Free and Clear by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
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Chapter 12
Martha and I hit the road in our almost new Freeloader. It still has the smell of plasticized freshness everyone loves. I’m sure the dealers spray it on their inventory. The efficient interior was designed to allow two bodies to crisscross each other; if those bodies belonged to reasonably agile and not-too-fat seven year olds. For a few weeks we did a lot of bumping, sitting and reclining. Martha’s hloop continued to be in absentia and I actually enjoyed the time; setting a longevity record.
We drive to a park by a river. The overcast sky seems to heighten and equalize the humid warmth. It obscures the horizon in a confusion of where it is supposed to draw a line. We don’t speak as we sit on the shore. The soothing sound of the water’s easy flow over the rocks makes any intrusive words idiotically inadequate. At the identical moment we rise, kick off our shoes and enter the river. It comes to our knees and despite the pushy current is easy to handle. We are completely safe. ........ And without a challenge. I see a treed island one hundred feet away and up-river from our current place. It is nowhere near the other side. It is in the middle. She sees me looking at it and gently shakes her head; “No.” Without intending to, I wince
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noticeably, but force a smile that comes out much too half-heartedly, and nod affirmatively as if to say; “That’s all right,” and truly think I mean it.
I take her hand and we intuitively sit in the water.
Because of our knee-deep initiation into the jolt of the coolness, immersion to our chests seems warm. I feel a drizzle on my face and hair. It is welcomed as it is balmier than the already comfortable water. Her soaked hair is hanging down, perfectly straight and drops roll down her cheeks. I know that I am the same.
She stands and lifts me. Her head and eyes motion toward the island.
I squint my eyes, as if to say; “Are you sure? I’m fine right here.”
She again motions toward the island and takes a step in its direction.
I take my own step, and feel the increasing difficulty caused by the river’s flow, which is now against us.
She allows me to take the lead and we hold hands. I find that walking slowly makes the difficulty of going upstream negligible. I expect that we are in no peril, clear that if the water deepens, we’ll discover it gradually, retaining the ability to stop or turn back. With each step I am more confident
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that it will be an easy trip and look forward to discovering the secrets of the island.
Half way there, my next left-footed step is unsupported by the river bed. I have stepped into a deep channel. The water totally engulfs me. My initial fear of drowning is quickly superseded by the effortless calm feel of again flowing with the current. I am still clutching her hand and wonder if she is having the same experience.
She is not; as the next thing I know is that my head is again above water; the result of her pulling me back. Completely soaked and disoriented, I can’t tell if there is still a drizzle. I suspect that there is. As my eyes clear I find that my suspicion was correct as I can see the tiny drops hit the river surface in an infinite supply of miniscule inconsequential splashes, which resemble the dots on a Navajo sand painting. I look at her and she starts to laugh. Her sound transcends the hum of the ceaseless streaming buoyancy. I feel extremely silly.
But, I am not the least bit embarrassed, and I too laugh.
Hand in hand we walk back to shore, assisted by the current, now with us. She periodically breaks into uncontrollable laughter. The third time I seriously say; “It wasn’t all that funny.” I look at her and she is looking at me, a concerned expression on her face and searching eyes. I do a
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bit of a double take and then start laughing again. I am immediately joined. We are free and clear.
Back on shore, we sit, my arms around her, and the back of her head using my chest for a pillow. We shiver and wish the sun would get over his shyness. It’s his job to warm and dry us off.
When the shivering becomes late stage Parkinson’s we decide that, rather than wait for him to do what he should, it would be wiser to go back to the cabin of our Freeloader and change into dry clothes. Maybe he’s having a bad day. Nobody’s perfect, but I’m sure he’ll be back another.
As we change in the shelter of our rolling residence, I attempt to joke with Martha saying that; “This isn’t at all bad and, in a way, we still have accomplished our goal as our new home is free of mortgage.”
I see suddenly steely, stern eyes glaring into mine. For some perverse reason I am amused and choose to elaborate. I say;
“I know what you’re thinking. But, the loan against this little beauty is technically not a mortgage. Besides, if they wanted to re-possess it they’d have to find it first. The trick is to keep moving.”
