Posted on by Lydia Ink

Painted Pictures

Living in the city meant semi-starvation rations with thin, startling bright silver linings.  I remember being frightened even when my rent was paid in full for the month.  But living in the city meant free days at the museum of art, tranquil walks in the coldest winter months, and wondering what hid behind the bright electric lights in other people’s apartment windows; enjoyable moments in chaos.

My worst day was when Pristina died.  She came with me to the city when I moved from my parent’s home in the suburbs.  I had just graduated from a community college that taught me nothing and parents who knew I was off to great things because they never made life “too easy,” for me.  My parents tolerated me and Pristina though they never said so. Moving out with my princess bedroom furniture, college loans and my cat, Pristina, they beseech me to remember self control and remember my birth control. We moved into a loft apartment together and I lost my virginity to a writer who lived across the narrow hallway and was twice my age.

After I found myself awake beside a man I didn’t know,  my longing for Pristina grew – she was just across the hall all alone. Creeping out of bed, gathering up my strewn clothing and tiptoeing along the hallway to my studio apartment, I cried and petted my cat, telling her I would not leave her again.   Though I was late for work, the next day and shuddered at the thought of loosing my job. 

I didn’t go home for Christmas that year.  New Year’s Day my parents wrote me from Florida, encouraging me to visit them in the retirement community they had found.  I worked a second job in the evening and for two years Pristina and I worked and slept in a studio apartment and the writer across the hall slipped us poetry under our door. I received a promotion, a raise, and a corner office in the basement for my diligence.

I paid off my last college loan on November 16th and that night I ordered out; a rare New York Strip with soft wedged potatoes sprinkled with sea salt and balsamic vinegar for me and Pristina.  Pristina sneezed over the potatoes and licked her lips each time she swallowed a dainty piece of meat.  She taught me the art of savoring a meal.

Pristina and I moved to a one-bedroom apartment with wooden floors and an ancient-looking bathroom, which depressed us both.  The kitchen was dark green with brown linoleum and I told myself we would get used to it because the skyline of Chicago was worth the depressing dark interior.  The skyline wasn’t enough and one year later we moved into a renovated old brick factory at the suggestion of someone I knew.

The writer who turned poet lived on the bottom floor of the once busy factory with his new wife and their golden retriever.  The wife tapped on my door; she had long dark black hair and her face was smooth and round; she would smile at me and invite me to their apartment.  “No worries, no worries, I’m not jealous.  Come and eat with us.”  I always refused and Pristina would sit upon an old heat register meowing down at the poor dog who lacked exercise.

I left for work on a frigid January day and was late coming home because the CTA was running slow and the sidewalks were slippery.  Pristina was alone and in the dark when she died without me.

Her funeral expenses set me back, and I had to miss a day of work, but I came home with a jasper jar with her ashes in it.  I called my mother to tell her and after explaining that Pristina had not died years ago I hung up and sat in the dark.  I understood the coldness of a smooth jasper jar.

The writer turned poet, turned writer and his wife showed up in February with a great framed painting of Pristina for my brick wall, where no pictures hung.

“You need color up here.  Pristina, her dark fur and golden eyes will make this place feel like home again.”

I said nothing to him while he drilled and worked and swept up the dust of his labors.

“Why don’t you have dinner with us?”

“No, thank you.”

He slid the wide door of my apartment shut and tiptoed away.  I sat in the dark for another night with my back to the painting.

April in Chicago can be violent.  The wind slams and bounces against the tall buildings and tumbles down to rattle old brick buildings, once sheltering physical labor, now sheltering poets, writers, wives and administrative assistants with a knack for numbers.  The dog below howls in a low whimper when the thunder replaces lightening.  Pristina leaps down from her perch on the wall and walks, tail perpendicular, to the register and mews at her old friend.

There is calmness.

I think of making love one more time to the poet before I have my picture painted and hung next to Pristina’s. However, I don’t want to surrender again to my need-consumed psyche, which is only fodder for self-deceit. They taught me self-control, my parents.

