Boxes
Whipping his attention back to the unfurling road, he nodded and croaked out an affirmative grunt. “Don’t do that either!” Emma snapped almost playfully. “You sound like...well, you know.”
“The Gruffalo?” he jested, referring to Hunter’s book. “Sorry, I was just reading those clouds.”
Emma wasn’t buying it; to mask her indignation, she shook her blonde bangs before fiddling with the FM radio. Finding only static, she settled for the iron gray horizon. “If you want my forecast,” she mused. “There’s a 50 percent chance of rain. Satisfied?”
A coin flip, essentially? This didn’t surprise him: it was the same grim prognosis that she gave her patients at MercyOne. For a science, medicine certainly entailed a lot of guesswork. That’s why he stuck to his actuary tables. Rather than provide his own forecast, he settled for the fertile desert surrounding their Toyota: sad soybean fields, dilapidated silos, rusting windmills, paint-chipped barns. A familiar, yet unwelcome, stretch of highway. Those pale white lines and potholes always induced a sickly sinking feeling. It felt like an impending break-up. Someday, he feared, the cracked asphalt would finally give, engulfing him and the truck.
“Says here that there’s a 75 percent chance,” Hunter added nervously. “And a tornado is watch is in effect!”
“At least, it’s not a tornado warning,” Paul countered.
“Not yet,” Emma said, digging into her Ergo Bag.
Paul tried to flash his son a reassuring glance, but the glowing iPad had sucked in the precocious seven-year-old. When he was his age, apple was just fruit. That’s when his father had taught them how to forecast the weather. Without a barometer, you tasted humidity on your tongue like wine. You detected wind direction with your moist fingertip. That was all a blur now. Forgotten and discarded.
“75 percent?” Emma gulped. Coughing, she pounded her chest, forcing down the Dramamine.
“We’ll be quick,” Paul affirmed. He patted her bulging thigh where, just a few inches higher, his daughter floated in utero. She was the lucky one, he thought. Blind to the storm. The nagging on mute. As for Emma, he felt guilty bringing her on this tired mission, even though she had insisted on delivering the news with him, in-person. Did she really think that he’d get cold feet? That he was incapable of going through with it?
A bolt of white lightning flashed, splitting the clouds like a zipper. Paul tightened his grip on the steering wheel until the vinyl creaked and gasped. Emma cursed under her breath as Hunter poked his head up front. “90 percent!”
…
Thunder rocked the old farmhouse. The floorboards rippled. The porcelain rattled. Lights flickered throughout the two-story homestead. It was the later that forced Mark to resurface. “Will you guys make up your minds!” he grunted, releasing a ream of yellow paper. The Edison bulbs remained defiant, however, carrying on their incandescent two-step to the thunderclap bass drum. Mark tucked away his reading glasses and labored to his feet, his bad knee cracking in protest. He started to keel over but managed to catch himself on the coffee table, spilling his water glass in the process. “Easy does it,” he whispered. Must be careful. This was his ninth decade after all. Perhaps a coffee break wasn’t such a bad idea. What’s another five minutes?
Every minute matters at your age…
The cavernous darkness caught him unawares. Helluva storm, he noted. Ought to have foreseen it, considering this suffocating humidity. He could have retrieved the lanterns from the storm shelter. His work may have continued. Mumbling to himself, he adjusted his suspenders and refilled his souvenir mug. Just what national park was this again, he wondered? Time and soap scum had faded its orange rock formation. One puzzle at a time. Peering out the dirty windows, he watched a lightning bolt strike his neighbor’s farm. He counted the seconds until the thunderbolt smashed the house like a gong.
Paullie! Paullie was coming, he realized. He ought to be careful. Out here, F-1 storms were gusts of wind - and that could shove a car to the shoulder! An F-5 would take you to Oz. Mark wouldn’t blame them if they turned back. There was enough food to last the night. Those boxes in the attic could wait. They had sat there, untouched, for half-a-century. What’s another 24 hours?
