummer said indicating a pretty singer.

Jonah sat on the floor in the middle of the band. He looked like a little kid at the state fair: giddy with excitement, bouncing, and grinning.

“What’s your favourite hymn?” asked the tambourine player.

“Amazing Grace, we heard it as we were walking up. You just played it,” Jonah answered.

“Excuse me, Betsy,” I said pulling her aside. “May I use your restroom to clean up?”
“Certainly dear, there’s washcloths and towels behind the door. Help yourself.”
I said thank you and excused myself. I was able to clean most of the mud off my skin and sandals; however my clothes were ruined. My favourite U2 shirt destroyed, Bono looked like he was wearing black face paint. When I walked out of the bathroom, Jonah was shaking his ass and a tambourine, singing “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.”

“Would you like some ice cream?” she asked handing me a scoop and bowl.

“Yes, thank you,” I said and scooped the homemade ice cream out of a metal canister straight from the churner. Betsy spooned strawberries on top.

I took my bowl and found a corner near the entryway to sit. Jonah sang loud with his eyes closed and head tilted to the ceiling. The band came to a rest, leaving Jonah luminous and beaming.

“Can I have a bite?” Jonah asked sitting down next to me. I handed him the spoon, he ladled a dripping spoonful, and jammed it into my mouth smearing my lips with cream. He followed with his lips sucking the sugar off mine.

“How long ya’ll been married?” Clyde asked mid-kiss.

“A month,” Jonah answered pulling away from me.

“Wow, newlyweds,” a woman said putting down her guitar in search of her own bowl of sugar.

“How did you meet?” Betsy asked passing out bowls to the rest of the band.

“Summer camp in ’92,” Jonah said.

“And you’ve dating since?” Melita asked.

“Nope, she was resistant to my charms at first. But I wore her down.”

“Sounds like me and Betsy,” Clyde said.

“I may’ve been resistant, but I’ve always loved you,” I said jamming the spoon into Jonah’s mouth.

“Seems you’ve both been blessed,” Clyde said. Every head around the room nodded in approval.

We sat in ice-cream-bliss silence for awhile. It felt like Jonah and I were a normal couple laughing and having a good time with strangers. The shadow of death had lifted and we could bask in life.

“Al and Melita will take you back to your car,” Betsy said.

Twin Falls

“Good morning sunshine.” Jonah sat on the bed next to me shaking me awake. It was our fifth day on the road, at the Best Western in Twin Falls, Idaho.

“Good morning, Love.”

“Better get up. We’ve got stuff to do today.” He was showered and ready.

“What’d you have up your sleeve?”

He winked. “You’ll see. Now get up.”

Within two hours I’d showered, eaten, and stood on the Perrine Bridge over-looking the Snake River. Today’s gut-wrenching adrenalin rush was bungee jumping. We’d watched a video, were trained on how the rigging worked, and taught to imagine the jump and mid-air maneuvers over and over.

“Jonah, I’m not sure about this.” I wasn’t necessarily afraid of heights, but jumping off a bridge with a rubber band strapped to my midsection wasn’t my idea of a restful day.

“Faith, that’s all it takes.”

“Faith in what?”

“Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.”

“Eloquent.” I looked over the side of the bridge.

“Not mine. Hebrews 11:1.”

“Ah.”

“Okay you two,” the supervisor shouted. “You’re up,” We stepped over to the edge.

Two men came over and strapped me into the complicated rigging.

“Are you ready?” the burly, purple-haired man to my right asked. I nodded, thinking the only thing I was ready to do was vomit.

Jonah grabbed my hand and fixed me with his opalescent blue eyes. “You can’t be scared anymore baby.”

I understood.

“Okay, we’re going on One,” Plumhead said.

“What this we stuff? I’m the one jumping,” I joked getting few laughs, which kept me from soiling myself.

“Okay. Three…two…one.”

And off I went. I was weightless for about two seconds, then I jerked skywards.

Photo: leahwest4

Maps

The sticky Iowa summer aggravated his asthma and amplified the chances of pneumonia.

“What did the doctor say yesterday?”

Jonah squeezed his eyes shut, pursed his lips and drew in a deep breath. His lungs protested with a coughing fit.

When he regained his breath, he said, “My viral load is over 500,000 and my T-cells are low.”

It was official. I’d done my research. A viral load over 200,000 indicates a dangerously increased chance of illness and a low T-cell count signifies the body’s inability to fight infection. The lower the count, the greater damage HIV has done.
I lowered my hand from my mouth and asked, “How low is low?”

“Less than 100.”

At less than 200 he had full-blown AIDS. Without anti-viral medications, Jonah’s hourglass would soon run out; however, he refused to take any drugs other than the occasional aspirin.

“What can we do?”

“Live.” Jonah left his seat and joined me on my couch. I could not cry, only hold him as he wept.

“Let’s go. We’ll leave tomorrow,” I said.

We stayed on the couch for most of the day, pouring over maps, making calls to Bed and Breakfasts scattered over the Rocky Mountains.

“Where do you want to go first?” I asked.

I finally slept that afternoon on the sofa amongst the maps and thousands of post-it notes indicating places we wanted to see, things we wanted to do. I slept there with my husband.

Feel No Rain

The dress was a perfect fit, but the shoes were two sizes too small. I went barefoot. Jonah wore a suit he already owned with a new shirt and new tie. We looked like we were on our way to Easter dinner.

“Oh shit.” Jonah sputtered as we ran out to the car to make the service.

“What?”

“I forgot the flowers.”

“It’s okay. I don’t need flowers.”

“Yes, you do.”

I glanced around the yard and spied the flowers growing wild next to the barn. I ran inside, grabbed a knife, and cut several stems of the delicate purple buds, wrapped them with the ribbon from my hair, and tied on my favorite rosary.

We were late. Jonah drove fast as he coached me on my vows.

“What about November?” I asked. We planned to have a large Catholic wedding on my eighteenth birthday the following November.

“We’re still getting married at Sacred Heart, but, I can’t wait that long for you to be my wife.”

“But, we don’t have a marriage license.”

“Who needs it? I just need to hear the words.”

We pulled up in front of a small Christian church and ran inside. The minister waited for us just inside the door. Jonah’s mother, Maureen, sat in the front pew, Kleenex in hand.

“Who’ll give you away?” the minister asked me.

