Forward to The Breakup Year

I met Tom in September 2005 at a bar called The Burren in Somerville, Massachusetts.  I was twenty-six years old, he was twenty-four.  Later, you'll read the story about how we met.  You'll read a lot about our story.  There aren't enough pages to tell you the entire thing -- what you will mostly read about is how our relationship ended in November 2014.  But you'll get a good snapshot. 

I didn't set out to write a book about my relationship with Tom.  I didn't set out to write a book at all.  The essays, poems, and pieces of fiction in this book are part of a yearly blog project I began six years ago in response to my first "Tom divorce."  Ours was a complicated relationship, as you'll learn, but when we'd had our first significant falling out in October 2010, I needed something to redirect me, so I gave myself a challenge -- a New Year's Resolution -- to write every day, which I did, starting January 1, 2011.  By the end of the year, some unexpected things happened.  First, Tom and I made up, and also, people were reading what I was writing.  They were asking, "What's next?"  So I did another blog in 2012, this one all fiction, and another in 2013, this one were friends gave me "three things" I used those to write something, another in 2014, a choose-your-own adventure novel, and then in 2015, my goal was to use music to inspire my writing every day.  My relationship with Tom ended about a month and a half before the start of that blog, which created something of the perfect storm.  As you read, you'll learn the importance of music to me and the importance of music to Tom, a very diverse and talented musician.  You'll learn about the importance of music and creativity in our relationship.  And you'll also learn what I learned the hard way every single day -- music can be emotionally gruelling.  The result:  my Singalong 2015 blog turned into a public journal of sorts, a place where I worked out a lot of the stuff churning through my brain.  By the end of the year, I'd written a book about Tom, and I still don't know exactly how I feel about that.

Recently, I was reading a blog post I'd written back in August 2014 about how social media was completely changing the definition of "norms" in social interactions and in it, I wrote about chronic over-sharers, stating:

"I know for a personal fact it's possible to be going through hell and keep it offline.  Airing your sad or dirty laundry to the masses probably isn't going to heal you the way you want.  At least I know it wouldn't heal me.  

I was chatting with my friend Elliott the other day about how I was writing this post and how when I was fairly young, my mother had warned me, pretty sternly, to be very very careful about what I chose to put in writing because you cannot take that back.  What you put in writing is forever.  You can say things in the heat of any moment and while those things can certainly have a lasting effect, the memory of how that shit went down will change over time until it completely fades or has distorted enough that its reliability isn't so grand anymore.  But the things you write down can be read over and over and over again.  And things you write on the internet?  There's no eraser big enough to destroy that evidence.  Think about that before you post.  This is your legacy."

When I stumbled across this passage I'd written, I stopped and thought about how I still agreed with these ideas while also recognizing I had gone against that grain and gotten very personal in the 2015 blog.  My intention wasn't to "air dirty laundry" -- it was to make sense of the information, both rational and not, swirling in my brain.  It was helpful and healing and progressive and forward-moving.  And not just for me -- first one friend then another then another came to me, messaged me, commented right there on Facebook about how what I was writing was helping them get through difficult breakups, divorces, and other similar situations.  As the blog went along, I felt easier and freer about being completely honest -- naming names and bringing specificity into the picture.  You'll notice I don't start that way on January 1st.  It takes several months before I stop dancing around the issue and dive right in.  That's the authenticity of respect I have for those who are involved in this story, even Tom.  Especially Tom.  When 2015 began, I was truly hurting.  I was making big life decisions.  I was digging deep and looking for understanding and growth and the power to keep evolving.  In all sad honesty, I had no reason to believe he was doing similar work at all -- in fact, everything I heard from our many mutual friends and acquaintances was that he was continuing on the same destructive path -- and that also broke my heart.  

I say all this now as a way to prepare you for what you're about to read -- how it was written and why.  It will feel disjointed at times and it will change tone quickly.  It will repeat some information and also likely leave out things you wish you knew.  It's the modern day equivalent of reading my journal as I processed the end of the most important relationship of my life to date.  But the reason I wanted to pull the relevant blog entries and put them into book form is because they were helpful to me and helpful to others so maybe they could be helpful to you.  The universality of breakups is at the core here and even though the details of your story will be different than mine, my hope is that what I was thinking on January 1st versus what I was thinking on December 31st will show the possibility of growth and healing and change.  

I got through this "Breakup Year" with the help of countless friends and loved ones, a daily yoga practice, a daily writing practice, and listening to the podcast You Made It Weird with Pete Holmes.  

So let's get into it.

Sample from A Somerville Love Story

 JANUARY

Everything was quiet except for Callie's mind which bantered a mile a minute as she lay in bed.  It was early, barely six a.m., and she knew her husband Jeff wouldn't even move for at least another three hours but what she wanted to do was ask him the questions that were firing in her brain:  What can we do, how can we help, there must be a way.  It took everything in her not to shake him awake but she knew what he'd say -- "Callie, this isn't your problem" -- and even though he'd say it nicely and mean it with no ill intention, she was frustrated with him even in this imaginative state.

"Poor men," she mumbled, studying her husband's sleeping profile.  "They get in trouble even without doing a thing."

She swung her legs over the side of the bed and pulled her Boston University hooded sweatshirt off the floor and over her head.  Standing up, she shuffled out of the bedroom and into her home office across the hall where she sat down cross-legged on a swivel chair and fired up her desktop computer.  The wallpaper backdrop on the screen was a photo of her with her cousin Rachel at a family wedding the previous fall.  Callie loved the image of the two of them, laughing and so full of warmth it packed a tactile punch every time she saw it.  Everyone in the family called them "the twins," not only because they were both pretty girl-next-door brunettes with slender frames and crooked noses but because they had the same literal birthday:  May 23, 1979.  Callie was born at 12:31 a.m. and Rachel came along shortly after at 2:14 a.m. -- or New Year's Eve and Valentine's Day, they liked to joke.  Their mothers were sisters who couldn't be more opposite in temperament or appearance, so the fact that their offspring could come across more like sisters than they did was the butt of many a family joke.  Here are the twins with their first bikes.  Here are the twins on their first day of school.  Here are the twins with their Varsity soccer letters.  Here are the twins at prom.  Every milestone a memory they shared together, even moving from suburban Ohio to Boston for college, though attending different schools, and so on and so forth until Callie met Jeff and the big divide was forged.

