The day's paper lay folded in the trash can under the sink. He had just laid down for his mid-morning nap when he heard a peculiar sound coming from the street below. Usually at this time of day, everyone in the neighborhood was at work or school, except for the few stragglers who had lost the fight with their alarm clocks that morning.
The sound was that of heavy foot steps and frustrated sighs. His curiosity forced his joints to move through the house and struggle with the lock on the front door. When he stepped outside, his body was hit with the heat of the day. He felt like the combined forces of heat and humidity were smothering him. It had rained earlier that day and the sun was evaporating the fallen moisture back into the air like a thick, muggy cloud.
Searching for the noise, he stood staring out from his porch. In front of him was a barren savanna littered with wreckage from those who stood nervously at its edge, but who would not dare to cross its border. His left ear prickled as a muffled sound traveled down his ear canal, its source still out of sight. As he walked through the crispy grass, he stumbled on empty cans, rocks, and an assortment of balls. "If only someone would come and claim one of these balls," he thought to himself, his heart longing for the human contact.
He was suddenly distracted by a figure diving to the ground out of the corner of his eye. He had reached the sidewalk, and found himself looking at a rather odd boy. After diving into the grass beside the road, the boy jumped up and began looking around frantically. He could see the boy's eyes widen in terror as they darted to and fro from the pale sidewalk to the cracked asphalt baking in the midday sun. Something about the boy was familiar, but he couldn't quite place what it was. He felt strangely drawn to the boy as if they were oppositely charged magnets. He now recalled, from murmurings he had heard around town, that the boy was called James or John. No, his name was definitely James. When James finally spotted a box lying not far from him on the road, his faced relaxed. Suddenly he realized why James looked so familiar. James reminded him of his son.
It had happened what seemed like only a moment ago. A shot, the sound of glass shattering into millions of pieces, and then the worst sound of all, a scream followed by a thud that reverberated like an earthquake. They were out of Coke. He pulled the car up in front of the Seven Eleven down the street and sat idling while his son, Peter, jumped out and ran into the store. Usually they both went in together, but his arthritis was beginning to get bad in one of his knees. In a flurry of motion, as Peter was paying for the Coke, a hooded figure ran up from the back of the store, a gun in his out stretched hand. Without a second thought, he shot both Peter and the clerk, then lunged for the open cash register and bolted out of the store.
It didn't matter to him what happened to the murderer; all that mattered was that he was lost. His whole life had been about his family. Peter was everything to him, especially since the death of his wife a year before due to cancer. Guilt constantly plagued his mind. "If only I had gone in instead. My knee didn't hurt that much, I could have gone in. I should have gone in. Why didn't I go in?" It was a battle every morning to get out of bed and face a new day in his now empty house. Whenever he left the house, he was constantly followed by the pitiful gazes of his neighbors. His posture became more slumped to shield himself from the eyes, all the eyes.
Shaken by the memory, he looked up and found James looking at him as strangely, as he imagined, he had looked at James. Their eyes met briefly and for an instant he thought he could see a glint of the same lingering void that he had had for so long. Then, the look vanished. James, now tightly clutching his precious box, hopped away. He slowly turned, and as he did, the house that had sheltered him for so long, yet left him exposed to the harsh elements of the past, loomed before him.
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2 comments:
Nice. too bad you said your son died, it could have been shocking when it turned out that i was actually your long lost son. that would have floored them.
He had a recurring dream. He saw himself wandering through a forest on a path. Every few yards, he came across a fork in the path. He always took the left fork. Always. And he always ended up right back where he started. He became familiar with all of the little things that he saw along the path that he always took. The same squirrels ran around in the same places, the same leaves fell from the same trees.
It was Sunday again, and time for his daily jog. Everything seemed normal as he began, but he quickly felt that something was wrong. He stopped next to the vacant lot, having gone only a few yards. He looked towards the old Barnaby house. He felt oddly drawn to it. Climbing over the fence of the lot, he began to make his way toward the house. He walked across the cracked pavement, wondering what he was doing. This wasn't his routine; why was he doing this?
The front of the mansion loomed closer. Its wooden siding splintered all over the outside. Various balls lay all over the ground, some so dirty that they blended with the brown grass. A sound caused him to look up. There was an old man standing in the front doorway on the porch. Their eyes met. The old man had a harsh look, but there was a certain warmth, a longing in the depths of his eyes. The old man returned to his house without a word.
That night, at the weekly game, he had trouble concentrating on his cards.
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