No More Tears Now

No More Tears Now

by: Robert Jensen

No More Tears Now

By Robert Jensen

Illustration: Bill Jensen

Copyright 2012 Crystal Castle Publishing

Crystal Castle Publishing at Smashwords

ISBN 978-0-9835151-2-8 (trade paperback)

ISBN 978-0-9835151-1-1 (eBook)

ISBN: 9781301610648 (Smashwords)

one

The red neon sign in the middle pane of three windows blinked a script Open over and over and over again, which was especially odd for a store that was open twenty-four hours a day.

Michael Graman approached the Wawa parking lot nearest his house the same way he had done most every morning since the store opened four years before. A near continuous procession of early risers moved in and out of the store and its cramped lot each morning with precision. Each customer knew the two or three items needed to start the day and exactly where to find them. And each patron viewed newcomers who slowed their ability to get in and out as a most unnecessary evil.

There was always a glut of patrons pooled at the store’s coffee bar. Customers approached the dozen urns lined up across a back wall like cars approaching a toll booth. Talking was kept to a minimum much like men at stadium urinals. Philadelphians tended to keep to themselves, especially in the early mornings.

Like many, Michael had his own particular routine and did not care for alterations. Anyone who watched Michael for any period of time saw a man who poured a twenty-ounce serving of bold liquid life into his cup each morning with added three sugars and Irish Cream flavoring. Michael also always grabbed two soft pretzels at the check-out stand. He reasoned long ago that one would be his breakfast and the other his lunch. That plan never once came to fruition. In fact, Michael frequently ate both pretzels before arriving at his office.

Michael approached the only clerk working at the cash register. The other clerk had been pulled away to clean up a spill caused by a child foolishly entrusted to hold a bottle of orange juice. Michael had seen this clerk frequently in the store over the year or so that she worked there, and he did not care for her. She was an older woman, likely someone’s grandmother. She enjoyed speaking with the store’s customers, especially those she knew to be regulars. And she always had an opinion she could not help but share. To date, Michael had successfully avoided direct contact with this woman, but feared his luck would run out that morning.

The old woman asked if she could help a gentleman standing in line in front of Michael. The man turned and revealed that he was holding his young son, likely no more than three years old, in his arms. The child had the foggy look of a boy awake far earlier than he was used to or, outside of Christmas morning, cared to be. He wore a hooded Spongebob Squarepants jacket with the zipper pulled up to his chin and Eagles pajama bottoms. He squinted at the older woman and rested his head on his father’s shoulder.

The boy’s father asked in a voice barely above a whisper, Can you help me with these pretzels? The man motioned towards the basket holding the freshly baked goods.

Suuure. said the woman. Hiiiii therrrre. she sang to the boy as she ignored his father’s request.

The boy raised his head and stared at the woman. He rubbed his right eye with his knuckle.

Hiiiii. she sang again. Aren’t you a big boy? I just looooove your jacket. she said. The boy continued to stare. What is that? A fishy man?

Michael was lost. He could see and hear nothing but the interaction between this father and son. He took in every bit of it. His hands and arms tingled in an all-too-familiar way. He drifted into a tunnel vision, dream state. He watched the way the man held the boy around his bottom and legs. He stared at the way the boy wrapped his left arm around his father’s neck and fidgeted with the man’s jacket collar. He wondered what time they woke that morning, where they were going, and what time they would go to sleep again. His mind drifted like a feather in an endless string of wind gusts. What stories did the boy like to read? What were his favorite foods? What nicknames did they have for each other? Was he allergic to anything? Was he afraid of anything? Or everything?

Spongebob. It’s a cartoon. offered the man. He knew his son would not respond to the litany of questions.

Michael was jolted back to reality with the man’s response. He knew it had been just seconds, but felt he had lapsed away for several minutes. He was embarrassed that he had again let his mind wander in such a way.

Ohhh, looky there. They are sponges! the woman replied with unbridled enthusiasm. She was oblivious that several more customers lined up to pay for their food well behind Michael. The line began to curl around a potato chip aisle.

When the man motioned towards the pretzels with one hand, the woman asked, How many can I getcha, hon?

How many’s there? the man asked. He quickly explained that he was born and raised in Philadelphia and they would be driving all day. He had promised to bring soft pretzels back to friends in the South Carolina town where they now lived.