"Thought I heard you up," a groggy voice said from the doorway.

Callie smiled at her twin slouching in the door frame.  "Did I wake you?"

Rachel shook her head.  "I'm not sure I ever fell asleep."

Down the hall in the main vein of their Somerville apartment was the remains of a drunken New Year's Eve party.  Callie had slipped off to bed around two a.m. while Jeff and Rachel had stayed up hosting their lingering guests.

"Anyone still over?" Callie asked, already knowing the answer.

"Just Andrew," Rachel said nonchalantly.

Callie looked back at her computer screen and sighed.  "Right," she said.

Rachel barely even reacted to Callie's obvious wish to talk about...to avoid talking about...to talk about...to lecture her about Andrew, instead nodded towards the computer.  "Are you getting ready to do some writing?" she asked.

Callie blinked and turned her gaze back at the glowing screen.  "Research," she said lightly.  "But it can wait."

Rachel walked in the room and flopped on the blue striped couch that was once in their first post-college apartment.  They'd bought it together, this nearly-new-at-the-time piece of furniture, as a joint birthday gift and had vowed to keep it with them until it wasn't still recognizable as a couch.  They'd felt so grown up and proud that it wasn't a futon or free-from-Craig's List but a piece of real furniture, a sign that they were making it on their own in the big city. And even though that was nearly a decade ago, they still insisted on keeping this couch in the family, even if it meant shoving it in Callie's office where no one but Rachel would ever see it.  Now, Rachel propped her head up with one hand while she played with the frayed edges of fabric on the cushion with the other.

"Urgent six a.m. on New Year's Day research?" she asked nonchalantly.

Callie spun her chair sideways and sighed again.  "Well, urgent might be a strong word."

Rachel chuckled.  "Everything with you is urgent," she teased.

Callie spun all the way around to face her twin and folded her arms across her chest.  She thought of the questions running through her head while she laid in bed with Jeff and it brought an acute ache to her chest when she thought of them with Rachel in her sights.  "I just..." she began.

Rachel tensed for a brief moment, seemingly reading the words her cousin had not yet spoken, and then relaxed before the next exhale.  "You just threw one helluva New Year's Eve party," she said, changing the subject.  

"We did," Callie said.  "You, me, and Jeff."

"We're quite a team," Rachel agreed.

"Thanks for seeing it through -- I just had to go to bed," Callie said, yawning to punctuate the sentence.

"You didn't miss anything," Rachel said, her eyes rolling up in her head as she searched her memory for an anecdote.  "Just a lot of drunk people disappearing one at a time."

"Except for Andrew," Callie said cautiously.

"Except for Andrew," Rachel agreed.

Callie gripped onto the edge of her chair to keep from spewing all of the thoughts in her head at this moment -- about her cousin, about Andrew, about what him still being in their house meant to her, about how the research she wanted to conduct was inspired by this exact scenario and how she'd made the first New Year's Resolution of her entire adult life just because of it -- but a simple glance at Rachel was evidence enough that this was not the moment.  

Plus, she needed to get Jeff on board first.  

"Did you make any resolutions this year?" Callie asked, releasing the grip on the chair.

"Actually, yes," Rachel said.

"Well, out with it," Callie said.

Rachel sat up.  "I want to do a headstand without any assistance," she said with a great deal of authority.

Callie laughed and sank back in her chair.  "You've got a free membership at the studio -- I hope this means you'll be using it," she chuckled.

Rachel nodded once.  "This year, I really will," she said.

"I'm teaching at 11 a.m.," Callie said with a wink.  "Get your yoga pants on."

Rachel's grin was sleepy.  "I'd better go to bed and rest up first," she said, standing up and then leaning over to give her cousin a hug.

Callie squeezed back tightly and then let her go.  "OK, sounds like a plan," she said, watching Rachel drift out of the room.  She waited until she heard her cousin shut the door on her bedroom before nimbly getting to her feet and sprinting down the hall where she found Andrew sleeping, mostly clothed and face down with muffled snores, on their sectional.  The worry line on her forehead eased up for a moment, relieved that at least he wasn't tucked in bed behind closed doors.  Spinning on her heels, she turned back towards her office and sat back down in front of the computer.  

"Screw Jeff," she muttered, certain he wouldn't be awake for hours and by then she might already be at Equal Standing teaching the first of her three yoga classes for the day.  Slowly, she typed o-k-c-u-p-i-d-.-c-o-m into the browser and her eyes grew big as the site appeared.  "Hell yes I want to create a new account," she continued to mutter, her mind already splintering between what screen name to choose and what profile picture would represent Rachel the best.

Read more in Parts One and Two of A Somerville Love Story...

U is for Unbelievable

And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make...

Thanks for a great 2016 season, Cleveland Indians.

Last night was one of the most insane, jaw-dropping, intense, raw, beautiful, unbelievable baseball games I have ever witnessed.  There was nobody at the corner of Carnegie and Ontario in Downtown Cleveland that didn't know that the Indians had to keep the Cubs off the scoreboard in the early innings, a job that fell almost squarely on the shoulders of Corey Kluber, who'd been nothing short of the undeniable ace he's known as -- rock solid in his first two World Series starts.  If Kluber could pull off the greatest magic trick a major league pitcher was capable of wowing a fanbase, then the Indians would likely cruise into the elusive fourth win, making them this year's champion.  If only.

Corey Kluber, however, proved to be human after all and the strain of his third start on the high pressure World Series stage on second round of three days rest -- unheard of in modern baseball -- got the better of him and his fourth pitch of the night was rocketed to the centerfield bleachers by Dexter Fowler for a solo home run.  In an ordinary game, that would have tempered the life in the ballpark, but not the case last night as an overwhelming presence of Cubs fans had descended on Progressive Field.  If I were to believe the Fox Broadcast, there were barely any Indians fans there at all.  As I listened to Tom Hamilton call the game on WTAM1100, I could distinctly hear "LET'S GO CUBS!" being chanted in the stands.  It broke my heart a little.  Could we not even get full value of our homefield advantage on this already tenuous night?  There's something wrong about the tickets being so expensive that only the richest fans could be in the ballpark -- but, well, that's an issue for another day.

