The Quiet Understanding

The turning waters of the Mississippi slow to a crawl near their interface with those of the Missouri River. Through that area, which carves the border of southern Missouri and southern Illinois, the general grace that the mighty river once possessed was somewhat lost; drowned, perhaps, in the muddy misery of men who changed what the river once meant.

Young boys did not grow up along the banks of the river as the products of great adventures any longer. They did not cling to a desperate hope that they too could be caught up in the danger that the world had to offer, only to strive from the grips of that danger untouched, influenced by the experience to believe that life alone offered greatness, even for a simpleton like them. Women and young ladies no longer needed to warn against such on-goings; somehow possessing a greater amount of wisdom than their counterparts. They no longer had to praise the lord for their boys’ safe return; greeting their gentlemen with extended hugs and violent kisses. They no longer had to stay strong when a loved one was lost.

People no longer fell in love beneath the glowing presence of a Mississippi moon; enchanted by the soft reflection of the night sky that the water projected. Convinced that beauty such as that which surrounded them was made only for those who were to fall in love with one another.

The romance that the area once had to offer, the quality that it was once so plentiful with, had been drawn up by the times. And now, as the muddy waters churned slowly towards the south, they possessed only the power to push a cargo barge softly along its way towards Baton Rouge.

About 15 miles inland from the western bank of that area, the quiet of the Midwest captivated the young. As stated, the river was solely a backdrop to them, and in their eyes, which held the ability to possess much more wisdom than one normally figured, the area lacked spark, lacked life, lacked the opportunity for a great adventure. It was here, along the paved streets of a small town named Elsa, that the drawing up of that afore mentioned romance was perpetuated. It was along the neglected, rust covered railways where stories faded into far-fetched fiction. It was in the countless taverns that the half-mile city possessed where fathers were forged into drunks, neglectors, and abusers. It was in closed-shuttered homes along paved roads where women again had to stay strong, but no longer was the need for strength created by the absence of a loved one. Strength, in fact, was redefined as the ability to neglect a situation, the ability to tack a smile onto a battered face and blame the blemish on clumsiness. Strength was redefined as the ability to lie to a child, to protect that innocence for one last moment, with hope that things would change and their beautiful ignorance would never be infringed upon, that it would never have to face a blemish of its own.

The warming presence of the sun had long ago faded into the deep orange clouds of the horizon, finally allowing the brisk chill of February to take the small community under its captivity. The soft green lawns were stained with a cold silver hue; a delicate swipe from the paintbrush of winter, and the cars that lined the streets appeared to be dormant in their existence; frozen in the footsteps of the season’s stead. The dark navy of the night sky was spotted spontaneously with the delicate covering of a white overcast; heightening one’s depth perception as the stars and moon were constantly being contrasted by the clouds lower position in the atmosphere. Lights within homes, which allowed frosted windows to glow like fire, were subtly put to darkness as the evening waned on.

The Sikeston residence was under such darkness; nestled softly in the warm fog which embraced the home. The calm of the evening had long ago crept beneath the tall oak door, softly closing the eyes of young Thomas and Rebecca, whose worries were calmed not by the cool existence of the night, but by their mother’s description of their father’s need to stay at the office. Shades of blue and silver slid through the hallways of the house as the overcast outside passed discretely above.

Mrs. Sikeston stood before the large bay window of the kitchen, slouched depressingly over the empty sink, basking in the cold glow of the night which possessed a more powerful presence in the kitchen because of the window’s immense size. Her hair was slopped together with four bobby pins and a light pink hair tie, which, despite their intended efforts to present an appearance of togetherness, only made her seem like more of a mess. The soft brown strands of hair fell down before her eyes and shaded their captivatingly bright sparkle. She gently lifted her left hand, and, with a sudden turn of her eyes, glanced at her watch, almost as if she didn’t want to know the time. A deep breath was huffed from her being and she stared into the cold darkness of the night.

