Wreck

by Kirstin Cronn-Mills

  Paul’s come downstairs to help, most likely at Allison’s request to try and prevent more bad Yelp ratings, and has ferried out new glassware, antique newspapers, which smell musty and gross, a couple cool Red Wing crocks Allison found in Canada last year, and a rocking chair to fill in a hole where there used to be another rocking chair. A guy bought the first one this morning. He walked in and said, “My wife wants that chair. How much?” Then he plunked down three Benjamins, put the rocker over his head, and carried it out the door. He must like his wife a lot.

  A couple of older women have been mooning over a set of bowls for the last hour. They can’t make up their mind whether to buy these rare pieces for their other sister, who lives down in Blue Earth and couldn’t make it this year because of bursitis in her ankle, isn’t that a shame, she never misses our Duluth trip. A true shame, I say, and can I tell you about how my dad’s planning to kill himself before the ALS eats him alive? Now that’s a shame.

  The ladies finally buy the set. They live in Chanhassen, so it’s only a couple hours to Blue Earth, and they say the bowls match her kitchen perfectly. I wrap them extra carefully, just like they ask me to, and they leave with big smiles.

  “You were very patient with them, Tobin. Thanks for that. Maybe we should ask them to leave a Yelp review.” Allison smiles, too.

  “Maybe so.” I slump on the stool behind the counter.

  Paul comes out of the back room with a New York Seltzer, lemon lime, my favorite kind, and hands it to me. I drink it in about three swigs.

  Allison goes in search of more merchandise to plug the holes on the shelves. “If you need me, just holler.”

  “We will.” Paul answers for me.

  He studies me, looking at my face like he’s trying to decipher it. “So, Tobin. What’s up?”

  “Nothing. I’m fine.”

  His voice is kind. “How long did it take your dad to recover from what happened at Grandma’s?”

  “He didn’t come out of his room except to pee until late Monday afternoon.”

  “Skipped Father’s Day, did he?”

  “Yes.” There are hands around my throat, choking me.

  “Sad for both of you.”

  “Yes.” The hands get tighter.

  He reaches out and pats my hand. “Maybe every day can be a celebration from here on out.”

  “Good idea.” I’m going to pass out from lack of oxygen.

  “He brought me a small box with mountains on the side.”

  WHOOOSH. The hands are gone.

  “He told me what it’s for, and he asked me to keep it until he wants it.” Paul’s studying me, to see if I know.

  “I’m glad it’s out of our house. I hate it.” I spit the words like venom.

  “What do you think about its contents?”

  “What do you think I think?” The hands are back. And squeezing.

  “I can be there instead of you. I know what it means to be looking at the end. I’ve thought about the same thing, actually.”

  “Paul!”

  “What’s wrong?” Allison’s voice from the back room. I didn’t realize I was that loud.

  “Nothing. I just told a dirty joke, and Tobin objected.” He chuckles.

  “When the hell did she get bionic ears?” I glare toward the back door while I pitch my voice slightly above a whisper. “And don’t you even talk like that. Who’d defend me against Allison?”

  “I’m not ready to go.” He gives me a one-armed hug, his specialty. “But your dad’s hurting. He also knows he’s hurting you enormously by considering it.”

  “Yeah.” I feel the hands creeping around my neck again.

  “Maybe you get it a little better now, after what happened at Grandma’s?”

  “Maybe.” The hands ease momentarily. “But I am fucking pissed.”

  “Understandable.” He gives me another sidearm hug. “He’ll let you know when it’s time. Until then, make every day Father’s Day, and get ahold of that six-story duck, all right?” Paul knows Dad wants Mama Duck at his party.

  “I’m working on it.”

  “Grief is just love turned inside out. It’s how we know we’ve loved someone. And grief is a long process, different at every stage of the situation.” His face has gotten sadder with every word.

  “I’m guessing you know what you’re talking about.”

  “Firsthand.” His eyes are glittery, but no tears slip out. “You’re a good kid. You don’t deserve this.”

  The hands are back and squeezing so hard I can barely get the word out. “Thanks.”

