Chapter 5

This is the fifth chapter of my never ending short story "Index Out Front". See the sidebar to the right to read previous chapters. I'll post more of the story every couple of weeks. - Lyle

......I could tell she was thinking. “How about fiction? Sewers and Roses ought to do nicely.”

She smiled.

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I never laughed so hard in all my life. It was a romantic comedy about the love affair of two co-workers in a sewage treatment plant. The words bounced along as if on a trampoline. It was cheerful and light. The treatment plant backdrop presented odd situations for the characters and the love affair made you smile inside. It was a wonderful, short, respite from an otherwise dreary winter existence.

There were moments of pure joy that winter. I learned more about writing by teaching than I had learned from years of study. She continued to request writing topics and I continued waiting to read what she wrote. Her punctuation was atrocious but improving. I rarely faulted her perspective and it was always original. Her use of words was extraordinary.

Spring finally came and I was shocked when she asked “Do you have a car?” “Yes.” “I need a ride to visit my father’s grave for Memorial Day. It's about two hours away. I’ll bring lunch.” “O.K.”

I had never seen her wear a skirt before. It was much longer than the current style and she wore bobby socks, a pure white blouse and a white ribbon holding her hair back. She looked like something out of 1950. She was radiantly beautiful. I had never seen anyone look so happy.

We spoke little during the drive. She gave clear, concise directions to the cemetery and other than that I think we just smiled a lot. The sun was brilliant and the breeze coming in the windows was warm. I wished I had a convertible rather than a middle aged plain sedan without so much as a sun-roof.

I asked her if we should stop and get some flowers. “That won’t be necessary.” she said. The cemetery was huge, covering a whole hillside with magnificent views between the trees. Small roads meandered back and forth between areas of old stone monuments and newer open rows of grave markers. We finally found the area she was looking for and started our search for her father’s grave stone. She found it. I joined her not knowing quite what to do or say as we stood there reading the stone.

She squatted down and arranged her skirt about her and I heard the unmistakable sound of urine hitting the ground. I stepped back and gasped “What are you doing?”

She didn’t answer until she was walking back to the car. “Before he died I promised him I would piss on his grave. He knew I would keep that promise.”

“Do you hate him?” “Oh, no. I still hate the things he did during his life, but he’s dead. You can’t hate something that doesn’t exist.”

We took the back roads on the way back to campus and stopped at a wayside near a stream to eat the lunch she had prepared. It was simple but thoughtfully prepared – a welcome relief from the restaurant food to which I was accustomed. Our conversation was equally as simple, but reflective and unhurried. I wanted the day to last forever.

I dropped her off at her apartment before nightfall and drove my pitiful car back to my pitiful room. The joy of the day failed to flow over into the rest of my life. Why was that feeling so addictive I couldn’t survive without it? I wanted to ask her because I knew she would have the answer, but I was far too ashamed of my feelings. I spent most of the night coming up with a writing assignment where she could answer.

She disappeared.
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