Young Writers Society

Christian Wallace Shriver

25 April 2017

Sawdust

The gentleman and his wife lived in a comfortable cottage in Franklin Park, Pennsylvania. To the gentleman, it was his ordinary Sunday evening. He rested his forearms on the marble countertop in the kitchen, drinking lukewarm coffee while listening to the music of the Pittsburgh rush hour. His wife lay on the loveseat in their parlor, still adorned with her formal Sunday attire. The stale smell of sawdust permeated the house.

“I talked to the preacher this morn,” the gentleman said. “He is quite well.”

He chuckled to himself and sipped from his coffee again. He looked out the window at his garden, painted blue by the setting sun. He paused thoughtfully, admiring his craftsmanship.

“I wouldn’t for a moment be surprised if he could speak the flowers to life,” he sighed and returned his eyes to his mug.

He poured out the rest of his coffee into the sink, watching the brown liquid vanish down the drain. Scratching the stubble on his face, he washed the few dishes that sat in his sink. He started abruptly and gazed ahead of him, holding a silver spoon to his cheek.

“I fancy,” he began, “I fancy you do not recall my dream I told you this morn. It’as been stuck on my brain all day. Naw, you remember, I know you do.”

He smiled widely and returned to cleaning the dishes. He liked their cottage. He would not leave it unless he had to. Church, the steel mill, and Marty’s tavern, he thought to himself, those are the only places worth going to.

“What you say I pop down to Marty’s tonight, wife? I’ll bring you back your favorite, I promise I’ll do it, wife.”

She would not answer his question. The gentleman began to scrape the toe of his shoe into the pine wood floor. He grabbed a wet rag from above the stove and began to wipe the countertop, as he did every evening. He peered into the parlor, tracing the empty mantelpiece with his eyes. There had not been pictures there for just above a year now. He liked the dust that gathered there though. It reminded him of the past. Again, a smile came over his face.

“I do like the dust there,” he said. The dust on the mantel was one of the few things the gentleman did not clean in his cottage. He kept all his rooms in order and never allowed mess. A visitor would believe the house was unused. But he did not have visitors often. He liked it that way.

He put his hand on the pillar that divided the kitchen from the parlor. This pillar he kept very clean. When he first bought the house, he would often complain that the parlor and the kitchen were too close together. He did not want the house and thought it ugly. His wife liked it though. She had him buy it.

“‘It’s a good thing they are close together. That way the parlor smells like fresh food cookin,’ you would say,’” he mocked, “Now why doncha say that no more?”

She did not reply, but he could feel her anger burn through the love seat. They used to have celebrations and parties there, but construction on their cottage forced them to stop. The only company that came was the preacher or the occasional beggar. He only liked when the preacher came. The preacher was different.

A slender Siamese cat lazily wandered into the parlor. The gentleman traced the cat with his eyes while it lept into the lap of his wife, disappearing from view. I see her now, he thought, strokin the cat's fur, makin me to be a fool. She don’t even like that cat, naw, she don’t.

He began to pace around the kitchen. He did not like it when his wife ignored him. His pace quickened until he felt himself grow weary. He stopped back at the sink and looked back into the parlor. He did not have a smile on his face. He took off his shoe and began to rub his feet on the pine wood floor.

“Remember it, wife? The both of us was back in Charleston. I looked at the sky and it was blue and looked at the trees and they were green. Not gray and dead. But when I turned round, I saw our old broke door. The knocking and knocking of strangers outside made my head spin, it did. When I turned side-a-ways though, I saw ‘em both. The old door and Charleston’s bright road were right next to one nother.

“Then somehow I fell. I might sound a little mad but when I felled I was in both places. One side filled all up with strong smells of food, bustlin’ talkin’ friendly people, an warmth on my skin. The other was right here, with that sawdust smell. But I liked em both equal. Then everything got dark.

“All I heard was the knockin. Somebody was tryin to be let in. I couldn’t bear it any longer, but all I could do was crawl in the dark. I woulda rather had the both worlds than nothin’ at all. No sounds of traffic or bustlin’ people or smells, the knockin was all there was.

“But then I felt a tingle on my neck. When I looked up there was you, all dressed in white. You grabbed my hand and led me to the door, but the knocking still went on. I begged you to stop it and your smile told me that you would. I know I’m a romantic but you was like the sun. Then, I couldn’t wait no longer so I jumped at the door. The knocking didn’t stop. I woke up right then, gaspin and sputterin. The knocking was real, not the preacher but a beggar. That was my dream, wife,” the gentleman ended, “Not that you care.”

