writing from
Scars Publications

Audio/Video chapbooks cc&d magazine Down in the Dirt magazine books

 


This appears in a pre-2010 issue
of cc&d magazine.
Saddle-stitched issues are no longer
printed, but you can requesting it
“re-released” through amazon sale
as a 6" x 9" ISBN# book!
Email us for re-release to order.

cc&d v 203.5

this writing is in the collection book
Ink in my Blood (prose edition)
(PDF file) download: only $4.95
(b&w pgs): paperback book $16.95
(b&w pgs):hardcover book $32.95
(color pgs): paperback book $64.95
(color pgs): hardcover book $74.95
Ink in my Blood (prose edition)
get this writing in the collection book weathered
Download (PDF file of the full book, in color): $4.95
paperback (5.5" x 8.5") w/ b&w interior pages: $18.95
hardcover (6" x 9") w/ b&w interior pages: $29.95
paperback (6" x 9" perfect-bound book) w/ color interior pages, for 89.95
hardcover (6" x 9") w/ color interior pages, for $74.95
Weathered
Requiem for Salvatore

Mary Chandler

    Warm water rushes over Greg’s knuckles to the tips of his bloodstained fingers. As he watches, the water turns pink, then clear. A smile plays at the corners of his mouth. He soaps his nail brush and sinks the bristles beneath his dirt-encrusted nails, careful to keep his hands close to the drain. Good, he thinks as he checks the white tiled floor, no telltale splatters. Slowly, deliberately, he dries his hands before running a Q-tip around his cuticles. With another towel, he wipes the sink. Not one water spot remains.
    Greg removes his clothes, places them in a neat pile beside the toilet, and steps into the shower. Call the shots. Stay in control, he tells himself. Water splashes down his back. His skin tingles. “Out, out, damned spot,” he says, laughing. Over and over again he lathers, scrubs, rinses—until the water turns cold.
    Greg dries himself, combs his mustache, and smoothes his eyebrows with a dab of Vaseline. He fluffs his damp, curly hair. Thirty years old and no receding hairline.
    “We did it again,” he tells the hazel eyes staring at him from the mirror. His perfect teeth smile back at him.
    Gathering up the dirty laundry, Greg dumps it into the washer. Cold water works best. His mother taught him that before she ran off, the bitch. He checks his watch. Time for two wash cycles. That should do it.
    “Greg! Greg!” his parrot squawks from the living room.
    “Coming, Salvatore.” Greg unlatches the cage door. “Didn’t eat much, did you? Feeling any better?”
    Salvatore cocks his head and perches on Greg’s outstretched arm.
    “Nice bird, good bird,” coaches Greg, stroking the bird’s yellow and green crest.
    “Nice bird, good bird,” repeats Salvatore.
    A familiar pain tugs at Greg’s guts. His mouth twists, and he closes his eyes. In the dark shadows, he sees his father.

*****


    “Damn birds! No seven-year-old kid of mine is gonna waste his life raising these damn messy pigeons!” His father scoops up Tony and twists his neck.
    “No!” Greg screams, lunging at his dad.
    Too late. Greg’s father smiles and snaps off the tiny head. Tony’s bones crunch. Blood oozes and drips onto the floor. His father flings Tony against the wall and grabs Isabelle.
    “No!” Greg claws at his father’s fingers. Kicks him. Bites his arm.
    “Shut up!”
    The metal toe guard of his father’s boot slams into Greg’s stomach. His head hits the concrete floor.
    When Greg finally wakes up, the shed is pitch black. His shirt feels warm, sticky. He touches something familiar, but this time the feathers are matted together. The smell of blood fills his nostrils. Struggling to get up, he feels along the wall for the light switch. Tony, Isabelle, Giovanni, Pasquale, and Anna—all dead. Greg feels dizzy, nauseated, like he’s going to throw up. He gathers up the dead birds. Five. His eyes widen. Where’s Dominick?
    “Dominick!” he yells. “Dominick!”
    Looking up, he sees his favorite pigeon impaled on a rusty nail beneath the boarded-up window.

