Tom Saunders walked through the parking lot of the Early Bird Chicken, navigating through the obstacles of trash blown around by the cold September wind. A gigantic five foot painted chicken sat on the roof of the windowless brick building that hummed and smoked through its ventilation.
“Dark or white meat?” David Saunders asked behind the counter.
”I’ve always been more of a breast man” chuckled Dick.
Mildred, his wife of thirty two years, clenched her handbag. “Just give us the usual. Twelve piece, extra crispy, and don’t forget the biscuits and cornbread, will ya, hun?” she spat out.
Tom walked in, the dining room was full, and the bar next door occupied screaming Cornhusker fans. Tom had been reverend of Our Savior Lutheran church for sixteen years. That was until a year ago, the police came to his door on April 23rd to announce the death of Marianne, his wife of twenty three years. The town of Broken Bow, Nebraska had misdirected construction signs on Route 70. She collided with another car and died instantly.
Tom cast a look to his son David, behind the counter. He arrived ten minutes before David’s shift ended and proceeded to wait for him in a booth by the window. He looked out and saw Mr. Warren following his wife Mildred through the parking lot. Her disheveled curly chestnut brown hair revealed its gray roots. She wore the same light blue eye shadow and red lipstick everyday. Her blush smudged on her pale wrinkled cheeks in uneven streaks. David had a nickname for Mildred; he called her “The Parrot”.
On a summer afternoon five years ago, David played baseball in the middle of the street with his friends. He swung a baseball into the Warren’s living room window. He stood frozen looking at the broken glass, then snatched his glove, and ran like a bat out of hell. Mildred repeated that story to everyone in their congregation. David saw her colorful face squawking about him in the distance, afterwards the nickname stuck.
David approached the table with a vibrant hustle and apron in hand.
“We can leave now” he said.
As Tom drove on East Street, they passed by Our Savior, a framed announcement board stood in front; it read “God forgives all sinners who have the drive to believe.”
Tom thought back to the night Marianne had gotten a bit drunk one evening from the Shiraz they had with dinner. She became eager to discuss ideas for the church. “I have a wonderful idea for the bulletin sign in front of Our Savior. Wouldn’t it be great if people drove by and saw Our Savior and the sign said, Wal-Mart is not the only saving place.” David and Tom both laughed as she stumbled back to the kitchen.
Tom made a quick glance towards David in the passenger seat.
“How was work?”
“I dunno.”
When they got back to their home, David went into his room and shut the door. Tom turned on the TV and set the channel to the Cornhuskers game. Across the street, Dick ate fried chicken on the pine green recliner, specks of reflected light bounced in his eyes from the televised game. Mildred nervously paced in circles around the house, then stormed out, and slammed the door.
The sprinklers pulsed and hissed as Mildred walked across Tom’s lawn. Water splashed up on her royal blue sweater and salmon colored trousers. Her white Easy Spirit sneakers squeaked as she stomped her way through three inch wet grass. Apples scattered all through the lawn, from the tree that marked the Saunders’ house. Rose bushes planted by Tom’s wife Marianne, stood dead and desolate in front of the red brick house.
She rang the bell. Inside Tom peeled himself off the couch, light headed as he stood up. He caught a blurry glimpse of Mildred peering through the window screen. The sight of her bright painted face startled him.
Tom pulled the door open. Her visit invariably meant she wanted to gossip about the new reverend or her husband.
“Please come on in.” He waved her inside “What can I do for you?” he asked with regret.
“Dick is watching the game.” Mildred said “I came over to see you. How are you and David doing. I was just noticing how you haven’t mowed your lawn this week and I thought maybe you or David are sick.”
“We are both in good heath.” Tom replied.
“The church hasn’t been the same without you. Reverend Paul doesn’t even read from the Old Testament. Dick and I hate it. Forgive me for sayin’, but it hasn’t been good for our marriage. He is so angry; he just ignores me when I’m talking to him.” She squawked.
“Relationships are precious.” He said.
They sat across each other on the kitchen table. Over and over again, Tom heard how the new reverend had remarried a woman with the same name as his first wife. According to the mailman, after the new reverend remarried, he didn’t bother to change the name on the mailbox. Mildred declared he spoke in a new age jargon, and had church followers on his Facebook and Twitter account.
“I better get back” Mildred said.
Tom walked to the door, twisted the handle and nodded
“Good evening Mildred.”
Later that night, the rain rolled down the window. It tapped on the glass in the rhythm of a drum. Cold air creped through the crack of Tom’s bedroom window then slithered like a snake until it reached his foot, which stuck out underneath the quilted cover.
“No,” he murmured in his sleep.
His body twitched in small movements. He woke up panting, sweat dripped from his brow. The moonlight shone on his rough angular face. On the night stand the alarm clock rode on a dusty bible. 2:34 AM blinked a fire engine red light. A sigh escaped from his lungs as he removed the quilt and swung his feet out of bed onto the ground. He stumbled to the bathroom sink where he splashed water on his face. He looked up into the mirror. He hardly recognized the face and eyes that looked at him in bleeding sadness. The mirror reflected a shadow behind him, from a cross he had taken off the wall.