The woman counted the store’s supply of soft pretzels. To Michael’s astonishment, the man bought all $50 worth that was on display. After the woman wrapped up the pretzels, the man asked her to ring him up for the bottle of orange juice his son had dropped earlier.

As they gathered up their bags in front of Michael, the woman said goodbye to the young boy. Receiving no answer, the woman said, That’s ok. You are right not to talk to strangers. She then advised the father to make sure his son was bundled up so as to not catch cold.

Michael watched the man carry his son and their bags out the double set of glass doors and to the parking lot. He was again snapped back to reality when he heard the woman say, Sir, please step on up. We have a lot of folks in line here.

The balls on this lady, Michael thought. He stepped to the counter and surveyed the empty basket of soft pretzels. Of course, he grumbled just loud enough for the clerk to hear.

You’re ten seconds too late. That guy just bought ‘em all. she reported, just in case Michael had missed the transaction right before him.

I don’t suppose you have any more in the back, right? Michael asked.

Oh, heavens no. That was the last of our morning shipment. Now, if you want to wait until close to noon we should be getting –

Michael peeled a twenty dollar bill from a money clip and flipped it onto the counter in the general direction of the old woman. He pulled back the tab to his coffee and took a small sip ignoring the rest of the woman’s pretzel story. He turned away from the counter and stared out the double glass doors, again lost in thought.

Before handing back Michael’s change the old woman smiled and shook her head. What a cutey patootey of a little boy that was. He had little sponges on his jacket. Did you see him? She gasped the way older women do when they see young children or kittens or children playing with kittens.

Michael stared at the woman and his money and cursed that he did not have exact change. He offered a head nod and a smirk and hoped that would end their conversation.

The woman held the money just out of Michael’s reach. She peered at Michael as if she knew him and was suddenly worried for him. Oh, come now. It can’t be all that bad, now can it? she asked.

Michael looked around at the line of frustrated customers behind him. His face flushed with embarrassment at how long it was taking him to pay for a simple cup of coffee. He looked up and said, I guess I don’t talk to strangers either. Michael immediately regretted the tone of his reply. In his mind, it sounded much more pleasant. Even playful. But, as delivered, Michael knew he sounded like a jerk. He held out his hand until the woman acquiesced and gave him his change. As he turned to leave, Michael heard the teenage girl behind him say the word asshole just loud enough for him to hear. He knew without looking that she was referring to him.

KAZ news radio time is 8:51, and now a check on sports. It was another long night for the Phils as they continued their year-end slide. This time they were blanked by Tom Glavine and the Atlanta Braves, 5-0.

Michael shook his head slightly, and let out a faint sigh. Of course, they lost. They suck. They need a new owner. They need to rip out that fake crap they play on and put in some real grass. Michael nodded to himself in reaffirmation as his eyes scanned the roadway.

There was nobody else in the car with Michael, but he spoke out-loud nonetheless. Graman was not a sports nut. His wife loathed sports, especially baseball. He had few buddies with whom he could spend hours debating the intricacies of the Phillies’ roster or fantasy football trades, or anything else for that matter. He had tried calling one of the local sports radio talk shows once, but became nervous when his name was called. He stammered something about how John Chaney was the greatest coach of all time, even though he wasn’t sure he felt that way. The show’s hosts had fun for an hour making fun of Michael after his call. He listened for twenty of those minutes.

It was a humid morning on the Schuylkill Expressway, the central artery leading to Philadelphia from the west. Philadelphia’s roadways, like most cities at rush hour, became infested with blood-thirsty rubber-neckers when a hint of an accident filled the air. Michael had planned on being in the office about an hour before but, as was common on the Schuylkill, a tractor-trailer overturned. Michael often wondered, usually when he was stuck in traffic, why those trucks weren’t built with a better center of gravity.

What was normally a thirty-minute drive from his home in Plymouth Meeting had taken Michael almost two hours. If the stop and go traffic did not dissipate soon, Michael realized the growing pressure in his bladder would allow him to revisit the coffee he enjoyed earlier. C’mon, dammit! he shouted to no one in particular. Urinating on yourself was not the ideal way for an attorney to start the day, especially when he would already have to apologize to his new client for being late.