“I don’t know.”

“We’ll walk together,” Jonah said.

Jonah and I walked down the aisle arm in arm, witnessed only by Maureen, the minister, and God.

“I take you, Jonah, in all the ways life may find us, tending you in sickness and rejoicing with you in health, as long as we both shall live to love-” The word live caught in my throat, drawing on deep wells of tears.

The minister spoke about the symbolism of the ring, but I missed most of it.

“Wear this ring, Brigid, as a symbol of love, peace and of all that is unending.” Jonah slid the ring onto my finger. It was the same one he’d given me in March.

I panicked, realizing I didn’t have a ring to give him. “Jonah, I have no ring-“

“Wait!” Maureen jumped up, dropping several tissues onto the floor. She ran to us and took off her necklace bearing Jonah’s dad’s wedding ring. David’s hands had grown too plump for the small gold band. She handed me the ring. Jonah reached out, hugged his mother, whispered he loved her, and turned back to his wife.

“Wear this ring, Jonah, as a symbol of love, peace and of all that is unending.” I slid David’s ring onto his finger. The ring was a size too big for Jonah, as he’d lost weight to the virus, so he held the ring on with his thumb. Tears slowly slid.

“Jonah and Alexandra have declared their love and devotion to each other before family and friends, I now greet them with you as husband and wife.

“Now you will feel no rain, for each of you will be sanctuary to the other. Now you will feel no cold, for each of you will be warmth to the other. Now there is no isolation for you. Now there is no more loneliness. Now you are two, but there is only one life in front of you. Go now and enter the days of your togetherness.”

We left the church, hand in hand, husband and wife. No one threw rice. No carriage or limo waited to whisk us to tropical destinations. There was only us and that was perfect.

We drove home in silence. All I could think about was how marriage was a lifetime commitment and I didn’t know how long our lifetime would be.

I bounded out of the car and up the steps, my stomach flipping with anxiety and adrenalin.

“Stop right there!” Jonah yelled. I stopped on the porch and waited. He slammed the car door and dashed up to me. He picked me up, carried his wife across the threshold, and into the bedroom. He placed me on the bed and undressed us both. We did not consummate the marriage. He refused to share with me the one thing that was killing him.

We laid together, naked, bodies entangled, until he drifted to sleep. I stayed in his arms for the rest of the night listening to him breathe. His ragged expirations sounded like a popcorn popper. His chest rattled and vibrated next to my bare breasts. I knew it was pneumonia.

Photo: FaeAnachronism

Today

June first I slept in after another sleepless night. I’d always had strange sleeping habits, but laying next to Jonah each night, wondering if it would be his last, knocked my insomnia into hyper-drive. I woke to find a note that Jonah went to the doctor.

I showered, made French toast, and sat at the small kitchen table. I stared at the application to the University of Iowa. Clad in my favorite fish boxers and a Felix the Cat t-shirt, hair still in a towel, the sun flooded the room with hope and cheer. I harboured reservations about going to the U of I. I wasn’t sure I was ready for college. But the beautiful sunbeams dancing crossed the pages erased those fears.

I had just gotten to the essay section when I heard Jonah’s car pull up.

“Good morning sunshine,” he called from the door. He bounced into the kitchen laden with shopping bags. He beamed. It was the kind of smile that showed off too many teeth. I assumed the appointment had gone well, yet I was too apprehensive to ask.

Jonah knelt down in front of me and fixed me with his cat-ate-the-canary smile. “You said you’d marry me, right?”

I nodded, waiting for the punch line.

“How’s today feel?”

“What?”

“Will you marry me today?”

“What’re you up to?”

Jonah opened the Gap bag and pulled out a linen dress. Next he opened a shoe box and handed me a simple pair of sandals that matched the dress.

“We have an appointment at the church in an hour … that is, if you’ll marry me.”

I crawled onto the floor and climbed into his arms. We stayed like this for ten minutes before I realized I had only 45 minutes to get ready for my wedding.

Photo: blarah

Bridges

“Baby, I know your knees hurt but you gotta keep them together,” Jonah coached from the corral’s split-rail fence. I was nervous but Sugar was beautiful. The majestic chestnut from the brochure trotted right up to me when I got out of the car.

Jonah’s smile was amazing. Watching him, watching me, we were luminous.

“Okay,” the guide hollered. “You look great. Now it’s time to hit the trail,”

Once in the saddle, my fear dissipated, like I’d rode horses all my life. Jonah was on a majestic paint next to me. We passed the old Hammer estate which supposedly had a hidden room to house runaway slaves on their way to Free Canada, a room to hide those looking to live. The antebellum house was constructed of hand-made bricks measuring sixteen-inches deep thus making it impervious to the elements and unaware of the century that had passed. It remained suspended in time. If only this were possible for Jonah and me.

On the way home, Jonah pulled the car over on a rustic bridge over the Skunk River. Silver frost draped the cottonwoods. The water under the bridge was partially frozen allowing only a trickle to glide on toward the mighty Mississippi. We clambered out of the car to watch a pair of red-tail hawks cruise the stream for fish.

“Today is a day for overcoming fears,” Jonah whispered, taking my hand in his.

“Thank you so much for today.”

He smiled. “You’re welcome.”

I glanced up to watch the hawks circle overhead. When I looked back, Jonah was down on his knee.

“Marry me.”

“What?” I jerked my hand nearly knocking the simple and elegant gold ring out of Jonah’s hand.

“If we can do this together … if you stand beside me while I …” his voice quivered and faded.

“Jonah?”

“Will you marry me?”

“Yes!”

Living

“Happy St. Patty’s Day!” Jonah sang strolling in the door. He stooped, kissed my forehead and handed me a stack of brochures. It had been a week since my accident: stitches removed, sling shucked, and pills flushed.

“What’s this?”

“We’re riding horses tomorrow.”

“Jonah, you know I’m scared of horses.”

“Isn’t it time to get over it? Why are you scared?”

“They’re really big, they could hurt me. Are you feeling well enough?”

“We’re going.”

Jonah’s watch chirped. I waited on the couch for him to go into the kitchen and begin the day’s first round of medication. He ignored the chirping, snatched a brochure from my hand, and read it aloud. “Enjoy riding in over 100 acres of Iowa woodland. Horses are available for all levels of experience. Even if you have never ridden before! Guided trail rides are available for ages 10 and over.”

