by R. R. Banks
I felt like the breath had been taken out of me. I didn't recognize him anymore. I looked at the nurse and then the doctor, my mouth open, words not coming out.
"I think that it's just about dinner time," the nurse said as if trying to break the tension. "Come on." She took Michael by the shoulders and started leading him out of the room. "Let's go get something to eat."
The doctor told us that we could return the next day and that he would try to tell us more about what was happening. Andrew agreed, and we left the hospital, nothing left to do but to go to the hotel we had reserved and wait for the next day. We were walking across the parking lot when we heard a voice coming from behind us.
"Mr. Long?"
Andrew and I turned around and saw a young woman rushing toward us with a bag in her hand. She held it out to him.
"These are Jeff's belongings. The doctor said to give them to you."
"Michael," I growled at her, the tears finally spilling over the bottom lids of my eyes and flowing down my cheeks. My voice rose to a scream. "His name is Michael!"
I didn't realize that I was lunging toward the woman until I felt Andrew's arm wrap around my waist and start dragging me back.
Present day…
I brushed the tears away from my cheeks and shook my head. I wanted to put the thoughts back in the section of my mind where I had delegated them. I knew that they would never go away. Those memories and the emotions that they brought up would never just disappear. Now though, it was a new rush of emotion that cut through me. I could still hear myself screaming at the nurse, and now when that went through my mind, I saw Garrett in front of me. I heard his voice sliding through his gritted teeth as he explained Jason's name. The assumption that I had made and the pain that it had caused felt like a rock landing in my belly.
I was still seething about my confrontation with Garrett, but now I also felt bad. My emotions felt torn and raw inside of me. I hadn't meant to hurt Garrett, but I also felt hurt by him. He obviously wasn't who I thought he was and now any chances that I might have had at pursuing a relationship with him were gone. With that, though, came even greater determination to reach out to Jason. Garrett had told me to back off, to not do my job, but I wasn't going to listen to him. I felt like I was all that Jason had. Garrett didn't know what he was doing, what type of damage he could be causing for Jason's future. If I didn't intervene, he was going to turn out exactly like his father, and while he was being touted as such an amazing fire chief, I could see now that he wasn't the person who everyone thought he was.
I looked back at The Reverend.
"You were right," I said. "I never should have even thought about a relationship."
Chapter Eleven
Garrett
I glared at the black leather bag sagging on the floor in front of the laundry room. I felt like we were in a stand-off. If I stood here in the hallway glaring at it long enough, maybe it would vaporize. Or at the very least, unzip itself and tip into the washing machine. Unfortunately, there was no such luck and I eventually walked up to it and grabbed it.
This is ridiculous. Jason needs to start doing his own laundry.
I brought the bag into the laundry room and opened it on the folding table, immediately regretting my actions. The table was now coated with fine red dirt and I got a face full of the smell of a teenage boy's baseball uniform after a long practice. I closed the bag as fast as I could and stomped out into the hallway and to the bottom of the stairs.
"Jason, get down here."
A few seconds later he came lumbering down the stairs, looking startled.
"What did I do?"
"I have no idea, but it smells like something died in your baseball bag."
"Oh. Yeah. Coach had us run extra laps today and since he wants me to diversify and try catching, I did it in pads."
He was grinning widely, and I couldn't help but feel a pulse of pride go through me. It had been several weeks since my showdown with Gwendolyn -- Miss Martin -- and something seemed to have clicked in Jason. He had tried out for the baseball team and made it. He had calmed down and gotten rid of most of his attitude. And while I wasn't expecting to be clearing space on the mantel for any student awards anytime soon, I also hadn't gotten any more calls from the principal or letters home from his teacher. He seemed to have made a meaningful turn and I felt both relieved and hopeful that this was just the beginning of the improvements I had wanted for him. For both of us.
At that moment, though, what was most pressing was the chemical warfare that was happening in the laundry room. Today was the day that my son got the lesson he should have many years before and learned how to wash his own laundry. That way I could make sure that I was at a good distance any other time that black bag made its appearance in the house.
I walked him through the process of separating out the laundry, choosing the correct settings on the washing machine, and dosing out the laundry detergent. As I watched him very carefully go through each step, moving almost impossibly slowly to make sure that he was doing it correctly, I got a rush of "single dad" feeling. I didn't think of our relationship that way very often. Of course, I was aware that I was, in fact, a single father. But I felt in a way like that was how it had always been like that was just the way it was supposed to be with Jason and me. It was the two of us, we didn't need anyone else. We just went about our lives without really thinking about how anyone else lived theirs. It was moments like this, however, that underscored that I was all that he had. I had to be both parents for him. I had to be the one who he both talked to about his baseball practice and got tips for his technique, and then taught him how to wash his uniform. I remembered when I learned how to do laundry. I was much younger than Jason, and I was in the foster home I wished that I could stay in forever. The mother, a short, pudgy, sweet-smelling woman, who was the one person that kept me from spiraling completely out of control any earlier than I did, brought me into the laundry room one day and proclaimed that I was going to learn how to do the laundry. Every man should know how to wash clothes, do dishes, and cook at least four meals, she said. That way if you find yourself alone or with one of those women who don't do that kind of stuff, you will be able to take care of yourself.
