Black Lungs

I’m dying.  The doctor said it, standing there in the hall with my x-ray films, so it must be true.  Now the kids crouch beside me and talk loud, as if I’m deaf.  Coddle me.  Bring me cases of Ensure.  Their whispers are like buzzing flies when they think I’m asleep.

The grandkids beg me to give up cigarettes.  “So you’ll live longer, Gramps,” they say.  “We want you with us forever.”

They don’t know what it’s like to only have one comfort left in the world.  Well, maybe two.  My easy chair in front of the big screen tv consoles me.  Sometimes.  I bought it with money I won gambling.  They tell me to give that up too.  They probably think I'll blow their inheritance on a slot machine.  What?  Do they think I have piles of gold somewhere?  Ha!

~~~

My oldest boy, his wife hired some gals, not much younger’n me, to come and scrub a lifetime of smoke—mine and hers—off the windows.  I tried to tell ‘em—the kids, the gals--I like it there.  Sometimes I press my hand to the coolness.  This was in her body.  Write her name on the glass with my pointer finger.  This grey veil came out of the mouth she kissed me with.

At night when everyone else on the block is sleeping and I can’t, I go room to room.  Hold onto the walls for support.  I guess I’m looking for her, or a trace of who she was. 

She used to bring me coffee in here, when I shaved.  She’d sit on the commode and giggle when I dabbed her nose with shaving cream.

In here, the kitchen she had me paint the color of butter, she cooked my favorites--country ham, red-eyed gravy, fried potatoes.  Orange peel was the secret ingredient in her strawberry rhubarb pie.  I could polish one off in a day, but she never let me.  No one made stuffed pork chops like my Nancy.  No one.

This was the room where we made love and children.  Every Friday night.  She never had a headache.  Not once.  Her tinyness fit into my hands even though I’m not a big man.  Saturday mornings her face would look rashy—razzed by my whiskery, over and over kisses.  I’d brush her cheeks with my knuckles and apologize with my eyes.  I swear, she could still blush, even at 60.

Four children started out in this corner bedroom.  She called the color, Parakeet Green. Looked more like split pea soup to me.  I can still smell the Lysol she used in the diaper pail.  I hated that sharp scent.  Seemed more angry than clean to me.  If I shut my eyes and don’t move, I can hear her croon, “Rock-a-bye Baby” to each hairless, slate-eyed child.  And that one night?  Crap!  I hate this kind of remembering.  She shook me awake.  I thought her fingernails would go right through my skin. 

“Harry!  Get up!  Something’s wrong!  The baby’s not—“

I dug the grave.  Hardly bigger’n a bread box.  I knew the guys at the cemetery.  They let me go over the hill alone with a shovel, to mutilate the red, West Virginia clay.  I swore out loud.  Took the Lord’s name in vain.  Only once though.  She never let me do it at home.  After awhile, my knees hit the frozen sod.  Crushed the silvered grass.  I hollered at the clouds.

“The child was ours—mine and hers.  Yours too.  Why’d you take her?  Why?”

~~~

After we buried little Elaine, Nancy got out her baptism dress almost every day.  She’d press and press it.  Iron and iron it.  She seemed to think if she got out every last wrinkle, she’d get baby Elaine back, or maybe see her again.  Just one more time.  But that dress was Irish linen, passed down to Nancy from her older sister.  I don’t know much, but I know linen is a pain in the ass to press.

When Nancy went in the hospital, she begged me to keep ironing the dang thing.

“First thing, Harry,” she’d say.  “When you get home, try one more time.  For me.  Please?”

So I’d get it out of the closet in the baby room.  Take it down to the basement and try to get it as smooth as when it left Ireland.  Crazy cloth.  I’d get one wrinkle out and wind up with two more.  There at the end though, I got it perfect.  Made every single line go away.  I hung it on its padded, satin hanger and laid it on the back seat of my Buick.  When I showed her, her face became radiant, like--  Like she was already gone.  Somewhere else. 

I felt my face collapse in on itself.  Oh, no!  What have I done?  I jerked it from the hanger.  Balled it up.  Squeezed it smaller, tighter.  Punched it.  Maybe it wasn’t too late.  She tried to yell, but her voice came out sounding like a baby bird’s.  She acted like she was gonna come after me, after the dress, but she couldn’t lift herself more than a couple inches.  Dehydrated as she was, her tears were a flood. 