Her hand slowly rose from its resting position on the dark granite countertop and moved quickly to the cabinet. She pulled the wood framed door open and brought down a clean, crystal glass. The blue glow of the night was reflected softly in the sparkling construction of the crystal. She took two steps to her right, opened another cabinet from above the stove, and pulled down a tall bottle that held a golden yellow liquid. She poured the contents into her glass and sipped from it softly.

From the second floor came the pattering of footsteps which quickly flowed softly down the stairs, and in a moments time there stood the presence of a little girl in the frame of the swinging door of the kitchen. Her head was titled slightly to the right and her squinted eyes were desperately attempting to keep out all light. The thick cotton nightgown which floated about her small build was pulled down below her shoulder. She adjusted the gown shakily once the cold from outside her covers hit her skin.

“Mommy?” the little girl said faintly, breaking the silence of the evening and startling her mother.

“Hey there baby doll.” Whispered Mrs. Sikeston as she slid the crystal glass away from the glow of the window. “Now, what’s my beautiful baby girl doin’ up so late?”

“I- I think I need a drink of some water.” Said Rebecca as she wiped her eye with a loosely closed fist.

“Oh, some water?” She reached into the cabinet, pulled down another glass, and quickly filled it with cold water from the tap. “You sure are thirsty at night, you know that, dear?” she said as she pulled out a chair from beneath the kitchen table. She and her daughter sat together as the child reached for the glass.

“Its cause of the fluoride.” Said Rebecca as she crawled into her mother’s lap. “It’s a funny taste.”

Mrs. Sikeston softly ran her hands through the tangled strands of her daughter’s hair.

“Oh, I see. Well you’re brother doesn’t seem to have a problem with it.” Rebecca sipped from the glass without regarding the comparison. “Know what I think, dear. I think you just can’t sleep by yourself in that new big girl bed.”

“It’s not the bed, mommy, I just can’t sleep sometimes”

“Oh yeah, and why’s that?”

She sat in silence for a small passage of time, pondering over the question. Her bright young face, slightly hazy with sleepiness, cringed together in deep concentration. “I think its cause I’m the youngest.” She said finally as she picked up the glass again and gulped down another drink. A slight smile crested across the creases of her mother’s face. “Well, I’m the youngest too you know?”

The little girl sat down the empty glass. “Yeah, well you’re not sleepin’ neither.”

Mrs. Sikeston raised her head slightly and let out a soft breath, “No, no I’m not.” She said.

In the quiet understanding of the situation, the night appeared to stand still. The cold breeze, which was perpetually buzzing outside, froze in its procession, and the light covering of clouds stopped in their dust like movements across the deep navy sky. The cars, which broke the silence of the night, ran quiet, or ran not at all. And the deep fears and relentless worries of countless mothers and wives were suddenly calmed. Their questions of reasoning answered by the simplistic and random conversation held between a loving mother and her daughter, whose words conveyed the concept of love; a concept which eliminated the need for reasoning. And in that silent stillness, a single snowflake fell delicately upon the cold concrete of the streets, catching the orange glow from the neighboring dusk to dawn light as it did so.

The Sikeston home was suddenly illuminated by bright bolts of yellow that ran quickly across the light baize curtains of the living room window.

“C’mon hun. Why don’t you get back up to bed now.” Said Mrs. Sikeston as she stood, still holding her daughter in her arms. “Daddy wouldn’t like seein’ you up this late.” The look of comfort, assurance, and love fell from her face, like rain suddenly falling from a seemingly clear sky.

“Okay Mommy.” she said as she smacked her lips upon her mother’s cheek. She walked slowly up the stairs taking three steps before turning back, “Oh, and mommy?”

“What Becca?”

“Give Daddy kiss for me?”

“Okay dear.” She said with a smile and tilt of her head.

“And tell him I love him. He needs it. Long day for em’ at the office.” Mrs. Sikeston closed her eyes and nodded her head. “Night, Mommy.”

“Night, hun.” Mrs. Sikeston said with a faint whisper.