  One final sidearm hug, and Paul disappears into the back room. Faintly I hear him clump up the stairs, back to his place.

  I take deep breaths to unblock the lump in my throat.

  “Has your dad recovered a little bit, Tobin? When I talked to him on Thursday, he seemed all right.” Allison comes out of the back room with a couple of kitchen canisters in her hand and she arranges them on a shelf in a bare spot. “I hope the race people aren’t angry with him.”

  “Kerri’s really kind. She understands.”

  She shakes her head. “He doesn’t deserve this illness.”

  “Who does?”

  “I can think of a few people who I’d like to suffer for a while.” And she’s gone again before she looks at me, so she misses all the daggers I send her with my eyes.

  I wouldn’t wish this illness on my worst enemy. Hitler and a couple other dictators, maybe. Nobody with a real heart or a real life.

  She doesn’t come out again. When five o’clock comes, I do all the closing stuff, and I’m out of there by 5:15.

  Summer arrives slowly in Duluth, so instead of being warm and muggy at the end of June, it’s really great outside—not too hot, everything still smells good—and the farther I walk away from the lift bridge, the quieter it gets. Getting away from tourists feels like taking off a sticky wet suit—once you peel it down, your skin can breathe again.

  I’m about a block from my house when I realize I’m walking in time to the music I hear, which is the cantina song from Star Wars. Sure enough, when I climb over the dune to the backyard, Sid and my dad are sitting on the porch, and Sid’s got his violin. As quiet as I can, I creep up the stairs and slither into a plastic chair next to my dad, who’s in his wheelchair.

  Sid’s got his eyes closed, and you can tell he’s really into what he’s doing. The music courses out of his violin and pours into the grass on the dune, flowing toward the lake. If the sun was lower, I’d be able to see it. Liquid gold.

  When Sid’s done, he opens his eyes, and then opens them wider. “Tobin! I didn’t hear you come up the stairs.”

  My dad’s clapping, which is awkward, and he looks a lot like a Muppet when he does it. “You’re going to be at Carnegie Hall someday. I know it.”

  Sid blushes. “I’m trying, sir.”

  The tears start pouring down my dad’s face, which surprises Sid but not me. “Can you play the Olympics theme for me? It’s John Williams, and I won’t get to see another Olympics.” He swipes at them with jagged motions. “Is it its own song, or is it just a couple phrases?”

  “It’s a song.” And Sid puts his violin back under his chin and plays.

  Of course, it sounds different when it’s one instrument, but my dad loves it. The tears keep pouring. I get a box of Kleenex, and my dad takes one to push against his face, trying to mop up the wetness. Then he bonks himself in the nose without meaning to, so I wipe his cheeks. He closes his eyes and lets me.

  Then Sid’s done, and my dad Muppet-claps again. I clap in the human way.

  Sid is gracious. “You’re too kind.” He stands up and bows, then reaches around the chair he’s sitting in for his violin case. “I’ve got to head home. I’ll be back, Steve, okay?”

  “Please. Come back anytime. I would stand up to see you off, but my legs don’t work so well these days.” He’s still got a Band-Aid or two on his forehead from where he fell down the stairs at the marathon. �
��Thanks again for the music.”

  “It’s my pleasure.” Sid’s got his violin in the case again, and he reaches to shake my dad’s hand. I can almost see my dad get taller in his wheelchair.

  “Tobin, you want to walk me?” Sid’s smile is shy.

  “I can go see if Ike needs help with supper.” Dad’s smile is much bigger than Sid’s. “Go.” He wheels himself over the threshold. “Ike, what can I do to help?”

  “You can keep me company while I chop the cilantro. That’s enough.” Ike’s voice is right inside, through the kitchen window. “Fifteen minutes, Tobin.”

  “No cilantro for me, gross gross gross.” I hate that stuff.

  A chuckle floats out the kitchen window. “I wouldn’t even think of it.”

  I point at Sid. “I can walk to your house and back in fifteen minutes, can’t I?”

  “You can do it in ten.” I don’t notice he doesn’t have on any shoes until we get to the water’s edge. I leave mine there.

