Leaving by Patricia Abbott
It was always about the leaving with us. That’s how I remember it anyway. Me, standing at the rattling kitchen window watching you go, listening for the last piece of gravel to spit your goodbye. And you, driving fast enough down the narrow lane that you rustled the leaves on the poplar trees, shining your headlights into the Brewers’ cabin as you made the last turn. That little runt of a man in his dirty undershirt with his overfed wife beside him could tell them some stories on us. Did they rush to the window when they heard his motor start? I always imagined them there.
Staying with me the night was too tame. Your head was always filled with the boys—what round of drinks someone was buying, what new plan they’d come up with, what joke might be making its way round the room. Most nights you ran with those boys till dawn—and the things you did—stealing cars for a two a.m. ride, lifting wallets from pockets and neglected purses, breaking into an empty house to drink some rich man’s booze. The kick was in not getting caught, you said, fingering the platinum watch you took from a bureau drawer.
Only when you were used up from the running, or when the cops were bearing down on you, or when the bickering looked to turn into punches, did you show up. Like I could save you or something. And, after a few minutes, I did relent, offering my body up like it was the way to make you stay. It was always in the early morning too, when bored with those boys’ roughness and loud words, you entered me silently, your hands strangely soft despite the calluses, whispering some unintelligible language in my ear.
Daddy, sleeping on the second floor, never once heard you, and Mama, poor worn-out Mama, was long in her grave. Usually we slept till dawn, till the bedsprings poked us awake, till the ancient comforter made you sneeze. And then, you were gone, and I felt so fuckin’ alone.
When I couldn’t stand it anymore, when I finally had enough, I found a boy who wanted me all the time, wanted to bring me daisies and hold my hand. Wanted to make me his date every Saturday night. He was better looking than you and ran a million errands for his diabetic mother. That boy, he attended Grace of Jesus church and stocked shelves at the Piggly Wiggly. He was the backup quarterback on the football team and on the eleventh grade honor roll. Look at our girl’s new boy, Aunt Suey told everyone at a cousin’s baby shower that fall. They all looked at me then like I had won the lottery.
But I cheated on that boy after a while. With you.
Those three days we had that time— when Daddy was on a bender— you said a lot of things to me. Said we were meant to be together. Told me that the Grace of Jesus boy made you see things different. You told me nothing could ever end us, your eyes jabbing me like pinpricks in the darkness, and I nodded like I believed every word.
But I think I must have liked the darkness in you, must have loved all that leaving that came before, the gravel spitting goodbyes, the tears stinging my throat, ‘cause the things you said didn’t mean much by then. And when that backup quarterback broke in the door and shot you in the heart, rattling the windows with his bullets, shutting your eyes for good, I helped him bury you in the backyard right next to our two dead dogs, I helped him clean the blood from that window and gave him some of Daddy’s medicine for the shakes. I helped him get away. I stood at the window and watched him leave, the poplar trees unmoving as he eased his way down the lane. I couldn’t help but wonder if the Brewers’ cabin was dark had been whole night. Couldn’t help but wonder what happens next.
