A MORNING’S WALK

It was warm and humid.  The air was gray and heavy and I could see how it settled against the background of houses across the park.  Layers of mist strayed slowly and lazily above the open space, the children’s swing sets and slide and Jungle Gym barely visible.  I carried the cat’s litter around the back of the house to the garbage can in the garage, dumped it, and set the tray down, intending to take it in with me when I returned.  I stepped onto the driveway and looked at the homes across the street, the Paulsons’ and Hocketts’, the Hubers’, and Morrisons’. I was standing with my hands on my hips, wondering.  As I began to walk down the drive, I saw Bob Hockett open his front door and step out, barefoot in pajama trousers and a T-shirt. 

I looked across at him, but Bob wasn’t seeing.  I  motioned with my arm, but Bob sat down on his front step, still not seeing.  When I reached the street, I called across to him, and then Bob lifted his head, noticed me, and waved. 

I walked across the grass, wetting my sneakers and leaving a trail of footprints, and sat beside him.  There was no need to talk.  After a while, I said, “Bad again?” But he didn’t answer.  I knew it was.

Bob just sat, silently staring across the street, seeing nothing.  “Look,” I said, “I’m going to walk to the grocery and buy some coffee.  I’m all out.  Why don’t you throw on some things and come with me.”

“Well,” Bob said flatly, “I might just do that.”  He rose with excruciating slowness and went inside. 

We walked in silence.

I knew Bob enough not to probe or make small talk.  If Bob was going to say anything, it would come of its own accord, and if he wasn’t, it wouldn’t.  Small talk would only get in the way. 

The mist obscured the end of the avenue.  Where the road ended, a field opened and its presence was marked by a huge cottonwood and a line of scrub cedar and spindly Russian olives that were more than half dead.  Wild sunflowers bloomed at the fence.  The road along the field which we were going to turn onto was a narrow asphalt lane, broken and potholed and bereft of much of its black paving.

“She’s doing it again,” Bob said.

We reached the end of the avenue and made a left, walking again in silence.  I hadn’t responded, knowing what he meant.  I waited.

A crow, harried by numerous darting, angry grackles, landed in the field, and the noise they raised filled the air.  For a few paces we both kept our eyes on them, grateful for the distraction.  The ground rose in a long upward sweep ahead of us, and then we began to lean into the work of walking.   

When we reached the highway, the ground leveled and we walked more easily.  The grocery store was half a block down.  The sun was getting strong now, but the mist was still dense, and we could hardly see the building from where we turned onto the shoulder of the highway.  The few cars that passed had their headlights on. 

We walked side by side.  When we reached the store, we crossed the little gravel parking lot in front.  There were no cars in it, the owner having parked in the back.  We paused before entering, looking through the screen door.  I could smell the coffee along with the musty odors of the old shop and scent of vegetable greens and a pile of pineapples beside the entrance.  Bob said, “It’s happening all the time now.  The other voice is not hers.  I don’t know where it comes from.  It’s ugly.  She scares the hell out of me.”

“What do they say,” I asked.

“They say things to each other, things that make no sense to me.  But there’s a lot of cursing, a lot of whining.”

Bob didn’t want to go in.  He turned from the door and began to walk back to the road. I followed across the gravel. 

“It wasn’t so bad at first.”

“The last time I saw her, she seemed herself.”

“She took the medicine at first.  But then she stopped.”

“What now?”

“I don’t know.”

“Come on, let’s go in, I’ll buy you a coffee.  We can sip it as we walk back.”

We turned and walked in.  It was getting warmer as the morning wore on and the effort of walking the incline to the highway sweated us up.  The store was dim and cool and pleasant.  I picked up a one pound tin of coffee and paid for it and for the two cups from the urn beside the register.  We fixed the cups with milk and sugar and walked out. 

“I don’t want to go back.  That’s a hell of a way to feel about one’s wife, isn’t it?”

“Hell of a way,” I echoed. 

We walked again in silence.  When we turned, the downhill slope carried us effortlessly toward home.  That cottonwood on the edge of the field where the sunflowers grow is native to this place.  Nothing else is.  Not the grass, nor the lindens and ash that border our avenue, nor ourselves. 

“Last night, she took the blanket off our bed and covered the mirror on her dresser,” Bob said.

“God,” I said.  I finished the coffee and put the cup in the sack with the pound tin, and Bob, wanting to follow suit, dumped the more than half a cup he had left and dropped his in the sack too.

“Wasn’t drinking it, anyway.  I don’t do many things I used to do.”

I didn’t respond.  We walked the rest of the way in silence.  The sun was warmer by a good deal now, and much of the mist had burned off.

When I reached my garage, I could smell the heavily scented odor of the cat litter I had dumped in the trash can.  The cat’s own scent is less noxious, I thought, and picked up the trash can lid and put it in place.  I turned and saw Bob on the step in front of his door.  He was standing there, hands in his pockets, staring at it.  Then, in a sudden motion, he whipped his hands out, grabbed and twisted the door knob, and stepped in, closing the door behind him.  I felt a hollow sinking in my gut.  Bob had to screw himself up to going in.  I turned, lifted the litter tray, and went in to make coffee and wake my wife.