Turn of Mind

You’re new. You must prefer the shelters. A lot of the women do. You can stay cleaner there. But I don’t care too much for the rules. In bed by nine PM. No liquor. No smoking. No getting up before six AM.

You must be a night person, you say. I always was, too. I’m a wanderer.

Wanderer. Wandering. Wanderlust. You like the sound of the words as you speak them.

You said it. Give me the park at night anytime. Hey, where’s your stuff ? I can help you settle in.

I don’t know, you say. Home, I guess.

You have a home?

Of course. On Sheffield.

That’s a pretty nice street! Where on Sheffield?

Twenty-one Fifty-three Sheffield. Right down the block from St. Vincent’s.

I know that area. So you have a house there. So why are you out here, middle of the night, no shoes?

I guess I wanted some fresh air, you say. But now that he asks, you’re not sure. The man’s face has filled your mind, driving all other things out. His nose, his mouth. The grime in the considerable laugh lines around his eyes. A slight bruise on his cheekbone. The tufts of hair that stick out from under his cap. Not an unlikable face. A capable face, but capable of what?

What about your family?

They’re all dead, you say. My mother. My father. Everyone died.

Hey, that’s rough. Real rough. Mine all died too. I have a sister somewhere, but she doesn’t talk to me anymore.

He takes a deep drag on his cigarette, finishes it off, throws the butt on the ground, and grinds it in with his boot.

Hey, do you think we could go to your house? I sure would love to sleep in a bed for once. A bed with no rules.

We have a guest room, you say.

Well, that’s just perfect. I would love to be your guest. Just love it. He stands up, dusts off his trousers, and waits.

You get up too. Your feet are sore. A slight stinging on your ankle. Can you walk? You can. But you’re suddenly very tired.

Do you know how to get there? you ask.

I sure do. My old stomping grounds. And Antoine’s, too. Let me get Antoine. He’d sure appreciate a guest room himself.

I only have one guest room. But it’s a double bed.

Well, I could do worse than share a bed with old Andy. Let me find him. You just stay here. He runs off, glancing back at you every other step as if to make sure you don’t go away.

You do as he says. You are grateful that someone has taken charge. You never let James do that. You must be getting older. Old. The desire to abdicate responsibility. To let others act, decide, lead. Is this what aging is all about?

Suddenly the man is back. With him, another man, slightly built. Cleaner than the first, but a less open face.

You finally ask the taller one, Are you my husband?

Excuse me?

How long have we been married?

The small man laughs. If she really does have a house on Sheffield, you could have a real sweet deal.

Yeah, but what if she does have family after all?

You heard her. They’re dead.

Yeah, but she’s fucking nuts. We don’t really know what’s what.

James? you say.

The small man speaks up. Yes?

No, you say. Not you. James.

The other man hesitates. Yes?

James, I’m ready to go home.

Okay, my dear. The man looks at the small man and shrugs. What have I got to lose? he asks. Okay, he says to you, let’s go. Sheffield and Fullerton, here we come.

Seemingly hours later, you finally reach your house, unlatch the gate. The men stand aside, waiting for you to