Every minute matters…
He drained the last of his coffee and returned to the living room. He then realized that he had forgotten to refill his water. No doubt, Emma will inquire about his hydration. His I’s and O’s, as she so pedantically put it. But there was no going back now: the boxes had stolen him away. Not that this was some chore - he wasn’t spring cleaning - he likened the project to architecture. Once lost in the shuffle of life, here were his blueprints. Grand designs. It might be behind schedule, but the foundation remained intact. His stomach warmed with reassurance. His synapses tickled. Yes…just a few more boxes then…it’s time to build!
Another bout of thunder succeeded in killing the lights. No power, no problem; he removed his spiral notepad and let his imagination run: Ranch wars in Alaska? A short, bloody season. Star-crossed lovers stranded on different planets? An English Sheepdog buried in a three-piece suit? Who was this doggo?!
His fossilized creativity was a labyrinth. He loved to get lost and - DONG. DONG. DONG. From its dusty corner, the grandfather clock unleashed its stabbing chime. DONG. DONG. DONG.
The antique was defective, of course - it can’t be 6 O’clock! Mark confirmed with his leather-banded watch before muting his hearing aids - no more distractions! Since lugging up that first box, errands had become footnotes. Not that horologists were easy to track down these days - did they even still print the Yellow Pages? Truth be told, loyalty had prevented him from tossing that ticking coffin - loyalty, not nostalgia, as he pointedly reminded himself. Beside the clock was a framed portrait of Mary Jane, his late wife. His father in-law - that punctual grump! - had bequeathed the Bordeaux to her along with his rigid rectitude. This is what had stood between him and his dream. Now nothing held him back.
The thunder having abated, the lights resumed their dull glow. With a self-satisfied grunt, Mark dove back into the box.
…
Puffing and panting, Paul hammered the screen door. He battled the looming storm, whose ominous thunderclaps thwarted his knocking. A hollow, wood-frame house, his childhood home never needed a doorbell. Still, it had been five minutes since his family had trudged up the warped porch. Five minutes of futile knocking. Five minutes of unanswered calls. Five minutes of protestations: Just go inside. The door is never locked. This is the Midwest for crying out loud! Common courtesy restrained him. Not that he didn’t sympathize: burdened with four grocery bags, Emma looked like a sagging palm tree. Something had to give. “Dad?” he called again. Was nobody home? Or-
“MARK!” Emma hollered, stamping her sneakers. “WE’RE COMING IN!”
Emma charged. Nearly fumbling his bag, he yanked back the door just in time. In one awesome swoop, his wife swung all four bags on to the linoleum countertop. Though she rarely admitted as much, she really was a farmer’s daughter. “Come on!”
“Dad?” Paul called out weakly. “We’re-“
“MARKKKKK!”
Creaking floorboards answered them. Paul swelled with relief. His abdominals
relaxed and he was able to reclaim his breath. “Well, he’s alive,” he noted, opening the fridge. He removed some rotting vegetables before scanning the photos taped to the fridge. In the darkness, he was unable to locate his mother or his grandparents. Wasn’t there a photo from the state fair? For years, their stand had given out sausage samples. Italian cheese and garlic was always a big hit. Now he couldn’t find a single Christmas card. Just old bills and Hunter’s baby photos.
“You’re doing it again,” Emma hissed. The bags empty, mounds of frozen food sat on the countertop like wet snow. He started tossing these into the freezer when he noticed that Hunter remained rooted to the doorway. He clung to a bundle of paper towels like a life preserver. “The st-st-storm!” he whimpered.
“I hear it,” Paul said, relieving him of the paper towels. “Be quick.”
“Wha-what if I get struck?!”
“Have those blasted screens sullied your grammar, boy?” a raspy voice interrupted. Mark emerged from the shadows sporting a wry and playful smile. Hunched and hobbling, he rolled into the kitchen like a mossy boulder. There was no denying his levity, however. His breezy vibrancy. The liver-spotted patriarch patted his grandson and raised his finger like a pointer. “The word is ‘stricken.’”
