57th Street by James R. West

“Wasn’t me,” ex-wife says. “Why’d you call?”

“I was hoping you mailed my photos.”

“Burned them.”

“What about my journals?”

             “You did this to us. Not me.”

             I stare at the unopened box. Lots of stamps but no return address. Nothing indicates its origin.

             “So you didn’t send it?”

“No, but I hope it’s the plague.” She hangs up. 

The box isn’t heavy. Shaking it doesn’t bring any clues. There’s a tiny opening near one end of the box. I close my eyes and sniff. A rush of excitement flushes my face. 

It’s Lindsey’s fragrance. I recognize it from the weekend we spent at the Pittsburgh Hilton. The scent had lingered. I had washed my clothes before I got home. Somehow my ex-wife smelled it for months. 

My mind races. 

Does Lindsey want me back?

I need a cigarette. I walk from my small studio onto the balcony and lean over the rail, fourteen floors above 57^th Street. The city makes me feel like a speck in the galaxy. 

I used to be more than just a speck. 

The cigarette burns down while I remember Pittsburgh. She made me feel alive. 

I look back at the box on the table.

I’ll use the Miyabi. 

The Miyabi is the only knife I own. The knife was a part of a set. A wedding gift. Our first argument was about returning the set (worth three grand). She mounted the set on a Wusthof magnetic board (another grand). Whenever I went to the kitchen, there they were, all shiny and lethal. 

It’s not coincidence the knife ended up with my things that my ex-wife left in the driveway. I imagine her grinning as she placed it with my underwear and socks.   

The 5.25 paring knife slices through the packaging tape like this was its purpose. 

Strands of brunette curls fall out. 

I remember watching Lindsey dressing, the curls wet on her shoulders.

The contents empty onto the table. The hair keeps the box shape, then the edges start crumbling away until it’s a pile. The last time I’d touched it I was clearing it from her forehead asking her to wait. 

There’s a note.

Jake,

Needed a fresh start. I feel like I’ve been baptized from you. 

Hair grows back. 

Stronger.

Lindsey

I try to put it back in the box. 

There’s long and small clips. Static makes it cling to my hand.  

Walking to the balcony I see my reflection in the microwave window. Dark patches of hair stick to my white shirt. 

I empty it out over 57^th like I’m shaking the feathers out of a pillow. A breeze separates the locks into thin wavy threads. They drift sideways, between the buildings, and out into the city. A gust blows a cloud of trimmings upward. I spit like a cat with a hairball. The retreat to my apartment doesn’t help my gagging.

The floor. My mouth. The table. My eyes.

She’s everywhere. 

James R. West studied creative writing at the University of New Mexico. He has been blessed to have worked with Native American tribes for the past 23 years. His beloved birth mother and Native mother are both named Linda.