The doctor called that night, right after I brushed my teeth.  I knew before I answered the phone.  Before I left the hospital really.

~~~

Every Sunday I drive out to the graveyard.  Take her daisies from the fancy new grocery store out that way.  Sometimes I get our little Elaine a sucker.  I unwrap it and stick it in the ground by the bronze Beloved Child marker.  The candy’s always gone the next time I go.

The kids got me some kinda folding chair contraption to take to the cemetery, so I don’t sit on the ground.  My knees lock up these days if I get down low.  Sometimes I do it anyway, ‘cause it feels closer.  To her.  To them.

I don’t smoke when I go to see her.  When she was . . .   There at the end, she made me promise to stop.  It’s the only promise to her I didn’t keep.  The thing is, I want to die.  The living, the young, think dying’s a bad thing.  Not me.  I’m ready right now, this very minute.  So at home, I sit in my easy chair and light up, over and over.  Try to smoke more today than yesterday.  Newsflash, grandkids.  I don’t want to live forever.  The way I see it, the sooner I die, the quicker I’ll be with my two little gals.

*The Coldest I've Ever Been*

The coldest I've ever been was not December 27, 2009 when I watched my husband officiate the Music City Bowl.  Sitting for three hours inside the Tennessee Titans' stadium in a windchill of 17 degrees makes a body cold, to be sure.  But I've been colder.  In the 70s.
           

In the 70s, I liked to hear the WKEE dj who lived inside my clock radio say, "Cabell County" in the list of school cancellations.  I'd hit the off button and roll over and dream about--  What was the oldest Partridge brother's name?  Not Danny. The other one.

The smell of Maxwell House would waft under my door, and I'd know Dad was up.  I'd slide my feet into slippers, slip my arms into my robe, and join him in the kitchen.  He'd look up from his dippy egg and grin. 

"Gonna sleigh ride?"
           

I'd smile back.  "Yep."
           

I'd open the cabinet over the stove and survey the collection of cereal--Cheerios, Frosted Flakes, Sugar Pops.  Usually I picked Cheerios.  Added a teaspoon or two of sugar and a big pour of milk.
           

Dad would push his chair back from the table and carry his dishes to the sink.  He'd run water over his plate so the yolk streaks wouldn't turn to Super Glue.  Then he'd pat me on the back, always too hard.   I'd arch to soften, or avoid altogether, the blows.
           

He'd put his cheek to mine, his Abe Lincoln beard scratchy.  My nose would wrinkle with the combination of his morning and Maxwell House breath.  My mouth was full, so I'd make the brusha-brusha-brusha motion with my hand.  He'd make an almost fist, breathe into it, and sniff.  Then his eyebrows would go up. 

"Right."
           

Before he left to walk to work, he'd come back in the kitchen and exhale in my face.  Colgate breath.  Minty fresh.  Much better.  My mouth was still full, so I gave him a thumbs up.

After I slurped the sugary milk dregs, I'd put my bowl in the sink.  Then I started collecting.  Socks, long johns, jeans--two pair. Turtleneck, sweatshirt.  Hat, scarf,  gloves.  Baggies and rubber bands--one for each foot.  The plastic bags were key.  They keep the feet dry.  Wet cold is way chillier than dry cold.  If your feet are dry, you can stay out at least an extra hour.
           

Next stop was the basement, for foot and outerwear--always my brothers.'  No way my coat and boots would fit over all my sleigh riding gear.  I'd root through the shoe pile under the stairs, looking for the Scotchguarded, stubby-toed hiking boots with red laces.  I'd grab my middle older brother’s arctic parka.  The fur trim almost always kept the snow spray off my face.
           

Into the garage.  More choices.  I'll take the . . . silver disc and the  . . . newer Flexible Flyer.   Its runners had been waxed recently.  All set.  To the cemetary.  No need to tell Mom.  It's where I always went when it snowed.

It was the best of snow days.  It was the worst of snow days.
           

The snow had a crisp, like potato chips, top.  Like it had snowed, drizzled, then froze.  If I was super careful, I could walk across the surface and not fall through.   The trick was weight distribution.  You had to center yourself over your feet.  If you dug in a heel, you’d crash through.  Ka-runch. On a good day, I could go six or eight steps without a breakthrough.
           

Us neighborhood kids had anticipated this cold snap.  We prepared for it too.  After school the day before, some of us tromped over and used a chubby stick to jam the water pump at the top of the hill where the road goes down to the giant, open Bible made of granite.
           

