To California

John Sweet

March 2006

Man has the baby in the stroller next to him, has a hunting knife in his hand, says he wants a pack of cigarettes. Nothing else, just the cigarettes, and the clerk hands them to him slowly. Waits until the man is gone, until the baby is gone, then calls the police, and there’s a car nearby.

Man uses the baby as a shield, but it’s small, can only cover his heart, his belly, and he takes a bullet in the head. Bleeds to death on the sidewalk and the baby is crying and the mother is curled up on the bathroom floor. Is passed out and covered in puke and the story is about none of them.

The story is nothing more than the sound you make when you cum, but it’s enough. The story is you at the back door in skin-tight jeans and a pink t-shirt that says GET LUCKY. Your smile, your teeth, your voice low in your throat. I told him I had to run some errands you say as you walk inside. The baby’s asleep, so he won’t be going anywhere, and you grab the front of my pants, undo the button, slip your tongue into my mouth.

And it’s a week past my 37th birthday and my wife has been gone for two months now, has left me with a leaking roof, with a stove that doesn’t work, and she writes to tell me that the kids are doing fine. Sends a picture that my oldest drew, planes and bombs and dinosaurs, and I tape it to the refrigerator, and the first time you see it you smile, the two of us naked on the kitchen floor, my face between your legs, and then the story begins.

The girl is eleven. Is last seen playing in front of her home, and then fifteen years later she’s still missing. The story is empty spaces. The story is a closed door, is a room filled with pain and dust. Is a bicycle found in a ditch, front wheel pointing to the sky and still spinning, a crushed pack of cigarettes nearby, and no one wants to tell it. No one wants to hear it. The sun will shine a little brighter if no one says anything, but we’ve come too far for silence.

The girl is eleven, is laughing, is riding her bike down the street. This much we know. This much can be carved in stone. Whatever happens next is only the story.

John Sweet is the author of ash wilderness and other books. He has been publishing since the 1970s.

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