Return to Sender

by Ashlyn Kane

  He took in the volleyball trophy that propped up the battered copy of Macbeth. Next to it was the baseball that Jonah had had signed by various Texas Rangers. The plaster of Paris hand print that Natalie had made in kindergarten was still propped up on the dresser, next to the painting Emerson had had to make for art class last year. They had had to paint a hero, so Emerson had picked Martin Luther King, Jr., knowing that he’d be gifting it to Jonah. On the desk there were stacks of notebooks with scraps of loose paper sticking out of the edges, and pens of various types and brands stuffed into old coffee cups: one was from Disney World, the other from the Dallas Zoo.

  A flash of yellow caught Emerson’s eye, and he took in the pennant from junior league baseball hanging over the small desk. The scrap of fabric had to be at least five years old by now, Emerson realized, since it was from when he and Jonah had played as kids. Emerson leaned over and realized that it was from the summer between fifth and sixth grade. It had been a pretty good season.

  Attached to the pennant was a team photograph. They had been very different people then. Emerson had been the pitcher and captain of the team—he’d had an arm that tossed straighter than the rest and a personality that the other boys couldn’t find fault with. Jonah had been the catcher and then second baseman and hadn’t been bad at either, but he had also been new to the league and a little rusty. It didn’t help that he had also been very short and scrawny then. Before his growth spurt after ninth grade, Jonah had been small—he had never come up past Emerson’s nose—and many of the other kids took potshots at him for being so tiny. The other boys on the team that summer had been especially vocal; none of them had wanted to give Jonah a chance. Jonah had been anxious to prove them wrong.

  Emerson smiled in memory as he thought of one particular game in which an interfering old biddy had noticed the tension and had told everyone that Jonah was too small to play well. Emerson had been incensed. Jonah was way too nice to deserve that kind of treatment. His sweet temper also meant that he blushed scarlet when Emerson called a team meeting and told the rest of them off for making stupid plays so they could avoid throwing to Jonah. He had sneered at the boys for worrying about Jonah making them look dumb in front of girls, disgusted at the idea of people hurting Jonah for the sake of impressing anyone.

  The team had been angry at Emerson, but later, when Jonah helped make the double play, it had been totally worth it. Even then, Emerson had noticed how much Jonah had glowed for the rest of the day.

  The memory was bittersweet now. Jonah was no longer that scrawny, timid kid, and Emerson wasn’t the baseball star. And years of secrecy on Emerson’s part had added a layer of tension to their relationship that Emerson always felt very keenly.

  Emerson found a photo of himself and Jonah sitting on his dresser. He lifted one hand up to touch it. Jonah had an arm around Emerson’s shoulders; they were smiling at the camera. It had been taken last fall, shortly after they had finished all their applications for college. Which explained Emerson’s relaxed look and smile—application time had been a frustrating few months for him.

  He and Jonah had decided sometime before the end of eleventh grade that they’d go to college together. Emerson wanted to be an artist, a graphic designer, a master of computer art; Jonah had always wanted to be a writer, though of what genre was often in flux. They had spent a lot of afternoons planning out their future in this room. They had made plans to travel together, Emerson snapping photos while Jonah wrote journal entries that they could turn into a travel book. Or maybe they would make graphic novels with Emerson penciling drawings or doing art David McKean-style. Or perhaps they’d even use Emerson’s artistic eye to put one of Jonah’s stories on film. The plans had been varied and unending, but they had all started with time at college together, where they’d have adventures while studying and learning their crafts.

  Emerson’s dad hadn’t liked the plan. He wanted Emerson to be sensible. He had been frustrated with Emerson for years, Emerson thought bitterly, ever since the start of his anti-social tendencies. Emerson had once heard his parents arguing about what to do about it. His dad had wanted to intervene, to get Emerson playing baseball on a team again, to force him to be with old friends. Fortunately his mother had felt that Emerson was simply reevaluating himself and who he wanted to be, and that it was also possible that his brain chemistry was changing with age. That these changes in Emerson were his to make, and they should be careful not to make him feel guilty for not being who they wanted him to be.

  Despite his mother’s insistence on not pressuring him, his father’s disapproval was constant. As such, the disagreements over college tended to be… intense. Emerson often ended up running to Jonah after a fight.

  The worst had been right before Emerson had made his decision to fill out a School of Business application. He and Jonah had sat in the park on a Saturday afternoon for over an hour while Emerson vented his frustrations.

  “He keeps telling me I’ll like business once I start. I can’t get him to understand.”

  “That you need art like breathing?” Jonah finished for him, his head tilted to the side as he gave Emerson an assessing look. “Just keep trying, Em. He’ll come around.”

  “I’m not so sure,” Emerson had sighed, frustrated, and crossed his arms. “He also told me I’d thank him when I was older and a successful businessman. He just doesn’t get that I’d be happier poor and making art than I’d be rich and running a business.”

  Jonah’s eyes had been filled with understanding as he watched Emerson frown miserably. “You tell him that?”

  “Tried. He said: being a starving artist sounds romantic now, but when I’m married with children, I’ll come to my senses.” Emerson had felt a thrill of embarrassment at having repeated the words about having a wife and kids, knowing they’d never be true.

