by Dan Kolbet
Little did I know that our gathering was about to get more permanent.
Chapter 14
"William, I don't like to talk about money," Mom says, which is her code for we're about to talk about money, so listen up.
"OK," I say, sitting up a little straighter on the park bench overlooking the playground. Ethan and Kendall are helping Gracie on the monkey bars and looking none too pleased to be doing it. The park is busy with the chatter of dozens of children and doting parents chasing after them.
Dad is parked across from us, silent as usual.
"We've come to the end of our resources, William," she says.
"I'm not sure I know what that means," I say.
"It means the savings that I thought I would never even have to touch is now depleted and we can no longer afford to stay at the GreyHawk."
All those ignored phone calls from Emanuel Sanchez were obviously pleas for my financial assistance. Of course I knew this, which is why I childishly ignored him. Apparently that didn't work.
"Mom, I don't have any—"
"I know you don't, otherwise why would you live like a hermit in the forest for two decades?" she says.
"Twelve years."
"Right, just 12. Anyway, we relied on Trevor. He helped us out, but now that he's gone I don't know what else to do. We have nowhere to go. They are going to give away our place at the GreyHawk to someone else. They are very cruel that way. Ready to send us out onto the street."
I find it ironic that Mom feels it's cruel to get kicked out for not paying their bill. That's how it works, no matter how old and sweet you are. And Mom isn't all that sweet to begin with.
I wasn't lying about my financial situation. I don't have the money to pay for their care. I make just enough in royalty checks from Isolated Highway to get by each month and I do not live a lavish lifestyle by any means. My cabin is paid for. The truck—a piece of crap —is paid for. That's all I own. If I was starting over on my own today, I'd be the one getting booted for not paying my rent.
Should I get a job? What would I be qualified for? Selling life insurance again. Real estate? God, I hope it doesn't come to that.
"What about Trevor and Jennifer's estate?" I ask. "Can't we dip into that?"
Since I was the court-appointed guardian for the kids, I was also in control over the money left behind by the insurance and estate. I had already decided that the only money I would pull from the estate trust was money to cover the expenses at the house, like the mortgage payment, utilities and groceries. I felt this was fair because it was for the benefit of the kids. I wasn't about to take advantage of what my brother left behind for my own personal gain. I'm not a thief.
"Of course not, that was meant for the girls," she says.
"But you need it and it's not doing any good in an account," I tell her.
"That money isn't meant for me; and damn it, that's not why I'm talking to you about this," her voice is getting strained and I can tell this is difficult for her. "I don't want to be a burden, William, and neither does your father; but we need a place to stay and Trevor's house is big enough for all of us."
The Cedar House? Oh, no. This can't be happening. My head spins. My parents moving in? You hear stories about failures in life returning home to their parents' house to live above the garage or dwell in the basement, but parents moving into their kid's house? Not too often. No less, a dead child's home which is currently being inhabited by me and the girls.
"How can we provide the level of care that Dad needs?" I ask, trying to think of something that might dissuade Mom from this move, which she has clearly already decided on. I'm not even sure why I asked.
"He has received little attention at the GreyHawk. The nurses leave the majority of the tasks to me as a courtesy, which I appreciate. He needs to eat, like we all do and he likes his sunshine. His medicine is mostly covered by his government benefits. He'll need two trips a week to the physical therapist, but I can always take him on the public bus system, if it's too much for you."
Guilt tripping could have been Mom's profession.
"No, that's not too much," I say, referring to the physical therapy appointments alone. She's making a foothold with the physical therapy and hoisting them both up for the full stay. How can I say no? Should I say no? Do I have the right to say no? If I hadn't come back to Spokane, Mom and Dad would probably already live at the house and would be taking care of Kendall and Gracie. I shouldn't be the one to stand in the way, as uncomfortable as it may be.
"Then it's settled, we'll move in this week," she says, as if this was ever a discussion in the first place. She knew the answer before she came.