The day before, it'd been almost 40.   The water had gushed willingly.  Today it wasn’t even 20.  The water refused to flow.  Instead, it looked like a white paper towel tube coming out of the forest green, goose-necked faucet.  The road reminded me of the powdered sugar glaze on my mom's Bacardi rum cake.  Shiny.  Slick.  Speedy.
           

I smiled and rubbed my gloved hands together.  It's gonna be so fast.
           

After the faucet inspection, I walked back up the hill to where I'd left the sleds.  I picked up the reins of the Flexible Flyer.  Sitting, or on my belly?  On my belly.  I trusted my hands more than my feet when it came to steering.
           

I pulled the sled three feet back from the edge so I could get settled before I--  On your mark . . . get set . . . went.  I eased my Michelin-man self, tummy down, onto the Flyer's slats.  I put the rope under me, so it wouldn't get caught beneath the runners.  I put my hands at opposite ends of the guide bar.  Before I geronimoed, I pulled my muffler up over my mouth and nose 'cause I hate freezin' cold snow powder in my face.  Hate it!
           

When you ride a roller coaster, you're scared in the line.  At least I am.  Then, you're anxious as your car climbs the first hill.  That’s how I always feel, like there's no turning back now.  And then you're at the peak, and your stomach jumps up to keep your sternum company.  Then all h-e-double toothpicks breaks loose.  Speed.  Wind.  Adrenalin.  Bugs.  Fear.  Joy.  It's over?  Already?  Let's do it again!

Not this time.  I hunched and scooted and jerked my way to the precipice.  I paused to look at the gleaming ribbon of silver.  I considered the way it dog-legged to the left, halfway down.  Wonder how the Flyer will steer on ice? 

"Cowabunga!" I shouted to the edges of winter as I oomphed myself from flat to steep.  


It happened so quick.  I didn't get to enjoy the stinging, alarming velocity before the pain, the burning pain, set in.  The steering of the Flyer on ice?  It didn't happen.  The ice flung me down the hill so fast, by the time I approached the bend and needed to steer, it was too late. 

The Flyer slammed into the curb and stopped.  I, however, kept going.  Across the crisp, like the top of creme brulee, but cold not hot, snow.  The parka's hood flew back.  The scarf on my face abandoned ship, and the sandpaper-rough ice crust razzed my face. Took off a layer of skin on my right cheek and jaw. 

I don't know how long I laid there, motionless, like one of those baby harp seals whose eyes say, "Please don't let mean, greedy men kill me."

After awhile, the burning on the right side of my face turned to stinging.  Then it prickled.  Then itched.  Isn't this what they say frostbite feels like?  And then people's toes and fingers fall off.  Is my cheek gonna fall off?  

I lifted my face off the ice layer.  My eyes got big when I saw the pink print it left.  I rolled onto my back with a groan.  My neck and shoulders ached from the Flyer's violent kiss with the curb.  Wish the snow was soft like when it first falls and you run outside to make snow angels.

My stomach rumbled, and I opened my eyes.  I was so cold.  A jarring shiver started in my gut and shimmied up to my teeth, making 'em clack.  Sounded like the Mexican Hat Dance.  I squinted at the sky.  What time is it?  I shook my head to ease the crawling of my face skin, but it didn't help.  I reached a glove up to scratch and felt a tearing.  The fringe fibers of my scarf had mated with the beginnings of the scabs on my cheek.  My face would not surrender the muffler without more pain.  More blood.

My breath caught.  I sniffed.  My lower lip trembled.  I'm gonna be ugly.  The salt from my tears insulted my abrasions.  It'll probably leave a scar.  I've not been loved yet, and I probably never will be now.  I'll have to become a nun like Sally Field or Maria, in The Sound of Music.  The wimple will cover the thickened, angry pink skin.  That is, if I don't freeze to death first.  After all, this was the coldest I'd ever been.

The Dead Raiser--Part IV

No one spoke as we walked the five blocks to the graveyard. The night was silent. Almost. I could hear the Dobie Brothers howl, even though they lived two miles away. When we got to the cemetery, we climbed the low stone wall and squatted on the other side. I flipped my flashlight on and pointed it in the direction of Mama’s grave. The beam lit up tons of tiny water particles.

"Got foggy all of a sudden,” Tabby said.

I tried to talk, but nothing came out, so I cleared my throat.

“When we get there, I’ll do my thing. Then we’ll wait and see what happens.”

