2004, northeastern Pennsylvania

By Alane Lucas

It isn’t easy. People no longer comprehend the careful progress, the mechanized steps. Any false movement could lead to a neglected corner or wayward rock thrown in my direction.

The motor is the real hassle, though. That heaving beast is the single thing that stands between me and grace.

I love to finish and look out on the clipped grass, the lawn in the shape of a hook. My street is quiet, save for the pair of mastiffs that belong to the neighbors. The harvest moon leaves them howling. It gets to me too. When it’s the perfect shade of bloody copper, I watch it illuminate the blades.

I take it on myself. My wife doesn’t care for the beauty of it as I do. In fact, she no longer cares for beauty much at all. Her auburn hair is shorter now, easier to maintain. She is small at the bones but large with excess. It shows when she chooses the same black dress for school functions or peach blouse that stretches across her middle.

She doesn’t seem to mind, and so I sense no obligation to bring up her intemperance. The flesh is something we simply don’t talk about. It’s for this reason that I feel a need to discuss the other with you. After all, a man affords himself only a certain number of disclosures. Beautiful, my disclosure.

My disclosure lives for movement. Yesterday, she bounded into my office, complaining that her sweatshirt held her down. She gets drunk on words, this one. I tell her so, and she smiles. She spins on her heels and slams the metal door at the end of the department hallway.

The book of poetry she gave me is wedged between the others I carry in my briefcase. During the day, it rubs against Ezra Pound and some critical essays. When I give it back to her, it should be worn down from the covers of the others, scuffed bronze, the creamy patina of books.

I told her I can see who she is by watching her face. Something moved behind her eyes. She sat back in her chair and told me she doesn’t believe in obligation. I said that sometimes, we must remain faithful to those who need us, even if we don’t want to. Then I looked directly at her. Her expression shifted again.

She got up to leave. Beneath her skirt, I saw the quick-twitch smoothness of muscle in her calves and thighs. At the door, she mentioned something about bringing tea next. She tossed her hair back and flew out. I laughed quietly to myself and put my hands to my face to let the scent of her skin survive.

At home, I looked at the bottle of topaz-colored medicine on the shelf of the linen closet. Sometimes, I drink it over ice. I also looked at the condoms, the box glossy and purple in the bottom drawer. I once told her I couldn’t remember what it was like to be 20. She didn’t believe me.

I’ll tell you that love for me now is that bunch of balloons you watch fall to the asphalt - blues, greens, and reds entwined. You recall the one you lost. It happened as you skipped along the sidewalk and caught your ankle. You fell, skinned your knee, wailed as it rocketed skyward. Father and mother couldn’t catch it. You still have the scar.

No chores tomorrow. No mowing. I’m meeting with family. Perhaps I’ll tell them what I just told you. I may need to. After all, the weight of this machine doesn’t decrease with time. It keeps me behind it, forever thrusting forward. I’m always forced to try and conquer what lies beneath.

Are you there, darling? You should step outside. The moon is full and red again tonight. My office door will be open, if you want to stop by tomorrow. I have a feeling you will. When you do, we’ll talk about the honest things, the governing of your body, the rough blades thrown down.

Alane Lucas now teaches writing at a college in southern Pennsylvania. She represents the young woman in this story and, as such, is using a pseudonym.

Posted by Common Ties on Monday, January 14th, 2008 | Email This Post

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