This short snippet is the result of one of our writing challenges on the Me and Thee group. See if you can guess the intent of the challenge?  I'll tell you at the end…

All I Can Do

By CC

He says he's fine. The jerk looks me in the eye when he says it. I'd give him two words if I could: Bull. Shit. He's not fine. He's not close to fine. 

His eyes tell the truth. Once they were warm and bright and looked at me like each time might be the last time. Now they're flat—no light, no spark, no life. Dead.

It's not his fault. He's so tired he shakes at the end of the day.  Too much work, too much stress, too much me.

"Time for your pills." He stands in front of me and holds out his hands. I want to skip the pink pill, but I know he'll make me take it. I'm tired of the fog. He says I need the rest.  I grab them and take them all in one gulp, just to get past it, and hold out my hand for the glass. It's right there like I knew it would be. I glare at him but it does no good.  His mouth smiles; his eyes don't. They can't; they're dead.

My leg jerks and he frowns. I reach for it, but his hands are there first.

"Cramp?" He rubs the length of my calf to feel for the knot.

I try to say yes, but I can't. It hurts too bad, so I just nod. His brow is creased and when he looks at me, I see my pain in his eyes.  His heart's not dead. Not yet.

His hands are strong and sure as they soothe the pain. As soon as I can breathe, I smile my thanks. He smiles back but it's such a tired smile that it makes me sad. 

"Is it good now?" He waits for me to nod, then pats my leg and stands up. As he turns, his hand goes to his back and stays there while he fills my glass at the sink but drops down when he brings the glass to me. I want to shout at him that they shot me; they didn't blind me. I can see how much he hurts, all the pain he feels, but I don't know how to say it.

"I've got to go out for a while." He sets the glass down..

"Where?" I hate the need in my voice.

He checks the list he has taped to the door. "Bank, drug store, Merle's, gas up the car—"

I close my eyes. It's a long list and I don't want to hear. He works ten hour days--works his ass off, then has to take care of me and the house and all the bits and parts of our lives. And what do I do?  I lay here and bitch and groan and whine and he just takes it.

His list has run out and I hear his keys clink. I look at him and try not to think back on the days when his eyes lit up with joy, when he hummed and sang, when he laughed. I want to take care of him and I can't.  I see him fight the rage that begs to come out. I watch his eyes search the sky and hear him plead with a God he says is long gone, and I know it's not me he's mad at, but I want to help him. I don't know how.

He needs me and all I can do is lay here. All I can do, all I can do--the words are like a song or chant in my brain and I can't make them stop.

Then, just when I think I might scream from it all, the fog lifts and I know what to do. All I can do…

"Hey, Hutch."

He stops at the door and turns.

"Come 'ere a sec." I wave him back.

He comes to me—I knew he would—and bends down close. The pink pill has kicked in and I see three of him. I try not to let on, but I have to fight the urge to let my eyes slip shut. He starts to back off, but I grab his shirt and pull him close. 

"Hey." I know I have more to say, but I can't think of it.

He smiles and it looks real, sort of. "Hey," he says in that soft, just-for-me voice.

"When you get back…" I reach out and smooth the hair on his arm, not because it needs it. I just want to.

"When I get back…," he prompts.

I blink up at him and it comes back to me. "When you get back…will you lay down with me?" I pat the bed.

His eyes get that far off look, like glazed glass, and then they look wet. He blinks like they burn. "Yes," he says and his voice is rough. "When I get back, I will lay down with you."

He smiles and rubs my leg, but this time it's my thigh and he trails his hand down it like he used to do. I try for a leer, but I don't think I make it. He laughs and it's real this time.

"When you get back…." I close my eyes and I feel the smile still on my face. I feel like a man for the first time in a long time, not like a child who can't tend his own needs. Does he know what he did for me?  I squint my eyes and see him turn at the door to check on me one last time. Not that he has to--he just wants to.

"I'll be back soon." He smiles and turns, and I think I hear him hum. It sounds good. "Go to sleep."

I think I will. It's all I can do 'til he gets back.

END

Did you guess the challenge? This piece is written completely with one-syllable words. The origin of the challenge was this short essay from Richard Lederer's The Miracle of Language.

"When you speak and write, there is no law that says you have to use

big words. Short words are as good as long ones, and short, old

words--like sun and grass and home--are best of all. A lot of small

words, more than you might think, can meet your needs with a

strength, grace, and charm that large words do not have...

"Short words are bright like sparks that glow in the night, prompt

like the dawn that greets the day, sharp like the blade of a knife,

hot like salt tears that scald the cheek, quick like moths that flit

from flame to flame, and terse like the dart and sting of a bee."

Comments or critique welcome at [click on the email button.] I always respond to comments, so if you send a note and don't receive a response, please don't think ill of me. In all likelihood, either I didn't receive your note or my response is floating in cyberspace.

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