It proved to be a bad idea as her face displays cold, determined hatred. She stares at me with the emotionless
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tranquility and the eyes of one embalmed and says; “Don’t you dare. ....... No way. ...... Don’t change the plan on me.”
“Just joking.”
“It’s not funny. Does anyone laugh at your jokes?”
I sigh and say; “No. ......... Not really. ..... But, they usually don’t get homicidal with me either. They just stare.
Jeez.”
“We’re going to the HUD office right now. And don’t you get
‘funny’ when we’re there.”
“All right. All right.”
We silently drive back to Clinton and wait in a vestibule of sorts, separated from the “receptionist” by bullet, but not smudge proof glass. The matching orange, plastic chairs are made increasingly inflexible by the iron frame which supports them in groups of five. My ass is sore and I fidget to no avail. Martha is standing; reading, re-reading and re-reading the ripped and curled notices concerning matters pertaining to HUD employees; and of no consequence to anyone else. I recall my sporting days; not any games in particular, but the locker room afterward. I feel inadequately prepared as my waiting co-conspirators have huge, unraveling bandages on their arms or legs. Undersized crutches lie on the uneven, brown-orange-green-yellow-red linoleum floor, now obviously joking in its magnanimously
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intended appeal from another time. Exposed body parts are decorated with a darkening make-up, available free outdoors. I note the blood drops, now dry and browning, no doubt left there on a particularly unbalanced, drunken day.
I begin to feel rudely out of place and materially over compensated. But, I think that my brain belongs here. Before I can continue considering the duality of body and spirit, the bullet-proof lady calls our names through a speaker, which is almost uselessly overwhelmed with interference. It ends its fuzz and parts with a shrill, high pitched blast. The others waiting, who were all here before us, shuffle in their seats and issue an instinctive, low, synchronized groan; but exhibit no matching choreography. They know this is a one person show. Bullet-proof points to the weather-stripped, heavy metal door to the right of her cage and buzzes us in. I am too slow to co-ordinate my push with her buzz and am again locked out. Bullet-proof isn’t paying any attention, having gone back to her singles website. I rap on her glass to get it. She grimaces at the inconvenience and issues a short burst. This time I’m quick to accept her
“generous” offer and use my shoulder to ensure success. Martha walks right by me and counsels; “And don’t you say a fucking thing.”
Martha uses her cock-sure, fast gate to stride into the hallway. I trail more slowly as from a short distance I get a
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better view of the rippling gluteus maximus muscles encased, but not hidden by her well-worn blue jeans.
A bearded, fortyish man pops his head out of the second door on the left. He is between us and quizzically turns from one direction to the other, then does it again before finally saying; “Mr. and Mrs. Michaels?”
Martha turns back without losing a stride and efficiently offers her hand, saying; “Martha will suffice.” By the time he has taken it, I have caught up with the duo. He introduces himself as Paul De Septor, which I confirm with the yellow plastic name tag, crookedly pinned to his white shirt pocket. I offer my hand, which he over-vigorously shakes as I say;
“George.”
He shows us into his office and we are invited to sit in the two chairs at the base of his light oak veneered desk, peeling on our side where it meets the red carpeted floor. He smiles as he takes his seat, extracting studying looks at us. I notice that the windowless room has a scent of mold and that it feels colder than the outdoors of today. He has decorated the walls with curling and yellowing newspaper articles extolling the virtues of President Farnier’s homeless initiatives.
He asks us a number of questions about our circumstances, as he reads our answers from the forms we have already submitted. Martha rushes to answer them as she doesn’t want me
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to say anything “funny” or stupid. I try not to change my bland facial expression when she answers a few somewhat differently than De Septor is reading on our application. I know, because I was the one who filled out the papers, at times creatively skewing the essay answers to matters which I really found not applicable. I watch De Septor’s face in an attempt to read his gut reaction to what Martha is saying and occasionally detect a slight raising of his eyebrows coupled with eyeball-at-the-top-of-the-pupil looks at Martha. I am concerned that the plan I had stated to Martha will go awry. In one way I really don’t care as I am enjoying life in the Freeloader. On the other hand, I know that Martha doesn’t view the rolling domicile as anything more than a pleasant intermittent flight of fancy. I know that if we are denied I can always blame her for making stupid answers, but I also know that that approach merely guarantees perennial conflict. I am angered that the government functionary is using a trick test, as no one answers an essay question precisely the same way twice.