None of that had meant anything to me at the time. I thought that she was just rattling on, the way that she often did about her younger years or what she had heard at the beauty shop that week. Now though, I wondered if she had seen something in me, something that told her that I was going to need these skills one day. I often wondered how my life would have changed if I had been able to stay with her longer. If They -- the mysterious "They" who always warranted a capital letter and seemed to be able to control everything in the world -- hadn't decided that she couldn't handle a brood of boys rapidly heading into preteen and teen years, and I had been able to stay there rather than being shuffled around, would things have been different?
The washing machine roared to life and Jason dropped the lid down triumphantly. I smiled at him and patted him on the back.
"Congratulations, son, you are one step closer to self-sufficiency."
"Awesome. When's dinner going to be ready? I'm starving."
"What about your homework?"
He sighed.
"I'll get it done," he said.
"Well, if you hit the books, I'll hit the kitchen and we'll meet back up in about an hour."
Jason gave another labored sigh as if I had asked him to go outside and build me a smokehouse so I could get started on some bacon for next winter, but he turned and walked out of the laundry room and back toward his bedroom. I headed into the kitchen, trying to figure out what it was that I was going to make that night. This is the pattern that my life had fallen into. Other than that first fire that happened the day Jason brought the letter home from school, work had been silent. I supposed that was a good thing. I probably shouldn't be hoping that somebody would experience a devastating car crash or have their house light on fire just so that I could ha
ve some more excitement in my life. In the back of my mind though, I knew that it wasn't just about the excitement. I needed more because I wanted to spend as little time as possible in the firehouse. Every minute that I spent there was a reminder of Gwendolyn. After the first few days, the rest of the team started working normal shifts again, which meant that I wasn't alone in the station anymore. I was constantly surrounded by the other firefighters sitting around waiting, playing cards, watching TV and eating. On the overnight shifts, we would go upstairs to the barracks to sleep. I knew that we were all waiting for something to happen in those hours. We were waiting to be awakened by the scream of the alarm or an emergency phone call. But even that didn't stop some of the guys from falling deep asleep and spending those hours snoring.
I rarely got any sleep on those nights. While the other guys were just trying to pass the time, I was trying to keep my mind from worrying about if Jason was alright at home alone, with just a check-in from one of my crew that was off and a phone call from me. I also tried to keep my mind away from Gwendolyn. I was trying not to think about the nights that she had come to the firehouse to visit me. It was like I could still feel her there with me. I could still hear her voice. It was driving me crazy. I was torn between not being able to stand the woman, and not being able to stop wanting her. The passion that I felt for her was so intense, so blistering, so close to hatred, it was almost tangible. There were times when it felt like the angrier I was at her, and the more I let myself think about how much she reminded me of all the other women who had disappointed me, lied to me, clung to me, the more I felt like I needed her. I couldn't stop myself from feeling like she had betrayed me somehow. The more that I thought about it, the less that I really understood how I was feeling, or why.
The weather was unseasonably warm that night and after dinner, I told Jason that I was going to take a walk. I needed the fresh air and solitude to clear my mind. I shoved my hands deep into my pockets and started wandering my way through the neighborhood and into the center of town. I was so lost in my thoughts that I didn't even realize how far I had walked or where I was going. When I looked around me I saw that I had found my way back to the neighborhood that I had lived in before leaving Silver Lake. It has been so long since I had seen it that I wasn't entirely sure that's what I was looking at. My memories of these places were the memories of a child, but the longer I stood there the more I knew that that's where I was. I could remember running down the sidewalk with the one friend that I had in the neighborhood at the time. He was older than me, but I always had fun chasing him and trying to keep up with his games. I let my feet follow the same path that they had run so many years before. I could imagine them touching the same parts of the cement, covering over the tiny impressions that my shoes would have made then. It was like I was covering the memories, replacing them in a way, protecting them.
I paused in the middle of the sidewalk, looking down at a crack in the cement. In my mind, I could see that same crack, narrower and fresher. Now it had been widened by time and rain and the pressure of people walking over it. The edges had crumbled, creating a larger space. Tiny plants were growing in it now, making their way up from the ground beneath it through the harsh, cold cement and up toward the sun. I knew exactly where that crack was in the cement. I knew the space in the sidewalk that it marked. I took a breath and let my eyes run across the sidewalk and over the narrow stretch of grass beside it, to the base of a white picket fence that marked a front yard. Paint that had once been a bright, pure white, was now faded and softened by the years and the wind. Flakes were forming on it now, and I wondered how long it had been since it had been painted. Or even if it had been painted at all since that summer when my father crouched beside it and drew the paintbrush up each slat in long strokes, turning what had once been ash gray wood into pristine white. He had done that for my mother. I would never forget that.
