Color of Loneliness (10 page)

Jim picks up the ear buds dangling around his neck, holding them up for Myra to see. “Jackie gave me one of these new-fangled iPod contraptions and put some wonderful classical music on it for me. Guess I had the volume up too loud.” He starts snickering again, wiping a tear away from his wrinkled cheek with a crooked finger. “You gave me a good scaring too, young lady.”

“What are you doing up here?” Myra asks as she wipes her eyes again.

“I was looking for some more pictures, and time must have gotten away from me. I found several albums. Can you help me carry these?” Jim asks as he reaches behind him and pulls out several dust-covered albums and hands them to Myra.

Settling on the couch with the albums spread out in front of them, Myra reaches into her pocket and pulls out his key. “I came over to return this to you. The contractor got my water working.”

Jim smiles as he takes the key from her. “He should have your house whipped into shape in no time.” Leaning forward, he grabs an album and places half of it in his lap and half in Myra’s.

For the next several hours, they peruse the albums and Myra intently hangs on every word of Jim’s beautiful stories of days gone by. He shares tales of his life with his wife, Emma, and his daughter, Barbara, but her favorite stories are the ones of her parents and grandparents. She loves being able to relive cherished moments of her family’s lives through his incredible, vivid memories.

Myra stifles a yawn. “I really don’t want to, but I’d better go.” She stands and stretches.

“I had a wonderful time. We’ll finish these albums up maybe another day?” Jim asks with a hopeful grin on his face.

Myra smiles and nods. “That’s a promise.”

* * *

Dylan wakes up in a shiteous mood, which isn’t much different than any other day for him, but for some reason, today seems even shittier than normal. He doesn’t bother with a shower and digs through the mounds of clothes on the cluttered floor of his bedroom for the least dirty pair of jeans he can find and yanks them on. Grabbing a blue plaid flannel shirt off of the bathroom floor, he sniffs it to make sure it doesn’t smell too nasty. With a shrug of his shoulders, he throws it on.

Downing two cups of coffee and eating a slice of leftover pizza from the box in his fridge, he grabs his stuff and throws it in the passenger seat of his truck. As he takes off down the road, he glances at his reflection in the mirror noticing his excessive facial hair. “Ah, fuck it,” he mumbles under his breath. He could not care less about his appearance
.
He figures the uglier he looks, the better.

Turning into Myra’s gravel driveway, he sighs, just hoping he can get this job done as quickly as possible and get the hell out.

Lumbering out of the truck, he runs his hand through his hair; it’s getting too long and definitely needs a trim. Picking up his tool belt off of the seat, he buckles it around his waist. Just as he raises his hand to knock, Myra opens it.

“Hi,” she says with a small smile. It pisses him off. He can’t figure out why someone would be so goddamn happy this early in the morning.

He nods, glaring. “I’ll get started on the plumbing,” he grumbles as he marches past her.

“Okay.”

* * *

Myra hides out upstairs feeling uncomfortable being downstairs anywhere near Dylan. She stays productive by packing up several boxes of Grampie’s things. But before she even realizes it, she finds herself at the window again, peeling the curtain back a bit and sneaking a peek at him. Her mouth drops open at what she sees below. Stunned, she stares for several minutes before dropping the curtain and turning around slowly, staring off into space, thinking. As a plan forms in her mind, her mouth twists into a smirk. “Yes,” she yells loudly to the empty room.

Plopping on her bed, she whips out her phone.

“Hey, hon, what’s up?” Susie says.

“The usual. Hey, you know how you’ve been dying to set me up with this contractor?”

“Yeah. I forgot to ask you the most important question yesterday. What’s the hot contractor’s name?”

“Dylan. Now you have to put a stop to this matchmaking crap because I just found out something terrible about him.”

“Really? Is he gay?”

“No. I don’t know.”

“Is he a bigamist?”

“Huh? No.”

“Did he chop his cock in a freak contracting accident?” Susie asks before giggling.

“Stop. Now listen to me. This is really bad,” Myra says in a grave voice.

“Okay. I’m listening.”

Myra pauses a moment. “He smokes.”

Susie busts out laughing. “Jesus Christ. I thought you were going to tell me he had leprosy or something.”

“Listen, I saw him sucking on one of those cancer sticks, and you know that’s a deal breaker for me. So you can stop your little meddling and scheming you’ve been trying to pull because you know I would never get with a smoker. Ever.” She sits back against the headboard with a satisfied smile on her face, knowing that she has finally won this battle.

Susie sighs. “All right. You got me on that one,” she finally admits. Myra mouths the word “
yes”
and pumps her fist in the air. “But, you know, you gave me a really great visual of him after the intense grilling I put you through so just out of curiosity, what did his
nice lips
look like when you caught him taking the death drag?
Did they caress the cigarette
slowly?
” Susie busts out into uproarious laughter.

“Not funny.”

“You know that was funny,” Susie says as she continues giggling.

“No, it wasn’t.”

“Sorry I’m always razzing you, but I just can’t help myself. You know me and my big gigantic mouth.”

Myra hums in agreement.

“So have you been able to get out and make any new friends? I don’t want you sitting alone in that old run-down house feeling sorry for yourself.”

“Well, I haven’t been getting out because it’s Nyssa, remember? There’s nothing to do here. Besides, I’m not in the mood to make any new friends. But I do have one friend, my neighbor, Jim…”

“Mr. Grampie-like,” Susie adds.

Myra laughs. “Yeah. Well, he’s been just wonderful. He’s the sweetest man ever. We spent hours last night going through old photo albums together. He told me all these great stories about my parents and grandparents. I’m really lucky to have someone like him around.”

“That’s great. You do need someone like him in your life right now. Uh oh, here comes El Numero Uno Dickhead. Gotta go,” Susie says quickly before hanging up.

