Drought

After

          I read in the paper that the slaughterhouse closed down, that the town isn’t really a town anymore. The sons moved on, and their fathers became old men, their backs broken and their shoulders slumped. I read that the stink still lingers, that all that death still poisons the air. The buildings still stand, rotted and slouching, but they’re empty now. There’s a photo of Main Street, of all the shops closed down and boarded up. Momma died there. The congregation, what was left of them, buried her. Her obituary was short, loving mother and friend, and I think her heart was still broken, but I don’t know for sure.

       I left, after. There was nothing left for me there, nothing for me there to begin with, so I walked to the highway and jumped into the first car that stopped. I didn’t find what I was looking for, still haven’t found what I was looking for, though it's been years since I really looked. From the passenger seats of strangers' cars, on city streets and country roads, in diners and hotels, I searched for L, but L was nowhere. I still look, sometimes. Sometimes I see L in the corner of my eye, over my shoulder, just beyond the horizon. But when I look, L isn’t there.

     My life now is quiet and calm, and I am almost at peace. The dreams that haunted me are distant, foggy memories. Things I can’t quite touch. But the brutal heat of that summer still clings to my skin, the smoke from the burning shed still chokes me. The sound of the whistle still rings in my ears. L’s dark hair is still caught in my lashes, but I blink, and it’s gone.


Before

          Mr. Whitner was 98 years old and still running the drugstore. It had been in his family for generations, passed to the oldest sons of the oldest sons for as long as there had been a town. Mr. Whitner never got married, and never had a son, and didn’t retire until his heart gave out that August. Some mornings I would stop in and indulge his cheery smile, waiting for him to turn his back so I could swipe a pack of Parliaments.

       Cicadas droned as I walked to town that morning, dime in hand, itching for a smoke and already sweating. Trying to stay in the shade, I cut through lawns, ducking under trees and hopping low fences. When I got to Water Street, the shade ran out, so I walked in the middle of the road, my arms held out to my sides, trying to catch the breeze.

         Water Street turned into Main Street, the houses becoming shops. There were a few cars parked on the road, but it was still early, and the town dozed. I pulled the door to Whitner’s Drug, the bells above jingling tunelessly. Mr. Whitner tossed a hello over his shoulder as he dug through jars of bright candies with a silver scoop, dumping them into a bulging white bag. I grabbed a pack of Parliaments and tucked them into my back pocket, and helped myself to a Coke from the cooler, popping the lid open on the side of the counter.

         Mr. Whitner turned around, candy spilling from the top of the bag. He looked around the store, a confused look on his face. I smiled at him and handed him the dime for the Coke. He asked if I had seen anyone leave, and I hadn’t. He shook his head, turning back to the jars and dumping the candy back in.

         I stepped out of the store, sipping the Coke and digging around in my pocket for a matchbook. On the sidewalk, someone had written see you in blue chalk. I struck a match and lit a Parliament, walking back down Main Street, already sweating.