  Jonah had laughed. “Then he really is crazy. Everyone knows that with that face you’ll be able to find yourself a rich sugar momma to take care of you while you paint.” Emerson blushed hotly; Jonah grinned. “So I know that ice cream and blowing shit up is not going to solve anything, but want to buy a cone and then go back to my house and play Just Cause 2?”

  Emerson had smiled at Jonah’s offer of comfort. “Yeah.”

  On the way out of the park, two girls from their class had giggled to see them. “Hey, Jonah,” they said coyly. “Emerson.” They gave him pleased smirks. Figured. On a day Emerson was feeling like crap, but at least he had Jonah all to himself, two girls came along trying to have Jonah for their machinations. But Jonah had just grinned sunnily, saying, “Hi Mandy, Brittany,” without breaking his stride. “So, I’m thinking triple scoops,” he told Emerson, and tossed his arm over his shoulder. Emerson had just smiled wider in response.

  Emerson let his hand fall from the photograph and turned away, not wanting to see Jonah’s smiling face anymore. He sat down on Jonah’s bed and found Jonah’s blanket, an old quilt that folded into a pillow and had been given to him as a baby. Emerson hadn’t seen it in years. He picked it up and examined it. He worried the loose threads and fingered the grape juice stain on the corner.

  Jonah’s room, of course, provided no answers. Its familiarity only filled Emerson with very little comfort and a much greater feeling of loss.

  He resettled himself on the bed, arms around the quilt, and didn’t try to stop the tears that fell.

  Emerson wasn’t sure when he fell asleep, but he woke up several hours after he arrived at the house with a blanket tossed over him.

  Untangling himself from the blankets, Emerson rose from the bed. He made a silent exit, not wanting to deal with anyone else. He didn’t want to confront their grief right now. Nor was he sure he could bear to face them after he had embarrassed himself by falling asleep in Jonah’s bed.

  §

  SENT after exams are over on the back of an exam schedule:

  Jonah,

  The doctors finally figured out what was wrong: Coronary artery spasm. Basically the ar
teries into his heart keep spasming and cutting off blood flow. They can’t fix it, only treat it.

  I’m still taking care of Dad’s business for him, and I’ve taken some summer courses this year to catch up on my courses. I won’t have time to leave Dallas.

  Jackson Hole looks nice, though.

  Send me a short story when you write one,

  Emerson

  §

  ON THE back of a parking permit for Yellowstone National Park:

  Emerson,

  Turns out Old Faithful isn’t so faithful anymore anyway, but here’s a postcard showing you what you’re missing.

  At least now that they know what’s wrong with your dad they can do something. Maybe you can come visit when he improves. I’m renting the basement apartment of someone’s house, and the couch is all yours whenever you want it. Just thought you should know.

  I sat down to write a short story the other day and came up for air 4,000 words later with no end in sight. Maybe I have what it takes to be a writer after all. It’s not particularly fictional, but I’ll worry about that when I’m closer to finishing. The girls at the writer’s workshop seemed to like it, at least.

  Jonah

  §

  Jonah,

  They put Dad on some drugs; we’re waiting to see if they take.

  I’ve missed reading your stories. I’m glad you’re still writing them. The girls at the writer’s workshop? When do I get to read it?

  Zack and Greg both went touring around the state, doing bar gigs for the summer. Hayley’s still around and living in Austin, so I get to see her on the days that I have class. But being stuck in Hudson Bend sucks. All of our friends are gone, so I’ve only got Kierstyn for company.

  I just got a call while writing this. Zack has invited me down to meet up with them in San Antonio next weekend. They’re putting on a few shows in the city, and he thought I might like to catch Saturday’s. Since I don’t have classes on the weekend, I think I can manage it. It’ll be good to see them. And to get out of Hudson.

  Maybe I’ll send you something from San An.

  Emerson

  §

  Emerson,

  I’m glad I am too. I was worried for a while there.

  “Girls” is kind of a misnomer. Four of them are in their thirties. Then there’s Roberta, she writes these steamy romance novels. She’s about eighty-five. I think she mostly does it to embarrass her grandkids. At least that is the impression that I get when she tells the stories about reading certain passages aloud to her college-age grandsons.

  You can read it when I type it up. Seriously, Em, I don’t have a photocopier. It’s fifty handwritten pages and still going strong. It wouldn’t even fit in your mailbox.

  I submitted a couple of other things in the meantime. I’ll let you know if I hear anything.

  I’m telling Kierstyn you said that.

  Jonah

  §

  ON THE back of a flyer for a Peter and the Hanged Man show at Bond’s 007 Rock Bar in San Antonio:

  Jonah,

  Fuck! I can’t wait until you get to hear them. They are awesome, and you’re going to love them! They totally rocked San Antonio!

  I’m writing this while drunk, again, but I promise no bad sex this time. Not in a BAR in San An. That would be stupid.

  Emerson

  Oh! I bought you a present!

  In the same envelope was a card that read, “Told you I’d buy you something—Emerson” with a red pocket Moleskine notebook and a new pen with “San Antonio, Texas” written along the shaft.

