BIG KNOT // TOBY BROIDO

Joseph worked at his gran-daddy's house as a caretaker. He was an invalid and Joseph hated feeding him. All he could eat was a brown mush and when that rusty spoon reached his pursed lips the stuff would just dribble down his chin, falling to its resting place on his old faded wranglers. It had a putrid stench and there seemed to be an illusion of green fumes radiating from the bowl, just like in the cartoons. It did not hurt his nose as much as it hurt his eyes, because when he looked at it, the tears started to form and in those moments he was inconsolable.

He liked to flip on the old black and white, the one that was stuffed in the ancient wooden armoire. A thick layer of dust would collect on the screen, and for a short period of time he would wipe it down with his kerchief. However, the task seemed trite because that same old dust would just come back, only to mock his little chores. The T.V. played a sitcom, involving some family or another, and even though there was no color in the picture, he envisioned the radiant greens on enormous trees and the sparkle in the mother's pearls. He always thought those shows to be very unreasonable and never particularly enjoyed them, but he was envious of how comfortable they appeared and he certainly longed for that comfort.

He fell asleep most days because his gran-daddy's house was dark; it wasn't an ordinary dark, either. It was that kind of dark that would expose itself only when death was close. When he slept he didn't rest so easy. A knot in his stomach kept his eyes ajar. When he dreamt, it wasn't about anything in particular; mostly just about some burden, or maybe a thick rope, but he couldn't quite give it a name. He would pick up his forlorn head to a mere mumbling coming from gran-daddy's mouth. His words were inaudible and he would smack those spittle-covered lips together attempting to tell Joseph to put on a record and leave his house immediately.

It was the middle of June, and as he left the crumbling twin he walked down the rotted stairs unknowingly avoiding every hole. From his gran-daddy's place he'd make his way to the center of town, using the same damn route he'd take every day. When he'd finally make it downtown, past all the little streets with brown grass and dying trees, he'd feel that hot, tormenting sun getting stronger and stronger with each impossible afternoon until he felt like it would burn his pale skin right off his crumbling bones. Walking became some caustic burden. It would reach one hundred degrees seven days out of those dreaded weeks. The sun wouldn't hide until nine in the P.M., but that seemed to give no relief ‘cause when it would drown in those rotten hills off to the west, the dreaded knowledge remained that it would show up to mock the damned town bright and early.

The place was dried up worse than some stale cornbread. It hadn't rained for a month and the thirst was violently intolerable. The sinks would flush tiny bits of clear water, then the murk started to show, windows would be broken and wives would be beat. He didn't really take much notice in that gradual change, one that not only lay within himself, but was stuck like shards of glass within everyone else. The dignified men of this old railroad town who once ate barbeque on those lively Saturdays and enjoyed a satisfactory bottle of the finest whiskey on Fridays, now just feasted on their own dried tongues. He flipped the news on occasionally just to hear some dribble from a feeble-minded news man. "Everything will be alright," They'd exclaim. "We see rain in the near future don't you worry." They would show an old video of a refreshing rain storm with all the marvelous crops lining their spectacular fields. For a sheer moment there would be a grain of hope, one that would instantly perish by a mere glance out of a muddied window. On this particular walk everything seemed to be awry. Mr. Johnson, whom he had just seen last week wearing a blue suit and smoking a fat cigar, now sported his britches which were stained by a deep red gunk. He yelled obscenities at every passing female, "Hey cunt! Hey cunts!" but those girls paid him no mind. Their eyes were fixed on some comfortable destination and they didn't even wear the slightest smirk on their parched mouths. He walked by the butcher shop, the one located next to the deserted post office. As he cupped his chapped hands on the dirty glass, he peered through the window and noticed the sparse selection of meat in the glass case. It was just sitting there, all stagnant, as an offering for all those menacing horseflies.

His buddy Harry operated the shop and on most days when he left gran-daddy's he would swing through to have a quick chat about sports and current events. He would pick up a little ham and Swiss too, but he saw Harry, slumped over behind that dirty glass on the same old ratty stool with that same old apron, wearing a look on his wrinkled face that showed nothing but pure misery. Harry didn't even look up, so Joseph just continued to walk. The sidewalks started to crack and they looked like a force tried to break through them. Maybe it was something from Hell, ‘cause the devil was the only one looking after them now.