  We don’t say anything, just splash through the edge of the lake. The water’s maybe fifty-five degrees now. It’s still cold enough to kill you fast if you fall off your boat. His mom sees us coming—she’s sitting on their back deck—and she waves with a smile. I wave back.

  “I’m, um, not going to come up and talk to your mom, if that’s okay. It was a crap-ass day at the store, and I’m just . . . you know. Brain-dead.” I say it fast, so it doesn’t seem too rude.

  Sid nods. “She knows you have a lot going on.”

  “Thanks for coming over to play for my dad. It helps the anger stay away.”

  “Yeah.” Sid digs his toe into the sand. “Ike told me what happened at Grandma’s.”

  “Yeah.”

  More toe digging. “I’m sorry.”

  The hands are back, closing up my throat. “Yeah.”

  “Yeah.” Sid reaches around me, violin case and all, and hugs me.

  An enormous wall of sadness falls on me, and it’s all I can do to stay upright. Being touched with kindness is too much.

  “What if we . . . hung out? Did something fun?” Sid says it in my ear.

  I pull back. “Fun like what? Like a date kind of fun?” I am not emotionally equipped to go on a date right now.

  Sid chuckles. “Not a date. Just something that doesn’t include Duluth and tourists, or worrying about your dad.”

  My brain immediately replies There is no activity on this Earth that doesn’t include worrying about my dad, but I don’t say it out loud. “Well . . .”

  “We’ll have a nature day. Or a nature hour, even. How about four hours—an afternoon? Can we do that? I’ll plan something cool, or at least sort of cool.” His face is open and kind, just like it’s been his whole life, just like it was when we were ten and he showed me a DVD of his favorite movie at the time, which was The Good, the Bad and the Ugly, and he wanted me to love the music as much as he did. It was one time he fell in love with a soundtrack that wasn’t John Williams. Though ten-year-olds shouldn’t have been watching that movie. Waaaaay too much death and blood, way too many guns.

  He can see he’s surprised me. “Tobin?”

  “I’m in.” I say it before I can chicken out, because that’s my first impulse—to say no.

  A huge smile breaks across his face. “Text me your work schedule, and I’ll match it up with mine, and . . . and then we’ll do something.”

  “Okay.” I smile back, because he’s just too cute at this moment to do anything else.

  He hugs me tight, and quick, and heads toward his house and his mom. His regular mom. Who lives in his house, not in Paris. Who doesn’t send gift boxes. Who is someone Sid likes, as much as any teenager likes their parent.

  I turn around and walk back toward my house, ankle-deep in the lake, thinking about hailstones. Icicles. Icy roads. Ice cubes. Igloos. Icebergs. Anything to solidify myself again, because I am leaking feelings against my will.

  By the time I get back, supper’s on the table. Nothing fancy. Non-gringo tacos, as Ike calls them. But they’re delicious. We tend to trade off cooking, depending on when I work at Trash Box, and my choices are much less inspiring. Yesterday I cut up bratwurst after I grilled them and threw them into some baked beans. Add an apple and a glass of milk, and you’ve got a summer supper in Minnesota. Ike’s tacos are so much better. Elena taught him well.

  Dad starts talking about the Tall Ship Festival in August, and his birthday party, and how he’d really love it if Mama Duck would come to visit, and how Paul’s voyageur history lesson won’t be the same without his assistance—Dad always dressed up like a voyageur during Paul’s public lecture—and wasn’t Sid good tonight? Ike and I just let him talk. It’s more than he’s said for a couple days. His voice is weak and there’s a wheeze. I watch Ike evaluate him.

  “The taco meat was delicious. Easy to chew, too.” Dad tries to wipe his mouth with a napkin. “That helps.”

  “Glad you liked it.” Ike stands to clear the table, and I stand, too. “The more we can keep you away from a feeding tube, the better we are. I want to watch your wheeze, too.”

  “Not going on a . . . ventilator.” Dad has to catch his breath in the middle of the sentence.

  “Since you just had that lovely demonstration of how out of breath you are, why don’t you go rest in the living room while Tobin and I get things cleaned up.” Ike shoves the walker close to the table from where it was resting by the counter. “Tobin, help your dad up.”