Posted on by Lydia Ink

Old Things

She stood there without a coat and really; she needed one.  It was cold outside–not bitter mind you, but a wet cold.  The mist was chilling and the bleak sun rays slipped from behind the heavy clouds, illuminating nothing.  Light reflected coldly in the dripping moisture that clung to the bare tree limbs.  Sluggish rain, he’d almost say lazy drizzle, semi-solidified upon the winter brittle tree limbs and bushes, pulled the branches down toward the ground. He stood there and watched her pondering; why would she be without a coat in the middle of a semi-freeze rain storm?

He continued to watch, intrigued, despite his concern regarding her lack of forethought. He enjoyed watching women. She looked down at her feet and studied her brown, nondescript shoes with more solemn attention than they deserved.  Glancing up he realized, oddly enough, she smiled in a tired accepting fashion, at the long and bleak trail of the empty railroad tracks. He frowned, puzzled, looking about for the person teasing her — someone must be — or perhaps she was thinking of someone.  A young child, perhaps, acting out to cheer her on dreary afternoons or was she was thinking of a long-term lover who knew her moods and who knew she didn’t do well on rainy days. He peered about looking for that someone who must have caused that Mona Lisa smile but the train depot was empty.

Keeping his distance, tactically checked his chin for any roughness; a sign he wasn’t careful enough this morning while shaving, but found his chin faultless.  He didn’t understand the rage today to allow so much stubble on a man’s chin.  It was nothing new, chin stubble.  He remembered his grandfather, from the old country, German to the core, going a day or two without shaving, especially during harvest time.  However, no matter how tired the man was, he wouldn’t go out socially without a good shave. Why young men thought going about in public with what he reasoned was a harvester’s beard made them sexier or more intriguing to women was beyond him.

He glanced over at the young woman again, who was now just inside the depot, standing alone by the door. She was staring right at him. She ducked her head, embarrassed at being caught assessing him. Though she looked away, he tried to give the woman a half smile and a nod. Wasn’t he doing the same? Looking her over? He didn’t get caught.

He smiled to himself, but sorry that it embarrassed her.  A sixty-something, thick glasses, his tie too wide for present style dictates, his sports coat a good fifteen years old, navy blue (horrors) and his khaki pants starched and ironed–taboo. He knew when he reached his destination he would be the only man there, young, old or otherwise, with a plaid shirt. He knew he looked neat in appearance, which would make him appear fastidious, unattractive and old-fashioned.

He took out his well ironed, white, cotton kerchief and wiped lightly at his nose to hide his smile. He did not understand why he thought it was funny to appear as a fussy old man, especially at the expensive of that poor drab young girl.

“Excuse me?” Her voice was soft and he could tell it took a lot of courage for her to approach him. He looked up at the same time he said, “Yes?”

“No one is at the ticket counter.” She turned to look at the vacant counter to confirm the obvious. He knew Mr. Mullins would be in the back making tea and spreading too much mayonnaise on his hard salami sandwich; a fact he had to push out of his mind quickly for fear his disgust for Mr. Mullins and all things sandwich would show upon his face–and she would misinterpret that. “I was wondering–do the trains run on time?”

“No, I’m afraid not. I hope you are not trying to make a connection in the city.”

She smiled, almost it seemed in relief. “No, actually I’m not. I was just here to get away for a while. I’m in no hurry to get back.”

“Ahh, you live there then.”

Her face became suddenly still, void of animation, and almost pasty. “Well, I work there.”
He could only nod, not knowing really how to take her odd reply. He wondered suddenly, with dread, if she would tell him her life story. How she was alone in the world, working for next to nothing for a man who had everything and existing in a small garret apartment in a rather rundown part of town.

But he felt his shoulders relax for she turned away and walked back to stare out of the window, watching the mist gather into pools of muddy water upon the sidewalk and along the tired tracks that never varied in direction since the day the iron monsters appeared to accommodate the so few who used public transportation.

He looked about at the depot, not changed since the 1970s–and at that the only change was disconcerting. The railway had thought it best to do away with the long time wooden benches and replace them with spoon-like fiberglass seats that not even the most agile of hoodlums could slouch into a workable, relaxing sit-down. It outraged most in the small town, so the renovations stopped–they saved the wood and the glass of the depot for prosperity. The benches? They saved most, and they had places of honor in homes around the small town; his own front entrance sported a sanded down renovated bench–it glowed in shining glory there under soft lamps and amid walking sticks and umbrellas. No one sat on it any longer. Good company just wiped their feet and kept on toward his large living room–forgetting about the bench altogether.