The next morning, sound waves from the ringing phone spiraled through the hallway to Tom’s ear. He opened his eyes. His body felt immovable as he lay on his back. A voice escaped the static sound that came from the answering machine. “Your child has had one or more unexcused absences today. Please contact the attendance office.”
When David came home from school Tom spoke to him about his attendance. “David, what is going on? This is absolutely unacceptable behavior. Where are you going instead of class?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” David said.
“Why?” Tom stepped towards him.
“Because, I am not some fagot emo kid.” David yelled. Then he walked into his room and shut the door. He spent hours in isolation playing World of War Craft.
Tom followed David into his room, his shoes brushed against dried up pieces of gum scattered through the carpet. David had a love for savvy gum names: Radical Red, Paradise Punch, Sour Apple, Cinnamon Inferno, and Ballistic Berry. On the carpet, the legion of gum forces were fenced by a militia of empty plastic soda cups along the wall.
David sat at his computer desk facing the World of War Craft characters; they traveled inside the landscape on the monitor, to sharp pitch tones from David’s rapid keystrokes.
“We need to talk about this David.” Tom towered behind his back.
David continued playing his game and disregarded his father’s request. Tom hoped his son would turn around. Since he did not, he turned himself towards the door when he noticed something holding back his step. A piece of Radical Red gum fused to his shoe, the strands of gum stretched with each step out of the room.
Three hours later, Tom took on his evening routine of watching the History channel, in his grey sweat pants, and white t-shirt that read Got God It Does the Soul Good. Marianne had given him that shirt. It was one of her impulsive EBay purchases.
His mind wandered about his relationship with his son. It had changed since Marianne’s death. They hardly spoke anymore. All three of them used to sit down together after David broke a rule or anything that warranted discussion. Tom would announce a verdict that he and Marianne agreed on. What would she say about David’s behavior today? They would have already punished David. She would be cooking dinner right now while Tom would be going over the church’s budget. He loved the mash potatoes she made with heavy cream and served with meatloaf.
Tom watched the television beam images of a man and a woman in a corn field eating chips, the man said “Chippy-corn chips, made from all natural corn.” He sat on that very same couch with Marianne for twenty years. She always sobbed at the end scene of Casablanca while he held her cold, delicate hand.
Tom got up and fled to the bathroom. There he filled a glass under the faucet, then placed it on counter, opened the medicine cabinet, and took out a clear yellow prescription bottle. His hands twisted the bottle top clockwise until it popped loose. His index finger fished out two pills, then flung them into his mouth, and washed them down with water. The alarm clock on his bedside read 10:34 PM. Tom stretched out in bed beside another memory of her. He felt pain in his chest, even his breath ached.
Two hours later, David snuck out of the house. He took his dad’s red Dodge station wagon and drove to the parking lot of Billy’s Chinese restaurant. He was meeting his friend, who was notorious for selling beer to his friends, which he stole from his dad.
David pulled into the parking lot. His friend came into view holding a brown paper bag. He got out of the car. The boy pulled out a bottle of Bud Light from the brown bag and handed it to David. The bitter cold taste taken from the first sip ran down David’s throat in satisfaction.
One and a half hours later, twelve empty bottles stood on the ground next to their feet.
“Hey man, I gotta get back home” David stuttered.
“Ya, alright man, its cool.” the boy turned and urinated against the wall.
“Later,” David shouted.
David stepped into the car. His keys rattled as they traveled to the ignition. He leaned forward to turn the key and then moved the gear shift knob into drive. A red stream of light sprawled on the pavement, the station wagon backed out of the parking lot, and moved to the road.
David struggled to keep his eyes open. He gripped the steering wheel tighter. The car began to sway to the right; he tried to take hold of the wheel, but it spun out of his hands. His foot tried to push down on the break, but it slipped away. The tires shrieked. The bumper rumbled and bounced. The impact forced his head in to the side door frame. An echo was heard from the parts that clinked and rolled down the road.
Dick Warren pulled his blue Buick into a parking spot. Tom got out of the passenger side door and walked towards the hospital entrance. A feverish anxiety came over him at the sight of the ambulance lights, and his head began to feel hot. He paused at the nurses’ desk to inquire about his son, then followed a glossy cream linoleum floor to a narrow patient bed sectioned off by curtains.
David looked at him. There was a cut on his head just slightly above his ear. Dried blood ran down his ear and neck; the silver staples embedded into his head glistened through his black hair.
“How are you feeling?” Tom’s voice shook.
“I dunno.” David said “I’m alive, I guess.”
“Yes.” Tom sighed “I don’t what is going on and why.”
“I’m sorry Dad.” David said. “I’m angry” he stared at the floor, “About Mom.” he mumbled
“Me too” Tom said.
The morning light spilled down over the hospital building. Tom and David came out of the hospital door; they walked through the parking lot together. The cool morning breeze circulated through the September air. A ray of light fell over the oak tree, a yellow leaf floated down to the ground, a new season was about to begin.
