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| (visual by Jonathan D. Blundell via this license) |
dispatch fourteen
Caravel by Ian Singleton
debuted 15 October 2009 | kept 483 times | click to keep
She shuffled into the kitchen watching over her shoulder. The look made me realize I was alone in the diner. I turned to the window and saw that the sun was getting lower, the day darker. The metal trailer wall pressed cold against my elbow. A vague inertia kept me sitting there. I lit a cigarette and watched the sunset, then stood to order another coffee. Time wasted any way you did it.
The cook came out and set down another cup of coffee, then smiled with buck teeth.
Pop drove you down here. You shouldn’t have come this far just because of him.
I stood again and asked for the check. This time, the waitress stepped through the door while the cook watched from behind the counter. She strode up and, as I was sitting back down, let the check fall like a leaf onto the table.
Once in my car again, I wondered if Jessie had called and opened the dashboard to search for my cellphone. Then I stopped, took a deep breath, and shut the compartment. The sun was setting. I watched the yellow line on the highway.
One night you locked yourself out on the porch, on the cold wooden two-by-fours. You almost froze that night.
When I entered Bridgman after driving all day, my throat had started to close. The coroner’s office was the only bright building on the street. I squealed into an empty spot and shut the car off. I rotated my shoulders while exhaling to crack my spine. I looked for another person attending to a dead relative. You were always alone. I stepped out and climbed the many stairs to enter the warm building, my legs jumping after such a long drive.
The columns echoed my steps as I approached the window. My words were automatic until the officer on duty chuckled.
You got here just in time. We don’t usually take people after six.
Thank you, I said.
He led me down a long dim hallway. We passed through two sets of metal-plated swinging doors into a room bright with fluorescence.
In an instant, the mortician had removed the body and laid it on a table. I identified my Uncle and shut my eyes. He no longer looked like Ernest Hemingway or the man, real or imagined, in my memories. He looked like my father. The mortician was watching me when I opened my eyes again.
The possessions are up here. I just gotta get you to sign. There’s not very much.
How was it he died?
We determined it was exhaustion and poisoning related to alcohol.
So–I began to speak in a deeper voice but winced. I nodded until my neck cracked, then winced again and scribbled my name on each form.
Well, if there’s no more questions?
I dropped the pen, No.
I’m sorry for you. It’s good that you came.
Thanks.