*****


    Salvatore nuzzles Greg’s cheek and picks at a strand of his hair.
    “Wouldn’t even let me bury my birds, Salvatore,” Greg says. “Just tossed them out with the trash.” A deep moan rises from his gut and pierces the air. “SONOFABITCH!” he screams.
    Salvatore slowly shuffles to his red ladder, perching on the first rung. “Kill him,” he squawks.
    “What?”
    Squawk. “Nice bird. Good bird,” Salvatore answers.
    Greg checks his watch again. “Almost 9:00 p.m., Salvatore. Time to re-run the laundry. Let’s put you to bed. That’s a good boy.”
    “Good boy,” Salvatore echoes, nibbling the clapper of a shiny gold bell attached to his ladder outside the cage.
    “OK. You win. No bed.” Greg kneels beside the bird. “Kiss Daddy.”
    The bird’s beak meets Greg’s lips.
    Greg cuddles Salvatore. “Have fun. See you in two or three hours, if I’m lucky.”
    Outside, in his silver BMW, Greg sets his stopwatch and zooms down the freeway. He’s at the boardwalk in less than an hour. Ludacris blasts from his stereo. Greg raps his knuckles against the steering wheel and turns up the volume.
    Two skinny blondes wave, smile. “Bottle blondes,” he mutters. He flips on the inside lights and lets them get close enough to admire his tan before he peels out.
    “Screw you!” one of them shouts.
    At Rollickin’ Randy’s, his luck doesn’t change.
    “God,” Greg says, guzzling his Miller’s draft, his eyes stalking the place, “where is everybody?”
    “`Everybody’s’ me and you, pal,” the stocky bartender replies, running his hand across his bald head, “unless you’re fixin’ to count Big Doris. She’s in the john.”
    A few solitary beers and a couple of hours later, a hooker old enough to be Greg’s mother sidles through the oak door, her black spiked heels clicking on the wooden floorboards. She wraps herself around him like a silk stocking.
    He shakes his head. “I’m outta here.”
    Driving down the freeway, he notices the flashers and spots a parked red Corvette. He slows. Stops.
    The woman inside rolls down the window.
    “Trouble?” he asks.
    “Hi,” the attractive woman says, flicking her chestnut hair out of her eyes. “Guess I didn’t notice the lighted fuel indicator.” She pats the dash. “Charlie here just sputtered and died. Got a cell phone?”
    “Not me.”
    “Spare gas?”
    “Nope. Afraid you’re out of luck, unless...” He pauses. Waits.
    “Unless what?”
    “Hop in,” he says, opening the door. “I’ll drop you off at a gas station. It’s about ten miles up the road. By the way, the name’s Greg.”
    Greg watches her eyes shift from him to her fuel gauge and back again. She hesitates, but only for a moment.
    “Okay. Thanks. I’m DeDe.”
    That’s right, DeDe, he thinks. Settle that gorgeous ass of yours into my leather seat. Good. Now, cross those long, slender legs s-l-o-w-l-y. He wipes one sweaty hand on his pants, then the other, swallows, and clears his throat.
    “You live in Seattle, DeDe?”
    “Not for long.” She twists her wedding ring.
    “Home problems?”
    “Yeah.” She reaches inside her purse for a tissue and dabs her eyes.
    Greg shakes his head. “He’s gotta be nuts. Most guys would kill to have a gorgeous wife like you.” When their eyes connect, he smiles.
    “You don’t get it. Richard doesn’t want a wife; he wants a business partner.”
    Unspoken words hang in the air. Greg waits.
    She smoothes her shiny black mini-dress and pats her stomach. “He won’t want the baby, either.”
    “You didn’t tell him?”
    DeDe shakes her head. “I’ve been thinking about an abortion.”
    Greg shudders. “You’d kill your own baby?”
    “Where have you been? This is the new millennium, you know.” She sighs and stares at her stomach. “Besides, at this stage you could hardly call it a baby.”
    His mother’s voice pounds in his ears. “Paid 500 bucks, and you still didn’t die!” she screams. “Goddamn kid. Nothin’ but trouble.” He manages to keep his voice calm, controlled. “It’s a baby at any stage, DeDe.”
    “Look, I don’t want to talk about it, OK?” Her voice softens. “Even birds kill their young, but not soon enough. They wait until after the eggs hatch.”
    Damn! He glares at her. Why did she have to say that? Greg feels his stomach churning. Perspiration forms on his forehead. The car swerves.
    “What the...?”
    “Sorry,” Greg mutters. He blinks and drums the steering wheel. “Mind if I play some music?”
    “Make it relaxing,” DeDe says, closing her dark brown eyes. “I’m exhausted.”