For the purposes of last night's game, the crowd reactions to umpire calls were muddled and mixed, half-strength for both teams doing their best to off the underdog label once and for all.

But as I watched Corey Kluber struggle -- and then later the unshakeable Andrew Miller get shook -- I felt this overwhelming blend of emotions that was a little bit of awe, a little bit of oof, and a whole lot of love.  These guys were literally trying to fight a state-of-the-art uber-combat unit with a rock and stick.  To call the Cubs an "underdog" in the same sentence as you call the Indians the same is a gross misuse of that term.  To say you're shocked and wowed by the tenacity of that scrappy-dappy team from Chicago's North Side is the equivalent of you gloating that Target had a better Black Friday than the Mom & Pop Shop across the street.  Yeah, no kidding.  It would be pretty absurd if the roles were reversed.

Yet that's almost what Cleveland did:  upset the professional sports world by being the team nobody picked for greatness winning it all.

But, you know what?  I realize the Cubs claimed that ultimate prize...  But, to me, this feels like the biggest Indians victory of all time.  With the score a whopping 5-1 in the fifth inning, I literally sat on my couch with tears streaming down my face.  I watched this team I loved so dearly desperately trying to bail water out of their sinking ship and I thought to myself, "I can't be in public tomorrow.  I'll take the day off.  I'll hide out."  But then something happened:  luck swung our way in the bottom of the 6th when two Indians runs scored off starter-turned-reliever Jon Lester's wild pitch.  5-3.  The joy was temporary as Cubs catcher Dave Ross hits a solo homer in his last game before retirement, knocking that score to 6-3.  What we needed was a miracle.

And guess what happened next.

Bottom of the eight inning, Brandon Guyer hits a double that brings home Jose Ramirez.  6-4.  And then the most beautiful thing I ever saw in my life came right after:  center field Rajai Davis, who'd been fantastic defensively all postseason but struggled mightily with the bat in his hands, pulled off the old Pedro Cerrano Hollywood unthinkable drama of smashing a two-run homerun off the unbeatable Cubs closer, Aroldis Chapman.  

TIE SCORE. 6-6.

I was dying.  I was dead.  What I was actually doing was jumping up and down and screaming to wake the dead.  Sorry, roommates.  The last time I screamed that loudly during a baseball game was the epic come-from-behind tying run in that 2001 instant-classic game against the Mariners I wrote about a few days ago.  But this was Game 7 of the World Series.  Once The Ball That Davis Hit went out, something joyful snapped on inside of me.  Suddenly I knew, no matter the outcome of this night, I was going to want to talk to every single person I encountered in the foreseeable future about this game.  About the importance of never giving up, no matter the odds stacked against you.  

And after the conclusion of the scoreless ninth inning (almost not the case on what looked for half a second like a Jason Kipnis solo homerun that hooked foul) -- that's when the rains came.

Now after midnight, the water slashing down from the heavens was visible on my muted television while Hammy lamented in an uffish voice about this stall in momentum and I watched with newfound disbelief as the tarp was rolled out over the field.  At this point, my sister-in-law Jen and I were deep into texting, her husband/my older brother Casey long ago asleep along with her three young sons, and so I was her pipeline for keeping up with the action.  Later, my baseball soulbrother (that's a thing, right?) Shane chimed in and the messages were flying about the action.  My heart pounded out of my chest.  Would they have to suspend the game?  Could they finish it tonight?  Fifteen minutes later, the tarp was rolled back up and the 10th inning was a lightening strike of Cubs players taking advantage of pitcher Bryan Shaw's return to the mound after the unexpected break.  They put two more runs on the board before starter-turned-reliever Trevor Bauer came on and cleanly ended the inning.

Bottom of the 10th, the Indians had another steep mountain to climb -- we're always climbing, always! -- when Rajai Davis put the ball in play to score Brandon Guyer from second, getting us within one run of the unthinkable upset.  But we simply ran out of gas as Michael Martinez grounded out softly to third and the Cubs erased 108 years of anguish for their high-paying fans as they mobbed the mound.

The Indians did not win it.  The Indians did not win it.  Oh my god, the Indians did not win it.

At least not according to the scoreboard.

But these are the facts as I see them:

Fact #1:  With the injuries of key Indians players plaguing the team before they even got to the ALDS, no one -- no one -- picked Cleveland to make it past the Red Sox, let alone make it all the way to the World Series.  And even once they got there, still, there was no love.  I muted the television broadcasts and listened to the radio one instead, but I was dismayed how little they showed Indians fans in the crowd, even when the team was playing at home.  That's just rude, national media, seriously...

Fact #2:  The Indians are a small market team with small market funds which means they have to use wily and cunning to get anywhere and where that got them was Game 7 of the World Series.  They have to play as a team, united, one unanimous voice.  They have to be willing to play small ball -- they have to be willing to chip away, not depend on the longball, to get on base and move the runners any way possible.

Fact #3:  Terry Francona pulled off more miracles in this uncharted waters of no big names and a plague of injuries by being strategic, clever, and brazen and got away with more gambles than a team like Cleveland has ever experienced before.  In Tito We Trusted.  Forever.

Fact #4:  Asking three starting pitchers to work on three days rest on the biggest stage of their careers was incredibly daunting and incredibly risky but our guys said, "OK," zero hesitation, and did their best, along with the support of one of the most reliable bullpens I've ever witnessed.

Fact #5:  THEY HAD FUN.  THEY DID NOT QUIT.  GOONIES NEVER SAY DIE.  They hustled.  They were invested.  They were scrappy.  They fought and fought and fought.

And that's really the most important part of this story.

Whoddathunkit that an Indians loss in Game 7 of the World Series would feel so oddly uplifting?

Before the game last night, I was talking to my friend Becky, telling her about how I was starting to wonder if it truly was better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all...  By the end of last night's game I was convinced, for the first time in my long, surly, wary life that in the end, love was actually worth it.

from Homefield Advantage: One Cleveland Indians Fan's 2016 Postseason Scrapbook

They Call Me Wolfstar (poem)

I am the bringer of freedom,

Watch out.

