The Walk by Catherine Adel West

Pondering life over a toilet bowl seems normal to Pat. Clear water below reveals the porcelain god needs a good cleaning; a dirty gray-brown ring lies at the bottom of the bowl near Pat’s chubby face.

Bathrooms are where people come to get rid of a vomitous mass in their system; bile springing forth from mouths as hot lava from volcanoes. Bathrooms are where people come to wash themselves; a day's dirt disappearing from skin -- a purification.

The Bathroom is where Pat shuts down; collapses under the weight of the air in an apartment, heavy with hate, and memories, and now blood. Lots of blood.

Feeling strong enough, Pat stands, wobbly at first, bracing on the black granite sink, to keep from slipping on the ivory subway-tiled floor.

When they went to take a look at the apartment, the landlord, a short, bald African man named Nasiramani, called the color of the granite "ebony twilight" and the color of the subway tile "alabaster morning." Pat remembers the heavy Kenyan accent of the nice man marring the words into almost undistinguishable syllables.

It's funny what you think about after you just murder someone. Even if that someone completely deserves it.

Moss-green eyes look down at the delicate, crimson handprints on the toilet; the color is reminiscent of strawberry preserves. Pat is hungry. Stomach rumbling, demanding to be satisfied; a god in need of the sweet-tasting sacrifice only McDonald's processed food can tame.

*                      *                             *

Pat is sitting down to eat before Sam comes in from working at the factory all shrieks and curses. Pat just wants to eat in peace.

That’s all.

"One thing right. I ask you to let out the damn dog and you can't do that! Why in the hell do I put up with your shit?”

Breathing deeply is the only thing Pat can do when Sam is like this. Breathe deeply and be very still. Focusing on small things helps too.

The dining room table provided the perfect distraction. There are four legs on the table. The color is called “midnight chocolate.” It is four and a half feet high. One of the legs has a small chunk missing when Sam tried to stab Pat with the fork on their one year anniversary.

In Sam’s defense, the roast Pat prepared was a little overcooked.

Sam is still talking about the dog, well not talking, but raging -- a tsunami; a hurricane; a tornado -- and there is no escape; no shelter; no one to help.

Just be silent and stay still and maybe …

The first thing Pat feels is the sharpness of the hit; the pain comes a few seconds later. It always does.

"You hear me now don't you? You moron! I hate it when you try that Buddhist mind fuck stuff! You hear me! Do you fucking hear me?!"

"I hear you."

Pat’s hands are trembling; the burger lays, still warm and juicy and inviting, on a square, blue plate.

"Good. Now take the dog out so he won't piss everywhere."

Pat rises. Barnaby pads next to his master all love and golden fur.

“Come on boy,” Pat says. Barnaby follows Pat to the living room.

Draped on the tan sofa is Barnaby’s black leash. Pat hooks the leash onto the collar. Barnaby, anxious to take care of business, almost drags Pat to the back door.

Looking back, Pat witnesses Sam click on the television, sit down, and watch the highlights of last night’s football game. Pat hates football. Pat hates the sounds and roar and violence of the sport.

Pat especially hates that Sam can pummel and pound and punch and then sit down to look at television like nothing happened.

Light scrapping of claws on the back door and an impatient golden retriever’s high pitched whimpers center Pat’s thoughts.

Opening the door, the Chicago wind, unyielding and harsh, slices through Pat’s body. Barnaby pulls Pat down the wooden, snow-covered steps of the second floor apartment to the icy concrete landing of the first.

Rounding the corner, the duo walk down the block. Pat can make out the skyline, and though it is only a 15-minute train ride from Lakeview to the Loop, the distance seems unreachable and vast. Happiness seems that way too.

Pat sees Sam’s car: a 1969 Plymouth Road Runner two-door hardtop. A former piece of ancient, rusted scrap metal discovered in a junkyard, Sam says three years were spent restoring the car. Normally Sam puts the car in the garage rented from a neighbor. The car parked in front of the apartment means Sam is going out tonight …again. Going out and coming home drunk, which means a beating.

Pat shivers, but it has nothing to do with the wind or cold.

Barnaby finds a sapling tree nearby and relieves himself. They turn around and make their way back to the apartment.

Another beating.