This commute had long been a source of consternation for Michael and his wife, Sara. At times like these Sara’s haranguing about re-locating Michael’s office to the Main Line, one of Philadelphia’s most upscale areas, had its most momentum. Why do you have to work in center city? Why do we have to pay all these city wage taxes? Why do you have to work so much? Why do we still live here? And on and on and on it went. The conversation never changed. The issues never resolved. The questions were always left unanswered.

When the radio announcer turned his attention to the seven-day forecast, Michael replayed the previous night’s argument in his mind. He had returned home at 10:00, much later than his usual 8:00 arrival. As had become the norm for Michael, he did not bother to call Sara to let her know he would be late. Sara had prepared dinner for herself and given up hope that Michael would be joining her. She had tried to call him earlier at the office, but it was after business hours and the answering machine picked up.

Michael entered their home from the garage and into a darkened kitchen. Sara had not left a single light on for him. Nice, he thought. He dropped his bag next to their kitchen table and let his overcoat fall from his shoulders. He flipped on a light to find a small note from Sara. She left it where she knew Michael, a notorious creature of habit, would leave his car keys for the evening. The note read, Jane called. She said she saw you today at a happy hour after work. Thanks for the call. Hope you’re not dead. Don’t wake me whenever you get home. – S.

Michael’s lips tightened when he read the note. He had not seen Sara’s book-club friend, Jane, at the bar. Then again, maybe he had, he thought. Michael had no memory of the names and faces of the directory of women Sara had labeled through the years as friends. For all he knew she could have been sitting next to him the whole time, and he likely never would have made the connection that she knew Sara.

He frequently met these ladies at events he was not remotely interested in attending in the first place. He only went because the argument with Sara about not attending was usually not worth it. But, it was usually self-evident to all who attended that Michael was only present physically, and absent in every other way.

For his side, Michael had long ago stopped taking Sara to these kinds of events, work-related or otherwise. Sara usually had no interest in making the trip into center city Philadelphia after work. That was an excuse of convenience, though, since she stoutly refused to go to center city on weekends, holidays or over the summer, as well. Michael used to ask her why she insisted on living in a city when she never took advantage of the things to do in it. Sara humored him for a while with excuses. Ultimately that question became rhetorical.

Michael quickly considered whether Jane’s revelation to Sara would result in a fight and, if so, how long it might last. He concluded that the fight was inevitable. What bothered Michael more and more each time he and Sara fought was that he cared less and less how much Sara was hurt or what she thought.

It had not always been that way between Michael and Sara.

Michael was the second of the three Graman boys. His family loved in a rough section of North Philadelphia where his father worked in a factory. His mother was one of the last stay-at-home moms in his neighborhood. His family was uniformly proud of their Scotch-Irish ancestry and work ethic. But, Michael watched his father work too many hours for a living that barely seemed to make ends meet each month. His father always seemed to be at the factory, always grabbing every opportunity to work overtime when it was offered. The time that Michael’s father was home left him too tired to do much else but recover.

Michael spent much of his time growing up with his brothers. He was a quiet, sensitive boy. But, he learned from an early age to be tough. His older brother and his friends made sure to test Michael, his younger brother and their friends as frequently as possible. Michael dared never tell on his brother fearing the retribution for squealing to be far worse than any punishment his brother would receive from their mother. So, he kept it to himself. And he learned the lessons of the streets. Where to go. Who to trust. To walk on the street and not the sidewalks. To keep his head down and avoid eye contact with older boys.

But, Michael’s size made it impossible for him to blend into the scenery. A growth spurt typical of all the Graman boys left Michael 5’9" and 150 pounds in the 8th grade. Despite that, Michael rarely had a cross word for anyone he encountered, Michael’s size prompted more frequent challenges from boys looking to make a reputation.

Michael’s hair had always been jet black; his eyes brown. The Graman men kept their hair and grayed much later than typical. However, the marriage, the job, the traffic and the years had all taken their toll on Michael’s waistline, his posture, and his health. At his most recent physical, the doctor told the 39 year-old Michael that he had the body of a 55 year-old. If he kept up his current lifestyle Michael would be dead by the age of 50, just like his father. Graman half-joked, Only if I’m lucky.