My anger is misplaced as De Septor finishes his questioning and with more than a hint of skepticism, he sighs as he informs us that he is approving our application. I am happier than when a hologram customer gives me cash. Martha and I mumble “Thank yous.”
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We are informed, though we are told not to quote him, that the homeless housing program has registered approval ratings ranging from 3-7% in the opinion polls. In an attempt to reverse that, HUD is trying to supply hosts with better quality homeless people and that we fit the bill. He does say that this is a temporary necessary mechanism to keep alive a good policy which is currently under attack from all sides.
I can’t help but think of those I saw in the waiting room; bandages, blood, BO and unavoidable mental problems. They will again be “temporarily” forgotten. I feel guilty as all hell.
But, I see no practical purpose in saying anything. I’m not trying to convince myself that I am a chained saint. I know that I am not a good person. But, I also know that had just a few small events turned against me that I would be sitting with them. Martha would be sitting there, too. Maybe someday we will.
De Septor stands and we follow suit. Martha is handed documents and an address. We leave the way we entered. I try not to look at those still waiting, but can’t help taking one more glance at the little boy sitting next to the crutches. I see that Martha has the same approach, though her gaze fixes on a little girl, holding hers against a deformed leg. I hear Martha say; “I’m sorry,” but doubt if anyone else perceived the whisper.
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Martha walks quickly to the Freeloader and takes the driver’s seat. My usual slower speed leaves her impatient.
Before I have my seatbelt buckled, we are moving. Martha hands me the papers and asks if I know where the house is. I don’t.
She says; “I hope the hell it’s not a piece of shit,” as we speed away.
Martha stopped to ask directions three times and each time was courteously misinformed. When it became obvious that the third “helper” had sent us out of town, Martha drove back to Clinton by the main road and parked at the top of a hill. There was no more than an hour of light remaining.
I say; “Think we were set up?”
Martha shrugs, indicating that her jury is still out.
“You want to go back to the park and start out first thing in the morning?”
“Don’t start that again.”
I shrug, indicating that the jury is still out.
She says; “I’m going to drive straight at the first house to put on their lights.”
“Not the best of ideas. The roads are curved.”
“You know what I mean. As much as possible.”
“Just another stupid joke.”
We sit, watch and wait.
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Quiet time passes. The indirect and waning glow highlights the windshield streaks. I see blemishes produced by haphazardly removed mud, invisible in the brightness. They seem to take on the shape of a woman I had once known; up until now forgotten in time. She was a youthful dream, gone in the hectic activity of coping with making a living and marriage. A gigantic, dark, dark cloud, capable of covering the entire country, is above her. I try to wipe it away with my hands, but it is only on the outside. I recall that I didn’t know why she left me. She never said. It’s never said at all in the books which people read.
Sure, she voiced some words, but they were obvious lies, intended to make it easier for me; at the same time making it more difficult for her. I always suspected that she was the stronger one. My eyes moisten and I hope that Martha doesn’t notice. Martha will never be nominated for sainthood, but she has done nothing to deserve any sort of abandonment. I know that barring a lobotomy, this recovered memory of that dark haired woman will be with me as long as I live. I am offered no choice.
I wonder what she has done with her life. I hope it turned out well, but fear it did not. My mind is invaded with images of the past and projections of her into the future. Some pictures are not pretty and I want those to go away. I cannot tolerate the idea of anything bad happening to her. I stare at her and the cloud. I feel wetness on my cheeks.
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Martha has been diligently watching the lowlands. She excitedly says; “I see the first light.” She turns the ignition key and puts on the headlights. She drives above the speed limit toward it.
Her instincts prove to be superlative. A believer might even use the word miraculous. I turn on the overhead light to confirm the reality with the information in our documents. There is no mistake. The house is on Autumn Sage Road. The number 222
is large and is prominently displayed near the mailbox by artificial lights; probably those Martha first saw from the hill. The house is enormous, with a “Mediterranean” façade. In one sense it is no different from the other houses in the development. They are mirror images of each other. They are differentiated only by the “Colonial,” “Modern,” “Tudor,” and
“Mediterranean” veneer disguises, which the builder put on last.