He turned into a bleak, narrow alley where he met Mary most afternoons. He was early today, and she was nowhere in sight so he took a seat on a little curb and rolled himself a fat cigarette from that stale bag of tobacco to enjoy in the hot summer sun. The smoke lingered over his sunken head and it didn't disappear until he took another long pull. When he flicked that burning nub into a dumpster, he hoped it would catch on fire and maybe that fire would spread, or maybe it already had. He looked at his watch. The time hinted that Mary was late. He started to worry. Mary was never late and that little omission she usually left up to Joseph.

She walked slowly around the corner with that newfound sullen face.

"What was the hold up?" Joseph asked with a slight tone of aggravation.

"I don't know," said Mary. "This heat is burnin' me up inside."

He gave her a little kiss on the cheek, slid his bony ass over, and she sat down right beside him with her leg suspended within an inch of his.

"What are your plans for the rest of the day?" he asked.

She let out a great sigh. "I have to be at the O'Donnell's in an hour."

"Why? Where the hell are they going?" asked Joseph.

"Some party or something," said Mary. Joseph just kind of peered into her shrunken eyes with a stare that was devoid of life. They were often affectionate toward one another. However, on this day and for the past week they would sit there, in silence, each praying the latter would utter a word or offer a mere gesture of sentiment.

"Oh look at the time!" said Mary abruptly.

Joseph gave an impartial shrug.

"I really ought to be going. You know how fussy they get when I'm late."

He just looked on.

"I don't want to take any chances in this heat. I was late meetin' you and I left home early."

"Alright, " said Joseph.

There was no sense in arguing. Mary got up off the back step and shuffled off in a doltish way without saying a word to the forsaken Joseph. He just sat there, dispassionate, watching her walk down that lone alley. He thought of the heat and of decay and of that goddamned knot.

Mary approached the end of the alley, the one that she knew so dearly, for she knew that this might be the final visit. As she walked, she imagined crunching under her elfin feet. She longed for the fall and the hue radiating off the sidewalks reminiscing about the golden brown leaves that would cover the ground every October. She would bake pumpkin pie with her shriveled mother and drink cider sitting on her porch, just watching the sun fade into those once marvelous hills. The memory was so painfully vivid that she could feel herself in that old tarnished rocker, looking at the people walking past her little white home with those blue shutters. She would wish them a good day and they'd do the same. She was encased in that superior time, so she accidentally walked into a telephone pole, just falling over, dirtying her floral print summer dress. Many men walked past her frail little body, and not one offered to help her to feet. A destitute black man looked up her dress and said he liked what he saw, but she paid him no mind. After that brief affair with the hot concrete she stood up and moseyed onto the O'Donnell's.

She reached the home with ten minutes to spare. She could hear the little Jack Russell barking from inside at the top his lungs which muffled the tap-tap of her meager knock. Chet O'Donnell swung open the large mahogany door, forcing Mary to take a quick step back. He greeted her with a tremendous smile instantly making Mary feel uneasy.

Chet wasn't the sweetest fellow and he was often cold in her presence. He'd make crude remarks about her attire, always saying something like, "Nice blouse, bet it would look better on my bedroom floor."

Then he'd give out this maniacal little chuckle, like he was planning to destroy the world. He always caused her discomfort and when she was in their home, she'd feel as though there were some cold fingers running up her spine. When she entered the house the dog, conveniently named Jack, was nipping at her heels like he always did. The children were playing noiselessly under the marvelous granite staircase with a ball they claimed they had found just rolling on down the street. Mary was looking at the children. She gave them a shy, soft hello, but they did not respond.

"Why do you have all that dirt all up and down that pretty little dress?" mumbled Chet.

"I fell on my way over here," she replied.

"Well looks like you been wrestling in the mud. Why don't we get out of that and into something a little less unsightly?"

"No, no, I'm fine," she insisted. "I'll just take a rag and some hot water if you got it."

