INTERLUDE

The voices were back. The old man glanced around nervously, then turned and hobbled through the tall weeds toward the house, Prince at his heels. In his haste he stumbled against a loose board on the dilapidated back steps, and once inside stood with his back against the door, panting. Gradually his breath returned, but still he did not move, willing the voices away. He had learned years ago that they were not real, so he usually ignored them, but now he remained listening. Prince licked the old man’s hand, but getting no response he turned around twice and lay down on the cold linoleum at his master’s feet.

It was getting dark; a chill blast of air rattled the remaining window panes. The old house shuddered and creaked like a floundering ship. Still he stood and listened.

A soft thumping sound finally registered. Prince’s tail. “Good boy.” His voice was gravelly. “Let’s get to bed.” They each took a drink from a covered water bucket, then made their way through the darkened interior of the house, stopping before a closed door.

The old man drew a key from his good pocket and inserted it, revealing a small windowless bathroom which they both entered.

After locking the door behind them the old man sighed, carefully bent to remove his shoes and pat the dog again before stepping into the dry tub and nestling beneath a pile of tattered blankets.

After he settled, Prince jumped in and curled into the remaining empty spaces. . They slept, safe for another night from the wind, rats, trespassers and voices..

A snowstorm struck during the night and the next morning they rose to find a drift of snow accumulating in front of a broken window in the old living room. He stood staring, lost in thought at the faded red and blue remnants of Mama’s carpet. Mama was gone and Papa too, and the royal blue and red of the carpet threads was present only in memory. He sighed and reached for his walking stick. “Let’s go find us some vittels.”

Carefully man and dog picked their way through the rapidly deepening snow and across the fields dotted with relics of weeds from only yesterday. The man bent into the wind, holding his buttonless coat tightly around him with one folded arm while using his walking stick to remain upright. As the two neared the corner grocery a sudden blast nearly toppled him. The voices started taunting him again when he had to leave Prince outside, but they faded quickly. Within minutes the old man reappeared, and after only a few steps Prince wagged his tail in anticipation and was not disappointed when the old man opened his parcel to share cold cuts with the dog. Stamps wouldn’t buy dog food.

Perhaps it was a dog in heat, he would never know, but late that afternoon Prince scratched to get out, then bolted and failed to return. After what seemed like several hours the old man wrapped up and once again staggered back across the field. “Prince!” His call blew back in his face. Another blast of wind brought him to his knees, and he was briefly disoriented. The chorus of bantering voices began again. Bastard! Son of a bitch! He swayed but staggered on. The voices were not new. He used to think they were outside, menacing him and his sainted mother, but now he knew better. They came from inside his own head, not out there. That meant he didn’t have to fight with others so much. It also meant he carried them with him.

“Prince!” Son of a bitch! “Here, boy!” Bastard!

The wind was now becoming a blizzard, especially fierce at the crest of the slope. Was that a dog’s bark? He took another step forward, unsure of his footing. The wind made shouting useless, but still he tried. “Prince, Prince old boy, come home.”

Suddenly his foot slipped and he fell, landing on his hip. The momentum of the fall tumbled him down the bank towards the creek. He landed in an unnatural, sprawled position, and was still.

Darkness shrouded the old man’s body. A decline in the hill where he lay blocked the view of neighbors or passersby. The snow continued piling up on his gray hair and beard. Hands sprawled open in the snow and he retreated as cold gentled into numbness.

At the edge of himself he sensed–but distrusted–movement. There it was again. Prince licked his master’s face, whined, tried to nudge him with his nose, whined again, then ran off.

Minutes later lights and voices approached. “He looks bad. Better call an ambulance.” Time passed.

An impersonal comfortable clatter and tinkle rose around him. The sound of nylons swishing softly, the rustle of starched clothing and perfume. He sighed deeply.

“Don’t let him get too warm too fast.”

He was aware of large areas of pain: his hands, his ears, a numbness below the waist. “His hip.”

Was that a needle? He sensed pressure; a man’s voice now, deep and authoritative. More movement. He was prodded purposefully and the pain submerged him again. The old man was up in a corner of the room looking down on his body when there was a sudden flurry of activity down below. “He’s in hypothermic shock.” More movement. “I can’t get a pulse. No respiration….He’s gone.”

Almost immediately he became aware of a voice speaking to him Iin his ear. “Wait. It’s not your time yet. It isn’t your time.” Was that voice inside his head or outside? It repeated “Don’ worry. It’s not your time.”

Without effort the old man floated through passages of consciousness and surfaced gently at his mother’s knee. She embraced him and said softly, “We’ve been waiting for you. Your father is here, too.”

Eons away, a guide was grinning to himself, thankful for the flexibility of the system.

__________________

POEMETTE

The children love cops and robbers,

also cowboys and indians. What

recreation will take their fancy

as they mature?

Ah yes–the video war games.

Cops and Robbers,

Cowboys and Indians

practicing to be men

through video games.

Competition

Inhibition

recognition

long division

malnutrition

prohibition

fission

prison.

Nan