“Jonah…”

“Look at this horse,” he said indicating a picture of a beautiful chestnut horse. “Her name’s Sugar.”

“Jonah, what the fuck’s going on?”

“What ever do you mean?”

“I know you didn’t take your meds this morning. You have to take them everyday.”

“I’m quitting.”

“You’re what?”

“I don’t want to take them anymore.”

I moved across the room toward him without even realizing I’d stood. I wanted to shake him, to beat him. I stopped just out of reach, bawling. “Why are you giving up? You can’t quit now.”

“Brig, I’m dying.”

It was the first time he’s said this aloud. I turned and sprinted from the room. Too much truth. I lived with the realization he was one day going to be called to the Lord. Yet, hearing him voice it was too much. If he could give up, what hope was there? How could he give up on me … on us?

I stumbled into the small kitchen, knocking a glass of cranberry juice off the counter. The spreading red stain on the beige carpet mesmerized me like blood blossoming from my breaking heart. It knocked something loose in my head. Before I knew it, I was at the kitchen cabinets grabbing every glass, plate, or bowl I could reach. I smashed them all, screaming, shrieking.

“Brigid … Brigid …” Jonah called over and over.

“Alexandra!” he yelled, snapping me from my episode. He hadn’t called me by my given name since the day we met.

He cowered in the doorway like he half expected me to start chucking plates at him. I saw his fear. This untied another knot inside me. I fell. I crumbled to my knees on the broken glass and sobbed watching my blood, my healthy blood, pool around the colourful shards of Fiestaware.

Lifting my limp, shaking body off the kitchen floor, he whispered, “I want to live.” He carried me into bathroom and perched me on the toilet. He knelt before me. “I want to live. I don’t want to be chained to this fucking watch.” Jonah took it off and threw it into the other room. He drew a bath. “I want to live. I don’t want to spend my days in bed because the cocktail made me sick.”

He pulled off my sweater. With so much glass imbedded in my knees he had to cut off my jeans. His hands were strong and methodical. The scissors were the same I used to cut his hair. His hands shook. He removed his own shirt and lifted me in his arms again.

“I want to spend the rest of my life enjoying each day with you.”

With this, he lowered me into the bathtub. He removed the glass from my knees with a pair of tweezers. In silence, he bathed me.

Morning After

I woke the next morning cocooned in white eyelet lace comforter and surrounded by my adolescent things: Led Zeppelin and Marilyn Monroe posters, antique hats, and lunchbox collection.

My shoulder and chest muscles throbbed. It felt like I’d spent a night on the rack, subjected to medieval torture. Sounds dripped in through the fading narcotic haze. Mom was making coffee, I could hear the water filling the pot and cabinets slamming. The television was off; Luke must be gone.

“Hi,” a voice said from the floorboard startling me. I thought it was the Vicodin playing tricks on me. “Are you okay?” someone asked. I looked for the voice. There was someone in my room; he was holding what looked like Mardi Gras beads. His face slid into focus: Jonah holding a rosary.

“Hi, baby,” I said.

“You look really confused,” Jonah said. He stood and crawled into bed with me. “Is there anything I can get you?”

“Water,” I said voice cracking. “Wow, my head’s a mess.”

Jonah handed me a water bottle he’d been holding onto. “We’ll get some food in you. That should take the edge off.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t make it home last night,” I said sipping the water. “I guess we aren’t going on vacation.”

“It would seem that way.”

“Can we go home now?” I asked snuggling into his chest. The simple action of hugging him sent shockwaves of pain through my arm and neck but I didn’t care.

“I want to see your car first,” he said. “Do you know where they took it?”

“Barney’s,” I said. I remember the police officer said something about Barney’s Wrecker Service junkyard.

“Get dressed, it’s cold out,” he said. “We’ll get some food, look at your car, and go home.”

I held on to Jonah to steady myself while I pulled on jeans and my favorite University of Iowa sweatshirt.

“Where are you going?” Mom asked as we entered the kitchen.

“Food,” I answered.

“Did you take a pain killer?”

“No,” I said rubbing my forehead. “I don’t want any. They make me crazy,”

Mom tossed the bottle to Jonah. “Make sure she takes one with breakfast.”

The Hy-Vee deli was filled with farmers, truckers and Maytag retirees. All were lost in reverie about the days when the union was fair, corn prices were high, and pigs flew. We sat in a corner booth away from the noisier diners.

“Brig, you need to take these,” he said shaking the bottle at me.

“They make me hallucinate.”

“That’s fun.”

“No, it’s not. I thought there were snakes in my bed trying to eat me last night.”

“You should try some of my drugs.” Jonah laughed. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t laugh.”

“I’m not taking them!” I said loud enough to turn a few heads.

“Are you in pain?”

“I ache but I’m not in pain.”

“You’ll take them if you are in pain, right?”

I nodded.

The waitress cleared away my half-eaten French toast and left the ticket. Jonah tucked the pills back into his jacket, paid the bill, and we left.

We pulled up to the tow yard, parked and got out.

“Are you feeling better,” he asked.

“The food helped.”

We wandered the aisles of cars. I didn’t recognize the Dodge when I saw it. The front bumper was set on top of the accordion hood. The windshield was held placed by an unknown force – gummy safety glass hung shattered. The car frame was bent above the driver’s door. The door was now too big to fit into the frame and was strapped into place.

I climbed into the driver’s seat through passenger door. The floorboard had been pushed up to where it was pressing the break petal forward; the stick shift hung askew; the airbag hung like a dead wagging tongue. I touched it and the whole steering column moved. I gripped the wheel and shook it; it moved at least six inches in any direction.

I hugged the flaccid steering wheel and thought: I walked away, how is it possible I walked away.

“Brig,” Jonah called. He was still facing the front end, eyes wide. “You didn’t tell me it was this bad.”

I crawled out, catching my damaged knee on the console. I bellowed in pain.

“Are you okay?” he asked rushing to my side.

“Yeah,” I said eyes squinched shut. “Just hit my knee.” Dizzy, I looked back at the car and wretched losing my breakfast. “How did I walk away?” I asked between dry heaves.

“Grace maybe,” he whispered rubbing my back.

“Get me out of here. I want to go home.” The vomiting had tugged already tender muscles. Now I puked because of the pain. “Fuck!”