There is a need for my kind

of utopia, a need for the upright,

upstanding force of my force,

my taskless, tactless, tenacious

teeth chattering churning of appeasement

on Earth, amen, praise be.

I lock and load in the lotus

position, deep meditation

massaging my cerebral influx

of nocturnal disasters.

I am a lightning storm.

Dance deep.

In time, I will end wars

with the promise of more wars

and I will instruct peace

by breaking into pieces.

Nothing distracts me from my course.

Turn now.

You will watch me climb

from the dream gutter

and dig Shakespearean roots

out of Sexton gardens.

Nothing lets you choose

like my lack of choice.

One way to lead is by love,

another by example.

So I will come with my torch

to reign.  

Aim your propaganda at my head

if I aim to be your propaganda.

I am off.

Turn on my light.

How do you want to use me

this time?

Never mind that.

Never mind me at all.

To the Sun

She doesn't remember, but the last time she was here we made out.  Tonight she's here with a young conventionally good looking guy.  I bet his name's Dirk or Cato or something equally on the edge of pretension.  Her name is Lily and she looks like she's on coke.  She looks like the sort who maybe Dirk hired for the night.  Maybe he did.  When I kissed her, it didn't cost me a thing, though, so I don't pretend to know all the angles.  I just sit here at this bar, night after night, and wonder who will sit down beside me next and if I'll want to talk or not.  Some people really interest me.  Lily interests me.  She reminds me a little bit of my cousin Rachel.  Rachel was always a little misunderstood and constantly running away from home.  I wonder if Lily is a runaway.  I bet she is.  I stare at her in a loose fitting white top.  It's backless and she's bra-less and it gets me thinking.  She's got great arms, thin but muscular.  I bet she does yoga.  I bet she can climb trees.  I see her fingers as they reach up and play through Dirk's curly brown hair.  She's blonde and her hair hangs long and straight just past her shoulder blades.  I watch as she slides her hand down to the back of his neck and pulls him into her.  She kisses him with her eyes open.  It's startling.  I wonder if she kissed me with her eyes open.  As she pulls back from him for a moment, her eyes sink solidly into his and then for a brief millisecond, she flashes those beautiful blues at me.  Am I imagining it?  I don't think so.  Her smile shifts.  Maybe she does remember.

I signal the bartender for another Jamesons on the rocks.  His name's George.  He's a good guy.  He brings me my drink and juts his chin towards Lily.  "Let her blow you sometime," he said with a wink.  I nod slowly. Maybe I will.

"My man, good to see you," a new voice says beside me.

It's my friend Roy.  We used to jam together in a band a few years ago.  He still plays.  I don't.  At least not much.  

"You on stage tonight?" I ask, signaling George to bring Roy the same thing I'm drinking.

Roy nods.  "Sit in with us," he says.  He always says that.

I smile politely.  "Thanks, man, maybe."  I always say that.

We clink our glasses together as soon as George sets Roy's drink down.  "To the sun," Roy says.

Back in my music days, Roy and some of the other guys we jammed with hopped a plane for the tropics to see what the scene was like.  Just thinking about those two weeks of suspended real-life brings back the feeling of sun on my face and a dull ache in my veins.  It was fucking great.  On the last night there, Roy and I were in a shitty little bar where everyone was trying -- quite successfully, I might add -- to sell us drugs and Roy stumbled into a girl -- a woman -- sitting alone at the bar.  She told him her name was Jane, but I think she made that up.  Anyway, Roy was trying to work some magic on her and I could see she was uncomfortable, so I turned his head towards another girl making waves on the dance floor and I took this strange Jane by the hand.  It was an electric moment.  It was like all we needed to do was press our palms together and our lifelines fused forever. The band was some kind of reggae hip hop workshop but I took sweet Jane and spun her around and then pressed her close to me.  We swayed back and forth with our eyes locked into each other and moved slowly and deliberately and without any consideration for the music.  Something came over me -- maybe it was just the intense heat of what we were doing -- and at the last moment, I dipped her low, her back arching towards the ground.  I don't know what we looked like, but I felt like a fucking ballroom champion dancer at that moment.  As I pulled lovely Jane back up to standing, I saw tears streaking down her face.  "Thank you," she said to me.  Thank you!  And then she ran outside.  I stood completely still for a moment before I chased after her.  She hadn't gone too far, just outside the door.  She told me her boyfriend had dumped her earlier that day.  Left her for another woman.  She lived on the island, she told me, and she had never wanted to escape from paradise more than she did that day and somehow my arms around her made a difference in her life.  She brought me home with her and the next day, I got on a plane and came back to Somerville, Massachusetts.  I wonder if her name really is Jane.  I wonder that all the time.

"To the sun," I echo back at Roy.

Lily is positioned directly behind Roy so I can keep watching her move while I talk to him about his kids and his ex-wife.  I don't have kids or an ex-wife.  Listening to Roy talk, I am thankful for both of those things.  Instead, I have girls like Lily in my life.  Looking around the room, I can count at least four men who have fucked her, Roy included.  I haven't fucked her.  Not yet, at least.  Maybe I will.  The night is young.  Life is young.  I order another Jamesons as Roy claps a hand on my shoulder and excuses himself to set up for the music.  I fix my eyes on Lily but I do it in a non-creepy way.  At least, I think that's what I'm doing.  She doesn't seem to notice me.  How could she?  Her hands are busy working Dirk and her tongue is sweeping the inside of his mouth.  I watch her jaw move.  I like what I see.  I remember what it was like to be Dirk.  I hate that asshole.  

I don't know if I'm drunk yet.  It's hard for me to tell anymore.  I wonder if it even really matters.  I live two blocks from this bar so I'm within easy stumbling distance.  I wonder if I should be looking for someone to stumble home with instead of fixating on Lily.  But I can't stop looking at her.  When she turns to the side, I can see part of her breast.  I am staring now.  This realization hits me and I feel like a predator, so I shift my gaze down into my rocks glass.  When did I become this guy?  

