Alas, 5:30 a.m. came far too quickly. I dressed hurriedly as the first rays of light began to brighten the dark sky. A splash of frigid water from the faucet slapped my sleepiness away. Somewhere, Charles was fast asleep. Father was already downstairs buttering a piece of toast in his work attire. I followed suit. Day one had begun.
Even as we walked to the store, I could feel the heat setting in. Hours later, with my white-collared shirt itching at my neck underneath my red and white striped apron, the heat was an oppressive force. The ceiling fans did little but lazily swirl the hot air around. The customers all came in looking flushed and glistening with sweat. It was just one of those days. I longed to go lie in the stream behind our house and feel its wet cooling embrace, but it was not even lunchtime yet.
It was strange seeing Father in this environment. As soon as customers walked into the store, he became a different man. He smiled and chitchatted about the weather and other small-town news, but as soon as people left, his shoulders slumped and his eyes went dead. It was as if every last ounce of his humanity was given toward those brief encounters, leaving him exhausted behind his facade of health and happiness. It was difficult to believe that this same man who came alive with his customers was my own father who collapsed into his chair every evening, a mere stoic shell of himself. His stubborn pride didn’t allow him to admit his woundedness, so he lived a lie.
There was no place for vulnerability in his world. Vulnerability and emotion were weakness, and Father saw it as his calling to be strong. So he kept up the walls and ramparts while the interior of the castle lay in ruins. I tried to convince myself that there must be some way to free the soul hiding behind those walls. There must be a way to rebuild one small stone at a time.
I put out the “CLOSED” sign and turned off the lights. Day one of work was done. “Tom, go ahead home. I’m going to double-check the register and check the receipts.”
It’s okay, Father; I’ll wait for you.” I could tell that my presence was throwing off his routine, but this was my one real chance to talk with him. I hoped that these few minutes caught between work and home would somehow provide the opening I needed.
Once the aprons were hung up and the door was firmly locked, we meandered home. My legs ached from standing all day, and I was ready to collapse into a chair. “Would you care to join me for a smoke out on the porch, Father?”
“Not today, Tom; I’m too tired.”
That was the end of discussion, and we walked home in silence. Every day I asked him the same question. A week turned into a month, and every day the answer was the same: “Not today, Tom; I’m too tired.” Like water running across a stone, I swore I would slowly wear him down. He could not avoid me forever.
In the evenings, I took to walking in the woods. There I was free from the oppression of home and work. I often smoked my pipe as I walked about, surrounded by a sweet-smelling cloud of tobacco smoke. At first, I felt like a stranger in those woods. It was like seeing an old friend whom you have lost touch with; there is that uncomfortable feeling-out process. But I found the forest to be forgiving, in spite of my long abandonment. The trees and hills called to me, beckoning me to find peace in the embrace of their branches and grassy knolls once more. I began to find my ear again, and I could hear the rhythms of life that had long eluded me, melodies that had been drowned out by my own preoccupations.
It was as if I puffed on my pipe and was whisked away to an imaginary land. There, amid the bearded moss and creeping vines, I soon began again to feel the harmony I so deeply desired. Inspired by beauty, I would return home to write late into the night, long after the ashes of my pipe had gone cold, and this too was part of my healing. Eventually, even the long days in the store with my father became bearable because of these sweet times of escape into the land.
The cycle of waking, working, and walking was interrupted one afternoon by the arrival of a letter from Charles.
Dear Tom,
I hope you are enjoying your summer as much as it is possible when one is with family. I think that after a few more weeks with my brothers and father, I will pull my hair out. I cannot fully express to you just how much they grate on my nerves. They treat me like a small child. I was hoping you would be able to come and visit for a week to help alleviate my suffering. I know this is probably quite rude, but if you feel you cannot leave, perhaps you would be willing to have me come stay at your place. For the sake of my rapidly disappearing sanity, please respond with due haste.