  I guide the walker to him. “Sure you don’t want your wheelchair?”

  “Nope.” And he turtles his way into the living room, to creak down onto the couch and watch some TV on his laptop. Somewhere he’s found this old EMS show called Adam-12, so he’s watching people from the seventies save lives with dinosaur equipment. Sometimes he laughs and talks to the computer: “Good god, man, put that thing down!” and “Really? You’re going to use that?” It’s hilarious. He told me he used to watch it when he was a little kid, but he didn’t get it then. Now he says he knows more than the actors and the writers combined.

  My phone buzzes, and I check it before I start putting away leftovers.

  Please can we talk? #sosorry Gracie.

  Not right now. #hurt #lifeisdifferent #sickdad

  I use the hashtag summary trick. My brain can’t hold another thing right now, including her.

  By the time I get the table cleared and Ike gets the dishwater going, Dad’s asleep and the snores are drifting into the kitchen.

  Ike and I fall into rhythm pretty quickly—I wash, he dries.

  “You know the box is gone, right?” Ike looks me in the eye. “You know he gave it to Paul?”

  “Paul told me.” I almost drop a glass but save it at the last second. “He doesn’t deserve to have that happen again. What happened at Grandma’s.” My hands are shaking. I almost drop a second glass. “He wasn’t Dad.”

  “No.” Ike puts the towel down. “He told me today he wants to wait until September. Until he can see the leaves change a little bit. Then he can go. Maybe after your birthday.”

  My birthday is September 22.

  I mentally settle a huge ice cube on top of my stomach, holding everything in. “September, huh?”

  He puts the dishes away that he’s dried. “Two months to goof off. Two months to write down his advice.”

  “He’s still working on that?”

  He smiles. “Advice for you until you’re eighty-five.”

  “Hopefully we’ll be able to check Mama Duck off his bucket list before September. And we’ll celebrate another birthday.” I force myself to smile back. Then my hand slips and I really do drop a glass as I hand it to Ike. It bounces on the floor and rolls away.

  “Don’t wake the dude up, klutzy fingers. He’s had a long day.” Ike retrieves it from where it’s rolled under the table and puts it back in the dishwater. “Your hands, Tobin.”

  Shaking like I’ve never seen them shake before.

  “I know.” Ike puts his hand o
n my shoulder. “I know.”

  “No, you really don’t.” I shrug his hand off.

  “You’re right.” He goes back to drying dishes. “I don’t.”

  Everything’s washed and dried in less than ten minutes. I hang up the dish towel before I go check on Dad. He’s slumped to his side, walker in front of him, laptop on the coffee table, like a broken rag doll. His face is even thinner, which I didn’t think was possible.

  I get my camera from the kitchen counter and snap a few shots: from the floor, lying down and shooting up, so he looks like the three-story World’s Sickest Dad.

  Ike brings me my action figures, almost like he read my mind, and I rest Mystique on one of Dad’s knees and Rey on the other. They have a stare-off while Dad snores, softly for once. Then I line up all four on his thigh, which is tiny, since he has no quad muscles now, and they all stare up at his face while he sleeps. Then it just feels creepy and wrong, so I put my camera away.

  “What do you think happens after we die?” Ike’s voice is quiet.

  I’m getting a Coke out of the fridge and turn to look at him. “You’re the Catholic, Ike. You tell me.” I take a swallow and the Coke courses over the ice cube on the top of my stomach.

  He sighs. “Hell just seems made up. And dumb besides.”

  “I thought it was mandatory for your crowd.”

  Ike shakes his head. “Not when you’ve actually been there, or you’ve seen people who live there permanently. Hell is here on Earth. I do think there’s a heaven, though probably not one with a big-bearded God who looks like Zeus. I think our animals are there.” He looks around, like someone’s spying on him, but he’s gonna tell me a secret anyway, which makes me smile. “Just don’t let on that I don’t believe in hell. It’s a biggie for us. Gotta keep people under control, you know.” He sighs and shrugs. “I just think about heaven.”