Jonah lifted me into his arms and put me into the Beamer.

“Give me those damn pills.” I swallowed down two with a warm flat Mountain Dew from the backseat. I passed out a few minutes later.

Photo: howdarntragic

Crash

The sky poured a warm brew onto the early March day. The car windows were up despite the day’s warmth, sundress pulled up above my knees to allow the air conditioning to breeze my ankles, Ace of Base spinning in the CD player. It was the Friday before spring break, Jonah and I were planning on spending the holiday in Chicago.

“Come on,” I urged the car ahead of me on a two lane highway just outside of my hometown.

I downshifted to pass the car in front of me, laid on the gas, and began to pass. Then I saw a hulking truck in the oncoming lane. I couldn’t get over. Then it was done.

I don’t remember the impact. All I remember is hearing a distilled scream, distant, terrified, haunting.

The small car came to an abrupt halt, lurched backwards, the engine dead, powder filled the air from the deployed airbag lending to a dreamlike state. I extracted a key from the ring still in the ignition from my knee. I crawled out the car, stepped over a growing puddle of antifreeze and transmission fluid, turned to the truck in the ditch across the road. Flames flared from the engine block of the Willy’s Pick Up and ran towards the blazing frame. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do, pull him out, save the day, be the hero of a situation I created.

The boy popped over the hill, running from the fire. He was in the class below me. I’d seen him around school; he was one of the shop class kids that I didn’t associate with. Knowing he was okay, I climbed a nearby hill overlooking the road. I sat down and cried. An unknown Good Samaritan clambered up the hill after me. He knelt in front of me. In his reflective lenses I could see the deep purple bruise forming across my chest and collar bone.

Sirens arose in the distance.

“Hi Ducky,” my mom said as they wheeled me to radiology.

Tears welled. I’d held it together until she got there. I no longer had to be strong with her by my side.

“Do you need anything?” she asked, holding my hand walking with me.

“Can you call Jonah?”

“No.”

“Damn it, Mom. He’s gonna be worried.”

“Fine.”

I was wheeled into an x-ray room; they removed my cervical collar and took a dozen pictures each of my neck, collarbone, and knee. No damage done. However, I’d pulled every muscle in my chest from the strain of the seatbelt and needed stitches to close up the puncture wound in my knee.

They sent me home with a sling to reduce any more harm I could do to my chest, and several months worth of Vicodin. I went back to my mother’s house. I was in no shape to drive and my car was totaled.

Photo:EthonDanteOzen

New Kitchen

Jonah handed me a stack of mismatched Fiestaware plates. We were the kitchen sorting through hand-me-downs and thrift store finds. We’d just returned from mass.

“These are from my mom.”

I put the plates into a cabinet next to the Corelle bowls I’d stolen from my mom. I remembered when my mom bought those bowls. We’d saved up green stamps from the grocery store, licked them until our tongues were a vomitous shade of green, and redeemed our sheets of stamps for a discount on the dishes.

“That was nice,” I said.

“Yeah, they were a wedding gift.”

Jonah returned to sifting through boxes. Most of the boxes were empty now as a year’s worth of crumpled newspaper littered the floor.

“I think we have everything except silverware and glasses.”

“I bet my mom has some old silver we could have.”

I was loath to accept another family heirloom from Maureen. It was ironic. As I walked around our new home his family’s treasures were placed next to the trinkets I’d saved from my mom’s yard sale pile. Waterford crystal found a home next to plastic Wal-Mart cups.

“What do you want to eat tonight?” I asked.

“Chicken.” Jonah said chicken like a protracted sneeze.

“That’s all you ever want.”

“What can I say? I like chicken.” Jonah crossed the kitchen to me, wrapped me in his arms, and kissed me. The kiss was innocent in the beginning and then it became desperate, seeking, passionate. He lifted me into a tree frog position, a backwards piggy-back ride. His grip became needful, holding me tighter, like our bodies couldn’t get close enough and would soon meld into one.

Photo: DrumMajorMiriah

Farmhouse

“Welcome home, baby,” Jonah beamed as we pulled up to a small farmhouse five miles outside of Jonah’s hometown. It was the second day of the new year, 1995.

“What?” I asked. I shook my head.

“Remember when my grandpa died last year?”

I nodded still gazing at the house.

“He left me enough money to put a down-payment on this place.”

“You own this?”

“The bank owns it, we just live here.”

“We?” I turned to face him.

“You and me.”

“My mom’s gonna to throw a fit.”

“So, that’s a yes?”

I nodded again.

We scrambled out of the car and strode up to the small front porch that greeted the long driveway. I fingered the chain that suspended a rustic swing; it would need sanding and painting. I imagined long afternoons spent on the swing with a good novel and pitcher of lemonade.

Jonah keyed in. The front door opened onto a cozy living room and formal dining room. The former owners left a large, sapphire velvet, Queen Anne sofa and an enormous oak dining table. The sofa reminded me of the naughty kitty couches in a brothel. The dining table begged for dinner parties with copious amounts of wine.

Jonah ran his hand along the table as we ambled to the kitchen. The traditional farm kitchen was a dream. It was full of glass-front cabinets and enough counter space to make any gourmet happy.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“I think I could get used to this.”

“Good.”

Photo: Haans249

Wounded Warrior

“Goodnight,” I called to the closing crew as I walked out of the McDonalds.

It was ten o’ clock and I couldn’t wait for a shower. I smelled like fry oil and hamburgers. I hated my job but it paid for my car and new clothes Mom couldn’t afford.

The December night wrapped around me, holding me in its grips. I unlocked the Dodge, thankful the locks weren’t frozen again. I bundled in, started the engine and screamed. A figure was belted into the passenger seat. I hopped out, turning on the dome lights. “Holy Shit!”

Winnie the Pooh smiled and winked at me bearing a card. I glanced around the empty parking lot embarrassed by my charades.

I climbed back into the car and opened the card. It was a handmade hear cut out of construction paper.

Brig,
Thanks for being there on Thanksgiving.
Love,
Jonah

I held the heart to my chest and smiled. Pooh seemed to giggle. We drove the six blocks to my house, two friends enamored and grinning. I pulled up the driveway to Jonah’s beamer. I hadn’t seen him since Thanksgiving and I hadn’t talked to him since I’d lunched with Maureen.