My girlfriend would roll her eyes at me if I asked her this question.  She'd say, "What kind of guy do you think you are now?  You're a guy, that's for sure."  But she'd say it kindly, with her arms wrapped around my neck.  Her arms aren't as nice as Lily's but they're nice enough.  She's also not really my girlfriend.  I call her that when she's not around because it best defines how I feel about her, but she's probably in a bar a few blocks away with her hand in some other guy's back pocket.  I don't let my imagination run the full gambit.  I know she winds up in beds besides mine but I can only picture her curled up next to me.  She sleeps with her mouth wide open.  It's wild.  I love everything about her except for the fact that I know she's pressed up against some other man right now.  Fact, I don't know that for a fact.  But I let myself assume.  

I let myself stare at Lily.  

Roy and the boys are starting to play the first song.  Lily and Dirk have suddenly vanished from sight.  I think about George's endorsement -- Let her blow you sometime.  Dirk, you lucky bastard.  I turn my attention to the music.  Reggae tonight.  Roy's "To the sun" toast suddenly makes sense.  I let my head move slightly out of time with the music.  I wait to see who else will sit down beside me.

First line written by Tom Lada

From the short story collection Sobriety (And 49 Other Fine Stories) by Sarah Wolf

Published by Wolfstar Press (2013) and available both in paperback and for Kindle

Omaha

Mr. Blake leaned back in his wooden rocking chair and tipped his hat over his face.  The air on the porch was muggy and heavy with humidity and summer dust, but it was still cooler than his house.  He could hear his wife Luceile in the kitchen chopping carrots and celery and tossing them on top of the lettuce in a large, wooden bowl.  She had the evening news on at full volume as she hummed Nat King Cole melodies.  He breathed quietly into his hat.

    

“Well, it looks like this heat wave will continue at least for the next few days, Dave,” the female anchor said.  “But before we get to weather, let’s check in with Mary and see how the drive home will be today.”

    

“Thanks, Debra,” a new voice said.  “Summer construction will delay most commuters...”

    

“Paul, you should see the traffic!” Luceile yelled out the window.  “Makes me glad we live away from the hustle and bustle of the city.”

    

“Uh huh,” Mr. Blake said into his hat.

    

“Look at those poor people,” Luceile continued.  “All they want to do is get home...”  

    

Mr. Blake slid the hat off his face and turned to look at the TV through the window.  “When I was in the war, all I wanted to do was go home,” he muttered.  There was an aerial shot of the interstate that displayed clogged lanes and orange barrels.

    

Luceile laughed.  “That traffic looks enough like a war zone.  Except that young man doesn’t seem to mind it much,” she said, waving her knife at the screen.

    

Mr. Blake squinted.  “What are you talking about?”

   

She turned her head to the side.  “That boy in the white car there.  He has his head stuck out of his window, like a dog.”

    

Mr. Blake shook his head.  “How can you see that?”

   

Luceile went back to chopping the vegetables.  “I can always find the silver lining, Paul.”

    

He grunted and looked out across his yard.  He wished the weatherman saw rain in the immediate future.  His own grass was a dull green, limp and tired.  His eyes traveled across the road.

    

“The grass is always greener...” he quipped.

    

He rocked in his chair and stared in muted amazement at the flourishing field of corn across the wide, black top road.  He saw his neighbor Darren Deetz walking through the stalks with his grandson Omaha.

    

“The next few days will be hot and dusty for the entire viewing area,” Dave the Weatherman said,  “which is bad news for the farmers...”  

   

Mr. Blake leaned forward in his chair and watched the corn stalks bend out of the way of their commanders.  Darren’s worn-out Indians baseball cap bobbed above the stalks while Omaha was swallowed into the forest of vibrant green giants.  Mr. Blake squinted and pressed his hands flat on his knees.

    

“What is it, Paul?” Luceile called from the kitchen.

    

He didn’t move.  “Just looking at Deetz’ field.”

    

“In local news, World War II veteran Paul Blake, Korean War veteran Louis Freedman and Vietnam veteran Daniel Moore, each Purple Heart recipients, will be on hand tomorrow for the unveiling of the long-awaited statue honoring the community’s war heroes...”

    

“Damn statue.”  Mr. Blake balled his fists on his knees.

    

Luceile wiped her hands on her white apron and quickly turned off the TV. Coming over to the window, she leaned against the frame and followed her husband’s stubborn gaze across the street.  

    

“It is amazing, isn’t it?  Did you ever ask him how he managed to get such a good crop in this terrible dry spell?” she asked.

    

Mr. Blake shook his head.  “Man never had any sense when it came to farming, Ceile.  That’s what makes the least amount of sense.”

    

Luceile chuckled.  “Sandrine swears it’s the boy that brought all the luck.”

    

Mr. Blake frowned.  “The boy?”

   

 “Sure.  Their grandson.  Omaha.  You’ve met him.”

    

“Of course I’ve met him,” Mr. Blake snapped.

    

Luceile ignored him.  “Ever since his mama was killed in that automobile crash in the spring and he came to live with his grandparents, things seem to have turned around for them--for their farm, I mean.”

    

Mr. Blake narrowed his eyes and leaned back in his chair.  “What does the boy have to do with the war, Ceile?”

    

Luceile frowned.  “The farm, Paul.  You mean the farm.”

    

“That’s what I said.”

    

Luceile sighed and shrugged.  “Sandrine says her grandson is magical, Paul.  And I have no reason to doubt the woman.”

   

 “Except that she cheats in Bingo and has a half-insane husband,” Mr. Blake muttered.

    

Luceile laughed.  “They’re good people, Paul.  And I’m glad to see them doing well, as the result of a magical grandson or by the grace of God, I don’t care which.  Now, why don’t you come on inside for supper?”

    

Mr. Blake’s eyes lingered for a moment on the swishing of the tall crops across the road and grunted before getting up and heading in to eat.

That night, he lay in bed beside Luceile with the ceiling fan whispering cooler breezes through the suffocating heat of the room, almost as suffocating as the stealthy heat of the jungles he terrorized in World War II.  Staring up at the darkness, he swore he could see the face of Darren Deetz’ grandson every time he blinked his eyes.  The innocent, deeply-tanned face of the eleven-year-old Omaha Oswald O’Ryan, smiling and bright-eyed, with messy brown hair and a joyful smile.  Mr. Blake never thought much of him before, finding him to be nothing but a startlingly simple boy with a silly hippy name.  

