Hmmm... just when I finally start to really give this a try, I get a job. I'll do my best.

# 5

The back hatch on the van wouldn’t close. Jack pushed down again, bouncing up and down like a pogo stick, shoving with both arms hoping that whatever he was crushing would finally break and allow the door to slam shut. It had crossed his mind several times to simply break something himself and toss it into the bushes along the side of the garage but the audience of neighbors and in-laws helped keep his frustration simmering just under the surface. Keep the show rolling, stay calm and smile. He reviewed the plan while rearranging the boxes again, letting a cascade of kitchen stuff fall loose from a splitting box and spill under the back seats: I have some job possibilities lined up in San Diego. I’ll get settled, get an apartment, then Julie and the kids can move out in a month or so.  It’s all planned out. The more times he said it, both out loud to whoever would listen and to himself, and sometimes out loud to himself, the more it took on the hue of truth. Jack clung to the truth where he could find it, held each scrap and shred tight in his hand even as he carried boxes to the van, the grip leaving marks on his palm and causing his knuckles to ache.  I’ll get settled. He knew that if he did not take these truths, did not pack the shards deep under the sheets and pillowcases, down in the bottom of the cookie jar stuffed with recipes and drawings from the fridge, tightly wedged inside books and photo albums the truth might simply dry out, crackle and flake away along the highway until not even dust remained when he stopped.  This, packing his essential belongings into a well worn minivan, was the only sane, safe answer; this, going to live and work and deal with the consequences 2800 miles away, was a brand new start for all of them. It’s all planned out. The truth was slight among the eddies of conjecture, alibi, fabrication, rumor, and secret that had become their life. Jack’s world was fractured, chipping apart, a collage of realities that were overwhelmingly unfocused, even if he stood back and squinted at them all pinned up on the wall. He focused on the solid elements, the words he could pull out to form a complete sentence. A brand new start.

“No Edna, I told you already, we’ve been working on this for a long time,” taking another single item from his mother-in-law she had carried out to add to the load. “I told you it’s not like I’m escaping under cover of darkness. Thank you for the spatula.”

“But I don’t see why all three of you don’t go together? Find a job here and save enough to move out. As a family. Together.”

“Because ‘together’ does not fit in a Plymouth Voyager parked in a strip mall’s dark corner attempting to sleep on boxes of all our worldly possessions. And this calendar. Thank you.”  Jack had always liked Edna, felt instantly guilty for being a smart ass, but knew there was no need to worry or apologize since she would return in five minutes and have the same conversation over again and had probably not really heard a word he had said.

“‘Go west young man!’ Edna, the man thinks Californ-eye-ay is the place to be -- swimmin’ pools, movie stars, all that. He’s gonna make his fortune then send for the fam, don’t you worry.” He could give Jack the corner of his eye which said, fleetingly but unmismistakably I could be the one who puts you down like a dog on a dark street. But his speech and grin was always off just enough to show the world he was merely the daffy old dad, content in the easy chair on the porch.

“Right. Don’t worry. And by next summer you two can come visit us, dip your toes in the Pacific Ocean and go to Disneyland. Hand me that duffel bag, would you please?”

# 4

The back hatch on the van wouldn’t close. Jack pushed down again, bouncing up and down like a pogo stick, shoving with both arms hoping that whatever he was crushing would finally break and allow the door to slam shut. It had crossed his mind several times to simply break something himself and toss it into the bushes along the side of the garage but the audience of neighbors and in-laws helped keep his frustration simmering just under the surface. Keep the show rolling, stay calm and smile. He reviewed the plan while rearranging the boxes again, letting a cascade of kitchen stuff fall loose from a splitting box and spill under the back seats: I have some job possibilities lined up in San Diego. I’ll get settled, get us an apartment, then Julie and the kids will move out in a month or so.  It’s all planned out. The more times he said it, both out loud to whoever would listen and to himself, and sometimes out loud to himself, the more it took on the hue of truth. Jack clung to the truth where he could find it, held each scrap and shred tight in his hand even as he carried boxes to the van, the grip leaving marks on his palm and causing his knuckles to ache.  He knew that if he did not take these truths, did not pack the shards deep under the sheets and pillowcases, down in the bottom of the cookie jar stuffed with recipes and drawings from the fridge, or tightly wedged inside books and photo albums then the truth might simply dry out, crackle and flake away along the highway until not even dust remained when he stopped.  He focused on the solid elements of this collage of realities, the intersections between multiple worlds where he could stop and feel relatively secure, able to stand for a minute without being buffeted by pressures and consequences.  This was the only sane, safe answer; this was a brand new start for all of them. Jack’s world was fractured, chipping apart, a collage of realities that were overwhelmingly unfocused, even if he stood back and squinted at them all pinned up on the wall.

# 3

...ensuing combination could be affirming or rancorous, sweetening or souring based on the top note added from the first exchange inside the room.  Leaving was no less fraught with danger: his father’s eyes could flicker immediately from the glassy wet of sleep or delirium to a razor focus. Like a crocodile’s frozen maw luring prey into careless complacency, the old man’s face possessed the ability to shift from relaxed wax, calm and still with heavy damask cheeks, to instant ice, reddened with the fury of the repeatedly wronged.

