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Prolific Writer
Join Date: Jan 2005
Posts: 271
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Green Violins
"Green Violins"
It was time for sleep but I could not sleep. This was far from being abnormal for me. It would happen every now and again. Every other week, a few times a month. I would find myself on the back porch, smoking a cigarette at three in the morning. I was a shadow amongst shadows, bringing the butt to my lips, illuminating my face with its smoldering ash. I tried to be positive, but everything left a bitter taste in my mouth. Simple, meaningless things – the sky, the grass, the concrete, a wrinkle in my shirtsleeve.
Lately my ritual of lying in bed with my eyes open had become more and more frequent. Two nights here. Three there. I did not sleep. I smoked and smoked and smoked. I sighed a lot. I crossed and uncrossed my legs. I held my chin in the palm of my hands.
Nights of this ilk had become such a chronic occurrence that it wasn’t long before I grew bored of just sitting on the porch, filling my lungs with black. The still of it all was driving me crazy. So I took to taking long walks. I was usually barefoot and wearing the pale blue, flannel pajamas with the pearled buttons Trudy had given me for Christmas four years earlier. They were my favorite. It was rare that I ran across anyone on my walks so I did not even think to fear embarrassment due to my attire.
I developed a comfortable routine: Watch TV until midnight, brush teeth, lie in bed, get out of bed at one thirty, smoke one to six cigarettes on the back porch, get keys, lock door, walk. I would take a left on 17th and Washington, walk six blocks, take another left on Hamilton, walk six more blocks to the Park, sit on the bench located directly between the swing set and the merry-go-round (I had a cousin who died on one of those once), sit for 1 1/2 to 2 hours, get up, return home by retracing my steps. I would usually then lie in bed until my alarm went off at six thirty.
Jane arrived every day sometime around three. I enjoyed Jane’s company. I had become more and more reclusive since the onset of my insomnia and soon Jane became my only human contact. Talking with her gave me a glimpse of a world I hadn’t seen in months. I thought it best not to count my nightwalks - empty streets, motionless grass, locked doors – silence is an entirely different world in itself.
Jane would bring a meal for dinner that I would reheat later as well as the following day’s lunch (usually ham on rye). I made my own breakfast. (Toast with honey and a cup of coffee).
Jane would knock three times on the front door, use her key, and find me in the living room, sitting in my big, brick-colored armchair, listening to Patsy Cline or Hank Williams or Loretta Lynn. Patsy Cline, most often. She was soothing to me. Sad, but not desperate. Accepting.
"Hey, Mr. Butler. How you doin‚ today?" she would ask, standing in front of me. I like her. She was genuine.
"Oh, all right, Jane. Thank you."
We would talk for an hour or so after that, while Jane checked my blood pressure, checked my pulse and heart rate. Jane was not particularly intelligent, although she was training to be a nurse. She was not particularly fascinating or attractive, but I loved to listen to her talk. She had a voice like Trudy, soft and warm with a subtle Southern accent. Trudy’s had grown fainter over the years, due to our move to Vermont. She always said she was a Southern girl at heart. I imagined Jane had a similar story.
I never really paid much attention to what Jane was saying. I just let her voice wash over me. I closed my eyes and imagined it was Trudy telling me about how funny it was when little Joey made a pie out of mud and served it to his grandmother who ate up every bit, only complaining because she found a hair. I pretended it was Trudy, not Jane.
"Goodbye, Mr. Butler. See you tomorrow. Have a nice evening, all right?"
The crickets were making that noise with their legs again, little green violins. Was it time for crickets already? I listened to them with the comforter pulled up to my chin. I tried to make myself believe that they were there to sing me to sleep, but it did no good and I creaked downstairs to watch something awful on television.
I took to staring a lot. Everything blended together into one giant cloud of moments wasted by lack of thought and activity. I felt myself becoming a shell, but did nothing to halt my changing, which was gradual. I figured I was old and therefore any endeavor would be pointless.
But I would come alive at three o’clock, put on a record, wait for Jane to arrive.
"Hey, Mr. Butler. How you doin’ today?’
"Oh, all right, Jane. Thank you."
"I’m sorry but they didn’t have that peppery chicken stuff that you like in stock today, so you’re stuck with meatloaf again. Hope that’s okay," she said, setting her bags down on the kitchen table. I could hear her opening drawers, shutting them, fumbling around in her the various bags she’d brought with her. She always sounded busy, just like Trudy always sounded busy. Strangely, their internal chaos calmed the chaos within me.
"That’s fine, Jane," I said. "That’s fine."
She placed the little round knob of the stethoscope on my breast, listened through the earpieces. The cold on my chest was shocking and I shivered at first.
I slowly ran a few fingers through her short, brown curls. She gave me a strange smile.
"Your heart sounds good," she said.
"Good, thank you, Jane."
She nodded, but did not stand up again.
I pulled her to me, kissed her on the mouth. She tore herself away, jumped up, backed into the standing lamp behind her, swinging around to catch it, to stop it from falling to the carpet.
"Mr. Butler!" She blinked and brushed off her blouse as if to rid herself of every microscopic particle I might’ve shed into the air.
"Oh...sorry, Trudy. Jane. Sorry, Jane. I…I don’t know why I did that. Perhaps I’m just tired. I’m sorry. I’ve just been having a little trouble sleeping lately…" I stumbled all over my words, rambled, wheezed, and wove my hands in and out of each other.
"It’s, um, okay."
"No, I’m really very sorry."
"No, no. It’s okay. It’s really okay." She paused. "There wasn’t enough room in the freezer for your supper so I put it in the refrigerator next to the milk."
"Jane…"
"You have a good evening, Mr. Butler," she said grimly.
As the front clicked shut, I grimaced and sank into my chair.
The next morning the phone rang. It was Jane. I did not answer it. I never answered the phone. Especially on Sundays. This was common knowledge to all I knew.
I listened to the message she left. Apparently she had been assigned a different position so she could gain experience in another area of her field. She wouldn’t be seeing me anymore. I knew she was lying. I erased the message.
I called the hospital immediately afterwards. I would not be needing any more assistance. I was doing just fine, thank you.
I smoked on the porch, looked at the stars, rocked in Trudy’s old rocking chair.
I shuffled down the road. I did not stop at the Park this time. I kept on. Time passed slowly, quietly it passed. As the sky paled, people began to open their front doors, drive to work. I continued walking, unnoticed, invisible.
I walked on the side of the freeway, quite aware that I was thinking nothing at all. I got off at exit 66B. Found a restaurant, sat down at the counter.
I ordered eggs and hash browns with two pieces of toast. I used lots of pepper, lots of jam, and lots of ketchup. The silverware was very thin and of poor quality, but it worked just fine. I did no complaining. I was invisible and it did not bother me. I had grown accustomed to possessing this type of image, or perhaps lack thereof. The stool heads would not spin all the way around so I swirled from side to side as I drank my coffee. I did not utter a word.
I had trouble finding my way back home. The neighborhood was empty, still. Everyone was at work or at school or still in bed. I found my house - the white house with the blue shutters and shriveled, pink petunias. I went inside, creaked up the stairs and slid in between the sheets Trudy had bought when we visited New York City for her sister’s wedding.
I closed my eyes and dreamt that Trudy was there, kissing me awake.
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