The yellow illumination which lit the curtains faded quickly into darkness, a door was slammed shut, and the screen door creaked opened. Mr. Sikeston slid quietly into the home as his wife looked on from the kitchen. Snow was now falling steadily outside and few remnants from the soft white dust remained on the dark shoulder pads of Mr. Sikeston’s sports jacket. His tie hung around the outside of his collar, un-done hours before his arrival, and the top three buttons of his shirt were opened loosely, revealing the pale white skin of his chest. His eyes were somewhat glazed over, reflective of a night dominated by carousing and, in an indirect manner, neglect.

“Godammit,” he exclaimed as he caught his jacket on the bar knob of the screen door. He ripped the material through the obstruction, crashing the door loudly behind him as he did so. Mrs. Sikeston took a step in his direction, holding concern for her children’s sleep but lacking the courage to pick a fight over it.

“Welcome home, Michael.” She said as genially, refraining herself from speaking out on his obtuseness. She stepped behind him as he walked into the kitchen, grabbing his jacket from his hands as she did so.

“How was work, dear?” She asked as she hung the jacket over a chair.

“Fine. It was just, work.” He replied irritably.

“What’s wrong?”

“Those damn Rams. They didn’t cover the spread, and, and lost me fifty bucks. I hate loosin’ to that bastard Carl Jacobson. He always just rubs it in your face like he won the game himself.” He grabbed down a glass from the cabinet and clumsily poured himself a drink from the same bottle as his wife had moments before.

“I’m sorry, dear. Maybe you’ll win it back next time.”

He violently threw back a shot and began to pour another. As he was turning his body to face his wife, his arm, which was holding his glass, bumped into the side of the refrigerator. The crystal glass fell to the floor with a loud crash, shattering into miniscule pieces that were scattered about the white linoleum. Mrs. Sikeston again stopped from speaking, and quickly hopped to her feet and fetched the broom from the linen closet.

“Watch out, dear, don’t wanna’ get glass in your shoes.” She said as she began pushing the pieces into a pile.

“This damn house, can’t move anywhere without bumpin’ in to something.”

Mrs. Sikeston said nothing, but continued cleaning up her husband’s mess.

“Dammed Rams.” Said Michael, bumping into his wife as he moved to the other side of the room. “Lost by 11, how in the hell do you lose by 11 in a football game?”

“Oh, its okay Michael.”

“Don’t tell me its okay! That’s fifty bucks I just lost cause o’ those no good bastards. Fifty bucks!” He inched closer to his wife, throwing his arms up at his sides. “Do you know what fifty bucks is? You know Mary, you just sit your lazy ass around here all day and play with the kids while I’m out there workin’. Ya got no sense of money, or work!”

Mrs. Sikeston held silent, keeping focus on the thin yellow liquid which was spread about her kitchen floor.

“Dammit, woman!” Michael grabbed his wife by her arm and lifted her to face him. “You look at me when I’m talking to you!”

Fear sparked suddenly across Mrs. Sikeston’s face like the touch of a flame to a dry wick.
Michael’s breath was forceful, thick with the stench of liquor, and hot against her face. Her breaths were faint, undetectable. “You hear me?” he said as he menacingly grinded the edges of his teeth.

“Yes, dear.” Mrs. Sikeston replied in a quivering whisper.

He released her and she continued with her work.

“Ya know, I work hard all day for you and the kids, and all you gotta do is make sure they don’t play in the damn street.” He was filling a new glass with alcohol. “Alls I expect is a good meal, and a little goddamn respect.” Mrs. Sikeston shuffled across he kitchen and dumped the dustpan into the trash, the glass shards chimed delicately as they fell. She grabbed an old rag from a drawer next to the sink and began wiping up the spilled drink. Michael made his way over to the refrigerator and opened the door.

“What did you make for dinner tonight anyways?” he said as he peered into the white glow of the refrigerator.

“Oh, I forgot to save you a plate.” Said Mrs. Sikeston apologetically. “I’ll cook you up a frozen pizza as soon as I get this cleaned up. Alright, honey?” Michael slammed the door closed, shaking the pictures which hung on the walls.

