good as new

"...and the needle is climbing..." | short fiction

Photo by andry star on Unsplash

—and the needle is climbing, climbing past H, climbing and shuddering and the smoke is back, black and worse and the needle is shivering H and I should pull over? now? pull over here? where? here? nothing…there’s nothing, nothing to pull into…onto—grass and heifers and barns and goats and sun, the little sun drops fast into the Cascades and dark, soon it will be dark, soon it will rain, rain and snow and sleet and Dr. Reeves said mitral valve said regurgitation and low sodium and too much fluid and it will rain, tonight or tomorrow, it’ll rain or snow, my hip said so, said it will rain or snow or sleet and it’s eighteen, radio said eighteen, eighteen degrees and Harold said all fixed! leaned under my hood and came out all fixed! good as new! stood proud in my driveway wiping tools, no problem! drive!—drive through nothing, drive through middle nowhere nothing, go ‘head! to your pharmacy, go alone, drive alone with your regurgitating heart, your puking heart and Cutlass and good as new! of course…of course it won’t cough black clouds fourteen…fifteen? fifteen miles from home, go ‘head! drive, drive and blow ninety-three dollars—ninety-three bucks for thirty pills, thirty oblong capsules to keep my heart from swelling and/or regurgitating and/or shriveling and Dr. Reeves said no sodium and go slow, take it slow and I am, I’m slow, I’m listening, I’m doing twenty, keeping slow twenty in a fifty-five, go ‘head!—no…no I’m afraid…I’m afraid to push, afraid the engine will seize and shutter and cough and strand me on the shoulder and make me walk fifteen…sixteen? sixteen miles in eighteen degrees, make me limp towards town with my bad rain/snow hip, limp through dark nothing, limp under the tight hyphen sun, the dead-cigarette orb painting the goats gold and it woke me, this morning, the sun, the sun woke me and wouldn’t let me breathe, I sat, had to sit, had to lean up slow and steady, steady and slow, had to sit on the edge of my bed breathing in……out……..in….out….twenty, twenty-five, thirty…thirty minutes of in…….and out……and in…………….and out…..and in…and Dr. Reeves says it’s manageable says low sodium says ninety-three dollar pills every eight hours for the rest of your life and sixteen, sixteen miles from town and no cell service and the engine’s knocking, metal on metal on metal, fundamental—some fundamental gasket has broke, is breaking, some crucial Harold gasket has failed and he, Harold—this morning Harold stood proud in my driveway, wiping grease and good to go! and yes I said thank you! I said, thank you! thank you! I smiled and gave him the last of the weekend’s cookies and he stood proud and chewed and my pleasure ma’am, he called me ma’am—ma’am like he hasn’t lived next door for thirty years, ma’am like he doesn’t know my face or name or voice and he chewed—chewed and stared, stared like I’m faceless, stared like the freshmen, stared with September eyes, stared like I have two heads, two Mandarin speaking heads, ma’am ma’am ma’am and maybe, maybe I did—do? maybe I do/did have two heads and one…or both? Both speak with byzantine tongues, old musty tongues nobody understands or tolerates, tongues that garner only stares, blank all good! nothing stares—nothing…still nothing, goats…goats and dead barns…dead barns and dead sun and fence posts, Heidegger said something about posts…something about standing-reserve? about posts? trees? Jonathan said something about Heideggerian trees, some Sein und Zeit thing skimmed on the beach in ’82, skimmed with Jonathan on the beach, Jonathan and his carrot beard and Heidegger obsession and his Seattle wife, the wife who fingered my face, who fingered and shouted home wrecker! and I stood and stared and held my tongue, held a tongue that wanted to yell no, no you’re a house, no…you yourself are an entire house and the house is wrecked (wrought?)—your house is wrought and no, no I cannot wreck what lie in ruin… I should pull over…now…here…pull here and wait, wait for some kind thing, some trucker or farmer or local to drive me back—Jonathan went back, to her, to Seattle…back…eventually—eventually they all go back, go back and tremble, tremble over H, my little needle trembles over red H—H for hell. H for Harold, H for Harold and How? and Heidegger…for Jonathan’s sea salt Heidegger on my desk, stalled and incomplete and and full of consciousness and self-consciousness and I—I had both once, had both but they leaked, leaked when Stevens, when Dean Stevens gave his speech, his farewell thanks for your service speech at my retirement where I sat drained, sat and smiled, smiled and ate cake and drove home, home in this car, this very car which, even then, was tenuous and old and three-legged and Dr. Reeves said Alice? Should we call Alice? And no—no, Alice, no…no we haven’t spoke since her wedding, since she married the deacon, married that ape who believes in presence and plentitude and almighty three-faced fathers and Alice, my little Alice married an oaf who contends sin and redemption and virtue are real as flesh and I told her, at the the wedding, I told her, Alice, I told Alice this man, this fool is medieval, a medieval minded fool… and she, Alice, Alice cried stop it mother, no…he knows…people like him know things we’ve forgotten…he’s good he’s a good man, he’s good and