My eyes lifted higher to the winter-deadened grass that stretched beyond the fence. The blades no longer stood upright. Instead, they looked like they had collapsed beneath the weight of the years, and tangled into each other until they created a thick carpet that led toward the back. There the ornamental grass of what had once been a landscaped front yard gave way to a tall growth of weeds. It took several minutes before I could bring myself to bring my gaze to the house itself. Like the fence, once-white wood was now flaking and grayed, and black shutters were bleached pale, some hanging from the windows, where they had been pulled away from the house by storms. I walked a few more steps until I stood at the gate. It was secured in place, the lock rusted from disuse. I stood at it and stared at the house. The door was closed, but that wasn't the way that I remembered it. The last time that I saw the house, the door was standing open. I hadn't closed it behind me when I ran, and I hadn't touched it since. I wondered who had been the last one to close it. Had it been one of the police officers? A member of the cleaning crew? The lawyer?
"No one lives there anymore."
I turned and looked over my shoulder toward the voice. A bent elderly man stood in the pool of light spreading across the sidewalk from the streetlamp. The light seemed to be getting brighter, more clearly defined as the evening darkened around us, but the hat that he wore kept his features under shadow.
"Excuse me?" I asked.
"That house," he said. "Nobody lives there anymore. They haven't in some years now."
I nodded and looked at the house and then back at him.
"Who used to live there?" I asked.
He drew in a breath as he stared at the house. I could see his face better now, and the wrinkles and folds in his skin drew deeper as his face tightened, as if in consideration of the house and the legends that it held. He seemed to be debating how much he wanted to tell me. I didn't recognize him as one of the elderly community members who had been at the welcoming party, and I wondered if he knew who I was. Either who I was now as the fire chief, or who I had been as the child who had run from that house so many years ago.
"There was a family there," he finally said. "Bad goings-on. We don't like to talk about it much around here. Nobody has lived there since them, though. Seems to me I heard that the owner never came around to look at it or keep up with it or anything. Never sold it or rented it out to another family. It just sits there."
"Seems like a shame," I said.
"Maybe," he said. "But I don't know many people who would want to live there. Too much darkness already in life. No need to put yourself right in the middle of it." He looked at me for a few seconds, scrutinizing me. "Are you new around here?"
I smiled and extended my hand.
"Garrett Allen," I said. "I'm the new fire chief."
He smiled as he shook my hand enthusiastically.
"That's right," he said. "I knew you looked familiar. Are you looking to buy this house?"
I shook my head.
"No. I bought a house on the other side of town."
"Well, we sure are happy to have you here."
"Thank you," I said.
"Oh," he said. "I'm Devin McCrady. I live just a few houses down. Just out having my evening walk."
"Me too. It's nice to meet you, Mr. McCrady."
"Maybe I'll see you out walking again."
"Maybe. You have a good night."
He made his way out of the light from the streetlamp and I watched him walk down the sidewalk until he was only a dark shape. A few seconds later he passed through another streetlamp and then turned through the open gate of another house. I wondered if his wife Rose was still alive. The name popped into my memory unexpectedly along with the smell of fresh baked cookies. I looked back at the house and reached over the gate to grab the lock. It resisted my tug, but I pulled harder and felt bits of the rust flake away under my hand before the lock finally gave. The gate squealed in protest as I opened it and stepped through onto the sidewalk on the other side. I closed the gate behind me and put the lock back in place as if it was somehow blocking anyone else from entering
the space. For a brief moment, I felt like I had stepped back through the years. Crossing the threshold of that gate had broken through reality and put me back into the years that I had spent here. I closed my eyes and I saw the grass again. It was thick and green, the pattern of the lawn mower's perfect rows across each side.
I took a step and felt something hard beneath my foot. I looked down and saw an old sprinkler embedded down in the dirt. I couldn't remember if it had been on the day that I ran from the house. It was a fixture of my childhood. From the first day of spring when it felt warm until deep into the fall when the leaves were turning, and the air was getting crisp, the sprinkler sat in the front yard, oscillating back and forth as it sent its wave of water across the lawn. It wasn't turned on as often in the days after my father left us, after my mother told him to leave, even though I didn't know at the time that that was what had happened. The lawn had always mattered more to him than it did to her, and looking back on it, part of me felt like my mother had left the sprinkler off out of spite. It was a passive aggressive move, something that many people wouldn't even notice. But it was her way of taking back some of the control that he took from her and showing him that she was the one running her life now. I had heard the whispers even years after it all happened when I was old enough to understand.
"Why didn't she leave?"
"Why didn't she call the police?"
"Why didn't she pack up, take her son, and go somewhere else?"
"Why did she stay in the house?"
I had asked myself many of the same things. I would never really know everything that had happened between my parents. I knew that they weren't always happy. I knew that they fought and that sometimes it was loud and terrifying. But I never saw him hurt her. I never heard them explain why they were so angry at each other. It was too long ago now for it to matter. It wouldn't change anything. All that was left was the question of why either of them let it get so far.