He told her that dream in the morning when we woke, when he ate for lunch, and now again. He had been telling her this same dream for over half a year now. She never listens, he thought.

The gentleman now stood in the archway, thinking of whether or not he would enter the parlor. This should not have been so hard. He just wanted to talk to his wife. Oftentimes he would wonder if she could hear him through the area that connected the two rooms. Other times he blamed it on himself. The cat leapt from her lap to the carpet and disappeared down a dark hallway. He could never remember his mornings. They were always a blur.

The loveseat she lay on could have melted. She did not say a word. Droplets of sweat clung to his face. Perhaps she is reading a moving novel or deep in prayer. Now I know she ain't literate nor religious but she could be tryin. Yes, she’s tryin.

He rose his voice sharply, “The Iliad! That’s what I’ve been reading. I’ve been hittin my head all day thinking of what it was. Naw, I can’t read much of it, but I like the idea of it. I do. Sometimes you seem to me like Ag’memnon, not hearing Acheeles’s pleas when he needs em. Naw, that’s a bad example. Just a tell me what you are reading, wife.”

She refused to answer him. The gentleman clenched his jaw and balled his fist. He returned to the sink and began harshly washing the dishes that lay there. He could see her smiling at his frustration now. His eyes burned as he buried the china in soap. A plate slipped out of his hands and crashed on the floor. He grew pale at the sound, but did not flinch. It was as if it happened a thousand times before. His wife did not scream nor holler. She too, remained still.

A tear began to well in his eyes as he slammed his hand on the counter. “Come clean this then. Wife, I’m tellin you to clean this. This is your job, wife.”

When she refused to answer, desperation filled his voice, “Please, please come here. Come clean this. Come grab my hand and say sweet things like you did. Speak, cry, yell, spit, I don’ care, wife! Just stop playin’ with me.”

Tears began to flow down his cheeks as he returned to walking circles around the kitchen, “Speak, speak, speak, speak, speak, speak!” he yelled, clawing at his face, “Say something, answer me, no more games. I don’t like games. I don’t like this. I don’t, I don’t! Speak!”

A knock came at the door. The gentleman rolled his eyes up until only whites remained. He dragged himself to the door. Another knock came. He opened the door briefly, then closed it. He breathed deeply, straightened his back, turned, and stiffly walked back into the kitchen. The gentleman stood in front of the sink.

His tear stained face stretched into a wide smile. A slight chuckle escaped his lips, then it transformed into a cackle. His shrieking laughter pierced the silence the cottage once held. He breathed deeply and let louder cries fill the house. The gentleman arched his back and continued, louder and louder.

His laughter began to weaken and change. He paused, out of breath, as he looked into the parlor once more. “That was the preacher at the door,” he gasped, “I thought for a moment it was someone else.”

Then the cottage, which was filled with cries of laughing, began to hear the sobs of the gentleman. He sunk to the floor, slicing his hand on the broken plate, choking with sorrow. He was blinded by his own tears.

He stood up abruptly and turned to the hallway behind the kitchen. He disappeared into the darkness, while the sound of knocking returned. Out of the dark hallway arose cackling and sobbing. They sounded almost simultaneous. The groans of despair, maniacal screams, and knocking wove into one beautiful melody. The sound of traffic was absent. The stale smell of sawdust rose. The cottage was in turmoil. The lone, dustless pillar stood separating the rooms. The knocking continued. His wife did not speak.

The gentleman stumbled out of the dark hallway, grinning, whimpering, weeping. He held a hunting rifle in his hands. “My wife, speak.” She did not obey him.

He sped psychotically passed the pillar into the parlor, holding the rifle in one hand. His face again grew pale. He beheld his wife, peacefully laying, still adorned in her Sunday best. He did not smile, nor did he frown. He traced his finger on the mantlepiece, picking dust up onto his finger. He liked the dust. The knocking continued. He dropped his rifle.

Putting both his hands under her waist, he lifted her lifeless body from the loveseat. His eyes were dry. “I am sorry, my wife,” he whispered, “I had forgotten again.”

Slowly, he carried his wife into the bedroom and lay her on the bed. He sat in the chair next to her and murmured, “It is time to dream again.”

The knocking continued.