White Wicker and Wrought Iron

He stood on the front porch and professed his love in a long winded curse. The words, ready to be spat, sat on my tongue. I took it in; the white wicker, the wrought-iron railings, the gardenias, and shook my addiction.

The wind burrowed under the hairs on my arms, created a cold the shivers couldn’t disperse. Had it been that long ago that I left myself to the elements, walking into the hot damp of a New Orleans’ summer night? Yet again, I found myself exposed, my life lugged around in a green backpack, orbiting to the only place I knew to go when the moon hung low in the sky.

"You shaved your head." I hung my bag on the hook above the arranged row of sneakers.

"What do you think?" Van rubbed a hand down his smooth head to his sleepy eye.

"Makes you look too tough," I said. He looked splintered. The untreated curls had always masked the self-inflicted pain behind his eyes.

He arched his back, stretched his lean belly muscles. "You’re a softy under all that garb," he chuckled. "I’m going back to bed. There’s towels in the bathroom if you want to shower." Van followed me to the back of the house and swatted me on the rear before dodging into his room.

I stripped my clothes and dropped them to the floor. I stared at the long skirt, the tights, the torn Sonic Youth tee; studied them, then scooped them up and sat behind the door. I mixed them into the pile of jerseys and ribbed white tanks, tucked the tights under a pair of Girbaud’s.

Van cracked open the door. I shrunk against the wall in embarrassment.

"Crys?"

"Yeah?"

"I’m glad you’re home." The door shut.

In the shower, scrubbing the numbness from my skin, wincing with soap in my eyes, I whispered, "Me, too."

I rolled Rico to the cold side of the bed before getting in.

"Did you dry your hair?"

"Sort of," I lied.

"Get the towel." he pushed himself up and leaned against the headboard.

I sat between his legs, covers wrapped around our waists, while he rubbed the length of my hair between the towel.

"Will I see you in the morning?"

I picked at a loose thread on the quilt I made for him two birthdays ago. "I need to be here a while."

He wrung my hair out in the towel one last time before dropping it over the side of the bed. Under the covers, my nose pressed into the pillow, a soft kiss lingering on the nape of my neck, I thought about the white wicker, the wrought-iron railings, the gardenias, and saw them for what they were; chipped, rusted, and wilted.

Road Trip

The sweetness of the corn mixes with musty soybeans and sticks to my skin. One-stop towns decorate the open fields with marquee signs announcing births, engagements, and six piece chicken buckets for $4.99. Every town is my home.

"Do you want that?" Heath nods.

I turn the Billy Idol ‘Rebel Yell’ cassette over in my hand and think what a silly question. We haven’t had a cassette player in months. I’d have to stash it in the saddle bags for later. "That’s okay." I drop the cassette into the bin.

The lady behind the counter smiles at him, at his thoughtfulness. "Ya’ll have a good night," she calls out.

"Thanks. You do the same," Heath waves before guiding me out the door by my waist, inches away from the plastic case tucked into the band of my jeans.

The bugs are violent outside of town, stinging my cheeks, but the darkness pushes us forward. I bury my head into Heath’s back, hunched over, the corner of the cassette case jabbing my belly. Left hand on my thigh, shoulders spread broad, he windshields for me.

He steers the bike onto a dirt path. I dismount and follow him a ways off the road. My legs, tired from the long ride, tremble as my boots shuffle over the rutted ground.

The moon spots us from straight above. There’s no point in setting up the tent. Farmers rise early. The first whir of pickups passing and Heath will wake. I climb into the sleeping bag with him, resting my head on the chest that had become my pillow. The scent of oil and wind is intoxicating.

Lying together, the sleeping bag zipped tight, I ask the dreaded question, "Where are we going tomorrow?" My fingers play with the flesh hanging over his belt. At least he isn’t drinking as much.

"I don’t know. Keep heading south for a while. D.T. has a place for us in Florida. He has a buddy who owns a bike shop. I need to find some work. Our funds are getting low."

"I could always dance somewhere. Just for one night." Just saying those words coats the back of my tongue with bile.

"I told you….never again. And I mean it." He sucks in his gut. The flesh disappears beneath my fingers. "Why do you even bring that up?" His eyes slit and he drops his arm to the ground which was as far away as he could get in the confines of the flannel wrap.

I fumble for the zipper on his blue jeans, letting the crickets speak for me. Their incessant, involuntary cries for companionship fill my ears and I know there isn’t any other language I know how to speak.

Lake Michigan

That night we wet our feet in Lake Michigan, right before we were arrested, I was going to tell you that there isn’t always a lesson to be learned in sorrow. Sometimes we create our own pain. You wouldn’t have believed me though. You never did listen when I tried to tell you life didn’t have to be so hard.

I realized that night we wouldn’t work out. From the back of the patrol car I watched you throw your body onto the concrete beside the five foot marker, manipulating the officers into giving you what I wouldn’t.

Later when they visited, the fresh officer asked if it was the drugs or if you were always that way. I assured him it was the drugs. Then the doctor asked if I wanted to go to the shelter. I told him I didn’t, but you know I was never very good at lying.