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Three
Diesel exhaust lingered as I watched the buses leave Liberty Middle School’s loop. I considered running along the line and rapping on the glass window but I knew my driver wouldn’t open the door because I had seen from my seat other kids chase us down only to be left behind. I turned around as the school building’s hydraulic doors wheezed close and its latch click and then deadlock shut.
*
Fog as thick as cappuccino milk absorbs my motorcycle’s headlamp’s light on the way to my college job at the coffee shop. I follow the road’s white painted line along the shoulder under the 408 Expressway with a pillar spray-painted over a stencil in the style of James Bond’s secret agent number 007. Instead, it reads 407—the area code for Central Florida—and the first three numbers someone would have to dial for Mom if I fall.
*
The last time I will talk to Grandma she will say what she always said, “It is what it is.” She will be dying in Chicago and I will be walking through Ames and we will both know it is the last time we will talk and so I will send my love and then carry her love with me after we say goodbye. But my brother will not call her.
Zero
*
*
Six
I knew I needed to call my parents from Liberty’s outdoor pay phone, but I had spent all my emergency quarters on War Heads from the vending machine in the cafeteria. I loved slotting coins and pressing the analog buttons and then watching the spiral wire unscrew a bag from the row. The metal released the plastic and the War Heads would plunk down. I would reach in through the flap door and touch the crinkle. I thought maybe I could find some change in the bus loop. I walked around the loop, but I couldn’t even find a heads-up penny for luck.
*
The octopus’ legs wriggle on Ricki’s inked forearm as he tosses cold dough at the pizzeria. Flour puffs on the counter like sand drifting along the shore. I put my new cell phone in the bookcase by the registers before I clock in. Ricki, who just got back from a tour overseas, thinks that I’m from Coco Beach because my number on the employee list begins with the area code 321 and once I wore a pink T-shirt splattered with a Quiksilver logo. Orlando absorbed the coast’s numbers for city customers like me. I tell Ricki that I stopped skating when I got into college, but I still know how to get to the beach access point across from Patrick’s Air Force Base where a sandbar breaks the waves into a ripcurl.
*
Mom will say that she practiced how to say “Dada” with Joe. She will say she taught my brother to say “Dada” so when Joe wanted a parent in the night he would call “Dada.” Mom will say that she said to my father, “He’s calling for you.” She will smile the way she always smiles when she retells the story. I will wonder what my first word was. I will believe it was “Mom,” because she is the one I want to talk to when I call home.
Nine
A group of kids came out of Liberty’s door. The door locked behind them. They didn’t care about it. I thought they all had detention together; had done detention before; would probably have detention again. Some of them started to walk away. I wasn’t supposed to be there. I begged a girl to borrow a quarter. She asked if she would get it back, but I didn’t say anything. She pursed her lips but opened the lips of her purse.
*
The assistant director of Iowa State’s public speaking program teaches us graduate teaching assistants to teach metaphor for special occasion speeches with a quote from a comedian who said, “Batteries die.” My cell phone’s battery dies. Still, I stay on campus grading my three classes of inspirational and entertaining speeches into the night. When my eyes begin to fuzz over my comments I decide to bike back home. As I pump my pedals along campus’ main road I spot my Florida sun-faded car’s sky-blue hood. The emergency lights flash and the door ajar bings. My girlfriend haunts the sidewalk calling my name. Her face washes in the unknown. For all she knows, I could have been dead on the road to our duplex.
*
I will think I’m prepared to give Grandma’s eulogy. I will have taught speech for several years and listened to too many special occasion speeches about dead grandparents that I will believe I can truly inspire my audience about the traits of Grandma. I will get their attention with a poem about a thread and needle and the stitch of absence. I will relate to my audience about us all gathering because she wove us together. I will give my credibility to speak as her grandson. I will reveal my topic of talking about Grandma’s life after her death. I will preview my points about Grandma’s life of service to others and her daily solitude that she took to recharge. I will lose myself when I try to recall that she would set the coffeemaker with a sign that Grandpa wrote, All in. Ready to go.
Two
I could call Mom at home but possibly lose her and only leave a message on the machine. I could call Dad at his office and then wait for him to get done with work.
*
I work odd jobs in town for old ladies mostly without children or with far away grandchildren. I might be their only daily face-to-face communication.
*
I will write to my brother. I will say that it’s not his fault that he didn’t call Grandma.
Six
I don’t remember if the voicemail clicked on and Dad’s voice said, “This is the home of Rich, Ruthie, Joseph, and Christopher. Please leave a message and your name and number. Thank you.” I don’t remember if Mom picked up and said she’d be on her way. I don’t remember waiting any longer or being anxious or feeling alone. I just remember knowing that Mom knew where I was.
*
I call the old ladies by their first name: AdaMae, Teresa, and Helen. I weed their floral gardens, trim their hedged lawns, and transplant their native prairies. I walk Chihuahuas, Terriers, and Greyhounds. I drive to the nursery, the pharmacy, and the hardware store. I sit down across from them at their tables while they share their life stories as a scientist, teacher, and videographer. I listen on the clock.
*
I will remember Grandma’s voice as the closest family when I was in the Midwest. I will remember Grandma’s voice as the sound of my feet creaking on the wooden floor of her home. I will remember Grandma’s voice with the smell of Roma tomatoes. I will remember Grandma’s voice as an old Polish lady’s warble. I will remember Grandma’s voice with the touch of smooth, warm palms. I will remember Grandma’s voice in the twinkle of the diamond on her engagement ring that I gave to my then-girlfriend/future-wife.
Three
Mom picked me up. Turkey vultures lurked on top of telephone poles along the road home. They swooped down to gnaw on dead squirrels.
*
The loneliest I feel is when I work away from the old ladies as a crossing guard, a bus driver, and a dishwasher. My phone is off and stashed away. I walk across the zebra stripes, I ride the wheel along the routes, and I scrub and spray ceramic and steel all day without an unstructured break to hear another voice for as long as they want to speak.
*
I will think without thinking that I’d like to call Grandma to tell her something I won’t remember. I will dial her number. I will realize she is not there only after the ringing begins.
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Photo credit: Getty Images