  §

  Jonah,

  I’m sorry for once again sending you drunken correspondence. Seriously, it’s an issue.

  San An. was good, though I could do without the hangover. I’m not entirely sure what I wrote before, but Zack and Greg know how to put on an awesome gig.

  I’m seriously disturbed by the image of Roberta and her torturing her grandsons. I am, however, very grateful that she is not MY grandmother.

  I have to wait until you type it? But you’re a crazy "the work must first be written out by hand, in full, or it’s no good" writer. I’ll have to wait forever!

  Don’t tell her I said anything! Or I’ll start telling Natalie where you hide your porn!

  Emerson

  §

  EMERSON bought his textbooks the week before courses started.

  After realizing he would be stuck close to home all summer, Emerson had decided to make up for lost time. He hadn’t been able to take a full course load last term, so he’d take a few courses now.

  Emerson had put in the research about what summer courses there were and had picked out a second-year marketing and an accounting course. He had been very surprised to find himself signing up for “Survey of the Renaissance through Modern Art” and “Drawing for Non-Art Majors.”

  Emerson had walked away from registering, stunned by his actions. Then he had bought his textbooks as soon as he could.

  When the classes started, he threw himself into his studies like he never had before.

  Business wasn’t as captivating as this. Lectures on the great artists and how to capture a moment on paper were the best classes of his college career.

  At times, though, like when he realized that his drawing skills were well beyond his peers’, he felt a sharp stab of regret. He had been accepted to the Design program. Emerson had spent weeks on his application and had sent it off well in advance of the closing date. But his parents hadn’t been very happy about his dreams. Emerson was smart, much too smart to waste himself making pictures. No, Emerson was smart enough to grasp his father’s business, even had a talent for keeping the books.

  It had been due to their insistence that he had applied to the School of Business. They had been thrilled when he had received his acceptance letter. Emerson had been disappointed—he had hoped that he’d only be accepted into Design, and thus the battle about which to attend would be over.

  The debate, if one could call such a one-sided conversation a debate, had been ongoing when Jonah had left. With Jonah gone, all their plans to attend college together, to match Emerson’s degree in design with the one that Jonah would get in English to create books and more, were ruined. And when his father had argued once again for Emerson to go to business school, Emerson had folded under the weight of parental pressure and of grief over loss.

  He never regretted his decision more than when he was sitting in those art classes.

  It was halfway through the summer, and Emerson attended each class religiously, never letting something else get in the way of his twice-weekly dates with artistic heaven.

  After Professor Monroe called an end to the day’s session, she looked up at Emerson and asked him to stay a moment. Worry filled Emerson’s stomach, and he wondered what he might have done to displease her. Emerson had always done his best to please the teacher. It was in his nature, and he wasn’t happy to hear that he might have done otherwise.

  After the last student had filed out, Emerson slowly shouldered his bag and made his way toward Ms. Monroe.

  “Well, Emerson, how are you today?”

  Emerson swallowed hard. Her tone was pleasant enough, but he had learned from Mr. Watson in the fourth grade that that didn’t mean much. “Fine, ma’am.”

  She smiled at him. “I wanted to ask you, Emerson, what are you doing in my class?”

  Emerson blinked at her, stunned. What? That didn’t make sense. Emerson was good at this! And he had been doing well mark-wise! Why did she suddenly want to kick him out? “Um… I don’t understand. I thought I was doing well.”

  “Oh, you are. That’s the point. Why are you taking a drawing class for non-art students?”

  “I’m not an art student.”

  “Yes, I know. I looked you up. Your file says Business. My point is: why are you taking business when clearly you have the talent and the soul of an artist?”

  “Uh….”

  “Emerson, you sketch must fast
er than your classmates and with end results that far surpass any of them in terms of accuracy and polish. So why on earth are you wasting your talent away in business?” She arched a brow at him then, giving him a rather pointed look.

  “I….” Emerson looked away, staring down at the strap of his messenger bag. “Business is practical.”

  She snorted. “I see. And who, pray tell, has been dripping that poison in your ear?”

  Emerson’s head shot up, and he stared at her in surprise. “It’s not—”

  “Emerson, I don’t know if you are aware of this, but your file also says that you were accepted into the Design program. A man of your talent, with the proper training, could get any number of jobs in the field of creative design. So when you tell me that a business degree is more practical, I can only assume that you are repeating the rhetoric that has been beaten into you by someone else.”

  Emerson stared at her, absolutely floored.

  “If I thought for one moment that your true passion lay in business and not in the arts, then I would let the matter drop and leave you alone. But I don’t think it does, and I think you know it.”

  Emerson had nothing to say to that. To say anything would be to admit she was right. And he wasn’t sure he could, because admitting she was right meant admitting he’d made a huge mistake.

  Ms. Monroe began collecting up her papers and pencils. “It’s not too late, you know. You can change your degree. Some of your business courses will count as electives, and I do believe you are also taking an art theory course this summer that would count toward a degree in the arts.”

  Emerson just kept staring at her. He didn’t know what to say to this woman who was telling him to just rewrite his life.