Four Seasons…September

Written by Writer Dad on December 17, 2009 - View Comments
Categories: Writing

It took Dean three decades and two divorces to finally realize he’d gathered his life’s most valuable lessons from the crusty old timer with no hair and two perfect rows of teeth who had lived right across the street his entire childhood. He was always there, living in the neighborhood’s only pink house, always ready to give him a meal or a scolding, whichever one he needed most. His own mother barely did the one, and though she did the other, it was seldom from the right side of sobriety.

It had been a decade since Dean had seen Solomon. Most days he thought of the old man at least once, other times he would go a month without a thought. Sometimes, Saul barely strayed from his thoughts the entire day.

Dean had waited until about five minutes after graduation before getting the hell out of Dodge. He managed to finish high school, but did so while sleeping a few hours each night on the floor of his own apartment after pulling grave yard at the gas station. He lived in a single room above a garage, rented by a kind family of four who pretended not to know he was only seventeen. Once the caps were thrown in the air, Dean was a dust cloud. He loved Solomon, though not enough to ignore the proximity to his mother, and felt bad about leaving his fifteen year old sister behind, but Maya was whip smart and plenty capable of taking care of herself. Dean saw his sister through high school and college, always tending to her every need. It was at a distance for the first couple of years, but had always been as close as she wanted since.

After trading coasts and spending the next couple of tattered chapters of his life building a thriving business and destroying a marriage, twice and each time in that order, Dean finally returned to California and settled right on the sand of the Pacific.

He could have easily bought a first class ticket for him and all three of the friends he still spoke to in Jersey, but chose to drive cross country instead, stopping for a day or two in every other state and usually at a waffle house. The three day drive took nearly a month and when Dean was finally racing the sun into the edges of the golden state for the first time in fifteen years, something inside him did a little dance. He realized he was excited to be going home, and that home might not be such a bad word after all.

Though he should have gassed up before crossing the Arizona border into Cali, Dean found it difficult to pass a perfectly good chance to race against a dipping red line. He ended his trip in a fit of laughter, slapping the steering wheel with nothing but fumes in the tank, parked beside a pump at the same station where he’d mapped out maybe two-thirds of his future dreams. Dean walked into the station and saw his old boss a second later, fifteen years later and looking thirty years older. His boss had always been kind, working his fingers bloody for thirty years with little hope of retirement. After a quick handshake and So how’ve you been? Dean offered him twice what the station was worth, in cash, and even threw in the faded black F 150 sitting idle by the pump. “You’re responsible for filling her up,” Dean said with a smile, tossing his old boss the keys.

This was more than a homecoming for Dean, it was a reboot. He had spent the last decade and a half with his eyes fixed just enough on his future to make him turn a deaf ear toward his present. Now something inside him was stirring. It was high time to reconcile all that lay behind him with everything still sitting in front.

He was back in town for three days when one of his best buddies from high school, Jake, came into the station for a pack of cigarettes.

“No shit! If it isn’t muscles McGee.”

Dean smiled. He hadn’t heard the nickname in half a forever. “What the hell are you doing in town? And why are you standing behind bulletproof glass inside this old shit hole? You didn’t get caught doing any kinda dumb ass insider trading or whatever it is you guys get caught doing, did you?”

“Nope, just thought it was time to come back home.” Dean pulled down the same pack of Marlboro Reds he used to sell Jake back in high school and slid them under the glass. “On the house,” he said.

Jake smiled. “Thanks, man. So you just filling in for grins or what? You planning to stay in LA long?”

“I’m here for good, least until I get restless. Bought the gas station so I’d have a place to think.”

Jake laughed. You always were a little more loco than the rest of us. “You been home yet? I haven’t seen you around the street. I moved back myself a while ago. Mom and Dad died in a giant pile up ‘bout seven years back and I’ve been living in the old fortress ever since.”

Dean shook his head. “Not yet, but I’ll get there eventually.”

“So you two made up yet?”

“Nah, we haven’t spoken in ten years. But I was thinking of going to see Saul. You have any idea if he’s still around?”

“For now, but I don’t know how much longer that’s gonna last. Poor old dude’s gotta hole in his stomach. His granddaughter said it’s easy enough to fix, but he doesn’t want anyone touching him. Says he’s ready to hit the white light and doesn’t know what’s taking so goddamn long.”

Dean grinned, picturing the tough old bastard. Saul spit the sort of dialogue you usually had to rent a movie to hear. “Any idea how long he has?”