Tabby looked at Miss Sandy. “Maybe you should say a little prayer for us. For her,” she said.

I tilted my head. For me, or Mama?

Vince nodded.

Miss Sandy stood, Bible tucked under her arm. “Everyone up. Let’s hold hands.”

I stood and turned my flashlight off. Put it in the back pocket of my jeans.

Vince’s hand was sweaty. Miss Sandy’s felt clammy. She lowered her head. We did the same.

“Dear Father God. Your word says where two or more are gathered, you are there. We’re so glad you’re here. I’m kind of freaked out and I’m a grown up, so I’m guessing these kids are scared too. Lord, you know what these kids want, and you know what’s best. That’s what I want. What’s best.”

I started to let go of her hand, but she started talking again.

“And Lord? Please protect us from the evil one. And all the people said—“

Tabby and I knew this part from VBS. “Amen.”

After we dropped hands, everyone just stood there. I figured they were waiting on me.

“Just my light,” I said.

I got it out and flipped it on again. Pointed the beam at our feet. We found the road and followed it to the top of the hill. I looked back at the group and saw Vince pointing.

“There it is,” he said. “There’s Mama’s grave.”

We lined up in front of it. I put my flashlight at my feet. It flickered a few times then died.

I huffed. “Aw, man!”

“Don’t worry about it,” Miss Sandy said.

Vince and Tabby stood to my right. Miss Sandy put her arm around me on my left. I looked at the sky. There was no moon. No light at all now. Miss Sandy squeezed my shoulder.

“Go on,” she said.

I shut my eyes. Hey. Jesus. I guess it’s you I’m talking to. You know what me and Vince want—“

All of a sudden something screamed. Goosebumps exploded on my arms. I opened my eyes and spun around. Couldn’t see a thing. We all huddled together.

"What was that?” Vince said.

“I think it was a cat,” Miss Sandy said. “I'm pretty sure it was.”

I felt her gaze on me. “Keep going, Kat.”

I bowed my head again. Tried to remember where I left off.  Like I was saying, sir. You know what me and Vince want. This is the last time I’ll do this. Promise. And, sir? Just so you know--

My eyes flew open when I heard the first growl. It was low. Guttural. Vince yelled. I heard him hit the ground. Hard. He yelped. I heard thrashing  in the grass.

I stumbled around, my arms straight out in front of me.

“Vince! Where are you?”

“It got me!” he said. “In the chest."

He was crying for real now.  "I think I’m dying.”

I dropped on all fours and started crawling around. Ignored the pain from landing on gravel.

“Vince? Say something!”

The growling never stopped, 'cept for an occasional snap of teeth. And some weird grinding noise. Or is it chewing?

I sat on my heels. “Vince, you gotta talk to me. Otherwise I can’t find you.”

Finally he spoke. His voice sounded weak.  Hopeless.

“I can’t . . . breathe.”

I turned toward his voice.

“Vince! What? What’s got you? Talk to--”

I heard thumps. What? Is he hitting it? My wrist brushed against something. I pulled it back, then reached out again.  Fingers splayed. Touched it. Whatever it was, it felt sleek. Powerful. I screamed when it turned on me. Its exhale smelled like a garden.  Of death.

Waves of heat came at me. Jaws snapped inches from my face. Spit splashed in my eye. I swiped my face with my forearm.  My hands balled into fists.  Stupid, freak! Messing with my little--

I launched myself at the thing. Flailing.  Thrashing. Pounding.

“Get off my little brother, you gosh darned varmint!”

All of a sudden, there was another one.  I heard it.  Behind me. I arched my back to get away.  It snarled.  The vibrations rattled my ribs.

Tabs was yelling now. I finally figured out what she was saying. “Dobies! Kat! It’s the Dobie Brothers!”

And then, quiet. As fast as the fuss started, it was over. I couldn’t hear Vince rolling around anymore. He just whimpered.

A weak light caught my eye. It was my flashlight. On the ground where I'd left it.  It flickered and came back on. I picked it up and aimed it at the group. Everyone was hunkered down, their eyes wide.

“What happened?” I said.

Tabby shushed me. Pointed at Miss Sandy. She stood slowly, holding her Bible up in the air. I followed her gaze. She was staring at the Dobermans. I thought they’d left, but there they were. Not even ten feet away from us. They looked frozen.

When Miss Sandy spoke, hairs stood up on the back of my neck. I’d never heard her talk like that. Her voice was low.  Stern.

"This is the word of God, you hell hounds,” she said. “And I will use it. You and I know it’s sharper than any double-edged sword. It will slice you up.”