* * *

As Myra stands in the hallway looking into the kitchen, she sees Dylan’s legs and large work boots sticking out from underneath the sink. Piping and tools are strewn haphazardly around him on the kitchen floor. She clenches and unclenches her fists at her sides, debating what to do. But when her stomach growls loudly, she gives up and walks into the kitchen to make something for lunch.

Hearing grunting and the sound of metal clanking together, she quickly makes her way to the fridge and grabs ingredients to throw together a quick salad. She clears her throat. “Would you like something to eat?” she asks.

“Huh?” he says followed by some more grunting noises.

“Would you like something to eat?” she repeats louder.

“No,” he replies in a hateful voice.

“Okay.” She shrugs and rolls her eyes, making a note to never offer him anything else ever again.

“
Motherfuck,
” Dylan roars from underneath the sink as a tool drops, clanging loudly. Startled, Myra loses her grip on the tomato she was getting ready to slice. It falls to the floor and starts rolling. Her eyes widen and her mouth drops open slightly when she hears growling noises. “
Motherfucking son of a
…” Dylan’s voice trails off to some low mumbling that she thankfully can no longer hear. Grabbing the tomato from the floor, she quickly tosses it in the trash. Picking up her half-made salad, she exits the kitchen as fast as she can, leaving the salad ingredients still on the table.

She sits in the never-used dining room and takes in a deep breath before she begins eating her half-made salad.

* * *

Myra spends the rest of the afternoon upstairs, far away from Dylan. She does not want to be anywhere near that man if he throws another fit. Proudly, she stands and looks down at the four boxes she just finished packing for storage. Stretching and yawning, she steps into her bedroom, reaching for her laptop to do some more work on the outline for her book.

The afternoon goes by like a flash as she gets lost in her imaginary world. Pleased with her progress, she closes her computer and glances at the clock and decides to go downstairs and check on Dylan.

Not seeing him in the kitchen, she moves to the sink and opens the cabinet door beneath it. Bending down, she admires his work, seeing the new white piping. She smiles happily, excited that she might have use of her sink again very soon.

“Open the damn door!
Now!
” Dylan shouts from the back door causing her to jump almost a foot in the air. Stumbling as fast as she can, she rips it open with shaky hands. Her face twists in horror as her heart leaps into her throat as she stares at an unconscious Jim cradled in Dylan’s arms. His lips are blue.

Dylan charges past Myra and lays Jim in the middle of the kitchen floor. Snatching his knife from his tool belt, he flips it open and cuts straight through Jim’s coat and shirt in one clean swipe revealing his chest. “Call 911!
Now!
” Dylan bellows as he checks Jim’s airway and immediately starts chest compressions.

But Myra can’t move. She can only stare. At Jim’s lips. Because they should not be blue. Her heart beats so hard she feels like she can’t get any breath into her lungs.

“Are you fucking deaf? Call 911!” Dylan shouts again. Her body jolts, her eyes snapping away from Jim’s ashen face to Dylan’s furious one. With trembling hands, she grabs her phone out of her pocket, almost dropping it in the process. Every movement she makes feels sluggish as if she were in slow motion. Her fingers fumble dialing the simple three digit number. It seems like it takes her an eternity to do the simple task. When she finally hits send, her knees give out and she drops to the floor beside Jim.

“911, what’s your emergency?” the operator asks.

As Myra’s eyes stay fixed on Jim’s face, her voice won’t cooperate. “I… we need an ambulance,” she mumbles, her voice shaky and out of breath.

“What’s the address?”

Her mind goes blank as she continues staring at Jim.

“Ma’am, what’s the address?”

“Uh…” she stammers before finally robotically mumbling an address. Dylan looks up at her with his brow furrowed in confusion. “Wait,” she shouts. “That’s not right,” she says, almost in tears. She gave the operator her address in Philly. She finally remembers the new address and says it quickly.

“Okay, I’ve dispatched an ambulance, and it’s on its way. Please describe the emergency. Is someone ill?”

“Yeah. My neighbor. Blue. His lips are blue,” Myra stutters as sobs catch in her throat.

“Is he breathing?”

“I…” She looks at Jim’s lips again. “I don’t know.”

“I need you to check his airway,” the operator insists.

Myra watches as Dylan holds Jim’s nose closed and breathes two short breaths into his mouth.

“Is he breathing?” she asks Dylan, tears cascading down her face.

“No, he’s not! Tell them to get the fuck here
fast
!” he screams at her, causing her to flinch.

“Okay, ma’am,” the operator says. “So he’s not breathing?”

“No,” she mumbles between choking gulps as she watches Dylan’s hands frantically pump Jim’s chest.

“Is the person with you administering CPR?”

She hums in response.

“Stay on the phone with me. The ambulance will be there any minute.”

Myra continues to watch as Dylan skillfully performs CPR. His slightly damp mess of tousled hair hangs in his grave face; the physical effort of trying to revive Jim causes his cheeks to flush a slight pink color. His large hands cup together and press into the center of Jim’s chest five quick times. Quickly bending down, he pinches Jim’s nose before he gives him two short breaths. He completes the process over and over while she watches.

She looks away from Dylan for a moment and stares at Jim’s face. His eyes are wide open, but they look different – flat, lifeless, and dull, devoid of their usual color and twinkle.

Myra hears the sound of a siren in the distance.

“Go open the front door! Now!” Dylan yells at her.

Her legs won’t move. She feels frozen to the floor as she stares at Dylan.

“
Go!
” he roars, his eyes glinting angrily.

Somehow the sharpness of his voice snaps her out of her frozen state. Standing, she stumbles down the hallway to the front door, shaking and gasping for breath between sobs. She opens it just as the paramedics step onto the porch.