There were the Smiths. They wanted two of the benches and insisted that the carvings and the overall wear and tear of the benches made them pieces of art. He snorted aloud at the memory. Checking himself, he glanced over at the young woman to see if he had offended her at all with his noise of disdain. Obviously not, she didn’t even look in his direction.
Works of art! He knew they had no intention of cleaning up the wooden benches while their copious amount of children and now grandchildren still charged about their house as if they were aboard Vice Admiral Halsey’s Enterprise, during the battle of Midway…

“I’m sorry to bother you again…”

He stood abruptly, and she took a step back. He tried to smile, but he knew his attempt at trying to look friendly only made him appear condescending, so he tried to frown just a little as if the next words out of her mouth would tilt the world.

To his delight, she fought a genuine smile. “I was wondering, just how late does the train arrive? I thought of going over to the café for some coffee…”

He interrupted her. “Oh, I’m afraid it may be a little late for that. I think the train is nearly here.” He swelled with his own good luck. Mr. Mullins had come around the depot and was standing on the sodden wooden planks outside. The conductor knew that at last the errant train into town was coming ’round the bend.

She turned, following his glance past her. Flushing slightly, she said, “Oh. Well, I guess that’s what I get.”

He wasn’t sure how to respond to her–what sort of retribution had she received? He had only stated a fact, and it wasn’t an inconvenience to let her know the train was imminent; as a matter of fact the timing of the situation was wonderful, it reminded him of a Sherlock Holmes story but for the life of him he couldn’t remember the title.

She turned and seemed to wander away from him rather than walk in any one direction. He cocked his head slightly; a habit his last lover found annoying. Smiling to himself, he wondered what that eminent and profound woman was doing with herself lately.

Hearing the clatter of the slowing train and the low warning whistle. He filled his lungs, suddenly exuberant with the thought of the two-hour train ride, and a day and night in the city.  He had shopping to do, then a late supper with one of his longtime sorority friends. They planned to meet at their club, and though the dress code was a nuisance, he was looking forward to the all-male company the club offered. He liked women, but only in small doses.

He turned, and she was standing in the rain. Huddled was more like it. Why on earth didn’t she stay in the station until the train had stopped and was ready for passengers? Shaking his head, but determined, he grabbed his umbrella and headed in her direction. Walking up to her and extended his deep, black umbrella over her.

“You could have stayed in the station…” She was crying. “What on earth is wrong?”

“I don’t want to go.” Her voice was strained, so she hiccuped her words. He wanted to run. Hand her the damned umbrella and run. She was young, probably sentimental and had heartbreaking thoughts of never seeing this tiny, little, quiet, peaceful, peering, scrutinizing, gossiping, town again.

“My dear young lady, I’ve lived here all of my life.  You’re better off in the city and facing the heartbreak of leaving this antique encrusted little tourist town once a year on vacation rather than being tethered to it and all its gossiping politics for the rest of your life.”  He heard Mr. Mullins clucking in the background, and it was all he could do to keep from turning on the old man and glaring at him into his grave. He turned back to the young woman, “What’s your name?”

“Sarah.”

“Mine’s Abraham, how do you do?”

And for the first time in his life, he saw a romantic glimmer of hope for she smiled through her tears, “I’ve always wanted someone to say that to me,” she whispered. “I don’t think your name is really Abraham.”

He looked hard at the simple, almost gray woman before him; young, her eyes red from crying, and she needed a tissue for her nose. Her hair curled under the misting rain and it blotted the little makeup she wore on her face. “Nathaniel Barrett, is my name and I am the proverbial ‘Philadelphia Lawyer.’  My occupation has allowed me to retire early and work on only what interests me in the world of high finance. I hate romantic books, antique dealers, and the crushing academic weight of ‘women’s studies’.”

“Sarah Lewis, I’m a poet and essayist. I majored in women’s studies and I love anything old.”

He stood staring at her as the train spewed exhaust and clanked contently to a stop. Then he smiled at the young woman without thinking how he must appear; “Pleased to meet you,” he said.