“Whatever it is,” Paul smiled limply. “The lightning rod will handle it.”
Unconvinced, Hunter skulked outside. “How are you holdin’ up, Pops?” Paul asked, retrieving the milk.
“I’m still here, aren’t I?”
“Don’t push your luck,” Emma interjected, rattling an unopened pill bottle.
“Don’t get me started on those-“
“Let me check your vitals.”
“Let me check my grandson first.”
Heat rushed to Paul’s cheeks. He might have hid in the fridge had Hunter not galloped into the kitchen, two bags swinging wildly by his sides. Out of control and unable to slow down, the handles ripped. Paul could then only watch helplessly as a dozen brown eggs splattered across the grimy tile. “Fuck!”
“God damn it, Hunter!” Emma cursed.
“Language!” Mark shouted. “It was an accident!”
Paul seized a ratty towel from the oven. He was about to soak up the bloodbath of yoke when Emma caught his wrist. “That’s an heir loom!” She dumped a handful of paper towels on the mess and dismissed him with a caustic flick of her wrist. “Go!”
“Come on, Dad.” Paul sighed, rising to his feet. “Hunter, take a load off.”
Like defeated athletes, the two men trudged out of the kitchen. Paul placed his hand on his father’s shoulder. He felt lighter, almost gaunt. Dark, heavyset bags had formed under his eyes. The wrinkles in his forehead more pronounced, like striations on a canyon wall. Time was a motherfucker.
“She means wells,” Paul started. “She wouldn’t mention the meds otherwise. We want to keep you around for as long as possible.”
“Oh, I’m not done yet,” his father chuckled dryly. “I’ve only just begun!”
Mark outstretched his trembling arms to reveal a warzone of disorder: battalions of boxes, platoons of paper, an old typewriter with half its keys missing. Claustrophobia gripped Paul. He felt trapped. Ambushed. “What the hell is all this?!”
“My life’s work!” his father declared
And he’s proud of this?! Rubbing his flushed cheeks, he scanned the patchwork of Post-It notes. This, he knew, was hopeless – he never could decipher his father’s hieroglyphic chicken scratch. Were these old accounts? Though his parents had intermittently raised chickens and pigs, his grandfather’s butcher shop had paid the mortgage. All that was before Hunter was born, however. “Are you revisiting the books?”
“Yes…In a sense…”
“Look, my kid is crying. My wife is pissed and pregnant. Can you please-“
“We settled our accounts in ‘09! After the crash. You know that better than anybody. These are my books.”
Paul was speechless. When he first opened the perimeter gate, his principal concern was his father’s health. His physical health. Lately, this had been a recurring nightmare: the gray corpse contorted across the brass bedframe; the sagging face; dry drool; those lifeless blue eyes staring, not back at him, but through him. He could almost taste the sour urine...Now there was an entirely different concern.
“These are my ideas,” his father continued. “My novels. I never had the time to write. Until now.”
A sharp feeling of betrayal supplanted his irate curiosity. It was as if his father had been hiding a second family. “Just where did you stash all this?!”
“The basement. I’m surprised you never took a peek.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t break your hip!”
“It’s paper, Paullie! But if you’re so concerned, you can help me get the rest out of the attic.”
“There’s more?!”
“Tons! It’s my life’s work.”
“You’re a butcher, Dad. That was your life’s work.”
“That was my job. This is my passion.”
“You can thank Grandpa Jack for that.”
“Don’t get me started on Cracker Jack! That peevish, philistine. That-”
“You’re not a writer, Dad! You’re saying that it took 80 years to find your voice?!”
“Well, I’ve always had that! Time on the other hand... I just need my notes and…”
Paul might have laughed if the scene wasn’t so sad. Pitiful. Dementia, it appeared, had corrupted his father. And just when he was ready to close this chapter in his life. He could only shake his head and pace through the clutter, prodding the unopened boxes as he went. Everything smelled like mildew. More so than usual. “And write what exactly?”