Martha parks in the asphalt driveway, near the closed double garage door. She takes the documents and again tells me not to say anything. This is beginning to annoy me.
I say; “I don’t want to be rude.”
She answers; “Just say innocuous pleasantries. Don’t you know how to make small talk?”
I can tell that wasn’t really a question, so I answer it with another, saying; “Can you define ‘small’ for me?”
She makes her left hand into a fist and shows it to me.
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I say; “All right. All right.”
I see two presences in the now open front door. They appear to be ancient; maybe seventy. The woman is in front smiling. The man is behind her stone faced.
As we near them we introduce ourselves and Martha holds out the documents in an offering type of gesture. She asks if they had heard of our coming. The woman says that they got the news by e-mail an hour ago. She welcomes us saying that she was looking forward to the company. The man is silent and may be glowering. He rubs his forehead, either because of a headache or a desire to hide his discontent; probably both. The woman steps aside to let us in, but the man maintains his position and we have to squeeze by him.
We are led to the kitchen table and the woman says; “I suppose you already know this, but let’s make it official. I’m Evangela Colasurdo and this paragon of sociability is Elihu.”
As we sit we nod to each other and Evangela continues; “We were born a long time ago. I can’t recall the date.”
Elihu grumbles; “Yes she can.”
Evangela seems not to hear and adds; “Quite out of style.
Don’t you think?”
I can’t resist mumbling; “As little as possible,” and am rewarded with an under the table shin kick. I say; “Oooh,” and
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grab my injured leg. Elihu shows his first hint of a smile, though it is also a possible sign of indigestion.
In a voice audible in the adjoining room, Martha says; “We prefer things which have already stood the test of time. And just consider our names; George and Martha. Like something out of that dreadful study of Virginia Wolff, which contradicts her own words; not exactly very now, other than being presumptuous.”
Evangela politely smiles, looks at me and asks; “What is it you said, George?”
I am still basking in Martha’s complimentary innuendo. I’m at a loss, but Martha eagerly comes to my rescue by saying; “Oh, it was something about that leg of his. He complains at the slightest twinge. You would think that he was the only person to have an old sports injury.”
I say; “Sorry. Sometimes I really get a sudden ache. She pretends not to understand at all.” Elihu again hints at a smile. This time I take it for a genuine grin, and not a function of his dietary preferences. He rises and carries four glasses and a bottle of burgundy to the table. Without a word he pours for each of us.
I lose track of the time we spend drinking and chatting about housing the homeless, the problems with Freeloaders, the analogy of the current state of the US economy to that of thirteenth and fourteenth century Europe, and various other
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“small” talk banalities. Elihu stands and gathers the glasses. I looked at the window and saw that it was now pitch black outside.
Martha and I are shown to our room. The Colasurdos; or more accurately, the Colasurdo says goodnight for the evening and says that they look forward to many more pleasant days with us.
I close the door behind us, turn on the light, and we take in the room. A canopied, Queen Anne, Queen-sized bed dominates the bedroom. Its height is offset by the simple and graceful curves characteristic of the style. Martha investigates the drawers of the chest-on-chest and lamp table. She says; “They must have been prepared for us, as the drawers are empty and look as if they’ve been recently cleaned.”
I say; “They seem very nice, especially her. I doubt if many are as gracious in their reception of a homeless family. We sure weren’t.”
Martha nods and widens her eyes as if to imply; “So far, so good,” not wanting to verbally caution. She views the reproductions hung from the darkly stained, separating, tongue-in-groove paneling. She says; “But these conquistador celebrations have got to go.”
I sense an opportunity to practice my senseless mirth. I pretend to scrutinize each of the three and say; “Done well. The
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artists captured the sun’s play on the silver swords. That’s difficult.”
“I don’t care. I don’t like the concept of butchery.”
“They’re not stabbing anyone. They’re ready just in case.”
Martha takes each from its hanging peg and places them on the floor, leaning against the wall, with backsides facing out.
