In one of my future breakthrough dreams, I anticipate my return to
Champagne
's Folly,
Texas
, where I'll reappraise the home place from my vantage point up in a peach tree in the orchard. My birth parents Nella and Bradford, both still young and vital, will relax in ladder-back chairs on the broom-swept yellow dirt under the ancient chinaberry tree’s shade. They converse in a guarded murmur. It's none of my business except my future is tied to their past, so I can eavesdrop on them without mortification.
"You can never get free of them," Nella is saying. "Never, never."
Bradford
grunts in agreement. "Even bumfuck
Texas
isn't far enough away."
"Don't swear. Tommy Mack hears it and repeats it. He already needs his mouth washed out with lye soap."
"He's a good kid."
"Yes, he is.
Texas
gives him a chance at having a life."
Bradford stands up, stretching his arms over his head. "It's getting late. I need a cigarette. Where is the boy?"
"He's listening to his transistor radio out in the peach orchard, I expect."
"What? Not again."
Winsome, she smiles with a warmth I can feel now aglow in my heart. "You were a boy once upon a time. Didn't you like to be alone with your thoughts?"
He reclaims his chair. "Deep thoughts are what get you into deep shit."
"No," she says, shaking her head. "Thinking is what keeps you out of the deep shit."
"No deep thinker could know what shit lay in store for us."
She's still waggling her head. "It was incredibly stupid. We should've known better. You don't take their money. You just don't. Ever. We got greedy."
"So, we'll give it back to them and with interest."
"It's too late for doing that." She arises from her chair. "It's also getting late. Tomorrow is a work and school day. I better fetch in Tommy Mack."
"Aw, it's so nice out, Nella. Let's give it a spell longer."
She flumps back down in her chair. "Suits me fine."
"Christ, I need a smoke. But first have you spotted any strangers in town? Has anybody just moved here?"
"You always ask me that. If I had, you'd be the first to hear it."
"You can't be too vigilant." His chin nod indicates the peach orchard. "The sensitive boy inherited your romantic streak for writing poetry and the pretty stuff, but he better toughen up and learn the street smarts if he's to survive in this dog-eat-dog world."
"He's only six. Give him a little more time,
Bradford
."
"It's just you can't be too vigilant."
"We've done everything we can possibly do, so quit beating yourself up."
He sighs…
Their ripping off Mr. Ogg's money will never come to light, but I know he issued the contracts to have Nella and
Bradford
whacked. When I gave Mr. Ogg the chance at his bungalow to deny it, he failed, and that was all the proof I ever needed to find him guilty, and he’d paid for it.
I
t still becomes necessary for me to scribble down the lines of poetry, a cheaper therapy than paying a shrink if any of them practiced down here. I don't pretend to grasp the true meaning lurking behind any of my free verse poems, but I take them as a handy barometer to gauge if my inner emotions are trending up or down. One recent night a new poem came after I'd writhed on the sofa for a few sleepless hours. I hunched over the coffee table and dashed out this one on the page.
Madness Aboard an Atomic Sub
At 0300 hours our electrician's mate
went bonkers. We tied him to a bunk,
this pigboat his Iron Maiden's kiss.
"You don't belong here," I whispered
on my watch. Nodding, he told me it
was a fleeting bout of claustrophobia.
He could recite how each port, valve,
lever functioned to propel us eel-like,
how we hid in busy shipping lanes to
Tsingtao
. "Turn me loose." His eyes
glittered as twin flares, but I had my
strict orders. Sweating, he rasped
an armada of giant squids swam near.
We were sunk. Outside of
Hong Kong
,
a black helicopter took him off our deck.
Judging by the poem's insanity motif, I can discern my subconscious thoughts aren't all that upbeat, but I can—no, I better—hold it tight and keep those damn giant squids and black helicopters at bay.
All I really know is Alec and I have cobbled together a new life. What odds do we stand to remain happy? Can we keep our love, such as it is, strong and alive? Will the Detective Sergeant Bangs and McCoys out there leave us alone? Ask the dice, baby. Life is just a craps shoot. That's the fatalistic view I'm resigned to adopt. Some snitch might see through our disguises, and all it takes is one cell phone call or a snapshot emailed to our enemies.
Meanwhile though, we can laugh. She wins at cards, and I groove—Lady Day lives!—on my jazz. On those special evenings, we venture out and both unwind by watching the laden shrimp trawlers glide back into port.
We hug tighter, clinging to each other like the peach's stone clings to its pulpy fruit. And I'm afraid that's as good as it will ever get for me.
These poems by Ed Lynskey appeared as earlier versions in the following literary journals and newspapers:
"Another Song for Clarissa" originally appeared in
The Pedestal Magazine
, 2001. John Amens, editor.
"X-Radio Stations" originally appeared in
The Boston Phoenix
(September 1994). Lloyd Schwartz, editor.
"Towhead" originally appeared in
Permafrost
(University of Alaska-Fairbanks). (2001).
"Madness Aboard an Atomic Sub" originally appeared in
Interim
(
University
of
Nevada-Las Vegas
) (1997).