    

“Sandrine says her grandson is magical.”

    

Mr. Blake stared into the darkness and grunted.  Blinking his eyes, he saw flashes of Omaha as he’d seen him earlier that day, standing in the field.  Only now he was looking across the street and waving, smiling, beckoning.  Laughing.  Mr. Blake shivered despite the heat and fell asleep with his eyes open.

    

The next morning dawned tiredly.  Mr. Blake woke up before his wife and swung his legs off to the side of the bed.  Staring intently out the open window, he searched Deetz’ home for signs of life, for signs of Omaha, but all he saw was the tentacles of sunlight streaming over the field.  Putting his hand over his face, he closed his eyes and flinched as he saw Omaha staring back at him.  Laughing.  

    

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered, rubbing his fingers over his face.    

    

Luceile was still snoring, so Mr. Blake got up and made his way to the bathroom in the hallway.  After splashing some water on his face and stuffing his legs into his faded overalls, he went down the creaking wooden steps towards the kitchen.  He paused on the landing and stared at the plain brown floor that reminded him on a daily basis that he was back in civilization, that he was safe.

    

“I don’t need a statue to tell me that I’m a goddamn war hero,” he mumbled.  “I need this floor beneath my feet.”

    

Turning his head to look out through the glass door, he saw the stalks of corn rustle, as if bending out of the way of a ranking officer, but he didn’t see Darren’s old hat.

    

“Must be the boy,” Mr. Blake said.

    

Without picking up his hat off the kitchen table, Mr. Blake went out the front door and across the road to Deetz’ field.  He followed the swaying of the stalks carefully and quietly.  He could hear the sound of children laughing and talking, but his focus was on the stealth of his mission.  Mr. Blake slid through the rows of corn as fluidly as he had crawled through the jungles of the Pacific.  His eyes widened and a determined grimace enveloped his face as he stalked his prey:  Omaha.  Laughing.

    

The sun hung low in the sky as it yawned its way into view.  He ignored the soft glare, ignored the burn of his exposed bald head, ignored the painful gasps of air being gulped by his joints.  His operative was to find that boy, find that magical boy; he needed to find out what that boy had to do with Deetz’ crop, what the boy had to do with him.

    

“My best friend died at the beach named after you, Omaha,” he said.

    

Deetz’ field banked on a tiny grouping of trees surrounding a small pond.  Darren and Sandrine often invited Mr. Blake and Luceile over to picnic beside the water during the summer, although they hadn’t extended such an invitation since Omaha had arrived.  When Mr. Blake got to the edge of the field, he paused and bent his hands onto his knees.  Taking a moment to breathe, he felt the rivulets of sweat beading up on his face and trickling down his back.  

    

“I’m getting too old for jungle warfare,” he muttered.

    

Straightening himself, he moved slowly towards the embankment of trees and peered into the clearing, towards the sound of the children’s laughter.  His eyes darted as the sound bounced off the trees until he narrowed in on a little girl with short, dark brown hair in a red sun dress who was laughing and clapping at the edge of the pond.  He stared at her, wondering what was so funny in the jungle, in the circle of trees around the circular pond.  She was jumping, cheering, her bare feet sticking in the mud with every hop, her hands pointing to the center, the focal point, the heart of the clearing.  Mr. Blake’s eyes followed the invisible light flowing from the tips of her impossibly tiny hands across the water.

    

“Oh my God,” he said, leaning his full weight against the tree.

    

It was Omaha.  He was standing, firmly planted on the plate-glass water, in the center of the pond.

    

Mr. Blake watched in horrified amazement as Omaha waved intently at the little girl on the shore.  “See, Edna?  I told you I could still do it!” he yelled.

    

Mr. Blake tried to swallow his shock but his throat was too dry, and he choked on the fumes of surprise.  Coughing slightly, his body doubled over as he slipped towards the ground in a crumpled heap.  He lay in the dirt in abject disbelief and horror and moaned, his thick hands pressed tightly against his face.  Seconds later, he pried his fingers away and stared up at a smiling face.  Omaha.  Laughing.

    

“Are you OK, Mr. Blake?” he asked, crouching beside him.

    

Mr. Blake sat up slowly.  “Well, I, uh, yes, I’m fine, young man.”  He rubbed his skull and felt a small knot starting to form where he’d hit his head.

    

“Can you stand up, sir?”  Omaha extended his hand.

    

Mr. Blake grunted as the boy helped pull him to his feet.

    

“You’re really OK?” Omaha asked again.

    

“Yes, yes, I’m fine.”  Mr. Blake stood awkwardly beside the boy, staring uncertainly at his strikingly normal face.

    

“You want to come and play with us, then?” Omaha asked.  “I mean, if you’re really OK?”

    

“Of course I’m OK.  How many times do you need to ask me if I’m OK?  I’m OK!” Mr. Blake said, waving his hands in the air.  

   

 “Great,” Omaha said.  Laughing, he turned and bounded back through the trees to where Edna was making a small castle out of mud.

    

Mr. Blake eyed the children warily before joining them.  Sitting on a stump near the pond’s edge, he folded his arms across his chest and gestured toward the girl.

    

“Who’s she?” he asked.

    

Omaha looked up, half-surprised to see Mr. Blake sitting there.  “Oh, she’s my sister.”

    

“Sister?” he repeated.

    

“Mmm hmm,” Omaha said, patting another layer of mud onto the castle.  “Her name is Edna.”

    

Mr. Blake stared at the back of the girl’s head and grunted.  “Who names a little boy Omaha and a little girl Edna?”

    

Omaha looked over at him and smiled.  “My mama,” he said.

    

Mr. Blake blinked.  “Sorry, boy, I didn’t mean to insult you.”

    

Omaha stuck his fingers in the mud to carve a moat around the castle.  “Oh, it’s OK, Mr. Blake.”

    

He watched the two children slather another layer of mud on top of the castle, Omaha poking holes in the side for windows, Edna smoothing out the edges.  He forgot for a moment about Omaha, allowed himself to be bored, even, until his eyes traced back out to the center of the pond.  He knew the pond was at least seven feet deep in the center.  He himself was about six-six and had spend many a relaxing afternoons swimming with his wife and his neighbors.  Mr. Blake stared across the smooth ripples of the pond and tried to detect the foot prints of the boy, Omaha.  Footprints on the surface of water.  