I walked to the backyard carrying Pooh by a paw as not to get any uniform stench on his fur. Jonah sat on the picnic table staring up at the night sky.

“Hi,” he said.

“Your little friend here gave me quite a scare,” I said.

“Pooh didn’t mean may harm,” he laughed. “Did you scream?”

I chuckled. “Yes, I did. Thank you.”

Jonah took Pooh from me and sat him on the picnic table beside himself.

“Baby its freezing. Let’s go inside.”

“I have something I want to show you first. Come here.” He motioned for me to sit.
“See that?” he asked pointing up.

“Orion.”

“Do you know what’s chasing him?” he asked looking at me.

“No.”

“Scorpio,” he said looking back up. “Scorpio can only be seen in the summer, pursuing Orion which is a winter constellation. Orion, the famed hunter, said there was nothing that he couldn't kill or escape from. Juno sent Scorpio to kill Orion because of his arrogance. The scorpion finally caught up with him, stung him and killed him.”

“Okay?”

“You’re my wounded warrior. But it was you, Scorpio, that injured yourself.”

I wept as he told me this. Hot tears froze quickly.

“Why are you crying?” he asked.

“Because I love you,” I whispered.

“What?” he asked lifting my chin with one curled finger.

“I love you.”

Jonah stared at me shocked and speechless. Maybe this came too late.

Jonah looked down at his shaking clasped hands. “I feel like I’ve been waiting half my life to hear you say that.”

“I love you Jonah.” I touched my hand his cheek – flushed despite the chill – and pulled him into me. It was the our first kiss since the night we shared on the rocks at summer camp. It was innocent yet searching. I pulled away from Jonah when I felt dampness on my cheeks. He was crying.

Photo:Filjka

Diner

Maureen looked out of place. Her khaki suit, republican pearls, and heels floated amongst John Deere hats and Carhardt coveralls in the truck stop café. I waved her over.

“Thank you for meeting me,” she said as she sat smoothing out her skirt. A thin layer of makeup couldn’t conceal a yellowing black eye. Maureen’s parents were second generation Irish immigrants. She went to Catholic school until her college graduation with a bachelor’s in art history. Her manners and grace were impeccable.

“Sure,” I said over the top of my sweet tea.

A waitress took her order: coffee (black), chicken salad no dressing and a glass of ice to cool the coffee.

“I’m so sorry for our behaviour last week,” Maureen said scanning the restaurant for any of her country club friends. “David’s behaviour was unforgivable.”

“So’s that shiner,” I pointed at her eye.

"I came here to apologize,” she whispered.

“Mission accomplished.”

Maureen shifted in her chair picking at the chicken in her salad. She set the fork down and pushed the plate away. “Is he going to okay?”

“He’d be a lot better if you supported him.”

“But I do.” She leaned in closer over the table; her voice was barely audible over the din.

“What about David?”

“You can’t expect miracles.”

“Why am I here?” I asked. “Why don’t you talk to Jonah?”

Maureen paused, readjusted her napkin, and lapped an ice cube out of her glass. “What is you relationship with Jonah?” she asked through crunching ice.

“Why?”

“This is hard for a mother to say but… my son loves you. He’s always talking about you. When you two have a date he’s like a fourteen year old girl, trying on different outfits, picking out cologne. It’s quite adorable.”

“He’s adorable.”

The waitress returned, cleared our dishes, and left.

“Do you love him?” she asked.

Uncomfortable, I gulped down some water. “Yes, I do.”

“Does he know it? Have you told him?”

I shook my head; my blonde locks masked my tears. I’d never been interrogated like this and I’d never confessed anything like this to a near stranger.

“He needs to know,” she said placing her napkin on the table and standing. She stooped and hugged me. Her hug was fierce, pinning my arms to my sides. I hadn’t expected a hug; this wasn’t Maureen’s typical embrace she shared with her society friends. A society hug involves little body contact and lots of back patting. She left.

Photo: skev9

Thanksgiving Confession

“Hi, Brigid, come in,” Maureen said pulling the door open. “Happy Thanksgiving!”

“The same to you,” I said. I stepped into the house, tucked a stray blonde strand behind my ear, smoothed out my new suit, and handed Maureen the flowers I’d picked up. I’d driven into Des Moines the day before and spent my meager McDonald’s paycheck on the red suit.

I’d expected the house to be drafty and cold but it was warm and inviting. One side of the large entryway was consumed by an oak staircase, the other side yielded a spacious sitting room. Several overstuffed sofas surrounded a large hearth.

She led me into the expansive parlor, indicated a sofa for me, and headed for the kitchen. David sat in a chocolate leather wing chair reading Alliance Magazine, a publication for funeral home directors.

“Hello Brigid,” David said from behind his magazine.

“Hello Mr. Conlin. How are you?”

“Fine.” He turned the page and was absorbed again.

I could hear Maureen riffling through drawers in the kitchen and two outbursts of profanity as something bounced to the floor.

“Hi,” Jonah said with a start as he walked into the parlor. “Why didn’t you come to find me?”

“She’s okay,” David said. “We’ve been chatting.”

Jonah raised an eyebrow at me and motioned for me to follow him. I trailed him into the study. Jonah’s suit was an identical to David’s dark funereal blue double-breasted number. All we needed was a few bottles of Jamison Whiskey and a dead body and we’d have an old fashion Irish wake.

“You look great,” he said.

“Thank you, so do you. How are you?”

“I’m nervous,” Jonah said, he held up a shaking hand to illustrate his apprehension. “I’m really fucking nervous.”

“Jonah, Brigid, dinner’s ready,” Maureen called.

Jonah escorted me into the dining room. The table must have seated twelve. It was large enough to have an ice skating party on. A huge Martha Stewart worthy turkey sat center stage surrounded by the lesser players of stuffing, potatoes, and green bean casserole.

David said grace and we sat.

“Brigid, do you like light or dark meat?” Maureen asked.

“I can’t eat turkey,” I said.

“Are you allergic?” David asked.

“In a way, I’m overly sensitive to tryptophan.”

“What does that mean?” Maureen asked.

“If I eat turkey, I’ll sleep for about two days.”

“You’d better be careful with this one, Jonah,” David said. “She sounds fragile.”

“She’s not the fragile one,” Jonah said shoving a heaping fork of mashed potatoes into his mouth.