My mouth hung open as the dogs cringed and started backing away. Their heads turned at odd angles.  They whined as if they were in pain. I blinked.  They were gone.

I heard Tabby’s breath come out in a rush. “Holy cow!” she said. “That was awesome, Miss Sandy.”

Miss Sandy glanced over at us then up at the sky. “Thank you, Jesus.”

I knelt beside Vince. He clutched his little boy chest.

I brushed hair out of his eyes. “You okay, little buddy?” I said. “Let me see your--”

I bit my lip and pointed the light at him. Shone it on his chest, then face, then legs. Not a scratch. I gently lifted his hands from over his heart. There was no blood. His shirt wasn’t even torn. I looked at Miss Sandy and shook my head.

“There’s nothing,” I said. “No marks or anything.”

She shrugged. “Jesus probably healed him,” she said. “Vince, honey.  Does it hurt?”

Vince pounced his chest with his fingertips. “Nope. Not at all.”

Miss Sandy reached out a hand to help him up. Then she motioned for us to make a circle.

“Okay, then. Where were we?”

I took a deep breath and shut my eyes. Again. Wow, Jesus! Sir. That was epic. Now I believe. I mean, I’ve been believing, bit by bit, all week, but after what just happened? I really believe now.

I snuck a look at the sky, grinned, and rolled my fingers. I put my hands back together and bowed my head.

"So. Where was I? Oh, yeah. In case you need reminding, sir, Mama was just 34 when she . . . you know. Don’t you think she should have more—She should have another—“

“Shhh! You’re supposed to be praying.”

I opened my eyes. Tabby’s pointer finger was in front of her lips.

“What?” I said.

“You’re talking out loud.”

“I am?”

Vince gasped. “Look!”

He pointed to Mama’s headstone. A silvery mist covered the dark granite. It seemed as if the night itself had exhaled onto the stone.  My eyes felt like they were drying out, but I didn’t dare blink. A hand, almost see-through, materialized to the right of the monument. It flowed over and wrote something. On Mama’s grave.

No one spoke. None of us moved. I couldn’t hear anyone breathe for what seemed like forever.

Miss Sandy leaned over and whispered in my ear. “It’s like in the book of Daniel.”

“What is?”

“The hand writing.”

“What’s it say?” Vince said. His voice cracked.

“Tetelestai,” Miss Sandy said, after the hand disappeared.

“Te-tell-a-what??” I said. “That’s not English.”

“No,” Miss Sandy said. “It’s Greek.”

“What’s it mean?” I said.

Miss Sandy pulled her jacket closer around her.

“It’s the last thing Jesus said. From the cross. It means, ‘It is finished.’”

I huffed. “What do you mean--” I said. “What does the hand mean, ‘it is finished?’”

“I have no idea. Let’s wait and see if anything . . .”

We sat cross-legged in the grass. We stared at Mama’s grave even though the writing was gone now. I put my head on Miss Sandy’s shoulder. That’s the last thing I remember.


I woke first. I looked around, then tapped Miss Sandy on the leg.

“The sun’s coming up,” I said. “Mama didn’t come. It didn’t work.”

I pinched the inside corners of my eyes. They burned.

Miss Sandy looked down at me. Her face looked like it was melting again.

“I’m sorry, Kat,” she said. “I think . . . maybe Tetelestai meant your dead raising days are over. You know, like they’re finished.”

My voice sounded loud when I finally found it. “But I believed. Really hard. Way more than the other times.”

I stood and put my hands on my hips. I looked at Miss Sandy.  I knew my voice sounded harsh, like she was to blame, but I didn't stop.

“Isn’t that why you said God raised people from the dead? So that folks who don’t believe, would start?”

Miss Sandy stood and came over and put her arm around my waist. “I’m sure you—“

I squirmed out of her grip. “This isn’t fair! I was so—“

Miss Sandy reached for my shoulder. “I know, honey,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

I looked down at Tabby. She was focused on the ground in front of her.

I glanced at Vince. Tears ran down his cheeks and polka-dotted his t-shirt.

Miss Sandy brushed the seat of her pants. “Come on, kids,” she said. “I have to get you home.”


Saturday

Tetelestai. That was the first thing I thought when I woke up. I looked over at the clock. It was eleven. I’ve never slept this late.

“Katherine! Vincent! Get down here. Right now! Your breakfast is getting cold! I swear. Getting you two up in the summer is like trying to raise the dead.”

I threw back the covers and ran for the stairs. Vince and I almost collided. He rubbed his eyes and looked at me. Did it again.

I shook my head. “I know what you’re thinking, little buddy,” I said.

“We’re awake.” I poked him in the side. “See? It’s not a dream. It’s a miracle.”

And with that, we tore down the steps.

“Mama!”