    

“Hey, mister,” a small voice said beside him.

    

Turning his attention away from the invisible tracks in the water, he looked towards the voice, belonging to Edna.  “Yeah,” he said.

   

 “You wanna walk on water, too?”  Her large, brown eyes were playful and curious.

    

Mr. Blake cleared his throat.  “I, uh, well, you see, um...  Too?” he asked feebly.

    

Edna nodded.  “Like Omaha,” she said.

    

Omaha savagely poked another hole into the side of the castle.  “Shut up, Edna.”

    

Edna turned back towards her brother.  “What...?”

    

Omaha got up and caught his sister’s hand and dragged her back to the ground.  “You can’t ask him that,” he said.  “Not yet.”

    

Mr. Blake leaned forward in earnest.  “And why not?”

    

Omaha looked from the frightened face of Edna to the curious face of Mr. Blake.  “Because it’s impossible,” he said.

    

“To ask the question or do the deed?” Mr. Blake asked.

    

Omaha sat quietly for a moment.  “You were in World War II, like my grandpa was.”

    

Mr. Blake straightened.  “I was seventeen when I landed at a US Marine base in Okinawa.”

    

“What was it like?” Omaha asked.

    

Mr. Blake stared at the back of Edna’s head as she slapped another fistful of mud onto the castle.  “It was war.”

    

Omaha folded his hands in his lap.  “I mean, what was it like?”

    

Mr. Blake looked back out across the water.  “It was, well...  War, young man.  Some days were downright dull and the highlight was swatting the mosquitoes away from your foxhole.  But other days...”  He stared at the soft ripples of water.  “You shouldn’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to, son.”

    

“What do you mean, sir?”

    

Mr. Blake looked back at the boy.  “What I mean is...  War is more real than anything else in life.  And too much reality can be hard to bear.  Especially for a young boy.”

    

“Like you were?” Omaha asked.

    

Mr. Blake nodded briskly.  “Like me.”

    

Edna turned and faced Mr. Blake.  “Did you see lots of dead people, then, in the war?”

    

Mr. Blake felt a slight chill sting his spine.  “Well, little girl, I, uh, well, yes.”

   

 “Did you make them that way?”  Her eyes gleamed.

    

Mr. Blake swallowed hard as his eyes jumped from innocent child’s face to innocent child’s face.  “Well, it was a war,” he said finally.

   

 “But...” Edna began.

    

Omaha laughed.  “I think you’re making him nervous, Edna.”

    

Edna pouted.  “You started it.”

    

“Well, I had a reason for asking,” Omaha said.

    

“What?” Edna asked, slapping her hand on top of the mud castle.

    

Omaha looked at Mr. Blake.  “I asked because you asked him about walking on water.”

    

Edna nodded.  “Oh.”

    

Mr. Blake narrowed his eyes.  “What does the war have to do with the, well, you know, the thing, uh, the water, I mean.”

    

Omaha stood up and pointed towards the sky.  “The clouds stay up there because someone once told them that they should stay up there.  That the sky is their home.”

    

Mr. Blake looked up and saw nothing but blue sky.

    

“The clouds, see, have a right to defend their home.  Mama used to say that’s why there were storms--the clouds were blocking invaders.”

    

“Like aliens?” Mr. Blake asked dubiously.

    

Omaha laughed.  “Maybe,” he said.  “But Mama said it was more a way to outsmart man and keep man out of the sky.  You know, airplanes and stuff.”

    

Mr. Blake pressed his hand against his face.  “Airplanes fly every day, boy.”

    

“Right,” Omaha said with a grin.  Turning, he took a slow step towards the edge of the pond.  Edna stopped pressing mud onto the castle and giggled as her brother stepped carefully, gingerly into the water.  Mr. Blake watched in quiet panic as Omaha’s feet rose above the surface as he moved across the crests of the waves.  When he reached the center of the pond, he sat down and bobbed like a duck.  Edna clapped and cheered.  Mr. Blake’s jaw dropped to the ground.

    

“You see, Mr. Blake, the clouds were supposed to stay in the sky and defend it.  But people found a way to invade.  The war you were in wasn’t supposed to be your war, but the enemy found a way to invade.”  Omaha folded his legs like a Buddha.  “People weren’t supposed to walk on water, but I found a way,” he said with a smile.

    

Mr. Blake’s face flushed.  “Oh, God,” he said.

    

Omaha stood up and walked back across the pond.  “My mama told me about the war you fought in a long time ago because she said it would help me understand my grandpa.  She said that my grandpa lost himself in that war, your war.  She said it was up to me--me and her--to help him.”  Omaha stepped off the water and walked over to Mr. Blake.  “That’s why I’ve come, you see.”

    

Mr. Blake looked into the consuming, patient eyes of the boy and shuddered.  “Listen, young man, I don’t know what kind of trick you’re playing here, but I don’t want to be a part of it,” he said.  

    

Omaha laughed.  “I can teach you to walk on water.”

    

Mr. Blake jumped up from his seat on the stump and backed away from the children.  “No,” he said.

    

Omaha grinned.  “That’s what Grandpa said at first, too,” he said.  “But ever since he learned how to invade--to win the war inside of him--he’s been happier.  I can help you, too, Mr. Blake.”  He extended a freckled hand.

    

Mr. Blake stared at the child’s hand and saw the fingers seem to reach out for him, to grow longer, to drag him into a war against himself, against nature.  Omaha simply smiled with Edna leaning against him.  Mr. Blake felt panic bubbling up inside of him.  He felt like he was back in the jungle, was being tested by God, was tripping on a land mine.

    

“Leave me alone!” he said.

    

Omaha remained motionless, his hand stretched out before him.  Edna sucked on a muddy thumb.

    

Mr. Blake turned and hurried out of the clearing, through the trees, and down the dusty pathway leading to Deetz’ house.  He ignored the pain in his aged legs as he ran, bolted towards the house, the base, away from the enemy, away from the jungle.  He saw his friend’s face, plastered with a serene smile, looking out of a second-story window at him.  Mr. Blake ignored him and ran until the path melded into the driveway, until the driveway careened into the street.  