    Greg watches. DeDe’s head droops. Her soft hair hugs her shoulders, and those full breasts rise and fall, almost in rhythm with the music. Saliva collects in his mouth. He swallows—hard. Stay calm, stay in C-O-N-T-R-O-L, he tells himself.
    He takes a long detour, circling the last two filling stations until the lights blink off. “Wake up, DeDe, he says, tapping her shoulder. “We’ve got problems.” He points to the dark Texaco station.
    “What time...?”
    “Almost two.”
    Tears well up in her eyes. “How am I going to get help tonight?”
    His heart pounds. “Look, DeDe,” he says in his kindest, most sensitive voice, “why not stay at my place until morning? I’ve got a futon, a spare room, and an extra blanket.”
    “Well, I don’t know...”
    He feels her eyes checking him out. He grins. “Well?”
    She laughs. “Oh, why not?”
    “Great!”
    Greg pulls the BMW inside the garage, cuts the engine, and shuts the garage door. “C’mon in,” he says.
    Squawk! DeDe jumps as Salvatore settles on Greg’s arm.
    “Salvatore,” Greg says. “He’s friendly.”
    DeDe holds out the silver disk at the end of her necklace. “Want to play?” she asks.
    The bird opens his beak, but shuts it again.
    “Maybe tomorrow,” Greg says. “He doesn’t look too playful tonight.”
     Later, when he is sure DeDe is asleep, Greg flips all the other lights on. Then he latches and covers Salvatore’s cage, goes into the laundry room, and starts up the dryer.
    In his bedroom, he slides his scrapbook out from beneath his folded underwear and scans the newspaper clippings. ALBUQUERQUE: Elderly transient found dead near railroad tracks. Multiple stab wounds. PHOENIX: Willie Grogan, street person, brutally murdered. SALT LAKE CITY: Man found stabbed to death in parking lot.
    “Drunken, no good scum, just like my father,” he mutters. Greg removes his special hunting knife from the closet, gently runs his finger along the razor-sharp blade, and smiles. “SEATTLE: DeDe, baby killer!” He jabs the knife through the middle of the blank pages.
    Baby, baby, baby, the voice inside echoes. Greg covers his ears, but only for a moment. “The hell with it,” he says, tucking the knife back in its sheath. “That baby’s dead, anyway. The beautiful bitch said so herself. Only now I’m saying when.” His skin tingles with excitement.
    Later, in bed, he stares at the forest scene he painted when he moved in two months ago. Chickadees, robins, goldfinches, canaries cover the walls—nesting, perching, flying. He hears their songs. He smirks and opens his bedroom door so that DeDe can hear them, too.
    Early the next morning, a muffled sob awakens him. Rushing into the living room, Greg finds DeDe sitting on the floor, cradling his dead Salvatore in her lap.
    “What the hell did you do to my bird?” Greg screams. He feels the blood rushing to his face and clenches his fists to keep from yanking her up by the hair.
    “Hold on, Greg. When I uncovered him, I found him toppled over in his cage. Look how swollen he is. Poor bird. Poor, poor bird.” She strokes his bright feathers. “Such a beautiful bird,” she coos. “Here, Greg.”
    Taking the stiff parrot, Greg holds him close. For the first time since he was seven, tears stream down his face.
    “I’m so sorry,” DeDe says, touching his arm. “When you’re ready, I’ll help you bury him out back.”
    An immaculate linen tablecloth becomes Salvatore’s shroud. Greg wraps his bird tightly and carries him outside.
    “Please,” he says, handing Salvatore to DeDe, “hold him while I dig.”
    The shovel feels heavy in his hands. Again and again he plunges it into the ground. Perspiration drips down his face. Resting his foot on the edge of the shovel, he glances over at DeDe. Her head is bowed, like the Madonna. As she gently rocks Salvatore back and forth in her arms, she sings a lullaby.
    Later, they cut yellow sunflowers, cover the small grave, and walk slowly toward the house.
    “Greg,” DeDe says, “I’ve made a decision.”
    “You’re having the baby.”
    “How did you know?” she asks, coming much too close to the other fresh grave.
    “Intuition.”
    Their eyes meet. Greg feels the sweat forming on his forehead, the excitement in his gut.
     “I’ve made a decision, too, DeDe.” He thrusts his hands into his pockets. “Get the hell out of here! NOW!”



Scars Publications


Copyright of written pieces remain with the author, who has allowed it to be shown through Scars Publications and Design.Web site © Scars Publications and Design. All rights reserved. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.




Problems with this page? Then deal with it...