Chet replied in a coarse tone. "Get up to my room and put on one of my wife's dresses. I don't want you lookin' like shit in this home."

Mary replied with a slight nod of the head and without any more discussion she mounted the stairs, moving slower than the stagnant air, with that same look of reserved contempt she always seemed to wear in their home.

She entered the bedroom with tiny movements. The door was cracked and as she pushed it back it uncovered a marvelous sight. A bed with four posts, just like in a castle, and a beautiful sheep skin rug with soft fibers seemed to touch her from across the room. She turned to stand in front of the large, oak sliding doors of that grand closet. She didn't want to start rifling through it, yet she always dreamed of seeing Mrs. O'Donnell's wardrobe, so she had a hard time with that restraint. She opened the door with great ferocity and an array of marvelous gowns, shoes with sparkles and fur coats emerged in front of her two virgin eyes. As she entered the closet (nearly on her tip-toes) she made sure to cause no disruption in the perfect alignment of every delicate piece of fabric.

One dress in particular seemed to speak to her. It was a ballroom gown made out of purple silk with gold stitching all down the sides. It was so lovely that it wasn't even hung among the other clothes. It was placed on a separate hanger as if on display. She knew this dress was not what Chet had in mind. She didn't care though. She stripped off her clothing in a graceful procedure and stood stark naked in front of the marvelous gown. She allowed her breasts to touch the fair cloth and her nipples stood erect like a toy soldier. She ran her dominant hand over the gold stitching and it felt coarse underneath those supple fingertips. She worked her hand down her stomach in a sensual practice, nearly quivering by the pleasure of her own touch. Her thoughts turned to Joseph as she slowly grazed her hand between her moist thighs. She pictured an arena at the close of some fancy ceremony with Joseph holding her tightly and his fingers lingering just above her backside.

"Let's get out of here," he would whisper.

"I would like nothing more," she'd reply.

She imagined the two of them in a lustrous hotel room where the walls were stroked with rays from the rising sun and rose petals were strewn about the king- sized bed. Joseph would strip off the dress methodically revealing her crowning figure. She would rip off his button down and massage him through the trousers. She began to stroke herself, harder and harder, audibly panting and moaning and right before all her little desires had their opportunity to run free, she saw that intrusive figure of Chet standing loosely in the doorway.

He was pressed up against those beautiful oak doors and his hand was wrapped around some unlabeled bottle. He looked like he was prepared to say something, but in that instant nothing came out of those two thin hideous lips. They stood in opposition, in complete silence, and to Mary it felt some tormented forever.

Finally he asked, "What the fuck do you think you're doing? This kind of filth in my home! In the home where my beautiful children lay their beautiful heads! You think I want my household bein' tarnished by the fruit of whore?"

"Mr. O'Donnell," replied Mary. "I am so sorry, this heat has me doing crazy things. You know it's making everyone crazy."

Chet was staring at her with a profound disgust and without saying another word he gripped her by her strawberry blonde hair and spit right in her fragile face. He began to drag. She let out muffled yells. He drug her down the stairs muttering to himself the entire time, "Fucking whore… fucking whore…fucking whore."

As he reached those two giant mahogany doors he picked her up by her skinny little hips and launched her right onto the crab grass of his front lawn. She was naked laying there paralyzed for some time. She couldn't tell if she was awake the whole time or not, because when she finally came to she opened her bright, petite eyes only to see some hideous, blurry dungeon. When she finally gained that crucial strength to stand, she staggered around to the backyard to find something to wrap herself up with. Her legs felt like small twigs, but she was able to make it around the side of the grotesque dungeon. She saw that old empty swimming pool, the trampoline with the torn net just hanging off the sides, then off in the right corner she saw a shovel and a little mound of dried dirt. She shuffled to it and her vision was still blurry, but as she approached that weird hole she saw two high heels just sticking straight up with some legs covered in black fishnet stockings. As she bent over, digging at the hole, she picked up little clumps of dried dirt and threw it off to side; she thought she might have been going mad. But when she reached the waist-line of that elegant corpse, she knew that the end was close.