Photo by Fabio Neo Amato on Unsplash

Posted on by Lydia Ink

Decapitated

I left her there, okay?  I did.  We argued; it wasn’t the thing to do, but it was a long time ago.  Being young and angry, I left her there.  Now I’m tired of thinking about it. The incompetence of the police isn’t my responsibility.  When I walked away, she was still shouting at me, so yeah, she was fine. 

We weren’t an item, really.  Sure we… you know.  It was convenient.  I can’t help what she wrote about me in her diary, she didn’t treat me like she… you know, loved me.  Let’s face it she couldn’t pronounce the word, I’m surprised she could spell it.

But listen, it’s been a good twenty years and I’ve moved on.  I don’t know what else I can tell you.  You know I was almost married once.  Then I ended up on some news brief on the anniversary of her death; the 10th, I think.  My fiance stopped coming around.  I even picked up the phone once and called.  She didn’t return my call.

So nobody’s as sorry as me.  Five years ago I hit a low spot.  I lost my job, and the bills were piling up.  I thought, what the hell, I’ll call the guys in polyester suits and confess.  But damn it, I didn’t do it.  I think that even my parents wonder if I killed her.

One more time?  Sure, you’re all liars, but okay, one more time, I’ll tell you all about it.

It was the ‘90s, we were big into music.  There was a sizeable crowd, the DJ was awesome and the music loud.  I thought at one point we were going to orgy; the place was that high and happy.  Around 3 AM we were all spent.  She didn’t want to leave, but I had to get home and pretend I wanted to go to church.  It was her car, you understand.  She wanted to stay and… you know.  But I was tired and we could do that anytime.  I told her so. She freaked.  She started yelling at me, I was nothing but a user and a hypocrite and she would tell my parents. 

Laughing in her face, I told her to go ahead – tell.  My parents would just pray over me and make sure she never came near me.   They were probably waiting for me at the front door.  I was seventeen years old. What could they do?  I told her I would call the police if she wanted to get nasty. She was the 21-year-old.

I was a reprobate: Not proud of everything I’ve done or said to people. Still I didn’t kill her.  I walked away with her screaming at me and that’s the last I saw her.  No, I didn’t catch a ride; I walked home.  And yes, it was quite the hike; I didn’t get home until 6AM.  Went to church like a good boy with my parents and they knew nothing until Wednesday when the police ended up at our front door. 

It’s been long enough now that I feel sorry for my Dad.  Big Baptist congregation and his one and only son in the middle of a murder investigation.  College went out the window because of the lawyer’s fees. The congregation slowly drifted away.  He’s a bitter man.  I speak to him and Mom once a week.  They don’t ask me to visit.  My Dad tells me he’s praying for me.  I don’t know how to pray. 

Listen, I wasn’t even charged.  Some think I did it, others say no way.  Those who vouch for me are or were church going little hypocrites like me who sneaked out of their parents’ house to smoke pot, have illicit sex and listen to beats. 

Who ever killed her decapitated her, so they meant it.  A messy way to end someone.  Not my style.  My style is to just walk away.  Too bad she couldn’t learn to do just that.  Wasn’t in her though, she always held her ground and screamed.  Maybe who ever did it felt he needed to quiet her down somehow. 

Come on, man, it’s a joke. 

Posted on by Lydia Ink

Music

Silver white

Sing gently

Walk among the forget-me-nots not knowing

Step upon the forest floor,

mistake it for cathedral walls.

Snow white

the bones of your hand numbered

upon the keys

vibrating certain tones

disburse into the semblance of song. 

A dirge.

Gray-beautiful

haunt the less fortunate,

I remain sheltered. 

Posted on by Lydia Ink

Listen

It’s my wish to hear your voice

to walk cobble stoned streets

to watch the darkness, descend. 

It’s my wish to watch in silent comfort

the electric lights flicker blue then on

casting shadow upon the street

crowded with blank windows and sagging brick.

Shall we watch the moon, full and bright?

Shall we dance a waltz in somber sincerity?

Shall we whisper history as ghosts walk by?

The South is haunted and atmospheric

The North echoes Roman concrete. 

It’s my wish to hear your voice.