Lonely man

Six days worth of unopened mail lay on the kitchen table beside his plate. Each day he dutifully went to the mailbox, but a cursory glance showed that there was nothing there he wanted to open. Close behind, the microwave motor whirred, and he sipped a glass of milk as the dreary five-strokes of the beeper tolled, notifying him that his leftover Chinese was ready. Three out of five bulbs glowed from a bland light fixture over the table casting a dim pallor around the kitchen, and a young dog sat silently beside him watching him eat. A hopeful waft of a long lost good mood drifted through his mind, and he suddenly got a candle out of the drawer. He set it burning on the table before him as he ate. Its humble flame flickered gaily, chasing away the spirits, and he put his milk back in the refrigerator. Stepping gingerly and a little stiff, he took the one wine glass from the cabinet, opened a half-empty bottle of wine and poured. He spoke with mild cheer to his companion and resumed eating. Chewing a sweet piece of chicken he sighed and led his eyes to scan the empty walls, the counter tops with decorative jars and small baskets hazy and gray with a layer of dust. Then, his eyes focused on the candle light and he tried to stir a childish wonder in his own heart at the dancing flame, but the brightness amid the dim room hurt his eyes and he eventually, grudgingly blew it out and finished his meal under the failing electric bulbs.

The dog whimpered, and he glanced down at it. “No” he said in a flat voice, and the dog bowed his head looking sadly upward at him. The night outside and the empty house created thick silence. Then the dog flopped down and its collar jingled brightly on the linoleum floor beside him sounding a momentary joyful splash of angel-fairies appearing, and then in an instant disappearing again to make him wonder if he had heard anything at all. He reached for his wine glass, sipped and then poured the rest of the soured liquid down the sink. He took the rest of the bottle and poured it into the sink releasing a tangy putrid smell which he tried to quench by turning the faucet on briefly hard. Again, the loud splashing water jarred the gray silence with a sound that summoned a bright apparition in his mind of a young female form standing in this exact spot every night for eleven years to clean up after dinner. She smiled at him. Strange how such an everyday sound as water in the stainless steel sink could give him painful pause amid the melancholy house. The water was turned off and instantly the gloom rushed back in, but the memory of the young woman lingered like an ache through body and soul.

The next morning as he stood in front of his house looking at his smallish yard, he breathed out a frustrated huff and strode into the shadowy back reaches of the garage. Amid the clatter and bustle of little tin shovels and pails painted primary colors, stepping awkwardly over a tiny broken bicycle with training wheels, he dragged out a hose. A plain oscillating sprinkler was pinned under his arm. After setting up his rig and adjusting it three or four times and turning the water up slightly, he watched as artificial rain turned the yellowing grass in to a sopping compost. He looked up briefly, not expecting to see rain clouds. He saw none. “Hardly rained a drop in three months,” he thought to himself. “Pretty soon they’ll be calling it a drought.” He slowly walked around the side and through the gate. In the back yard was more wilting grass and the tree he had been contemplating since the spring when it became clear that the leaves were not going to return. It was an enormous live oak which had obviously provided lush shade at one time. Its branches stretched from over his house almost to the back fence, but now in the stifling heat of August it only filled the gutters with sticks and moss. He applied himself to the engineering problem of dismantling the tree without damaging the roof or deck, but returned inside without a solution.

A day at the office and he was home again. The young dog squirmed and whined when he opened the back door to let him in. Patiently he patted the pup and said things like, “Ok, ok, settle down now. It’s alright.” The routine that faced him again loomed dark though the sun was still bright – feeding the dog, feeding himself, maybe read a little, putter around the house, maybe walk the dog. The dog still squirmed and even when he set the dog’s food out; it still seemed only to want his attention. He bent over and patiently rubbed its ears a little more. “Now, go eat your food.”

Having no shade of his own, he brought a lawn chair to the corner of the yard where a neighbor’s tree cast a leafy shadow, and he sat for a moment in the sultry evening drinking a tonic water and fretting over his arid yard. The shapes and debris laying around caught him again and he wandered into dreamy memory. He saw a girl of five and a boy toddler playing with the hose, spraying each other and squealing. He saw rich, full, green grass springing under their feet as they hopped around, shoulders hunched, eyes shut tight, and all ten precious fingers sticking straight out from the fresh blast of cold water. Toys were scattered around the yard, but he didn’t mind. He remembered this happening one day, and on that day he remembered looking to the back door and seeing that young female form looking out the window in the door as she wiped her hands on a dish towel. And then waking suddenly, it was all gone. He looked around and only the dog was there prancing furtively away after a fresh defecation.