“Goddammit, Mary. Can’t do a damn thing right can ya? I swear you’re just completely goddamn worthless. A frozen pizza? You think any other husband around here is eatin’ a goddamned frozen pizza for dinner? Is it too much to ask for your worthless ass to feed me some good food?”

Mrs. Sikeston continued cleaning the mess, but could no longer hold her silence. “You know, you lost that fifty bucks on your own. I had nothing to do with it.” She paused for a moment, shaking her head steadily with frustration. “So don’t take your bitterness out on me, Michael.”

Mrs. Sikeston’s body was rushed violently by her husband. The hard sole of his shoe smashed against her hip, and she crashed recklessly into the dining room chairs. An empty glass fell from the table and shattered into pieces upon the floor. Mrs. Sikeston breathed heavily; dazed and somewhat overwhelmed with the situation that she had somewhat expected to create with her words.

“I’ll take whatever I want out on you!” Michael said as he stalked his body over his crippling wife. She tried to stand by pushing her hand against the floor for support but a broken shard of glass sliced her palm and sent her crashing back down to the now blood stand linoleum. Michael raised his hand high above his head; his opened palm silhouetted by the cold silver glow of the night, and brought his rage down upon his wife’s tear filled face.

“Whatever goddamned problem I have!” he continued bruising the side of her face, “I’ll take it out on you!” The violently repetitive swings turned his opened hand into a closed fist, and blood began to trickle slowly from Mrs. Sikeston’s right eye, “If I have a bad day at work! If I lose money from a game! If my car breaks down on the way home! I’ll take it out on you! As long as I damned well please!” He said as he continued beating her blood curdling shrieks into a sobbing silence. He hovered over her body, breathing heavily, exhausted by his onslaught. “You understand that?” He finally said after a few fearful moments of silence.

“Yes, dear.” Mrs. Sikeston sobbed, desperately hoping his anger had passed.

“I’m goin’ to bed. Clean this shit up.” Mrs. Sikeston dropped her head into the comfort of her bosom as her husband walked out of the room.

“Becca wanted-,” she paused suddenly, “your daughter wanted me to tell you she loved you. And to give you a kiss goodnight.” Mrs. Sikeston heard her husbands footsteps stop momentarily, and then continue on into the bedroom. Her body began to shake into sobs as the cold silver rays of the night stalked in through the fogged bay window.

Mrs. Sikeston stood slowly and first gathered the broken shards of glass with a broom, dumping them into the trashcan with a trembling turn of her wrist. She then turned to the sink where she ran cold water over the cut in her hand and cupped the water to her face as an effort to wash off the blood. Tears still trickled softly down her swollen cheek.

The flutter of footsteps erupted again from upstairs and cascaded softly through the swinging door of the kitchen. “I think I need some more water, mommy.” Rebecca said softly as she crept up behind her mother. Mrs. Sikeston turned her head quickly away from her daughter, into the dry cotton of her shoulder. She grabbed down another glass from the cabinet to her left as her daughter stood near with her head resting upon her mother’s hip. Mrs. Sikeston filled the glass with water from the tap as she rubbed her daughter’s back softly with her right hand.

“Did you tell daddy for me?” Rebecca said with a dry and cracking voice.

“I sure did, sweetheart.”

The young girl took a sip from her glass. “What’d he say?”

“Oh, he said he loved too,” Mrs. Sikeston turned to face her daughter, “and he told me to pick you up and give you the biggest kiss ever cause’ he said you were the greatest daughter a father could ever ask for.” She said, lifting Rebecca off the cold linoleum floor.

“Oh, I love Daddy.” She said.

“Me too, dear. Me too.”

And in the quiet understanding of the situation, the world pressed on. The snow fell delicately outside, the cold breeze tossing the flakes into tall drifts along ditches, and the sounds of cars, which never appeared to leave, rang out in the night. Countless men tumbled clumsily into their homes, and countless women remained strong for their families. The soft gray clouds continued to sweep across the deep navy of the night sky, and the chilled waters of the Mississippi churned slowly towards the ports of Baton Rouge.