I looked at him; his eyes were brimming with tears. Oh shit here it comes.

“What do you mean?” Maureen asked.

“I have AIDS,” Jonah said.

Maureen spit her Merlot all over her plate like a volcano of bad vintage. “Excuse me?”
David hung his head. Jonah sobbed.

“Did you know about this, Brigid?” Maureen asked.

I looked to Jonah for the answer. He nodded through anguished mutterings.

“Yes, I did.”

David slammed his fist into the table causing the flowers to jump and fall over. David pointed at me. “How long have you known?”

“About a week.”

David stood, snatched the toppled vase, and threw it against the wall shattering the vase and destroying a Kandinsky print. “You tell this fucking bitch and not us.”

“Don’t call her that!”

“Isn’t she the one who did this?”

“No!” Jonah screamed.

Maureen hooked her hand under my arm and dragged me into the kitchen. Once in the kitchen, her grip did not relinquish. She cornered me against the pantry door

“Is it true?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said to the sounds of more breaking glass.

Maureen let me go. “Is he going to be okay?”

“If David doesn’t kill him first.”

Photo:

Acronyms

“Hey, Brig,” Jonah said, his voice quivering.

“What’s going on?”

“Melanie’s dead.”

The phone twisted in my damp hands. The receiver’s plastic squeaked under my grip.
“Okay?” I said in bewilderment.

“It’s rumored she died … of AIDS.”

Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome, that shitty acronym sucked the air out of my lungs. My mind went gooey and my legs wobbled. What the fuck?

Jonah broke the silence, “Brig, I was wondering if you’d get tested with me in Des Moines tomorrow.”

I agreed.

A nurse called our names.

I hated this clinic. It was a sad state when Planned Parenthood had bars and bulletproof windows. Two weeks had passed since the sadistic vampire with the too-long nails had drawn my blood. Today was November 19th, my seventeenth birthday, yet I was not in a celebratory mood. I was a wreck. I came for Jonah, knowing I was negative, but what if.

“Brig, that’s us.”

The nurse escorted us down the hall, indicating our separate rooms.

“We want to be together,” Jonah said.

“That’s not how we do it,” she said.

“Well, that’s how we are going to do it today.”

She pursed her lips, smacked the clipboard against her hip, turned on her heal and stalked off.

We entered the small impersonal space and I sat. Jonah picked through the glass containers: tongue depressors, q-tips, and cotton balls. He made little stick men out of the medical implements, making them dance and sing “Do, Re, Mi.”

“Fa a long, long way to run-” Jonah sang.

“Hello?” a voice called from the opening door. A middle-aged man stepped in carrying two manila folders. Bearing the scars of an acne-riddled adolescence and frizzy troll doll hair, he looked like a demon in scrubs.

“Jonah,” he said. “Would you please step out into the hall?”

“No.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m not leaving.” Jonah walked over, took my hand in his, and sat down next to me.

The man took a deep breath, sat on the exam table, and opened up the folders.

“Alexandra, your results are negative.”

Jonah kissed my forehead. “Happy Birthday, baby.”

“Jonah…” the man paused flipping through the chart. “Your test results are positive.”

Jonah merely blinked. I felt nauseous. My mouth began to water signaling I had about a minute to find a toilet.

“Excuse me, where’s the bathroom?” I stood and wobbled. Both Jonah and the nurse jumped up and reached for me as I crumbled. I shook.

Jonah sat behind me on the floor, his hand on my back. My stomach turned.

“Grab me a trashcan,” Jonah said.

Jonah placed the small can under my head just in time for me to puke. He wrapped his body around me as dry heaves racked my body and whispered, “We’re going to be okay.”

Photo: myrkky

Valeo

“What are these?” I asked pulling several sketch books out of the back of Jonah’s car. We’d just had dinner and were on our way back to my house. Jonah was at the wheel as I was too weary to drive.

“Just some drawings,” Jonah said face flushed in the amber dashboard light.


“You did these?” I asked flipping through the pages.

Jonah nodded.

“These are really good.”

Pencil and ink drawings of archetypal superheroes graced each page. A muscle-laden man with dark disheveled hair bearing a rosary was recaptured on several pages. The hero was drawn in several states of valor: rescuing the girl, slaying junkies with track marks, and watching over a burg from a water tower.

“I’m no Eisner,” Jonah said. “But I can dream.” Will Eisner, the inventor of the graphic novel, was Jonah’s hero. Jonah had spent his pubescent years copying Eisner’s art to the point where his imitations were as good as the real thing.

“Is this what you want to do?” I asked.

“No, not really,” he said his face turning more scarlet.

“Are you lying to me?”

Jonah nodded.

“You want to write comic books? That’s awesome.”

“Graphic novels.”

“This one is my favorite,” I said indicating a rough sketch of the champion crying on a porch swing. “What’s his name?”

“Valeo.”

“That’s Latin for strength.”

“Looks like those years of Catholic school were good for something.” Jonah studied the drawing for a moment. “That’s your house.”

I looked at the drawing again surprised that I hadn’t recognized the house earlier.

“What do you hope to do with this?”

Jonah shrugged. “I’m going to take some art classes next fall.”

“Then what?”

“I just need a story worth telling,” he said pulling onto the interstate. “Maybe you could write it,”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“You’re always writing in some little book.”

“Those are just random thoughts. No real story.”

“Maybe you just need to collect your thoughts before writing the great American novel.”

“There’s no such thing.”

“That’s because you haven’t written it.”

Photo: snickerdoodle146

Halloween Drag

I opened the front door to find Jonah dressed in drag: blonde wig, pale blue 50s housewife dress, black handbag, black pumps and Tammy Faye Baker makeup. Toilet paper breasts tufted out the top of his dress.

“Happy Halloween! Why aren’t you dressed?” He asked after an exaggerated curtsy.

“I can’t go.”

Jonah invited me to go to a frat party with him in Ames. He was attending some drawing classes at ISU and made friends with the president. He’d kept his costume a surprise. I was going as an Alex P. Keaton era republican: khakis, blue blazer, blue oxford shirt, and red power tie. I’d planned to set the Bill of Rights on fire.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“It’s Will.”

Jonah sighed and stepped inside. “What happened?”

“He dumped me.”

“I thought that’s what you wanted.”

My relationship with Will had been on the rocks since he’d left for the University of Iowa. He never called or wrote; when we did speak we bickered.