"Where will you stay?" I ask. "The place only has three bedrooms and that little guest room."
"That's part of why I wanted to visit today. I see that you've not moved into Trevor and Jennifer's room, so we'll take that one. Besides, it's on the first floor so we can get the wheelchair in and out easily."
"Where am I supposed to sleep?" I say, feeling like a teenager again, asking my mommy for something.
"I suppose you'll continue to stay on the couch, although it seems to me that Trevor's office is nicely appointed and has room for a bed, if you're not interested in sleeping on the couch any longer."
"I'm not."
"Not what?"
"Not interested in sleeping on the couch any longer," I say.
"Well then this is just the boost you need to move your belongings into the office or that room April was in."
"Great."
I look over at Dad, who has been staring blankly at the few feet of grass in front of him this whole time. He lifts his head up a bit and ever so slightly turns it toward me. Mom's not paying attention. Dad doesn't say a word, but he locks eyes with me and I swear I see him nod his head up and down slightly. A gesture of thanks maybe? Or a recognition that Mom will always get her way, so there is no use arguing with her. This, I feel is more likely. Either way, I like that Dad is communicating with me. Even with nods. And it seems as though he's going to be around a lot more to do it. Maybe, just maybe, he's actually pleased about that.
Chapter 15
The next few weeks of summer drag on like a never-ending holiday meal where you just want to go home, but you're too drunk to drive and your relatives keep plying you with alcohol. You want to get away, but you can't. This house, as big as it is, isn't big enough. I find myself constraining bouts of anger and annoyance at the girls and my parents as they take over portions of the house.
Boxes of my parents' belongings arrived just a day after Mom announced they were moving in, which tells me that she had made arrangements for the move well before informing me about it. The boxes filled up half of the three-car garage and I'm forced to wonder where the hell all this stuff was stored previously and why the hell they have so much stuff in the first place. Granted, Mom needs her colorful pants collection—but that's only a few dresser drawers of seizure-inducing patterns. This collection is a life's worth of knick-knacks that nobody really needs or wants. The boxes are labeled —a few with my name on them—and at some point I should take some time to go through them. I have the time, but lack the motivation. It's not like I'm busy.
We've got the routine down now and it's clear that Mom is running the show and I've been relegated to assistant, with chores and prescribed living quarters. I'm rather content about this arrangement—less pressure—but I can't help feeling like a teenager again. I'm stuck in the house waiting to turn 18 and asking to borrow the keys to the car. I often find myself out on the deck overlooking the city and sitting with Dad. The poor guy is stuck with me, but he likes being outside—or at least we think he does—so that's where he goes. If he's hearing me, I don't know, but if he can, he's heard it all.
Kendall comes out of her room every few days and sneaks into the kitchen to eat while her grandma is cooking. She's basically stopped talking to me entirely, which means I get called an "old ass," a lot less now. This is nice on several levels. I
can't be sure what it was that made her so upset with me; but then again, I'm not making any effort to figure that out either. She's got her boyfriend and her fancy black eye makeup to keep her company, anyhow. If she wants Uncle Billy at arm's length, I'm OK with that.
Gracie seems to be the happiest with this change in living arrangements. She's got a grandma to watch over her every move and when that's not enough for her, she comes and finds me, which I rather enjoy. We go to the park or just watch TV. She cuddles up next to me on the couch and only wakes me when I start to snore during her shows. It's a good deal for both of us.
I'd forgotten how anal-retentive Mom was. A place for everything and everything in its place. I don't dare leave a glass out on the table or my shoes by the front door.
"I won't live in a house filled with clutter, William," she says. "Clutter breeds disorder and that makes us all lazy and apathetic."
She's on top of every one of us correcting and redirecting our actions. Gracie's used to it because she's a kid. Kendall just seems to ignore her. Yet, I'm stuck in a constant flashback of my childhood.