“I don’t know…the next great American novel?!” he laughed. “If only I could find it…”
That would have to wait. Now, he realized. Now was as good as any time. It was time to deliver the exciting news, or what should have been exciting news.
…
A move? A big move! At a loss, Mark could only hang back as Paul unloaded the fusillade of news. The changes. Permanent changes.
His son wasted no time in spewing his pent-up vitriol. They were tired of Iowa. Tired of the country! Abysmal education, expensive healthcare, overpriced housing, stock bubbles, crooked politics, something called a culture war. Much of this flew over his bald head, but like an iceberg, one sore fact remained floating above the surface: he was being abandoned.
The rant went on for ten minutes. It went on despite Paul’s voice becoming heavy and hoarse. Jesus, Mark thought, he sounds like a thirsty dog. A rabid, conceited dog. Did his son really believe that he had never veered from this path? This life? That he was never skeptical? That he lacked ambition? Creativity?
Thunder cracked overhead. Rain battered the slate shingles. “Paul!” Emma yelled. His son shot back, demanding another minute. “Tick! Tick!” Emma pressed. This must have been her idea! That yacking sand hill crane never set right with him. Those wide, unwomanly hips. Buttresses fit for a limestone cathedral. She might’ve fled her father’s farm, but she couldn’t mask that foundation. Maybe he would have warmed to her if she were kind. Respectful. Just accept the family! But keeping your maiden name? A fucking hyphen?!
“There is a lot of insurance in Ireland,” Paul continued. “Health insurance even! They’re very business friendly over there. Forbes likes them quite a bit.”
“I’ve never heard of Mr. Forbes…”
Paul laughed awkwardly before carrying on, but by now his audience was lost: Mark was preoccupied with own future. He was too old to travel over the county line, let alone overseas. Those lazy summer days on the porch with his grandson were over. Sundowning.
DONG. DONG. DONG.
“You still haven’t gotten that fixed?!” Paul scoffed.
“PAULLLL!!!”
An F-5 twister whipped through his skull, scattering Mark’s thoughts. Suddenly, the floral wallpaper was shifting. Dizzy, he grounded himself with Paul’s voice. It was a good thing the boy sold insurance, peddling a service that everyone needed but nobody wanted. Such a tiring pitch. Just get to the point! “We’re leaving!” Emma shouted.
“I’ve made arrangements,” Paul said flatly. “Luke will check in on you.”
That name sounded foreign, yet also familiar. Mark knew it, knew it well, in fact. It was slippery. Eventually, like some forgotten grocery item, it came back to him: Luke was his son! Evidently the fact that Mark hadn’t spoken to his youngest son in years was incidental. Like everything else, Paul had ironed out the logistics. So why weren’t they confident in this new arrangement?
It wasn’t until the wind drowned out his soliloquy that Paul noticed Mark’s twitching discomfort. “You good?” he asked sheepishly. “With all this…”
He certainly was not all right, although old grit prevented him from admitting as much. He needed his rocker. His notepad. His hand flew to his breast pocket. Empty. Everything felt different. Rearranged. All these ugly brown boxes…Right! His masterpiece. Maybe he was living it: the loyal, steadfast son abandoning his senile father. Strong premise, that one. Experiencing it, on the other hand-
“EMMA!” Paul shouted, reaching for his wrist. “Dad’s having a heart attack!”
Delirious, Mark swatted his son’s advance. He called for his pen. His notepad. But he couldn’t recognize his own voice. The words seeped out like sludge. The room gyrated into a crowded blur. Walls within walls. Emma flew into the center. Fuzzy and out of his focus, she sprouted glimmering, ruby red wings. For the first time, she seemed genuinely concerned. “Get the kit!”
Numb, his knees gave, and the walls collapsed in on themselves. The moth-worn rug flew up to bite him on the jaw. It didn’t hurt - nothing hurt anymore. Was that a water stain on the ceiling? Better add that to the list. If only he could find the pen! Just one more footnote before… before…
END