DESIRE

You never had nothing, and you never will.

“I… know… that,” Robbie said, in time to the rake scratching the dry leaves over and over on the brown crisp grass of the Widow’s lawn. It was colder than usual this end of October and there were small holes in the fingertips of his work gloves that let in the numb chill. “I know I’m poor. I ain’t got a problem with it. You got the problem.”

 Wood rake handle crooked in his aching arm, both worn out from years of use. He paused to shake the blood back in his hands and blow on his fingers. Sun was low, clear but weak. His room at the motel across town came to mind. It was warm. It was nice. There was beer and some cold pizza in the minifridge waiting for him when he got back. There was a twenty-dollar bill in his pocket the Widow had given him for this yard work before she left. “I reckon I’m good for a little while.”

You ain’t good for nothing and you never will be.

He pushed the piles he’d made into orange plastic bags and lined them up neatly beside the curb. He raised his arms and leaned backwards to stretch out the soreness in his back. He drew the cold air deep into his lungs. Somebody had a fire going in the fireplace. Down the block, a teenager flew a small noisy drone. That kid’s new shoes cost more than I get in a month, he thought. The boy danced lightly over the yard, joyfully following the expensive toy. Robbie felt envious. Not for the drone. His son was due in court next week on a possession charge.

That boy you raised, he’s no good; he’s nothing but trouble. Like father, like son.

“Zach’s hardheaded and wild, to be sure. But he ain’t evil.” Could never convince the voice of it, though. He stuck the tattered gloves in his pocket and felt for the Widow’s spare set of keys. She’d left them with him as she drove off, late to the doctor. “Lock the shed when you’re finished and leave the keys on the hall table be sure to lock the front door as you leave, yes ma’am,” he repeated to himself.

Inside, the Widow’s dark front hallway smelled of flowers and dust. He’d tracked in some dirt on the figured rug. He squatted to brush it away. Above him the designs on the fancy plaster ceiling looked very far away. He was a small man, barely five-six; crouched down in this cavernous space he felt insignificant. The quiet was broken only by the ticking of a tall clock down by a door at the end. He pushed up, his stiff back and knees ached. He felt much older than sixty-seven.

There was the wide polished table where he was to leave the keys. They jingled out of his pocket and he laid them gently on the polished wood. “Don’t scratch it up.” Next to the mound of keys was a small green blob. It looked like a green stone frog. The setting sun shone through the oblong window above the front door. A shaft of light lit up the table. “It ain’t a frog though.” The light played over the carved ridges of the figure. It was a little laughing fat man, sitting cross-legged. The light played over him, bringing out all the tiny carved details, making him glow from within. Robbie touched the little belly with his finger. The surface was smooth and warm, not like any rock he’d ever held. He cupped his hand over it…

It wasn’t until the front door lock clicked behind him that he first felt some sense of what he’d done. He took a few steps to the edge of the front steps and panicked. He rushed the door and yanked hard on the shiny brass handle over and over. It was firmly locked. The heavy tight door didn’t budge.

He walked out of the Widow’s nice neighborhood and through the small commercial district in the dusk. Every growing shadow hid a nagging reminder of his guilt. He patted the figure in his pocket as he walked, as if to reassure it that no harm would come to it. “I ain’t no crook. I just wasn’t thinking and put it in my pocket absent minded and walked out with it distracted. Never meant to steal it. Just happened, that’s all.” He crossed the railroad tracks and walked alongside the highway that led to the cheap motel. “I’ll go back tomorrow and explain to the Widow. She’ll understand.”

You’re a liar and a thief to boot.

“No, I’m NOT!” His unexpected shout startled the Pakistani motel owner who was watering her potted plants by the office. From behind the front desk came excited happy children’s voices in language he didn’t understand. A television in the office was turned to the evening news. In a press conference held earlier this afternoon, the President emphatically denied that he did anything wrong. The woman looked at Robbie with concern. “Sorry, Miss ‘naya, didn’t mean to scare ya.”

I allow I despise a thief and a liar.

He ducked his head and walked around to his room. It was a relief to close the door, to pull the stiff curtains across the red neon lit window, to turn on the lamp beside his bed, to strip naked and lay his clothes across the chair.

In the shower, he watched the soapy water flush across his hairy belly. The little Buddha perched on the ledge above the sink. Its smooth jade belly glowed in the greenish fluorescent steam. It peeped at Robbie as he rubbed himself dry with the scratchy towel, laughing with him, not at him. “I made a mistake,” he confessed to it. “But I’ll go back to the Widow’s tomorrow and put things right. Only she might not want me to work for her anymore after this.” This thought made fear and pain rise up together. The Buddha kept smiling. Robbie touched the figurine’s face. “You know I’m not a bad guy, dontcha?”

He pulled on some shorts and lay down on the bed. He kept the air conditioner on; its rumblings masked the noise from the constant activity in the parking lot during the night. He fell asleep.

Hard banging on the door jolted him awake from his nightmare where, naked in the center of an angry mob, they shouted cruelly at him from all sides. He went to the window and cautiously pulled a corner of the curtain back to see who could be at his door at this hour. It was Zach.

“Let me in Pop, open up!” More door banging as car tires screeched out of the parking lot.

He yanked the door open. “Keep it down, Zach! You want to get me thrown out?” Zach fell through the door, almost stumbling to the floor. He smelled rank, boozy, and unwashed. One sleeve of his t-shirt was torn at the shoulder; there was blood on his face. He cradled something in his hand.

“Sorry, Pop. I know it’s late, sorry.” He slurred his words. “I gotta use your bathroom. Listen, keep a lookout by the door and if you see anyone coming this way holler, okay?”

Robbie kept looking past the edge of the curtain, watching and listening for any threat. But all he could hear was water running in the bathroom sink. Was Zach in trouble again? Someone looking for him? What was it this time? Zach seemed to be taking a very long time in the bathroom. “He’s not a bad kid,” Robbie breathed, “There’s lots worse than him.”

Apple don’t fall far from the tree. Sorry father, trashy son.

Zach came out of the bathroom, his left arm bent up tight, fist to his shoulder. He was calmer. His pupils were wide. ‘Listen, Pop, I gotta go.” He was gone.

Robbie watched him walk out of the parking lot and down the highway. He went to turn off the bathroom light. First thing caught his eye was the syringe in the sink. He gingerly picked it up with toilet paper wrapped fingers and put it in the trash can. Only then did he notice that the jade Buddha was gone.