After Desperado

After Desperado



He sits in a high-backed chair and cuts his fingernails over the trash bucket, because she doesn’t like the clips to get into the carpet.

Usually he’d just cut them outside – sit under the heavy sun and move slowly, like the lazy clouds, waiting for lemonade as he cut the dead skin away. But it’s raining today. From where he sits beyond the porch door he can see the rain coming down – hard, and rough, peppering the soil with mindless cruelty.

He can hear it, too – the door is open. The swinging rhythm floats past him. The cool wind stirs her pictures on the wall, papers on the table. The wood of the chair is cold under his blue jeans and against his open back. The TV is off. The rain is the only thing he hears – besides the clippers.

He didn’t used to bother keeping his hands neat – but she won’t let him touch her with long nails. Says they scratch. He isn’t sure. There might be another reason she doesn’t want to be touched. But he cuts them anyway, to please her, keep her quiet. No nagging that way.

The nail clippings fall like unwanted snow, littering the soup cans and wrappers and paper scraps in the bucket that sits between his feet, resting under his hunched form like death. Not even half full, but he’ll take it out when he’s done. To keep her quiet. Never heard a woman spout so much.

One clip cuts too close and pink flesh swells beneath the rusting silver, threatening to bleed if he pushes again. He wipes the dirt away. The nails are jagged, the cuticles dry – there is nothing beautiful about the artificial work of the clippers. But it’s not worth arguing about. Like his papa told him – a woman wants to control everything. If you give most of the time, you can win the fights that really matter.

A lot like work. Like friendship. Same with the boys in the bar – same with the weather, almost. Give a little. Rainy day like today. Let it go most of the time, and keep your power for when you need it. Don’t lose that way.

He can hear her moving in the parlor behind him – fussing. It’s all she does. Nothing is ever in just the right place. He hasn’t said the right words in years. They make it work. It’s not worth fixing. He lets her fly like a loose wagon and she leaves him alone. Nobody loses that way.

She loves to tell that story – how she chased an armadillo from the garden, hoe in hand, nothing but a pink nightgown for solidarity. Chopped its head clear off, because armadillos are stupid, they bury into the ground. True story. Been a long time since she had that spirit.

Distance doesn’t always make you fonder – sometimes it just makes you forget.

His fingers slip on the rusty steel. The clippers jab into his skin and cut, drawing blood. He watches it pool, sliding around the edge of the nail like a river, like a promise. Except promises don’t keep so well.

Used to be he’d use his teeth – bite the nails away, tear calluses from his hand when it was right. Suited him. It was easy. Things change. She’s got her standards. Everybody does, he guesses.

Amazing how long it can take to clip ten fingers. She’s shuffling, watching his back from the doorway – straightening, maybe. Tidying. Bet money, marbles, or chalk he left his cards out on the table. She hates that. He can’t help it much. Old habits die hard.

Another nail clicks into the bucket. The rain seems to be pounding harder – it’s picking at the tin roof. She hates tin, too. But he won’t change it, because nothing keeps rain out like tin. No leaks. He likes the sound anyway. Rain on a tin roof. It’s like brutal honesty. Something he hasn’t had for a while.

Harmonica. He stops. The song winds through the rooms like a lost memory, like the damp breeze softening his face, chasing the stubble. He wonders who’s playing. The boy, maybe – hard to know what boys get up to. A hand, waiting for the storm to break. He doesn’t play anymore. Used to, though. Damn good.

Ten. He sets the clippers down on the floor, studies his raw fingers. They’re coarse, uneven. Better than biting, maybe. A little. Less painful, anyway. She’s disappeared from the next room – gone out front to watch the rain. Once she’d told him that she used to dance in it, back when she was younger. Drink it up. Long time ago.

His foot clangs against the metal bucket as he raises it into his lap, shucks the boot off. Flexes his toes. Fingernails? Check. Toenails? Not bad. Toenails grow slower anyway. They’d last another few weeks. Then he’d have to cut those, too. But maybe it wouldn’t be raining.

He rises. One shoe off, one shoe on, he walks to the door – stares out into the dreary rain. The harmonica goes quiet. He can see the shadows of tree houses lurking in the yard. Waiting, maybe. For the sun.

He reaches one hand out. The rain melts over his cropped fingers, washing the blood away in a flurry of dim red. It stings. But then it’s done.