Sincerely,
Charles
Charles certainly had a flair for the dramatic. I could imagine his agitated state as he penned the letter. The continual pecking of his brothers and father seemed to be getting the best of him. I supposed his brief taste of freedom at Locklear now only served to make his near imprisonment all the more unbearable. It made more sense to have Charles come to my home so he could get away from everything.
I walked into the study to petition my father. “I received a letter today from my roommate, and I was wondering if he would be able to come spend a week with us later this month.”
“I don’t think so, Tom,” was his flat reply. “The house is not fit for guests.”
“Charles won’t care about the house, Father. I’ll be sure to tidy up before he comes.”
“I don’t know, Tom.” He looked at me with those tired eyes. I could tell he wasn’t too keen on the idea, but he also wasn’t going to fight me.
“How about this: I’ll tell him he should plan to come up for two days, and if he isn’t too much of a bother, he can stay longer.”
“Okay.” Father leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Three sentences, and he was all talked out.
I walked back to the kitchen table and wrote Charles a brief response. He would be coming next week, which meant I had just a few days to clean up the clutter that had collected since Mother’s death.
I’m not entirely sure why we didn’t move things at first. Mother’s little sewing room remained untouched all these years later, like a silent shrine to her passed spirit. The door was unlocked, but neither of us ever ventured inside. The upstairs hall was littered with items just as they’d been on that fateful day. It was as if we had expected her to return from a long holiday and wanted things to be exactly the same when she arrived. Her clothes remained in her dresser drawers, and even her toiletries remained in the bathroom cupboard. Father was still waiting for her.
I walked around upstairs, looking at the chaos that had become so normal to me. I dared to step into the sewing room. Like a trespasser, I tread carefully on the dusty floor and stared at the bed in the corner and the desk, still covered in once bright colored cloths, now coated with grime. The shades were pulled over the window, making everything look dark and depressing. I flipped the wall switch, and the light sputtered to life. In the light, I looked at the room as if with new eyes. It was time to break the spell of mother’s presence in this place. In fact, it was long overdue.
I returned to the room with broom and brush in hand, ready to do battle. I stared down the enemy and began to fight. I attacked cobwebs and dust, and I placed piles of objects in a large box as prisoners of war. I shook out the quilt, which fought back by leaving me sneezing and coughing with dust in my lungs and in my hair. I placed pins and needles and spools of thread into an oversized sewing basket, along with scraps of cloth and clothing patterns—shrapnel. I remade the bed and mopped the floors for good measure. It was long past midnight before my cleaning frenzy ended. Standing back, I looked at the room. It was as if it had been re-born, cleansed of its filth and sadness. I wondered what Father would say.
The next night, I tackled the hallway and bathroom. I picked up the vase filled with dead flowers—freshly cut the day my mother died. There were boxes and other miscellaneous items, most of which I threw away. In the bathroom, I carefully lifted mother’s toothbrush from its spot on the sink and gently tossed it into the trash. Then I noticed her old perfume bottle sitting on the shelf. Unable to stop myself, I sprayed it into the air. The smell triggered my memory so violently that I was forced to sit down. Tears streamed down my face as I remembered Mother in her beauty and her zest for living. Moments long gone kept running though my head as I thought of our warm summer days playing together while laughing and loving. Oh, how I missed her. There was no stopping the flood of tears and memories that ran together, streaming in splashes of color and sadness. Finally, the flashbacks faded away, my heaving shoulders stopped shaking, and my breathing began to slow. The smell lingered as if she’d just been in this room. But I knew better. She was gone.
I told myself I had to keep going as I tore down the moldy shower curtain and began to vigorously scrub the tub. Suddenly, Father was standing in the doorway with a stern look on his face. “Tom, what are you doing?”
I stared up at him with a tear-streaked face and knuckles white from my iron grip on the scrubber. I did not know what to say, so I knelt before him in silence. Father looked past me at the empty slot where mother’s toothbrush always hung and caught a whiff of her perfume. I could see his neck tense as he fought to maintain his composure. His words came out with a cold edge. They were dangerous and teetering. “You have no right to come in here and start changing things. Everything is fine the way it is. This is my house! Do you understand that?”