I act shocked and say; “That’s obscene!”
She laughs and says; “They like it that way.”
I snicker and say; “Who am I to quibble with the mores of 1635? ......... Hey. We need some stuff from the motor home.
I’ll go get it.”
Martha says; “Make sure you get my dirty pink housedress,”
tilts her head to one side and puts her left hand on her hip.
I fumble at the tricky doorknob. Before I can get it to revolve, we hear a man’s, presumably Elihu’s, loud voice say;
“You didn’t have to be that nice. They’re liable to believe that we actually want them here.”
I immediately think that the message was intended to be heard. I look to Martha. She averts her eyes and sits at the edge of the bed. I dawdle at the door, not wanting to surge into something embarrassing to all parties.
My reserve proves correct, as in a hushed but still audible tone, Evangela says; “It’s always best to be polite. They’re old
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enough to understand the situation. It’s unproductive to start open warfare.”
I again look to Martha. She sighs heavily and considers the thinly carpeted floor.
I feel as I imagine the people in the HUD waiting room do.
On second thought I realize that is not possible. I try to be as upbeat with Martha as authenticity permits. I say; “When I was young and complaining to my father about something which was stupidly unfair, he’d always pose the same question. .......
‘What did you expect?’ I never came up with an answer.” I try to force a laugh, but Martha has no interest.
She surveys the backward conquistadors on the floor. In an authoritative, yet subdued voice she says; “It is best to pretend that everything is all right. Just get those re-produced relics out of here.”
I wake in this strange dark bedroom from a summery dream of a green field; magnificent under a cloud free, light blue sky. I sit up. I can barely make out Martha. She is turned away from me, with the blankets pulled over her head. I gently touch her waist and she grumbles softly as she re-positions herself further away. I feel lost and abandoned; like an old dog dropped far from home, because he can’t understand that investigating, and in the process tearing up stuffed objets’ de homme is not an
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acceptable pursuit. I lie back down and pull the blankets over my head, in hope of returning to the dream which was all too brief. I hate how awake I feel. I just want to go back to sleep and hope that I can return to my dream of summer days. I badly need to know that they are there. On a more significant plane, I want to be certain that Martha knows that I love her more than I love my life. I immediately realize that wish is self-serving, as otherwise there is no sense for me in accepting the expected future offer of another wasted incarnation. I also realize that when one is in love it is impossible to differentiate between the interests of the couple. The two are one.
I move around in an attempt to find a comfortable position, but can’t. I can’t help but consider that; “Maybe there is none.” My racing mind has condemned me to being awake and never having the chance of returning to my dream. ........ Unless
........................
I don’t have the nerve to do that. ........... At least not today; this morning; this flawed new beginning; this prison of begrudged accommodation; this life-denying and much too frequent pain, which, understandably, no one cares to hear about. They have their own and most are more adept at keeping the burden to themselves. There will be a tomorrow. There always is. No one can deny that. It’s all of our experiences. I just wish that it wasn’t a replay of today.
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I catch myself before I go off the deep end. Boy, am I ever getting carried away.
I get out of bed and with great care make my way to the kitchen. I am afraid of putting on any lights, knowing that that act would be another “reason” for my hosts to complain. Their sleep would be disturbed by the artificial light; or at least they would say that it was. The quarter moon provides little, but adequate visibility for me to see the empty wine bottle and brew coffee. I hope the sound of the percolation does not overwhelm my reluctant “benefactors.” Not being currently capable of swallowing anything they store in their freezer, I make do with the liquefied black chocolate spit out by the circuit-boarded machine.
The illumination disinterested in providing clarity or warmth hovers over the landscape. The dirty kitchen windows stand confidently un-corrected. They seem to tease as they defectively display the half-hearted attempt of the astronomically diminished and consequently reluctant one-quarter moon.
