Mdellert-dot-com
Land of Canaan
(Part One)
by
Michael Dellert
"Didchew know Miss Horne is dead?"
I looked up from the bottomless cup of coffee, tapped ash from my cigarette into the square glass tray. A heavyset woman stood, hovering, towering over me, her long, heavy, brown wool coat stretched clear to her ankles, a round, blue beach hat securely fixed to her head. Her dark skin was old, leathery, wrinkled. She carried a cheap purse, a Gucci knock-off, that matched her coat and hat at once.
"What?" I took a drag off the cigarette, fearing the worst.
"Miss Horne? Didchew know she's dead?"
"Miss Horne?" The bottom dropped out of my stomach.
"Lived on Copeland Street. The brown brick house with those lovely windows. Walked her dog every morning..."
"O Christ," I said, "I didn't know."
"You live 'cross from her, donchew? That writer boy, Emmet, right?"
"Yeah. How'd it happen?"
"Car accident. Her dog ran out inna street, she went affer it, an a car hit her. Died insantly, I hear. The dog was alright."
"Jesus," I said. I took a shaky drag, chased it down with coffee that could have used another brown crayon.
"Donchew blaspheme, boy. I knew you had a thing for Miss Horne. I seen how you looked at her when she come in here and you writin'. I just thought you oughta know. But donchew be blasphemin'."
"Sorry, Miz Brewer. I just can't believe it."
"Yeah, it shore is a trag'dy. You-gown go to the foon'ral?"
"When?"
"Tomorrow at the Trinity Cemetery. Weinstein Mortuary's performin' the services. Eleven o'clock."
"Yeah, I'll be there."
"Well, I'll let you be, then. Din't mean to disturb yore mornin'."
"That's alright, Miz Brewer. Thanks for telling me."
"Yore welcome. You take care now, Emmet boy. Get some meat on dem bones."
"Yes'm. Bye now."
"Bye, bye."
Mrs. Brewer waddled away, navigating between the square, formica covered tables and rickety wooden chairs, leaving me with only a cup of coffee and a cigarette, two of my closest friends.
So. Kathy Horne was... dead.
It was hard to get a handle on. Hearing someone tell you about it wasn't so bad, it wasn't real yet. But thinking it made it so.
Jesus, Kathy's dead. What am I supposed to do now, cry? Pound the table tops and curse the heavens? Join a support group?
I didn't know.
Not that I hadn't buried anyone before. I'd buried two friends, two relatives, and a childhood neighbor who gave me cans of Coke and root beer out of his garage.
But what was I supposed to do about Kathy Horne? I didn't know if she was a friend, or just a figment of my imagination.
My waiter, Brian, swung by, filled my coffee cup without being asked, without saying a word, and swept on, completing his round of refills. I walked into Maggie's every morning, and a cup of coffee was on my table before I'd gotten to it. When I was working, I left good tips. When I wasn't, they carried me until the rains came again.
Brian stopped at a table to talk to a pair of girls he knew, a dark brunette with pale skin and a red sweater, gold chain around her neck, and a blonde in purple and turquoise with her back to me. They were smoking light cigarettes and Brian stepped behind the brunette and massaged her shoulders. They giggled and wanted to take him home and keep him. Too bad for them. Brian's gay.
Christ. Kathy Horne was dead.
I opened the tattered notebook beside me. Martinique. She was a great notebook, well worn, comfortable. Martinique was my sixth notebook in half as many years. She guarded my secrets, the trash I'd never admit to writing, the first drafts of stories and poetry that would only be published after I'd made it big or died, the stories and poetry that I'd actually sold. Martinique was another of my closest friends.
I flipped through Martinique's pages, caressing her as one lover caresses another, travelling backward in time, wondering if I was Sherman or Mr. Peabody, and whether Martinique minded being the Way-Back Machine. I found the page I was looking for, dated and dogeared, six months old at least, and I started reading. Because Kathy Horne was dead and I didn't know what else to do for her soul.
16 September, AD 1991
8:26am
My Apartment
The trees are exploding, bursting into flames, a cold conflagration that would give pause to that stupid old bear. "Only you can prevent forest fires."
Choke on autumn, Smoky. Choke on that stupid hat of yours.
This is a pretty nice apartment I've finagled, even if it is in Pittsburgh. The walls are white, I've got two rooms and a bedroom, bathroom and kitchen. The doorways are all arched, and the doors are heavy and rounded off. The floors are thick, wooden and old. The whole place smells of old wood. The bathroom's kind of primitive. My old mattress is on the floor, my desk that I never seem to write at is comfortably crammed in a corner.
The best thing is this big bay window in my living room. I can sit up in here, catch the morning sun, watch the streets, the people. I'm on the third floor of this old lady's house, Mrs. Pamela Schildtoe the widow. Miss Pamela, I call her, and she giggles and makes a fuss, says she's not a spring chicken anymore. Batty old girl, but real nice. Pure white hair, cut like a man's, thick eyeglasses with lavender frames and a necklace of faux pearls that she always wears, and a diamond ring that she still wears on her left hand, even though Mr. Schildtoe's been dead for years. She goes out to the Trinity Cemetery every Sunday after the Presbyterian services to say hello. I drive her in that monster Oldsmobile he left her, and she cuts me a break on the rent. Says it was just like Albert to leave her something she didn't know how to use.
Ah. Here's the girl with the dog again. I've been seeing her for a few mornings now. Every day at about this time, she's out walking her sharpee. Ugly as sin that dog is, but cute in a grotesque way. The woman on the other hand is gorgeous. Probably five six or seven, near as I can tell from here. Slim and well proportioned, in comfortable Levi's and an oversized sweater under a huge man's black sportscoat, a bit of silver flashing from ears and wrists, nothing gaudy. Thick hair the color of burnished copper, fresh from the shower and braided from the nape of her neck to the middle of her back. Skin like white gold. Long legs and black Converse All-Stars. Are those smatterings of paint on her jeans? Could be. Maybe she's an artist. Looks like she lives across the street from here, in a big, brown, brick three-story. Wonder if she rents an apartment or has the whole house? Wouldn't mind if I could get to know her. Of course, I'm a coward when it comes to women. Couldn't pick one up with a back hoe. I just don't know how to approach someone I've never met before. It's like trying to drive when you've never seen a car.
She's gone around the corner now, out of sight. I wonder where she goes, what she does. Does she have a boyfriend? Husband? Or maybe she's lesbian. That'd be my luck. Not that I'll ever speak to her anyway. Coward!
There goes Miss Pamela, walking that bloody terrier of hers. Vicious beast. Tried to rip my leg off when I moved in...
* * *
I flipped a few of Martinique's pages, while the Maggie's lunch crowd filtered in. The local businessmen, the retail girls, some high school students smoking cigarettes and looking avant-garde. Brian filled my cup again. I'd never reached the bottom of a cup at Maggie's. If I ever did, the world would probably have folded up and died.