The last one included a black eye, bruised ribs, and a fractured left wrist. Pat nursed the wounds and didn’t bother with the hospital; didn’t want to deal with the stares and the questions.

Not wanting to go back to the apartment just yet, Pat walks down the street to the park a block away. Aside from the solid crunch of snow beneath feet and Barnaby's panting, no other sounds or people inhabited the park. It looked to be a haunted place; the snow and ice visible apparitions roaming celestial, wooded territory.

The park is a place for Pat to think, mostly about Sam and how to get away.

Some might feel sorry for Pat. At best, many people would call Pat a wuss in this kind of situation. Well a person might not say "wuss" because that's a wussy thing to say. People would call Pat a "pussy."
*                      *                          *
Patrick Terrance Adkins remembers his dad, Bill, calling him a "pussy" all the time. Bill calls Pat this name so much when Pat is a child that by age nine, he thinks "pussy" is a real part of his name and says the word "pussy" in public, mostly at the grocery store, when shopping with his mom, Karen. Many people in their small town of Rainbow Ridge, Oklahoma believe Pat suffers from a severe form of Tourette's Syndrome.

Pat hears people whispering words of "poor boy" or "strange boy." But Pat's life isn't strange, it is normal. It is a life he knows. He hates it, but he knows it.

Pat knows his father works as a car mechanic Monday through Friday. Pat knows his father has a bowling league on Friday nights. Pat knows when his father comes in from his bowling league, he will be drunk and smell of cheap beer and whiskey and come in his room and whip him for at least ten minutes with a belt or a switch from the apple blossom tree in the front yard. And, Pat knows Karen won't help because she doesn't want a beating, and as long as Pat provides a distraction, she is safe.

Pat knows his life is shit at the house on Terry Boulevard and decides to leave on his seventeenth birthday. There were of course no balloons or cake or friends and family with well wishes. There was only Bill sitting in his recliner, the sound of the football game playing in the background, and the smell of Karen's meatloaf coming from the kitchen.

With $40.00 in his wallet and two small garbage bags full of clothes near the door, Pat desperately wants his dad to be upset he's leaving. He makes the announcement, hoping Bill will turn off the television and stand up and beg his son to stay; to work things out. Pat wants his mom to stop cooking and not act as if her only child walking out of the door is of no matter.

This, however, won't happen because Pat realizes Bill hates his life too and knows his dad feels he's saddled with a girl he knocked up eighteen years ago and a kid he would've kicked the shit out of in high school. Pat recognizes Bill is lost and bitter and daily thinks about killing himself. Sometimes Pat thinks about killing Bill too.

Bending down Pat picks up the bags and walks to the oak door. "Bye dad."

He hears Bill grumble and spit one word out of his mouth from his black recliner. "Pussy."

Patrick opens the door and walks out.

*                  *                            *

Pat meets Samantha Liddane Palmer a year later working as a bus boy at a restaurant on Chicago's north side. Pat is struck by Samantha's beauty. It is dark and cruel, and there is a feeling not quite tangible, which quietly and desperately tells him it will be painful to love her. Living with his parents for so long, Pat is built to know when loving someone is going to hurt, but he wants to do it anyway. So he walks toward her thinking, "Maybe this time, it will be different."

One year, six months, and twelve days after Patrick meets Samantha, Barnaby is the only evidence in his life there is change; the only evidence there can be someone or something capable of love -- even if it is a blindly loyal, furry, slobbering, go-fetch-a-stick kind of love. It is better than nothing.

Breathing in and out, feeling his chest expand and deflate, seeing his frosted breath billow out infinitely and disappear, Patrick feels the splintered edges of the winter-worn wood eat at his thighs. Making a firm decision about what needs to be done, Patrick stands and gently tugs on Barnaby's leash. They head back to the apartment.

*             *               *

Walking in the door, Pat kneels and unhooks Barnaby's collar. The dog quietly pads to the left corner of the kitchen, lies down and closes his eyes.

Sam is still in the living room in her chair eating a turkey sandwich; legs propped up and eyes focused on the television.

To the left in the sink, Patrick sees the knife Samantha used to cut the sandwich; morsels of wheat bread, mustard and meat still clinging to the blade. Patrick picks up the utensil and realizes this is the last time the knife will ever look exactly like this.

He walks toward the living room.

Freedom.