I think about the obvious truth that Martha and I are as welcome as meat craving coyotes, frantically near starvation. I know it bothers her much more than she articulates. It is my fault and it never stops bothering me. I have unconsciously, perhaps greedily taken over the role of family cry-baby and
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Martha is thereby stuck acting practical and strong. Though I put on a contrived, effective front with others, intended to show indifference to the situation, it gnaws at me whenever I’m not occupied with some diversion. In desperate moments I wonder what is wrong with me. And what could possibly be wrong with Martha. We were made this way. We are merely acting according to the preset rules we have no responsibility in establishing. A Machiavellian genius must have designed them to be insidiously insurmountable, simultaneously retaining the ability to deny their existence, or I’m a complete idiot.
I have an unmentioned problem with my devoutly feminist, outspoken life partner and toughly-contemporarily-described co-obligor. She easily acquiesced to my looped plan, without the slightest hint of reservation. I cannot escape the thought that had she apprehensions; it seems only fair that she would have expressed them before the plan was a done deal. It seems an unfair burden for me to alone be charged with making the choices in a world of infinite imperfection; and thereby replete of right answers. It is so easy to be an observing and characterizing critic. Those who watch from a safe ivory towered viewpoint would do themselves well to expand their horizons by trying something really challenging and out of their sophistry laden repertoire; the beautiful simplicity of a dream; accompanied by the calculated, contrived and attendant
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ridiculousness of being coerced to make a corporeal selection while living in this duplicitous and debauched world. I foolishly have kept my insatiably curious eyes open for more than ten seconds.
Though she doesn’t openly complain it is obvious to me that Martha is just as affected by the grimness of the unexpected realities. I fear that she finds the results of my plan a complete failure. I fear that she is right. I can only hope that she knows that I really did the best I could. Though it is selfishly necessary for me to know her perception of the matter, I am afraid to ask her if she believes my lost dreams. Her feelings on that subject are the most important things in my life. But, there are no words which will relieve me. If asked, she would either make a negative response or more likely politely encourage me with kind rhetoric, which I would interpret as a perfunctory, convenient and sociable assuagement.
I don’t want to hear either momentary reaction.
For me, the end is making a silent, yet stronger case than it was formerly capable. Though I know the very thought is well beyond that which its pale shadow merits, I am capable of no rebuttal. I always wished I knew more, understood more, and was taught more. I was desperately open to and thrived on illuminated teaching. But no purported and remunerated purveyor of soul-less knowledge had the inclination to do anything other
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than dismiss me with the silence of a disparaging and disinterested god; correctly in very small letters. Ostensibly, the mercenaries had no interest in pursuing their compensated profession into the “What if” questions I sincerely had as a troubled youth; beyond that which was banal, safe and routine, in their marginally functional, lazy, and chosen world of we-all-put-on-our-pants-the-same-way limitations. I suppose that my contemporary world evidences no meaningful metamorphosis in its continued love of boundaries, fences and walls; and probably has no relatively heightened significance whatsoever, with the possible exception of having some meaning to those hopeless dreamers locked in the nostalgic, dismissed and irrelevant world of their youthful and increasingly distant past.
We have no choice but to be here. We know that the sun will rise once again, but in the interim doubt it’s time proven and unfailing ability. We are strongly encouraged, especially if we were born male, to ignore the esoteric and hard-to-define problems of today, which are better shunned, at the possibility of being ridiculed; while the correction of which should effortlessly be effected by the simple sight of what undeniably is, but is erroneously perceived or conveniently ignored by the revered in-crowd in their star-engendered and consequently cool and mute station, without their having to have the slightest conception of seeing what is; the result of their good-time
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inattention and an optic lens-brain translation inadequacy, at the margins of existence, like Martha’s seemingly invisible rubber chicken. I disdain them. I envy them.
Martha and I now exist at the brink of the pit. We can see into it. The souls of those damned with hope scream in torment, as they try to be social by downplaying the searing pain of the fire which surrounds and consumes them. It, no doubt, prides itself on its supposed ability to instill universal fear. On good days, Martha and I find it a convenient place to spit.
As I finish the tiny remainder of my disgustingly tepid coffee, Martha enters the still bleak kitchen. Without the courtesy of the commonly obligatory; “Good morning,” She gently slaps my head as she snickers and informs me, in a voice not yet completely awake, that I am the biggest dick-head she has ever known. I am relieved. I am able to smile and relax. I fully agree and trust in what she says. For today, I am cured.
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