he’ll—no…no sweet pea…no…no no no no no, medieval men die of plague, they die of plague at thirty, they die without vaccines and antibiotics and anesthesia…and the sky, the sky is dead, dead blue, that deep pre-black blue and my vision’s bad, fuzzy—fuzzy and white knuckled and ninety-three dollars for thirty pills, thirty oblong nuggets a pharmacist said to swallow daily, swallow with food, avoid grapefruit—steam, the steam clouds are thick, getting thicker and yes, now…I should…now…yes? pull over? here? this shoulder? pull here before something catches fire? before the thing explodes? no…no no no…what if…what if it doesn’t start? what if…it’s late, it’s dinner time, everyone’s eating, everyone’s home with full mouths and no one will come, no one will come and what if it doesn’t start? no. keep going, drive, drive towards town, get close, closer, drive to the young Chevron man, the young red head in his overalls, the Chevron redhead with big working hands and kind eyes and mouth that calls me ma’am, a different ma’am, purposeful, something he means, he means his ma’ams, he means to help and pities old poor old ma’ams with regurgitating hearts and gagging cars and no, I should have said no—no, Harold…no thank you Harold…I appreciate the gesture Harold but no—no…no no no…you mustn’t deny…it’s rude…”love thy neighbor, love as thy self, do no harm” ugh, yes Harold… yes yes yes…oh, would you? oh would you Harold? please?“no” hurts, “no” harms and you mustn’t harm neighbors who say ma’am, who say ma’am because their brain is mush and can’t remember—my daddy taught me…my boy died in ‘nam…except, no, his father ran out when he was three and no…no, his son didn’t die, his son is alive and in Portland and sells real estate and when I told him, when I tell him no, Harold, no no no…Jimmy’s alive…he, Harold, Harold gets confused and flummoxed and shakes his head no…no ma’am, Jimmy died in ‘nam, yes ma’am had his funeral, boy got full honors, full honors in ’63—ninety-three bucks a month until the end of time, it won’t work….no…no no no…how? how would it? social security? thirteen hundred, eleven something after Medicare…taxes? fees and property taxes? three thousand, three grand a year and rising and—pension? Dean Stevens switched us to new contribution plans, switched in ’95, switched the old-tenured folk right before we’re slated to grandfather into the old system, the good old system, the good system that was just too expensive, too untenable, completely untenable for a department of our size, we’re sorry, we’re sorry…403(b)? 401(k)? IRA? tanked in ’08, tanked and I kept going, kept teaching Middlemarch to heifer-eyed freshmen who’d stare blank, who’d never heard of Eliot, of George Eliot, who stared and thought Eliot was a man and quoted Nietzsche in their papers, Nietzsche Nietzsche Nietzsche…Nietzsche said there are no facts, no facts, only interpretations and no, I never believed it, never bought it, no, there are facts, of course there are: water boils at 100 Celsius and 100 Celsius is 212 Fahrenheit and 212 Fahrenheit is 373.15 Kelvin and Russia is the largest country and the sun dies in the West and memory makes the self and Harold—Harold forgot to tighten some hose, some crucial engine hose and it’s eighteen degrees and seventeen miles and Alice hasn’t called and we haven’t talked since the wedding and my heart regurgitates and these are facts, facts Dr. Reeves said I’d better discuss with a cardiologist, I’m referring you to a friend in Yakima, and I nodded yes nodded yes sure knowing I don’t care, knowing I wouldn’t, I’m not, I’m not going, I’ll take his pills and swallow and avoid grapefruits and hope they’re enough, because hope is what’s left, what’s left when the math doesn’t work, when your numbers don’t equal survival, what fills your chest when the engine coughs thick clouds and you can’t see and I can’t see, it’s dark—smokey and dark and my hands flail about and hit the thing, the little nub that excites the wipers but that’s wrong, no no no, they don’t help, aren’t helping, I turn them off and squint through the windshield, through the smoke and this—that looks familiar, this fence, that mountain, I think, yes…I think—I think it’s the old Grange hall, the old hall where they had dances, where I danced with Robert or Horace, danced with someone in ’64 before I got married and had Alice and got tenure—the hall’s still there, here, a shell, yes, sure, half-dead, windows half-smashed, roof half-sagged, and, yes, oh yes! they used to string the little thing up with Christmas lights, wrap it in lights and—music! music spilled into December dark and we danced and were young, so young, so impossibly, incredulously young, dancing and smiling and thinking—knowing, thinking was knowing back then, knowing it would all work out, America would care for us when our memories collapsed, Uncle Sam’d give us pensions and security and houses and children, good good children who stayed close and called often and it’s been twenty-eight years, twenty-eight years since I was happy, since the summer with Jonathan, since the summer lying on the beach reading Heidegger, reading dusty Symposium paperbacks, reading and pillow-talking Platonic love, moaning agape, agape and love and eros and his wife, his Seattle wife and her fat finger, fingering my eye and everything ends, everything burns to ground zero, default, erasure, all