I stood up and looked him square in the eye. I had been silent long enough. “It’s my house too. We can’t live this way any more.”
“Silence!” he roared. “Do not talk back to me, son!”
I screamed back, “She’s gone, Father! When are you ever going to admit that? She’s not coming back. She’s dead!”
In the blink of an eye, my father’s hand cut through the air and struck me across the cheek with such force that it caused my neck to snap back, and instantly I could feel my face begin to swell. Never in all my years had my father hit me. I saw a look of terror in his eyes at what he had done; it was the look of a man who realizes he is completely out of control and has no answers. The color drained from his face, making him look old and ghostly. Unsure what to do, he turned and fled down the hall. I watched his retreat until he disappeared down the steps. The man I saw fleeing was not my father.
I walked out into the night, needing to escape, needing to find a way to make my heart stop hurting so deeply. When would the pain be over? Would this wound never heal? I was tired of fighting. I was not strong. I was not brave. I was not a prophet.
Emotionally and physically exhausted, I collapsed onto the ground. Underneath a blanket of stars, a soft breeze caressed my face, its cool hand easing the sting of my swollen cheek. I felt the soft earth, still warm from the day’s beating sun, against my back. The moon, glowing brightly, appeared big enough to reach out and touch. Resting my head on a rock, I felt a calming presence envelop me. I drifted off to sleep and dreamed of a giant forest filled with sunshine and towering trees. I walked for what seemed like ages in those ancient woods. All around me sprung beautiful flowers and sumptuous fruit trees. Mixed in with the very air of that place was a sense of the Divine. When I awoke, the feeling of divinity lingered with me, dancing at the edges of my vision and my consciousness, just out of grasp, but still very present. Almost beyond human description, it was a saturating peace that somehow soaked into my very flesh and marrow. I made my way home, still in a dreamlike state, and slipped quietly into bed.
As the morning sun’s rays chased away the darkness, I embraced the new day with an uncommon energy. I did not know what this Saturday would bring. Downstairs, I found a note on the table from Father.
Tom,
I had to leave early this morning and will be out late.
Sincerely,
Father
I was not surprised by his absence, but I planned to use it to my advantage. I knew what I was planning was wrong, but I didn’t care. It had to be done. I gently pushed open the door to my parents’ bedroom and peeked in. There was the disheveled inner sanctum of my father’s world. Piles of old clothes and other items lay strewn about. On the bedside table stood a framed photograph of my mother and father on their wedding day. I almost didn’t recognize my father—he was smiling! I pulled out drawers still filled with mother’s clothes and tossed them into garbage bags. I might be thrown out and disinherited, but I was determined to rid this place of its stagnant death. Fragments of the previous night’s dream played in my head as I worked, but more than the images that remained was the impression. There was a recognition of God’s closeness. I cannot explain how or why. Where before I sensed his absence, now I felt as if he had drawn near.
When I was finished, the only reminder remaining of my mother was the picture on the night stand. As a final touch, I pulled open the blinds and let in the sunlight. Then I went to pack my suitcase and wait for Father.
Nothing was said that night or the following night or the third night. My stuffed suitcase sat at the foot of my bed untouched. Father had decided not to fight. Life carried on as usual as if nothing had ever happened. The night before Charles was scheduled to arrive, I unpacked my suitcase.
CHAPTER 25
Charles
CHARLES’ TRAIN PULLED INTO THE
station in a puff of steam that rolled across the platform like a billowing cloud. I saw him peering out the window and waved. His face lit up, and he waved back frantically. Obviously, he’d been cooped up on the train for far too long. Charles was the first one off the train—he leapt out of the railcar. Large leather suitcase in tow, he skidded across the wooden boards and gripped me in a bone-crushing squeeze.
“Tom, old boy, I’ve never been so glad to see you in all my life. A few more days at home, and I might have been tried for murder, if you catch my drift. Anyway, no need to discuss that. How have you been?”
“I’m doing well, Charles. I’m very excited that you decided to come. Things around here are awfully dull.”