Loving Sadness

It was a moment when the rain fell, soaking me and I didn’t care. No wind, only rain, heavy plops in a frenzied rhythm that helped the world calmly fade away. It’s a fleeting peace. My mind stopped roaring with ideas and guilts and passions. It would only last a little while, but I chose not to realize that now.

I was at the smoker’s entrance, marked with a 3-feet high charcoal smeared gravel and cement cauldron and a aluminum siding lean-to slapped on an old hospital not designed for the modern era of health nuts.

There were others – strangers minding their own business except to nod hello with doctors and janitors taking a unique opportunity to talk to each other. I did not stand with them out of the rain. Out the door, because I was told it was time to leave, I walked to the sidewalk and just stopped, my bag and a Christmas tin of homemade oatmeal raisins at my feet.

The rain was all I had with me. Everything else blocked out by the rain. That rhythm, like a subtle shattering, it offered protection even from myself. Why hadn’t the others found this place? On that sidewalk in the rain, only a few feet away, and it was perfect, nothing but rain.

A line of water made its way down my scalp and over my forehead. My hair grew heavy as the drops ran the bridge of my nose, escaped off the tip and the melody of the rain gave way to three quick “baps” on the collar of my coat.

It was over, for then I felt the moisture running down my neck. Raking my hair back with my fingers, I stood up straight, synched up my coat and became aware of where I was, and the faces nearby watching me. I was accustomed to the feeling, but I never returned the favor.

A white and grey standard issue SUV rolled up to the curb. I think it was a Ford, but I always thought they were Fords.

“Hey Tim, have you been waiting long,” the window parted mid-sentence. Brandi shielded herself as she raised her voice above the noise, just enough for a teacher to be heard in a class full of 10-year-olds.

The driver’s side door shut with a thud and Matt, trying to keep his running shoes dry, awkwardly hopped puddles to make his way over to the sidewalk. “You need help, kiddo,” with a smile on his face. I felt relieved that he was only glad to see me.

“No, I got it,” tossing my stuff over the rear seats and buckling up before he got close enough to help with the bags. The door was shut a second after his final leap to the slope dry concrete of the sidewalk.

He hid a need to say “Goddamnit” and decided to just make a run for it on his way back around.

He crashed down in the seat like a wet dog, making a break for the warm dry inside. “Oh man, all this rain, what do you think there boy?” Using the practiced tone of comradery, like fellas, old friends or “homeboys” when you’re in a nostalgic mood, Matt was my brother, and Brandi was his wife.

“Oh my God, you are soaking wet,” Brandi faking a cordial repulsion at anything dirty or moist. “Tim, are you OK back there? I bet you can’t wait to get back home and get out of those wet clothes.” She switched on the heat, suddenly a burst in my face, coarse with a metallic burn.

The silence didn’t really seem so strange after that. They were both pre-occupied with not two but three checks for traffic before pulling out of the main gate. “Are the lights on?”

“Yep,” and Matt glanced back at me in the rearview. “Are you feeling OK back there? You’re awfully quiet.”

“Yeah, I’m fine…” brushing my hair away from my face again, looking up and away to the window, gave a half yawn and puffed my cheeks out slightly with a long exhale, letting my body hang limp as if I was relaxing.

In body language this mean nonchalance, and usually implies a lack of concern, which others around me would be wise to share. I would have gotten away with it, if I hadn’t added “…don’t worry about it.”

Jason would have called this my “tell.” A little bit older and a lot crazier, Jason was at one time my best friend and came off as worldly. He was the type of guy you figured had already experienced all the big problems, so why not confess you thoughts on suicide, come out of the closet or whatever sin you might have.

“Why do people just share these things with me?” he would ask exasperated after calling 911 for a temp at work who tried to OD on laxatives.

“I don’t know,” but I did know.

We had the kind of conversations you have on purpose. The intent was to get somewhere, like a journey, which always took place over a few rum and Coke’s at the only place in town we consider “a real damn bar” with dirty bathrooms and authentic personality all over the walls, instead of prepackaged antiques and nick nacks.

“You know everybody is basically full of shit,” he meant what he said, but the meaning was never up front. It was always elusive. It could be argued that not even Jason knew the meaning of what he was saying. But, really, when you think about, if your contemplating the big questions isn’t it asking too much to expect clear answers.
Living close enough to the bar to walk home had its advantages. Quiet and cold enough to start frosting, we were the only creatures stirring as we cut across the park after midnight. The stars were out. It was the perfect time to realize important existential things.

“Even I am full of shit,” he said, not meant as a confession to a lie.

I wanted to avoid saying something hokey like “you’re just being hard on yourself.” It wouldn’t have been an appropriate response.

Three hours earlier I had bumped into him and Sherry. “Hey, Tim, come join me and my soon to be ex-wife. We are toasting our divorce” followed by a gut-deep laugh of a maniacal philosopher.