“Well, that’s the thing,” Jake said. “They said up around a month, maybe three or four months back. Everyone on the street started bringing over those trays of casseroles and baked ziti like he always liked, until old Saul slammed the door on Mrs. Rassmussen’s face and told her he never liked ziti in the first place and wasn’t gonna spend the remainder of his days acquiring a taste.” They both laughed. The only thing Saul liked putting to his lips more than a plate of pasta was a sip or two of scotch. That had been three months ago. It was now the end of September and Dean had gone to visit Solomon every day since. The first day had been especially strange. Dean entered the old house, always his favorite in the neighborhood from the outside with its oddly placed steeple, leaded glass windows, and pink paint chosen by a spouse who had doused a part of the old man’s spirit forever when she passed away from a coronary ten years earlier. He stepped past the nurse and into an instant rush of nostalgia. A scent with claws slapped his face, exactly as he remembered; mildew, medicine and something sharp that Dean was no closer to identifying even after traveling to two dozen countries.

“Dean!” the old man shouted, though the greeting left his mouth in a gravel washed whisper. At seventy, Solomon had looked 55. Now he looked like he was nudging a century. His skin was paper stretched to membrane, barely shielding the few sharp angles that remained on the decay of his once powerful frame. Something inside Dean withered as he remembered what Solomon had looked like the last time they saw each other, before the last few years had stacked up to strip him.

“It’s good to see you, Saul,” Dean said. He turned and whispered a thank you to the nurse and then headed toward the bed. The last thing Dean wanted to do was cry in front of Solomon, but Jack was already out of the box and there was nothing he could do to stop the set of tears, one running down each side of his face.

“Pussy,” the old man wheezed.

That brought a smile to Dean’s lips. He pulled a chair next to the bed and pulled the old man’s hand into his. “How you been?” he said.

“Well, I’m still here.”

“Yeah, about that…” Dean looked dead in his eyes and cut right to the chase. “I heard you were refusing a simple procedure. Can’t you let them patch you up without the gloves?”

“I was half dead ten years before I met you, kid. Been waiting for this for a long time. That operation would just leave me lying in the same old hell. Just a fresh coat of paint is all, and I’m happy to give a giant no thanks to that.”

“Aren’t you hungry?”

“Nah, feel full as a tick. Mostly I just feel pissy.” The old man crackled through a short series of splintered laughs. “I’m ready to go, but I’m glad I haven’t gone yet. I would’ve hated to miss seeing you.”

“I would’ve come sooner if I’d known.” Dean swallowed. “Sorry,” he added, just above a whisper.

Why hadn’t he come? How long had he expect the old guy to live?

“Ah, it ain’t nothing. Not like there’s any shortage of news about you. Looks like you done better than anyone expected.”

“Not true,” Dean said. “You always told me I could do whatever I wanted, and that one day I was sure to do something great. I don’t know if I did great, but I guess I did better than most.”

“Don’t start that shit with me,” Solomon said. “I’m sure as hell not going to spend my last days listening to it.”

Something in Solomon’s voice put a wince on Dean’s face. “What do you mean?” he asked, then studied the old man’s face, waiting for any small shift in expression.

“You know exactly what I mean, and there ain’t no reason I got to waste either of our minutes telling you what we both know. You like to lay on the cross as often as you can. You want to give and give and give and never take, and you always have to be embarrassed when something good comes your way.” Solomon stopped to catch his breath, along with a few specks of blood that looked like red mist on the white tissue. Saul tried to speak again, but the first few words hit the air like they were scraped on sandpaper. Dean handed the old man a glass filled with tepid water from the nightstand and a pink twisty straw coming out the top. He took three sips then set the glass on the nightstand and leaned forward. “Self interest and generosity are best not separated, but you keep on making the mistake of thinking they’re enemies.”

Solomon collapsed on the pillow.

Dean stared, embarrassment surrounding his anger and begging him into surrender. “You’re right,” he said after only a couple of seconds thought.

“Damn hell I’m right.” The old man started laughing, which sent him into another wiry fit of rasping that lasted for a good three minutes.

Dean held Saul’s hand and the old man allowed it.

After that, words flowed like blood from a cut. Solomon had said what needed saying and Dean had traveled a few thousand miles to hear it. It was no surprise when Dean finally stood to leave several hours later and Saul hit him with, “I’m assuming you haven’t gone to see your mother.”

“No,” Dean said.

“You gonna?”

“Not today.”

That’s how every exchange had ended each day since.

It was the final week of September by the time Dean finally decided to cross the street and deal with the delayed inevitable. It was the time of year in Southern California when hot Santa Ana winds blow through the southern part of the state, withering vegetation and stripping the vigor from a million or so citizens. Searing winds had nothing to do with Dean’s fleeing the state, but he had grown to love the East Coast Septembers that hinted at a changing season. In California, shifts between the four seasons existed in barely a whisper.

Dean stepped into the street and briskly approached the house that had harbored five years of impossible happiness, followed by a baker’s dozen of misery, torment and the wretched feeling of constant uncertainty that is worst when cast on a child. Dean wondered if there was something in a human’s DNA that kept them from ever truly hating their own mother. He didn’t know. He did know he’d sent wide rivers of money into a vast sea of charities, though he doubted he could find it in his heart to cross the street to save his own mother.

