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| (visual by Pete Zarria via this license) |
dispatch fourteen
Caravel by Ian Singleton
debuted 15 October 2009 | kept 483 times | click to keep
You know how much time I spent on the goddamn phone today?
He chortles and stretches out his back.
Yeah, I see you give a crap sittin’ there in your chair.
Well, don’t bring it up if it was such a bad day, he says. You’re home now. Have a drinky-poo, he says raising the glass to her without taking his eyes off the television.
This is about all you do, isn’t it, she snarls.
About all you do is bitch, he murmurs. Then the plastic ashtray by the sofa licks him in the cheek. He’s dusting his lips, the ashes moist in his mouth. He opens his eyes and sees the cigarette butts in his lap. When he blinks the ash falls from his eyelids. He rises, levelling his glare, tosses his beer bottle sloshing in the seat, and takes one step to slap her on her cheek. And it lands hard and knocks her into the corner where she sinks down muttering apologies and touching her face. He raises his hand again but then stops. Instead, he shatters the small window in the door with his fist, bloodying his hand, and is out the door.
Then he left and traveled almost seven years, visiting less and less. Until Claude left too and Belle lost touch and the fifteen years’ absence began.
I entered through the door again, just as the waitress approached and set a styrofoam cup down.
It’s to-go. I’ll just be right here, she said as she sat down at the counter and began to read a book the size of a pulp novel. After a little while she spoke, You sure you don’t want some eggs or something?
I raised an eyebrow, shaking my head and stirring my coffee.
It’s been a year since you spoke to ma except to send her a card on Mother’s Day. You left work with some friends who had stopped at the store to buy cards for their mothers. You watched them select theirs then grabbed one yourself. While the three of them stood in line you felt a shame deep inside.
The waitress was staring so I turned to her and she faced the kitchen again.
Hey. Where am I exactly, I asked.
You’re just north of Holland. About half an hour south of Muskegon.
I’m coming from Petoskey.
Welcome. You doing a road trip?
I hesitated then mumbled, My Uncle died.
She winced and let herself off the stool, Well you’re doing a good thing for your family by coming down here.