Never having been in this situation, I was a surprised at howwell everyone got along. There was even a glow between them, probably because they’d fucked before they went out.

“I love you Sherry. That’s why I can’t be married to you.”

“Ditto,” she was a lot better at sarcasm than the rest of us.

Like these comments, the whole night was understood and confusing at the same time.

“You see, Tim, I’m basically an asshole,” we stumbled along, stopping every few feet to think. “I’m an asshole in the same way your father was an asshole.”

“Too close to home,” like I was calling a fowl in a pick-up game. When I was too young, my dad had left a wife and two kids for another wife and two kids. He died young. At 7-years-old I didn’t cry out of spite, but both of his wives did.

Jason’s son Wade was a little younger than I was then. Not old enough to hate anybody and barely old enough to even pronounce “love,” he still had that perfect child’s smile when he saw his “papa.”

“You owe me five bucks,” which he had owed me for a year for a fronting him eggs and a waffle at the Huddle House at 3 a.m. It was my way of saying he was an asshole.

“Oh OK, I forgive you,” yelling after me as I headed off belligerently towards my apartment. He really meant that I should forgive myself.

I wished I’d listen to him. I wish I had found my way home. I wish I had seen Jason again. I wish I hadn’t run away.

If I had, I wouldn’t just now be noticing the quiet ride home had officially become a silent ride home. A subtle distinction that was as apparent as the tension in your neck and the aching fear of disapproval.

“Can you turn on the radio?” I requested in a tired voice.

Brandi looked only at Matt, patted his hand unconsciously and said nothing.

“Sure...” His voice was low like a beaten man and there was no “bro,” to warm me up. Music started playing, set low, just enough to be a good excuse.

Plastic scratched at my wrist, a small thing, but annoying enough to distract me. I yanked an orange bracelet off with a pop, examined my name stretched out like an illusion. I groaned softly, something like an old man weary from a bad back or a bad heart.

I felt old, too old, like I’d missed my chances and now it was too late. Knowing this kind of things makes you want to give up. I tried but missed hitting bottom. Now I had to move on, get out of bed in the morning, have a purpose and look everybody in the eyes.

We came to a red light, and I noticed a man in a yellow tie. The world was passing by, but he stood out. It was the smile. A suite and a smile, and then pretty girl in a pretty dress, that fit her oh so Holly Golightly. She hung over him and kissed his neck magazine style, and I was intoxicated by this.

They broke up as a pile of guys with their own color of tie gathered up the one in yellow frat boy style and off they went into the world. Carrying him off, they left his future standing on the corner twirling an umbrella over his shoulder. I leaned forward for a better view, pressed my head against the glass, but eventually they faded out of sight. I wanted to know where they were going. I wanted to follow along.

The cynic on my left shoulder said, “beer commercial.” I brushed it all away with an audible sigh

Settling back, I saw Matt’s eyes, staring at me in the window. He knew what I was looking at. I sunk down, eyes searching for my feet, protecting myself like a child. I looked back at him, angry like a teenager. Giving in, I looked out at the rain and said nothing like a doomed man knowing he’s forever lost and trying not to care.

Matt shook his head and hissed so briefly you might not notice. I got the message, part hope for a brother because you have to and part pity because you think it’s the truth.

I fingered a familiar scar, and blurted out, “I need a drink.”

“Tim, are we going to go through this again?” Matt finally gave in to the tension.

No answer from me, I just wanted everything to stop. I didn’t want this to happen – life as a series of consequences. To me it was all bull shit. None it mattered.

“Tim!” he yelled and Brandi fidgeted in front of me.

“What?” I finally confronted him, prepared to take him on.

“You better listen to me, because just cannot understand how you could keep doing this to people you love.” He sat up straight in his seat like he was preparing to jump back at me. In the last two years, I’ve taken this ride three times.

“Fuck you,” it was a common enough response. Acceptable even in polite company as long as you’ve said it enough time. After a while it takes a complicated but universal meaning. It’s my way of saying “I don’t care, now leave me alone. I want to ignore you.”

Matt and I were brothers. He knew exactly what I meant. We could communicate as easily as we could hurt each other.

“Yeah, you’re full of shit,” his voice trailed off as we pulled over the hump in our mother’s driveway.

I saw the amber glow of lamps in the living room and the front porch with rocking chairs swaying, Mom and Aunt Sylvia waiting with good intentions and “home cooking” in the kitchen.

The hospital let me go but the police said I had to go home. It was somewhere to put me. I wasn’t looking forward to it. Everybody would be nice to me. They wanted to make it better, but I just wanted to go anywhere else.

The car stopped, bells and whistles briefly as Matt yanks the key from the ignition, and they both jump out hailing their arrival to my mother waving and grinning with arms out at the top of the steps.