He flexed his fists, wondering how hard he should pound on the door. Despite knowing he would eventually face her, he had done nothing to prepare. The door swung open before he ever raised his knuckles to the wood.

“Three months it takes you to come see me,” his mom said.

“Hello, Olivia.” Dean stepped past his mother and into the house. He threw a glance around the room. “Looks nice,” he said. “Different. Guess it’s a good gig, getting a steady paycheck for nothing.

Olivia tilted her head and said nothing.

“Don’t worry about it,” Dean said. “I know Maya sends you money every month. She pretends it’s all for her, I pretend to have no idea, and we both pretend not to know the other is pretending. We’ve been doing it for years.” Dean walked to the secretary desk and started looking through the drawers. Without turning around he asked, “You have this place professionally aired? Smells sorta normal.”

“You don’t have to be mean,” Olivia said. “I haven’t had so much as a single drop all year. Check the house, rummage through every cupboard. There’s nothing to find.”

“No thanks,” Dean growled, “I got bored of doing that back in junior high.”

“You don’t have to be so dramatic.”  “Dramatic! You serious? Dramatic was when I had to take the bottle of vodka from my seven your old sister because you were either too drunk or too fucking stupid not to leave it on the floor where you passed out. All three of us are fucking lucky she didn’t unscrew the cap and start chugging ‘Mommy’s water,’ so don’t tell me I’m being dramatic because I’ve got no reservations about walking out that fucking door and never looking back.”

“You’re so boorish,” Olivia said. “Really, did you need to say ‘fucking’ three times in a single tirade. I would’ve given you far more credit.”

Dean stood there silent, reducing the insides of his cheek to raw meat. Finally he turned to leave. “I’m out of here,” he said.

“That’s it?” Olivia stepped toward her son and grabbed him by his left arm. “After all this time you’re gonna up and leave, just like that? You’re not looking to solve anything, so why the hell did you even come back?”

“I did it for Saul.”

“You’re just telling yourself that,” she said. “You did it for you. It’s exhausting hating your own mother. You knew it was time to finally put it all behind you; time to apologize for abandoning me.”

Dean shook her hand from his arm and leaned into her face just enough to make her take a giant step back. “I don’t regret that moment for a second,” he said. “You know the night I left, you were out cold on the sofa with a lit cigarette still dangling from your mouth. Last thing I did before slamming the door was put it out. Only reason I didn’t leave it lit and let it burn you alive and let you get an early glimpse of hell was because Maya was asleep in the next room.”

The room was still. Dean’s anger slowed to a heavy exhale and the two of them stood staring. After a minute, Olivia started to quietly shake until her composure shattered into a million shards of regret and self loathing. A tsunami of heaving sobs wracked her body and dropped her to her knees. For several minutes Dean continued to stand over his mother as her sobs grew louder. After a while he walked to the dining room table, pulled out a chair, and dragged it to five feet in front of her and sat, still watching.”

When her sea had turned to desert and her face looked like a slab of uncooked meat, something inside Dean melted. “I’m sorry if I was harsh,” he said.

“Harsh?” Olivia cackled. “You just orally drop kicked an old defenseless woman. But I deserved it. Can we be finished? I’m ready to start over. Can you at least hear what I have to say?”

“Sure,” Dean said, “but don’t give me a reason to walk out the door. I’m not even looking for a big one.”

Olivia laughed. “Well, hell’s bells. If I’d known all it would take was a tongue lashing, I’d have invited you to go off on me a long time ago.

Dean wasn’t amused. “It isn’t because I got anything out of my system. It’s because Maya says you’ve been better for years, and that this last year you haven’t even seemed like the same person. She’s been begging me to come by since I came back. She and Lisa both. I would’ve eventually. Saul just made it happen faster.”

“You’ve met Lisa?”

“Of course.”

“When?” Surprise or confirmation crossed his mother’s face, Dean wasn’t sure whcih. “Never mind,” she said, “it’s none of my business. You tell me what you want, whenever you’re comfortable.” Olivia offered Dean a smile he barely remembered. “Now how about you let me to make you dinner. Maybe fish sticks and Mac & Cheese?”

“That was my favorite meal when I was ten, Mom.”

“It’s been a long time.”

“Don’t go to any trouble.”

“It’s already made.”  “You have fish sticks and macaroni already made?”

“I’ve made it every night for three months,” she said.

Something inside Dean broke, or maybe knitted. “Sure, mom. I’d love some Mac and Cheese.” He went to the table and sat down and Olivia started bustling around in the kitchen. A whisper told him to go and check on Solomon, but he ignored it. He was being silly. The nurse was there and knew to call him the second anything went wrong. It would be rough losing the best teacher he’d ever had. Dean wondered if he would ever shed the regret of allowing so much time to pass. He smiled, remembering the final words from the old man’s mouth before he’d left an hour ago.

“The slower we move the faster we die.”

Hell if he wasn’t right like always.