“Yeah … maybe … it still hurts though,” I studdered.

“When did this happen?”

“About an hour ago.”

Will had come home for the weekend and broke the news after seducing me in my own bed.

“Come here,” Jonah said taking me in his arms.

I cried into his fake breasts. Sobs welled from dark hidden places.

“Love, you’re getting mascara on my new dress,” he joked.

I laughed, pulled away, and wiped tears off the puckered cotton of his bodice. “Sorry.”

“Go get dressed,” he said. “We are going out and we are going to have a good time. There’ll be lots of hot college boys for you to flirt with.”

“I can’t wear my costume,” I said.

“Why not?”

“I don’t have the energy to be Republican.”

Jonah laughed. “I understand.” He stepped back and looked at me. “Do you still have that hideous homecoming dress?”

“The blue one?”

“The 80s looking one?”

I nodded.

“Put that on, too much makeup, torn hose, mismatched heels, and you’ll be a bad prom date.”

I laughed. “You’re a genius.”

“Don’t tease me. Go get dressed.”

I put on the outfit as he described, teased my blonde locks, and smeared lipstick all over my mouth and teeth.

“That’s perfect. Let’s go. You’re driving.”

We walked out to the car clinging to each other, wobbly in heels: two girls dressed up in Mommy’s clothes.

In the car, I shucked my heels, shifted into reverse and took off. “How are classes?” I asked once on the interstate.

Photo: eljessicao

Driving lessons

“Okay, put in the clutch, put it in first, and give it some gas,” Jonah coached.

“Jonah, I don’t want to do this.”

We were in the Beamer Jonah had inherited from his father after the ball bat incident. It was a few days after my sixteenth birthday. We were going to Des Moines for dinner and Jonah decided it was time for me to learn to drive a stick.

“Once you learn this, you’ll never drive an automatic again,” Jonah said.

I gave the car gas without releasing the clutch and the engine revved.

“Okay, but this time slowly let out the clutch.”

I did, the car leapt forward, and died. I slammed a fist into the steering wheel. “Damn it!”

“Put the clutch back in and try again.”

“I don’t want to do this.”

“What’s wrong?”

I restarted the car, slid into gear, and we were on our way. My nervousness about driving faded and I was in control.

“Will’s dad’s out of town and Will wanted me to stay the night. I told him that you and I had plans, but he just wouldn’t let it go.” Will and I met through mutual friends. We started dating; within weeks we were inseparable. Infatuation hit hard.

“Shift. Do you still want to go?”

“Yeah. I just feel bad.”

“Shift. Why?”

“Because I feel like a hypocrite. Every time he makes plans with someone else I get bitchy and he cancels. Now I’m the one with the plans.”

“So… you want to stay?”

“No. I can be a hypocrite for one night.” I steered onto the interstate, shifted into fifth, and set the cruise. The sun was tucking itself in for the night, resting its weary head under cloudy pillows. The snow on the ground was a luminous purple.

I looked at Jonah. He seemed tired; all of his energy and enthusiasm seemed forced, contrived.

“Look at that!” Jonah said.

“What?”

“You did it. Without my help. The trick is to get you bitching about Will and you can do anything.”

“Very funny.”

Photo: canvasproductions

ICU

Jonah entered the Intensive Care Unit, orchids in hand.

“Sir, you need to leave those flowers at the front desk,” said the day nurse in her best Nurse Ratched impersonation. She’d been fussing all day about the flowers by my bed; commenting again and again about the prohibition of flowers in the ICU.

“I want Brigid to see them first.”

“I don’t have a patient by that name.”

“I’m here,” I said. The curtain was drawn around my bed. My voice was hoarse as I was dehydrated.

“Hello, you,” Jonah said poking his head around the curtain. He winced when he saw me. My skin was sallow and I’d lost 20 pounds since I’d seen him.

“Hello.” I waved him to the chair beside the hulking bed. Tubes were stuck into each extremity trying to kick-start my kidneys. My kidney infection had gone undetected for two months even though I’d been to the ER numerous times. There was a possibility that I would lose my right kidney. A surgeon would be in later to poke at me.

“I called your house last night. Your step-dad told me you were here. Why didn’t you call me?”

“I couldn’t walk yesterday. They won’t even let me go to the bathroom alone.”

“Wow! That must be fun.”

“Loads.”

“Where’s Prince William?” Jonah asked referring to my boyfriend Will.

“Work. He’ll be here later.”

“I should be gone by then.”

“Why don’t you want to meet him?”

“No one wants to face his competition,” he said looking to his hands. “Especially when it’s you at stake.”

Guilt struck hard, flushing my cheeks.

Jonah looked to the flowers in his lap. “What can I do for you? Is there anything you need?”

“Hold me.”

“What about the nurse?”

“What’s she going to do? Tell my mom?”

My mom worked the graveyard shift in the ICU, so all the nurses checked in on me every fifteen minutes. Their constant fussing was smothering.

“Sit up.” Jonah said.

I sat up and leaned forward. Jonah climbed into the bed behind me. I leaned into him aware that the back of the gown was open. Thankfully, my mom had brought me some boxers so the world wouldn’t see my ass every time I was escorted to the bathroom.

“Hey, it’s birthday in a few weeks. What do you want to do?” Jonah asked.

“Dinner?”

“Wow! You’ll be sixteen.”

The nurse strode in and made a sour face at Jonah. “She needs to sleep.”

“She will.”

The nurse took my temperature, my blood pressure, gave Jonah one last glaring look, and departed.

“You’re beautiful, ya know that?” he whispered as my eyelids sank into slumberland.

Photo: Toash

Windscreen

“Wake up!” Luke yelled. My step-dad was angry. It glinted in his eyes and his hands were fisted at his sides.

I glanced at the clock, it was well after midnight. My mom was at work.

“What?” I asked rubbing at my eyes.

“There’s someone in the driveway. That boyfriend of yours.”

“Will?”

“No, the other one.”

I crawled out of bed, slid on sandals, pulled on track pants over my boxers, and peered through the window. Jonah’s blazer sat in the driveway. The windscreen was a mass of fractured glass.

I dashed down the stairs and out the front door. Luke went back to his Lazy-boy.