bodies back to square one, again…one more time…take it from the top and what? what is that? is—is that..is that a…a house? a house and lights? yes! yes, finally! lights and warmth and people and everything—everything ends, everyone fails…me, they all fail, fail me, they do, they will, or perhaps I’ll fail them? probably, I’ll fail like I failed Alice, failed Alice when I named her after Wonderland—failed Alice the moment I thought, knew, she’d grow to love wordplay and logic and how would I have known? known she’d grow towards hate? grow to hate being named after a “children’s book”—oh, honey, oh sweetie it’s not a children’s book no no…it’s a satire it’s a commentary on Victorian mathematics and logic and language and no, she didn’t care, she wanted a normal name, normal “like the others”—no honey, no sweetie normal is fascist; normal is conformity, it’s fascist, are you a fascist? Are you— the light ahead is closer now, yes, it’s a house, white clapboard house with a porch and I don’t know whose house…whose is it? what do I do? drive, park, knock knock hello, hi, sorry to bother but my car…the engine…knocking sounds…Harold… I ease up the gas hoping to clear the smoke, hoping for clarity and I’m tired, tired and my chest hurts and the temperature gauge quivers and the heat vents blow their acrid wind, blow chemicals through my hair and yes oh yes it’s a house, a house with a porch light and well-lit rooms and smoke, good smoke coming from the chimney—people, warmth, salvation, I ease the gas, the car shudders, the whole frame shakes, limps, I’m barely moving, putzing through dark, only headlights, dim ’87 halogens beating back sunless nothing, cutting towards creamy windows and warmth and neighbors and nothing—nothing will happen, no one will be there, no one’s home, they’ll hid behind expensive drapery and wait me out, wait until I tire out and leave and nothing—nothing comes of nothing that’s Cordelia, that’s Lear, she can’t speak, won’t, won’t say she loves him and love? love can’t be quantified can’t be performed or commanded and Mom I love you…I do but I can’t live the way you want me to live and—there’s the driveway, I’m turning in, pulling in, the car gives everything, spends its last heat, its last twitch to pull me towards the house, limps down the drive, pebbles dance in wheel wells as it limps and limps to deposit me near the bright porch, the bright creamy porch—I put it in park and turn the key and silence—silence and breathing, my breathing and the ticking of hot hot metals and my breathing, ragged and fast and I sit, sit in the dark, eighteen, eighteen degrees, it’s going to snow, soon, tonight, I sit looking at the stranger’s house, staring through lit windows and think of—feel, I feel their cold door wood on my knuckles, I hear my voice panting, I’m standing and chest clutching and asking help! help! help! and—no, I can’t, no…no no no….maybe I’ll just sit, sit here and try the car, try again, let it rest and try again, give it a chance to complete the last leg and limp towards my Chevron ma’am or no… maybe…maybe I’ll sit, just sit and let my heart give out, give out here in the cold, drift off in the cold and yes it’s supposed to be peaceful, they say it’s peaceful, easy, just like dozing, just like sliding under designer linen and letting go and dream-drift into nothing and—no…I shudder…my body hates the thought, the blue-lipped me found in the car, this car, Alice getting a call, called from an unknown I’m sorry… number—my hand is on the handle, cold, cold metal handle, I push, push the door, the air rushes in, eighteen degrees, eighteen rushes in and flushes my cheeks and I swing out my legs, swing arthritic stiff legs into the eighteen cold and unfold and stand and the world tilts, tilts and shivers and smells acidic—I steady myself, lean weight against the Cutlass and look towards the house and wipe imperfect crumbs from my coat and walk, one step, then another, left right left right…I’m moving—I’m walking toward the light toward the door and I don’t know what I’ll say hello…help….hello hello… I climb the steps left right left one at a time holding the railing—too many, too many damned stairs and I’m out of breath, heaving, heaving at their door, I raise my hand, I knock, I knock three little knocks and wait. I wait in….and out….and in…..and wait—I hear footsteps, slight feet shuffling slow towards the door, hurry hurry hurry slow shuffling steps and a hand on the knob and the door opens and yes—oh yes, there’s a woman, a woman my age, a little younger, older? A little older…she looks at me and I look back and she flashes a smile and says something, something nice and I open my mouth, open to speak and nothing, nothing comes and I stare and she frowns are you alright? and I stare and nod, nod into her face and feel my pulse in my chest and smell my heart’s vomit and suddenly, suddenly I think, I know, I know there are no facts, there have never been things called “facts”—yes, yes of course Eliot is a man, George Eliot is a man and yes, of course! of course I’m a home wrecker and yes I’m sorry and I can’t imagine and no no it’s my fault and yes of course! of course it’s not fascist, it’s okay, it’s okay to want a normal non-Wonderland name and yes and yes and yes and—

Ma’am?

…yes and yes and yes…

Ma’am, are you alright?

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