I went for my bag first, held it across my chest with both arms holding on tight. My eyes were at the ground, even though they were calling my name.

That’s probably why I didn’t see him at first. Everyone else noticed him immediately as he came out from behind a thicket of trees dead for the winter. Wet, cold, sick like a junky and desperate, I barely remembered who he was and then I saw a knife.

I had taken something from this man, who clearly had nothing, not even his sanity at this moment. I knew him very well, but not his name. I knew who he was and why.

Consequences, I didn’t want to be here. I wasn’t supposed to be.
“Money…” he coughed and shivered, held out the knife and finally screamed. “Where is my money? Gimme’ your money.” Desperate sounds we barely understood, but his intentions were clear.

Lunging, I only saw Matt for a moment before he hit the ground on top of this man. A few seconds pass. Rage had now become fear as he fled. Using only instinct, he had left his knife sticking out of Matt’s throat.

I don’t clearly remember the screams or the panic. The police and emergency room in my memories are only flashing lights and people talking, but I couldn’t understand them.

I remember the bubble in his throat as Matt tried to say something and I remember the helpless whimper in my mother’s tears and sobs right before she fainted. The doctor had just given us the news. Matt was dead, and Mom followed, fallen from a weakened heart.

* * *

The trees were peppered with spring green, brown hulks of leaves still rolled in the wind across a small country road. The sound of the road was humming by, a sound only broken by the passing thump of old tar lines rising from the cracks. A sudden and shrill giggle came from the back seat.

“Fine, you can turn up the radio,” Emily conceded. Once the boys were up, there was no point in being quiet.

I punched up the oldies rock station and started tapping my thumbs on the steering wheel. Rolling down the window, “let’s get some air in here.”

“Are you guys behaving yourselves back there” Emily was reaching towards the back seat, two squirrelly boys resisting her efforts to get their coats on.

The youngest was 4 and the oldest 7, acting as a sensible one or an enforcer of the rules, whichever suited his fancy. The youngest was just goofy. I couldn’t pick which one I liked better, because I couldn’t imagine them apart.

“Jacob, would you please chill out,” whined the older Michael. “You are starting to bug me now.” Of course he just bounced up and down harder to this request. “Mom, make him stop.”

“Mickey, do you want a hug?” A new way Jacob had learned to bug his older brother, who resisted but always gave into the hug. This exchange had become common to many of their arguments. I thought it was genius, and argued with my wife that they should teach that to NATO.

We finally pulled over at an unassuming white church with a gravel parking lot and only two windows, both stained glass.

“We’re here,” getting out of the car was easier than usual. I shaded my eyes from the sun and stared at the glass depiction of Jesus and my grandfather’s name carefully included in the bottom right corner.

I turned around and Emily and the boys were hand-in-hand while clutching two bouquets, and waiting for me. Mickey hushed at Jacob, kicking at the ground in boredom.
“Are you ready?” Emily looked concerned for a moment.

“Yes, I’m fine,” I stopped for moment, one deliberately deep breathe to calm myself.

I started walking, but the other three slowly fell behind as my pace picked up slightly. I had been once as a boy, but now had to find my way. The plot was one of the older one’s. My grandfather was buried next to his parents and later his wife. Then there were two cousins, my mother, and I was told Matt was the last one in the row.

I rounded a clean cut path of grass, past old markers and gaudy marble. I recognized an old tree with a bench. It must have been just up ahead. Suddenly stopping, I saw where it must be. Brandi stood, holding a small tissue, and reached down to a stone vase, straightening the petals on a bunch of irises.

She saw my shadow first and looked up unsurprised. “You made it.”

“Yeah,” I didn’t know what to say at first. “It’s good to see you,” and my arms reached for a brief hug.

Here face was just dry from tears and her gaze seemed to look past everything, and into the low setting sun. I saw her smile once like she wanted to laugh at an old joke, probably just remembering better times.

She looked back at me and then over my shoulder. I realized Emily and the boys must be behind me now.

“I’m glad you were able to make it,” She shoved the tissue back down in her purse and slung it under her arm. “I don’t get to come here often…much….any more really.”

She wouldn’t be coming back at all, I believed.

“I wish they could see you know,” She patted my shoulder unconsciously and reached with her hand like she was going to brush away wind swept hair from my face. Head down, my eyes towards the stone markers, I wasn’t going to let her do that.

“I have to go…” she walked past me. Emily only smiled and the boys were quiet.

“I’m so sorry.” I didn’t turn all the way to face her. I looked at her only briefly but she knew I had begun to cry.

I wanted to feel sad, because I was sad. I wasn’t confused about it, and I wasn’t ashamed. It doesn’t hurt to be sad, that sensation in you shoulders, your eyes and your chest. Not hard like a dieing artery, but strong like your soul blushing deep inside.

Oh my God, sadness, it feels just like love.

“It was good seeing you again,” and by that she meant goodbye.