Brush Park Blues

A piece that I wrote for reasons that escape me for the moment. However, I think that it is a good sample of my style and has helped me to keep Detroit fresh in my memory - my home city and one that I miss very much. So without further delay:

Dylan guided his hatchback out of the staff parking lot and onto East Jefferson with the sort of oblivion that routine affords. He had been incredibly distracted the entire day, and it seemed to affect everything. His own research. His lectures. Everything.

Of course, he knew exactly why he was unable to focus. His behavior during his sister Violet’s recent convalescence in the hospital. His inconspicuous absence after her release. The mounting sense of anger at her boyfriend, Cole. They all weighed upon him like a millstone about his neck. On top of all of that, somewhere deep in the recesses of his mind, he was aware that Ivy would give birth to his child any day now.

As he approached the intersection at Brush, Dylan tuned into the popular evening jazz program on Detroit's public radio station. The program’s host was continuing his tribute to jazz legend Jimmy McPartland, who had died two days ago. He found that the Dixieland style of music being played had an oddly uplifting effect on his mood.

In fact, as he continued to listen, Dylan could not help but be overcome by such a feeling of hope that not even the rain could dampen his spirits. By the time that he had completed his turn, he knew exactly what he needed to do. He needed to speak to Ivy.

She was the key to his happiness. He was positively certain of this. To hell with Violet, she can keep her life with Cole.

“She never really cared for me, anyway,” he said bitterly.

But Ivy!

She understood him, and, even more importantly, appreciated him for who he was. They had even once shared a tender moment and created a child together.

Afterwards, he knew that he had behaved like a complete ass to her, but, at the time, he was afraid and acted irrationally. Now, everything was crystal clear.

“We can make a life together – a family,” he continued as he cruised up Brush. Sure, there might be some issues at the university, but undoubtedly he was too valuable to be replaced. Besides, she was an adult and no longer one of his students. He must find her, but where to look….

Since he was already on Brush, he thought it prudent to begin his search at the beer garden where she worked. Eddie, the owner, told him that she had left a few hours ago, but he had no idea where she went. Ivy had no car and wouldn’t use the buses if she could avoid it.

That really only left one place – her friend Olivia’s. She’d lived just up Brush on the other side of the freeway; easily within walking distance. Dylan hopped back into his car and drove the one mile to Oilvia’s house with reckless abandon.

As he made the left onto Adelaide, he saw a light on in the crumbling Victorian manse that Olivia had called 'home'.

Dylan ducked under the crime scene tape and went in through the side door into the kitchen. There, he saw Ivy standing with a cookbook clutched to her chest, and a look of alarm in her eyes.

“Please don’t be scared,” he said calmly, “actually, I was hoping you would be here.”

“What do you want?” she replied. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Neither should you, but seeing that we both are, I thought perhaps we could talk.”

“Talk? What could you possibly have to say to me? You made it quite clear that you wanted nothing to do with me,” Ivy answered, anger growing.

Dylan's gaze drifted down to her impossibly large stomach. She must be due any day.

“I was wrong, Ivy. And, I want to make it up to you,” he answered and moved closer to her. “I want us to be a family. I want to take care of you and our child. We will have such a warm home, and grow to love each other with every passing day.”

Ivy backed away, “No, Dylan! We won’t ever be a family and I could never love you. When I needed you most, you abandoned me!”

“I admit that that was an awful thing to do but I'm here to make amends. Doesn’t that count for something?”

“I’m sorry, Dylan, but it doesn’t,” Ivy said with tears welling in her eyes. “Now, please let me go.”

He stepped aside, and she slipped past him toward the door.

“We're done here. Goodbye.”

Dylan walked to the kitchen sink and stared out the window as the door banged shut.

“How could she do this to me?!” he said as he fought back his own tears. “Not Ivy! She was supposed to be the one!”

Anger began to well up inside him.

The glint of a kitchen knife in the dull light drew his attention. Automatically, he began to roll-up up his left sleeve. The arm underneath revealed neat, parallel lines of scars from where he had cut himself in previous moments of anguish like this.

They were a timeline of grief and misery. Each notch recounted an episode in his life where the smallest of incisions would allow all the pain trapped inside him to seep out. And like before, he knew that after a few moments and a small trickle of blood, all would be infinitely better.

Dylan took up the knife and made a slit along his left forearm, perpendicular to the bone. Unfortunately, the room was darker than he was used to, and the knife was incredibly sharp. The cut went deeper than expected and blood began to violently gush from his arm with each heartbeat.

Quickly, he grabbed a kitchen towel and bound the wound with his right hand and his teeth. But, it was not enough to staunch the flow. In a few seconds, he began to feel faint from the blood loss and stumbled toward a rocking chair next to the kitchen hearth. However, his feet gave away from him and he fell headfirst into the mantle before slowly collapsing onto his side.

As consciousness slipped away from Dylan, he could not help but notice that this was almost the same spot where the police found Olivia’s body the previous week.

“Well, one bad turn deserves another, I guess,” Dylan whispered to the empty room before Death reached out and claimed him.