I've found myself coming up with reasons to leave the house. The physical therapy appointments are nice little getaways with just Dad and me. I talk and he listens. I've told him things that I've never told anyone else. Things about Jane and me. Things about Monique and how I messed up. I might be driving Dad to physical therapy appointments, but it's probably more mentally therapeutic for me than him. I've never really had the opportunity to converse with my dad before. He wasn't that kind of dad growing up. You didn't just ask him a question and get the benefit of a heartfelt conversation. He'd answer and move on to something else. Very matter of fact. I guess that's how fathers are supposed to be. I've never experienced anything else and can't say I was any different with Aspen. I was always writing or re-writing; the need to finish my work trumping my time with her.
Man, I was a dick to that poor kid.
* * *
This evening I escape when Mom is distracted and thankfully didn't ask me where I was off to. I can't say that the truck drove itself, but without much input from me, I arrive at a destination I haven't seen in years—not that it's changed all that much. The Bowl and Pitcher at Spokane's Riverside State Park. The park is a sprawling wooded landscape on either side of the Spokane River just west of town.
The treed park includes access to the river, hiking and bike trails and a campground. I've never figured out why people decide to camp at the park. It's five minutes from civilization, sure, but wouldn't that be an incentive to make the trek out of town farther? So it tends to be full of white-trash tent and tarp campers, who in the summer get blasted on light beer and throw their empties into the river.
I pass the campgrounds and maneuver the truck into the parking lot near the Bowl and Pitcher, a bend in the Spokane River that includes several large basalt rock formations that resemble, at least slightly, a bowl turned on its side and a pitcher of some kind. Most people just refer to it as the Bowl and Pitcher, and leave it at that.
I walk down the steep, but paved incline and step onto the wood and cable walking bridge that spans the river, providing me a better view of the namesake features of the park. They just look like big brown rocks to me. No bowl or pitcher. The bridge sways with even the lightest of steps and I make sure to hold onto the railing to my right.
Jane used to hate walking across this bridge, especially when it was full of onlookers checking out the rushing water. But she liked to hike, so we came here often. It's nearly dusk and the place is practically deserted, but the unsettled feeling still creeps into my stomach as the wood under me bounces as I walk. I used to torment her by rocking the bridge back and forth. At the time it was funny—or at least I thought so. Today, alone, it's not funny and I pick up the pace to the other side of the river.
The shadows are deeper on the west side of the river bank and despite being August I feel a chill and pull my jacket collar up a little bit tighter around my neck.
About that time, a couple walking hand-in-hand descends the path toward me. The man, probably in his early 20s, sees me first and pulls on the hand of his female companion to slow her pace. He motions her to the other side of the trail, away from me.
Isolated here, away from the safety of a crowd, this man sees me as a danger. My scraggly beard and mop of disheveled hair don't help my appearance much. For all he knows, I live here in the park. They pass me in a hurry and don't stop on the bridge to admire the rock formations. In moments they are gone and I'm alone once again. No more couples in sight.
The funny thing is that I used to be that man, guarding Jane from passing strangers or the occasional odd guy loitering nearby. Avoiding the threat from the outside is an instinct. His instinct said I was odd and I made him uncomfortable. I don't blame him. But I also wish I wasn't that guy. If I had a crisp haircut and wore a clean pair of hiking boots and a fancy wind-breaker, would I be viewed as less of a threat? Probably. That's reality.
It makes me wonder how other people really see me. I'm quiet—never the first to engage in a conversation, but once up and running I can hold my own. I don't dress like a slob. It's usually jeans and a faded tee-shirt. But it's probably the hair. I don't know that I even like the beard and long hair anymore. It was fine when I was alone and wouldn't see a soul for weeks at a time. Pulling my hair back into a ponytail was a convenience. But now I see that my look must be defining me. I'm not looking to make friends, but I also don't want to see people running in terror away from me. I pull at the beard, which has gotten stuck in my jacket zipper and realize that I don't even own a razor to shave with if I wanted to.
