A short break from Bent Highway…
I was going through a hard drive that I never use any more and came across a story that was published in the audio magazine Bound Off back in 2010… which was, gulp, 14 years ago!
Anyway, I linked the audio to my twitter, when I discovered that Bound Off has created a substance featuring these back issues. (What a great find by the way… do check them out.)
Here is the link to that audio.
And the story, in full, follows.
Jet Stream
Wading through the slender grass, scuffing his feet on the uneven ground, he could have been forty miles from his house instead of forty yards. She told him that she’d be home late.
He came upon a group of boulders, the three bison – sandpaper coloured, yet smooth as marble from the years of rubbing. He climbed up and peered back, across the alley, over the tangled shrub that drank gallons every summer. The kitchen window, a small square of black. He watched it like a station gone off the air.
He plucked a pack of wintergreen gum out of his breast pocket. Above him a jumbo jet arced, the stream splitting the purple sky. She was late every night this week – hungry as a horse when she walked in.
“I don’t think they eat that much.”
“What?”
“Whoever came up with that?”
“It’s just a saying.”
After a full day of work her hair still looked good and smelled even better, fresh, like riding with the top down by the ocean. Not that he’d ever done that. Her face flushed as if she had come in from a run. Always with the running. How fit did she need to get?
The rocks felt cold on his ass. The purple overhead bled into a dark stain, the stars afraid to come out. The black square stayed black.
“No, she’s not home. Still at work. Late.” He spit out the words like a telegram. Gone. Stop. Maybe for good. Stop. “Who’s calling?”
“Nobody.” A quick hang-up.
Her body was icy fresh in bed, like the gum. He melted into that s-curve, goose bumps against his flesh.
“Don’t.”
And then she’d work late again.
He was always home on time, made a point of it. Sit under the bird lamp, snap the Free Press into place and scan the headlines. Tornado Rips Through Farmyard. Killer Flushed out of Hiding. Divorce Rates Drop, Common Law Soars.
On the rocks he looked to where the jet stream had been. All traces of smoke had slipped away. They had moved to the edge of town so he could look out and see forever.
“Just because it’s so damn flat.” Her lips painted the colour of red dye number five.
“You want to be somewhere else?”
She shrugged.
The arc had been pretty good for the first few years. Met in a library, in the classics, lots of strong coffee and Italian movies. Later nights with bottles of Pinot Noir and soft looks that turned into even later nights on the couch. Then jobs that turned into careers, city life that transitioned to small towns that bordered open fields. Acquaintances that became friends, relatives that lost touch, and the ones, more than just friends, that listened late.
“I think we should try again. Change our diet, go on the meds they suggest.”
She brushed a hair from her forehead, scratched a patch of dry skin on her arm.
“Some couples never have kids. They seem fine.”
“We’re not some couple.”
“We could--“
“Don’t say it.”
Who said what and what mattered? The black square lit up. Her face glowing, hair tied back and held in place with a forest green band. He always liked that look. He watched her at the sink, fill a glass and come to the window. Fireflies danced in the grass, the lights flashing Morse code. She stared into the dark, her features hard to make out, yet he knew the look. She stayed that way for a long time, searching beyond their yard, the road, and the field. She knew about the bison.
A half-ton crunched down the alley, headlights like long knives, then passed him and a single red brake light shone. He looked back to the square, a moment of retina burn obscured his view. The light remained but she had left.
Stars crowded the sky, a slash of misty light, the Milky Way, spread ghostlike above him. He turned his collar up, jumped off the rocks, falling on one knee. A bit deeper into the field he decided. He turned his back on the house, slid his hands into his pockets and walked away. He’d be back late.
That was some smooth creamy writing. I loved the voice of the narrator. This was a very moving and heartfelt story. Creeping about, and looking into his own backyard? And thinking about her? Waiting to see her, only to leave with a promise of coming back? Powerful. The gentle hints of a past relationship gone wrong, or so you hope. Because what if he's not? Love it!
Hey Craig, was just cruising the Substack. I liked this story a lot.