Jonah was slumped over the steering wheel shaking. The windows were down and he looked up when he heard my feet crunching on the gravel. Dry rivers etched his smooth cheeks. Splintered spider webs of glass replaced the windshield and fist size dents pepper the body of the car.

“Brig, I’m sorry. I didn’t know where else to go.”

“It’s okay. What happened?” I asked.

Jonah began bawling. His body rocked with each sob. I opened the driver’s door and put my arms around him. In time, he returned the embrace.

“I saw her… she was fucking someone else… I walked in on them… they didn’t even notice me…” he said between gasps of breath.

“Come, let’s sit on the porch,” I said.

Jonah stumbled out of the car and clung to me as we walked. My parents owned a large Victorian house with an expansive front porch. Jonah laid across the swing with his head in my lap. It was the summer of 1993 and the night was warm.

“Melanie’s parents were out of town,” Jonah said. “So I thought I would surprise her. I walked in on them. I should have known. I’m so fucking stupid.”

“Hey! Cut that shit out.” I said cuffing his shoulder.

“I’ve seen him before. They’ve been hanging out a lot lately. I don’t even know his name.”

“Would knowing his name make it any better?” I asked.

He shook his head. “I walked out of the house and just sat there on the lawn. What the fuck was I thinking? Anyway, they came outside later and saw me sitting there like a dumb ass. He started yelling me. I didn’t know what to say. He started shoving me, telling me to leave, but I just stood there staring at her. How could she do this to me?”

We sat in silence. His breath became less ragged and he sat up. His sapphire eyes were now grey.

“Jonah, what happened to your windscreen?” I asked.

He laughed. “Windscreen, you’re funny.”

“Why’s that?”

“No more Depeche Mode for you.”

“Fine, I’m cut off. But what happened?”

“He did it. That asshole took a baseball bat to my fucking car. He threatened to kill me.”

“Did you call the police?”

“No. Why would they care about me? I’m just some kid who got fucked over by a girlfriend.”

“Jonah, you should’ve called.”

“Brigid the Avenger.”

“Write a comic book about me some day. What are you going to do now?”

“Get over it… Pray that I never see him again.”

We fell asleep on the swing. Nestled in his arms, safety overwhelmed me. The light summer’s breeze rocked us like a maternal hand rocking a cradle. We woke before dawn and watched the sunrise: a slice of orange cutting through the dark shroud, warming the day and stinging the eyes.

Photo: WhatNoobsAreWe

Canibalism

“Where do you live?” He asked as if the question of had just occurred to him. The clerk peered down at them from his lofty perch above the register, examining them like little green men with gigantic eyes. Aislyn was still slick with sweat under a conservative dress, messy red hair dark with perspiration. Ed’s tie now hung limply around her neck. His shirt was half untucked with sleeves rolled. They looked like they’d been fucking for hours in the back of his car—two horny yuppies with no place else to go.

Aislyn laughed. “Everywhere and nowhere.”

“If I wanted to write you a letter, where would I send it?”

“Don’t write. I only check my mail once a month. But the UPS man delivers my packages to Lake City, Colorado.” Aislyn paused, downing half a bottle of Gatorade. “Middle of nowhere. Elevation almost 9,000 feet. Paradise.”

“Tell me about it.”

“You know that big Victorian by the high school.”

“Isn’t that where—“

“Yeah,” Aislyn cut him off before he could voice or put words to a nightmare. “My house looks a lot like that and there’s a small, twelve unit, motor court motel attached. I run the motel, paint in the early morning, and I’m thinking about buying a bar.”

“Why have I heard of Lake City?”

“Alfred Packer.”

“Who?”

“Third most infamous cannibal behind George Donner and Hannibal Lector.”

“So are the other two,” She said with such confidence as if this were an irrefutable fact.

“What?”

“As far as I’m concerned, cannibalism is fiction. It is against nature for humans to consume flesh, let alone human flesh.”

“Even when faced with starvation?”

“If faced with certain death would you kill, filet, and roast your assistant.”

Edwin’s countenance contorted into a look of pure disgust and rage at even considering the thought.

“Your repulsion and socially constructed view of right and wrong have saved thousands from the spit. Think of how many people have died in the arms of their lover or best friend as they froze to death next to a dying fire.”

“So how do you suppose the cannibalism myth get started?”

“That’s a story for another day.”

Hitchhiking

Patrick packed the most precious of his possessions—his artwork—into plastic bins and loaded them into the storage unit. He could hear the planes overhead arriving and departing from Syracuse Hancock International Airport. He clicked the padlock shut and started hiking for the highway. He knew it would be easier to hitchhike the farther west he went. He, therefore, knew to be patient in Central New York where the only logical place to go was west.

His converse sneakers and the weight of his Kelty backpack were the only things pushing him up the hill to the I-81 entrance ramp. It only took twenty minutes before someone picked him up. A huge red diesel truck pulled onto the shoulder, its bright tail light illuminating a fire fighters license plate. Patrick looked to the stars and said a little thank you. Firemen were suckers for strays.

“Where ya’ goin’ son?” An older man called from the passenger window.

“Chicago, sir.”

“I’m headed to Cleveland. Hop on it, son.”

Patrick knocked the snow off his sneakers before climbing into the cab of the truck and threw the pack into the back. The cab was spotless save for a discarded fast food bag and wrappers. The smell of cold fries and burnt meat permeated and almost made Patrick wretch.

Guinness

The sky slowly turned purple trumpeting the sun’s recent departure. Two years in Colorado and the sky had never been just one color. The west remained light blue well into the night as the east gave way to the sun long before its appearance. The Colorado high country seemed never to be rid of the sun.

Horatio didn’t trust cars and he seemed to like the Benz even less. His head swayed from side to side as he peered up from under his thick, furrowed, grey brow.

“Do you need another pint?”

Horatio whined in response, lowering his head and looking away.

Aislyn turned back to the house. The large Victorian was stately against low foothills. She loved this house, wrapping her with beautiful views and security. This house now represented not just home but her new ability to deal with permanency and stability. The house was the beautiful scar that represented healing.

Aislyn poured a pint of Guinness into a heavy, leaded glass bowl and set it on the floor. “You know it’s not healthy to get drunk this early in the morning.”

They both watched the foam settle before Horatio lapped up the stout. The massive Great Dane grinned up at her, foam dripping from his muzzle.

Photo: Sandra Perdigao