Sara Irwin grew up in an affluent neighborhood outside of Dover, Delaware. Her mother worked as a corporate tax attorney for a large law firm. Her father was an optician. Sara was the youngest of three children. She had a sister with whom she was mortal enemies growing up, though the girls grew closer each year after high school. She did not have much of a relationship with her brother, who was almost exactly ten years older than her. Nor did she have much of a memory of him, either. Sara’s brother died when she was just seven years old. He had been driving too fast one night trying to get home after his curfew. His car did not navigate a curve well enough and he crashed into a telephone pole. He was not wearing his seat belt.

Sara had few friends growing up. Much to her parents’ chagrin, she cared about just two things: school and ballet. Her passion for both ran deep. She was uncompromising in her desire for perfection and crushed when she inevitably fell short of it.

Sara had been cute since she developed breasts although, like most women, she hated that particular compliment. But Sara knew the reality. She was cute. She was not beautiful, or glamorous, or sophisticated. She was cute. It did not help matters that she stood 5’ 4" and barely weighed 100 pounds on a rainy day. She wore her sandy blond hair in a bob. Her green eyes sat above the childhood freckles she never shed.

Despite her academic success in high school, Sara never applied to Ivy League universities. Her dreams always revolved around ballet. She auditioned for ballet companies along the East Coast. Each denial was harder than the one before. She targeted Philadelphia with hopes of catching on with one of the prestigious ballet companies there and, ultimately, with the New York City Ballet.

Michael and Sara met at one of Michael’s fraternity’s parties when he was a junior and she a freshman at Temple University. He was lean and handsome and confident. Sara noticed him from across the room. He said little and danced even less. He seemed to be content to simply stand with friends and survey the rest of the party. Their eyes met several times, each ending with Sara smiling and looking away. When her red cup was empty and she was forced to again stand in line for a refill from one of the Keystone Light beer kegs, Michael approached her. After telling her his name, Michael grabbed her cup and raised it above his head. It was immediately taken and passed to the front of the line, filled and returned to him. Sara, struck and oddly impressed by the bizarre ritual, blushed and giggled as she thanked him. Michael smiled and told her to stay close by. He told her that she should never have to wait for anything, at least not in his house. Sara, indeed, stood close by Michael for the rest of that evening, although she did not have any more beer. They talked and laughed and talked some more. Sara even got Michael to dance, just a few steps, at one point.

And they stood close by each other for years afterwards. They quickly fell in love. It was a natural love. Easy. Clear to anyone around them. Free of the drama that frequently contaminated the unstable relationships their friends bounced in and out of. Michael was a business major. He believed it was just a matter of time before he would be taking over Philadelphia, then Wall Street, then the world. He was so confident; his personality so forceful, that Sara could not help but believe it, too.

Sara knew Michael was the man she wanted to marry in one instant. Not long after their romance started, she and Michael were walking along South Street, one of Philly’s trendy, hippie, alternative districts, on a Saturday evening. This was not an area of the city that Michael particularly liked to frequent. But, Sara loved to walk and shop and people-watch. And she convinced him easily to join her. Two younger guys walking in front of them started pushing and shoving each other as younger guys do. Michael instantly, gently, moved Sara behind him with his elbow. The feisty Sara needed no protecting. But, she tingled from her head to her toes at Michael’s subtle gesture, nonetheless. She was hooked. Sara knew at that moment Michael would protect her forever. She felt safe with him. He was her strength. Her shield. Her friend. Michael did not give the gesture much thought at that time or anytime thereafter. And, Sara never told him how much it made her knees weak. But that was long ago. She rarely felt weak in the knees anymore, and almost never as a result of anything Michael did.

Michael asked Sara to marry him after his first year of law school. She accepted almost before Michael finished asking the question. They both figured that their next fifty years together would be just as happy as the first three. But, each year of marriage for Michael and Sara brought more frequent arguments about less important topics.

The couple tried to have children, but Sara’s petite body could not handle the strain. She miscarried three times, the last bringing her dangerously close to death. Michael and Sara briefly considered adoption but, in the long run, they were not interested in completing the never-ending paperwork and enduring the judgmental interviews. Their desire to be parents dissipated with each miscarriage. One day they simply stopped talking about it. And they never started again.

Sara graduated from Temple University on time with a degree in Elementary Education. Like her husband, Sara looked remarkably older than