After climbing up the singular trail, I'm forced to make a decision. Left or right. The trail to the left weaves into the forest and the climb is much more difficult. The couple came from the right trail, downstream of the river. The answer to where I will go next is clear. In fact, which direction I would head was obvious to me when I first saw the couple. And it's now obvious to me why my truck drove itself to the river tonight, too. There is something waiting for me here. Something from a long time ago.
I continue on the path, the fading light making it harder to see the rough ground that's filled with loose rocks and other hazards of nature. It weaves in and out of the surrounding trees and only when there is a clearing toward the river can I fully see the path, but I know where I'm going. I've been here countless times.
I know just around the next turn there will be a thin tree on the left with a large dip in its trunk, giving it the curious look of a saddled horse. We called it the Horse Tree growing up. I'm surprised that I'm actually excited to see it, even if it's just a landmark on the way to my destination.
My hopes are dashed when around the corner there is a sign that reads, "Take Care of the Nature Around You," alongside a picture of my Horse Tree. The sign is drilled into the stump of the tree. If it died on its own or was vandalized, I don't know, the sign doesn't say; but it makes me sad either way.
My mom used to have a picture of April, Trevor and me sitting in the saddle of the tree. It sat on a shelf in the living room of the house we grew up in. We all have on shorts and socks up to our calves. I couldn't have been more than 6 or 7 years old. My dad's in the background. His brown photo-gray glasses blocking the camera from seeing his eyes. I bet that picture is in one of those boxes sitting in the garage. I haven't seen it for—I don't know how long.
Trees live and die, but I'd be lying if I said this one being dead didn't bother me. When something is part of your history, you think it'll be around forever. No matter where you go, your history shouldn't be wiped away like this.
These thoughts pass through my mind as I continue up the path toward my destination.
They don't make many large gazebos in public parks anymore. At least not ones made with thick logs and stone accents. It's more likely that the park shelter of today would be metal framed with an aluminum roof to prevent it from catching fire if a wildfire happened to blaze
through the area. But the gazebo up ahead—the one that I came to see—isn't new, and it looks just as old as it is.
It's called the Carving Shelter.
The once dark brown logs are now faded and splintered. The five-sided, pentagon shaped building includes a large center structure of stone that supports the exposed logs that hold up the roof. It's big enough to house a dozen picnic tables, with a view of the river down the hill.
A string of white and orange A-frame barricades surround the shelter, connected by a yellow caution tape. A sign reads, "Danger. Keep Out." I can see the need to keep people out. One of the roof supports has broken away from the center structure. A pile of stones and crumbling mortar lay in a heap under the fallen roof support.
The rickety gazebo has seen better days. And I can remember those better days with complete clarity. Jane and I used to come here before we were married. We'd pack a lunch in a backpack and take the 20-minute walk to the gazebo. It wasn't a regular ritual, but we'd make the trip three or four times each summer. We even took Aspen here once when she was old enough to walk the trail holding my hand.
The unique feature of the Carving Shelter was—you guessed it—carvings. On nearly every inch of the exposed logs were carved words, symbols or drawings of some sort. It looked like the intricate tattooed arm sleeve of a rock band member with a never-ending string of characters interwoven with one another. Jane and I had carved our names here many times only to find that another couple had carved over our initial attempt by grinding down the log an inch or so to create a new, bare canvas. No doubt the place had run out of room for first-edition works of art; and the constant chipping away of the building's support was its undoing.
I step over the barricade, ignoring the warning sign and go in search of the last carving I made on the shelter, but I quickly realize finding it will be a significant challenge. You see, to avoid our note being erased, I hid it on one of the top rafters, next to the center fireplace. The fading light provides me no cooperation to search, so I flip on the flashlight on the reverse of my phone to illuminate the area. No luck. It's too high.
