For Tomorrow

Circa 2000

For Tomorrow 

     by Douglas Leigh McCoy 

“Who’s apickin of ter banjer haer?” said Clem. He had wandered down off the hill into the shade where Jed Wump was pumping gas into a newer Chevrolet. Clementine, his wife, told him to mind his own business and put on some clothes. He told her that he had his overalls on and she just kept picking “Oh Suzanna,” working on the thorny parts. 
     “Shae’s ter one thenkin ’ bout nekket,” he said to no one, and chewed and spit and shuffled back uphill toward the porch. “Wimmin!” he said to no one. Then, half way there, “Thet’s fer sher!” Once settled in his rocking chair it was another thought that crept in and rattled around under his hair for a half hour, like a bee buzzing inside an overturned tin pail. 
     Now, Clem had no intention of pointing a gun at anyone. He loved Clementine with a ferocity akin to perversion. When she walked by he rolled over and watched her till she disappeared around the corner of the barn. If she kneaded and baked, he sat there pretending to be asleep, but with his eyes small and neat on her  arms moving in and out of the soft dough. When she played hockey with the neighbour wives, he dropped by after she had begun play and didn’t know he was there, watching while she stickhandled, shot, lobbed, and pucked over the ice. 
     Once, in a game when the other team, all males, had her pinned on the boards, the benches cleared, gloves and helmets flying every which way.  Soon everyone was at it in a huge pile-on, all 30-odd men jabbing, kicking, flailing, hitting and biting, she still in the middle. He strained to locate her in the fray and saw her emerge at last, entirely disabled and smiling a strange and puzzled smile that left him wondering what had happened in the corner and why it had taken 15 minutes for the referees to emerge from the midst of the tussle, whooping and declaring penalties on half the opposing team.    
     Clem had simply enjoyed her all these years, and now that she was at home more, though not quite as supple as she used to be when she played sports, and especially hockey, he had her all to himself and he loved the freedom to observe her goings and comings. She graced his very hourly aging.
     She loved him less. That was the way of the world, he thought at times. “Wimmin!” And next, ”Wimmin!” he offered. And then, after 10 minutes, “Wimmin ais naint naithink I ken ainithink aibut.” 
     Later in bed, to himself, lying beside the woman of his dreams and of his fantasies, “Laidies! Ter tai daith a main laik mai!”
     Clem had strong ideas but they were not there as words so much as feelings. Saying this to himself he had never. But feeling it now, in bed, he felt of Clementine, and she, recalling the hockey game and the penalties, prodded her butt towards him and he once again familiarized himself with it. Entertained and sated, neapt and knitted, wilkinsoned and Watkinsed, he turned over and slept, while outside the excitable stars played their own form of universal hockey. The Moon picked at a celestial banjo, accompanied by the distant sun on a double bass. Adieu! you Southern belles! Sleep well and may you awake with peace and joy, for tomorrow never comes.