Pa
Drive Chronicles Avenue straight out
of downtown for three miles to the
railroad bridge, empty as a Roman
ruin, turn right toward the spray-paint
chaos of the Grass Lake rocks, right
again onto Esther Road, to 135, and
there’s tight-wound Pa sitting on the
dusk porch while nervous fireflies,
trespassers, skitter, knowing nothing
else, around the maypole of his chair.
From time to time, he slaps out with
a grimed 1940’s-gas station flyswatter,
and, when he connects, steps daintily on
the stunned creature with the sole of his
right boot, drags that sole toward him
along the porch wood, leaving, godlike,
quick-dying sparkle. We keep out of his way.
Stolid Ma encases herself in jobs to be
done as if rest is a gap in breathing.
Her grave is out on 12th Street, just east
of Mystic Boulevard, in the plot she shares
with Pa as she shared their bed of relief.
Pa died slowly, silently, from a wasting,
pale as smoke, fearful even more of death
than of life, with no caressing god to
provide welcome, just a blank white he’d
glimpse here and there, now and then,
and shudder, lock up inward. No escape.
Garden of Eden Groceries, the family firm,
still opens and closes each day, weekends
included, Christmas excepted. Pa ran a tight
ship, each an assigned post: sister, brother,
niece, nephew, in-law, cousin, crowd of
vague similar faces: Jane-Joan-June-Jean,
Garry-Larry-Gerry-Joe. Everyone’s head turned.
Ma wanted me out of there, oldest and
a girl. Pa had an eye. I was the one sent
out from the store each day to travel up
and down Babylon City, buying what we
needed, arranging deliveries to Holy Galilee
Hospital, the Tyre County Department of
Corrections and City Hall where Pa knew
a guy in the Sewer Department who gave
a filing job to Leah, a year younger than
me — Ma’s idea again — which Pa used for
inside information about street work, bids
and free bricks until, after Pa and Ma were
dead and gone, she quit and took the same
job for a lawyer across the street on the
6th floor of Maccabees Tower and hated
it just as much until one noon, while I was
sitting on the bank of the Babylon River
seven blocks away, she took herself up
to the roof and jumped her freedom flight
of wonder-filled license to the downtown
pavement in front of three teenagers
from west suburban El Dorado.
“Lot of good it did her,” said Father
George, the youngest of the boys, a John
Paul II priest, quickly shushed by the sisters
who knew proper etiquette. No pedophile,
he — too empty for lust. I slapped him.
Now, evenings, if you drive to Esther
Road, you’ll find me on the dusk porch in
Pa’s old chair. I leave the lightning bugs
alone. Leah whispers in my ear, but I can’t
burn the house down. Where would I live?
It is the last Sunday of Ordinary Time.
Land mark
I can take you to
the cement in front
of the school by the
alley and have you
put your finger into
the mark there, the
permanent lines of
hopscotch, and you
will see generations
of children bouncing
on a single foot at
start, reaching at
end, double feet,
sky blue, but you
will not spot the
shades of three
shame-lessoned
innocents, unprisoned
for this moment,
leashless, at large
— the girl Mary,
three, sharp bangs,
check shirt; the boy
David, four, white
t-shirted, gray
dungarees, soft trust
smile; the boy Patrick,
five, already tall —
still whirling their
tuneless black-and
-white child dance
over the hopscotch
lines as if movement,
joy, hand-holding,
magnetic lock,
gentle touch will
last forever.
Dark night
Supermarket produce
man (think lonely uncle)
in Subway afternoon
Sunday with gray-jacket
guy (uncle only noticed
in photos: Was he there?)
nervously, comfortably
noodling Dark Night of the
Soul, and extraordinary
means, and pulling out the
weighty a/c unit alone,
and Zacchaeus, tax man,
tree-climber,
Christ-looking.
A bond on the margin.
Maybe defrocked.
Maybe brothered.
Maybe high-schooled,
colleged, first-jobbed.
Maybe study-grouped,
circuit-partied,
annointed.
Maybe it’s twelve
steps home for one
and, for the other,
biking to Rosehill
Cemetery to braille
crossed stones and
dollhouse funereal
architecture.
Maybe just
keeping busy.
I busy myself.