    

He hurried across to his own house as a roar of thunder exploded up above.  He looked up, startled to see the sky suddenly dark, consumed by storm clouds that Dave the Weatherman had insisted were not coming anytime soon.  Mr. Blake dashed up onto the porch and into the house, slamming the door behind him in time to the second rocket of thunder.  

    

“Paul?  Is that you?” Luceile called from a back room where she kept her sewing machine.

    

Mr. Blake leaned against the door and gulped in air faster than he was able to breathe.  He closed his eyes and saw the strikingly normal face of Omaha.  Laughing.  

    

“Can you believe how quickly this storm came up?  Lord knows we need the rain, though,” Luceile said.

    

Mr. Blake felt his entire body begin to shake as the sweat ran through the cracks of his body, his hands pressed flat against the wall.

    

“I got a call from Sandrine this morning.  She invited us over to lunch with Darren and their grandson this Sunday.”

    

Mr. Blake drew a deep breath and clutched the white curtains on the door.  He closed his eyes and saw a flash of Omaha with Edna leaning against him.  “What about the girl?” he asked in a low voice.

    

“Pardon?” Luceile called.

   

 “The little girl.  Edna,” he said.

    

The sewing machine stopped humming and Luceile came out into the hallway.  Seeing her husband’s panic, she hurried over to him.  “Why, Paul.  Are you OK?”

   

 “Why does everyone keep asking me that?” he asked thickly.  “I’m fine.”

    

“Are you certain, dear?  Come and sit down,” she said.

    

He shook his head.  “I’m fine, Ceile.”

    

Luceile raised her eyebrows.  “You’re not, Paul.  Is this about the commemoration today?”

    

“Forget that damn statue, woman.  I asked you a question,” he said, his eyes darkening.

    

The thunder echoed around the house.

    

“Yes, well, I think I understood you wrong,” she said slowly, placing a cool hand on his forehead.  “Paul, you’re burning!”

    

He released the curtain and grabbed her hand.  “All I want is a simple answer to my simple question,” he said.  “What about the girl?  Edna?”

    

Luceile shook her head.  “What girl?”

    

Mr. Blake frowned.  “The girl.  Edna.  Their granddaughter.”

    

“Granddaughter?” Luceile repeated.

    

“Yes, the boy’s sister.  Darren and Sandrine’s granddaughter.  Where will she be during this fantastic lunch on Sunday?”

   

 “Why, Paul.  The granddaughter was killed in the car accident with the mother.  You know that.”

    

Mr. Blake stiffened.  “No.”

    

“Yes, dear.  Remember?  Sandrine was preparing a little red sun dress to send to the child for the summer when the accident happened.  The girl was buried in it, as I recall,” Luceile said.

    

Mr. Blake closed his eyes.  And saw Omaha.  Laughing.

    

“I saw the girl,” he said.

    

“Oh no, Paul.  We never met the little girl.  Just Omaha.  You know that Darren and Sandrine had been estranged from their daughter before the accident.”

    

He opened his eyes and looked at his wife.  “I saw the girl today,” he said.

    

Luceile’s face drooped, and she squeezed his hands.  “No, Paul.”

    

“I saw her.”

   

Luceile tried to lead him away from the door into the kitchen, but he remained planted in the hallway.  Her face was tacked with worry.  

   

 “It’s my fault.  I haven’t been making sure you’ve been taking your medicine...  Oh, Paul.  Dr. Thatcher seemed so sure that the delusions would pass,” she murmured, feeling his forehead again.

    

Mr. Blake’s face tightened in indignation.  “I’m not crazy, Ceile.”

   

 “Of course not, dear,” she said gently.  “Come and sit down.  I’ll make you some breakfast.”

    

Mr. Blake pulled out of her light grasp and flung the front door open.  Dashing out onto his porch, he charged down the steps like he was rushing out to face the Japanese until he stood beside a puddle in the rain. He stared at his own sallow reflection.  

    

“Paul!” Luceile called from the porch.  

    

He ignored her and continued to stare at the tiny pool of water.  Gritting his teeth, he stepped gingerly on the water’s edge and stepped back.  Sucking in a gust of courage, he balled his hands at his sides, closed his eyes, and took a determined step into the puddle.

    

Behind his eyes, he saw Omaha.  Laughing.

    

Beneath his feet, he felt the squishing foundation of mud as his shoes were buried in the shallow body of water.

    

Opening his eyes, he looked up towards the sky and allowed the tears that were welling up in his eyes to escape down his face.  Luceile hurried off the porch and over to her husband.

    

“Paul, come inside,” she said.

    

He looked at her with absolute sorrow in his eyes.  “I can’t do it,” he said.

    

Luceile placed a gentle hand on his arm.  “It’s OK,” she said.

    

He moaned.  “Ceile, it’s not OK--I’m not OK,” he said.  He brushed her fingers off his arm.  “Just leave me be a minute.”

    

Luceile reluctantly stepped backwards towards the house, her face masked in years’ worth of worry.  Mr. Blake stared at his reflection in the puddle and kicked the water to kill his distorted image.  Shivering in the warm rain, he turned and walked slowly towards his wife.

    

“Every year, we plow our field, plant a new crop, wait for it to grow,” he said, standing face-to-face with Luceile.  “That’s a natural cycle, right, every year, right?”  He paused and glanced up at the thick clouds.  “Something is wrong with me, Ceile.  Because I can’t walk on water, not anymore.”

    

“Paul, no one is asking you to walk on water,” Luceile said.  

    

“I feel like I’m back in the war--that maybe it never ended.”  Mr. Blake clutched his wife close to his body and sobbed.  Closing his eyes, he saw Omaha.  Laughing.  Opening them, he turned and faced Deetz’ house.  He saw Omaha standing alone on the porch.  Smiling and waving.

    

“Hey Mr. Blake!” he called.  “Looks like the clouds beat the weatherman today!”

    

Mr. Blake stared across the street at the boy and said nothing as the rain pounded down on his sunburned head.

Based on the song “Omaha” by Counting Crows

“Omaha” is a short story by Sarah Wolf published by Wolfstar Press (2011)

Read the full collection Black Ohio Skies in paperback or on Kindle