Faron kept his eyes open just enough to catch any movement towards the door. Through the screen door haze of his eyelashes he watched his son tiptoe around the recliner, pressing his hands against his thighs to still the car keys and coins in his pockets. God how he wished he had the power to make Jack’s phone, always new and increasingly full of tiny things Faron did not understand nor care about, ring out loud the instant he slid his hand inside his pocket or held the phone inches from his face to see the settings in the shadowy room. He wanted to blink like Jeannie or wriggle his nose like the witch and then bark out with delight when Jack jumped startled, wide-eyed, fumbling to silence the phone. Sometimes Faron got so caught up in thinking it could happen just as he wished that his son would look back, forehead knitted, concerned at the spasms on his father’s face. He would cross quietly back to the chair and softly, slowly brush away the unseen hair or dust tickling the now calm, settled face. Faron played along, relaxed his eyebrows and did his best to express contentment in a long, slow exhale.

Jack moved on cat feet around the room, watching without appearing to study his father as he settled down.  Sometimes the old man spoke just as Jack thought he was finally asleep, carrying on their afternoon conversation or reliving an event from ten, twenty, thirty or more years ago and either way expecting the appropriate response no matter who, and when, he was talking to.  Jack had become well practiced in the generic reply, showing Faron he was listening without getting caught pretending to be someone he was not -- Goddamn hot in here sure we can’t crack a window? Just a sec Dad, I’ll let in a little breeze. You can’t open a window on a goddamn B-52! What the hell, trying to get us killed? Never put on a uniform one day in your life and now you’re telling me about U.S. of A. fighter planes?  Jack dusted shelf edges with his fingertips, straightened frames that didn’t need to be, stepped with care on the alert for empty cups, candy wrappers, a fallen cane, anything that might create noise on his way to the door.  Leaving before Dad was asleep, or worse, waking him when he really was, could splinter a good afternoon, send both men careening backwards out of their hard-won peace. After several trial and error disastrous endings Jack had honed his pre-door knock routine, preparing as a ________ for any possible problem. It’s not that he didn’t want to see his father, or wanted to turn on his heels to leave as soon as he walked in the door, but when he was ready to leave, or his father was ready for him to leave -- Well, I’m home, don’t you wish you were?, he really needed to leave.  He turned off his phone, put his keys in a different pocket, cracked his knuckles and did a few deep knee bends, slowly and thoroughly so no joints would pop and creak when he stood to leave. He used to take his shoes off and leave them outside the door but after his father noticed -- What are you, a mama-san? Why do you have to be so sneaky? and he lost a new pair of Nikes to Mrs. Fleeg down the hall (Really Mrs. Fleeg, you wear a size 12? They go nice with your housecoat and walker.) Jack simply wore his quietest shoes and hoped for the best.  Usually it worked, the two old rivals had wordlessly choreographed a truce, a  meeting of the picket line sentries, an acknowledgement of mutual love and need that more often than not sifted into afternoons of calm, ease, affirmation. Nonetheless, after every visit it was a relief to slide through the barely opened door and step back out into the hall, which despite the stale air and echos of winding down lives allowed Jack his first deep breath since knocking on his father’s door.

# 2

Jack pulled the blanket up tighter on his father’s shoulders, careful not to brush it against the old man’s gray stubbled chin. He tucked gently, almost absentmindedly, concentrating on anything else in the dim room apart from the task at hand; neither man gave any attention to the act itself, the tucking in, the signal another visit was ending, and through this unacknowledged cooperation the separation ritual was allowed to continue. His father usually wound down with a few sighs and drifted off, into sleep or the television or 1962,  Jack never could tell. All he could study was Faron’s chest, the slowing, calming rhythm that allowed both men to finally breathe deeply, a slow cleansing release of survivor’s relief.  Every visit also began with exaggerated respiration, one on each side of the peeling blue door, the son steeling himself, clearing his head of the world outside and of the past rearing up wildly from the base of his brain, curling around his head’s gray fissures and settling in, tainted water seeking the cracks on a driveway, tendrils filling every route of thought. He exhaled the past, a full burst to the last drop in his lungs, leaving the infested air on the door jamb where he would be sure to catch it upon his first breath back outside. At the quick rap on the door, quiet to not startle the old man into confusion and anger but loud enough to be heard, for a slept-through visit was a sin on par with Hitler’s, the father’s sharp intake of breath was always sparked with surprise, of long-suffering faith rewarded, of despairing doubts stomped on and kicked out. On both sides of the door the air was heavy with a palpable mixture of dread, apprehension, agitation, and regret, both men knowing the ensuing combination could be affirming or rancorous, sweetening or souring based on the top note added by the first exchange inside the room.

Get Started

I’m a rocket man. Damn, just love the power of those engines pushing a 100 foot cylinder of metal out into space. All that smoke and exhaust and you can see the solid column of flame pushing the earth away, separating the vessel from any ties to where it was made.  There’s a visible strain, a trembling of all tangible evidence the rocket was formed by hands, by another being’s ideas and effort and desire to put the rocket to his own use and then... there is freedom. An absence of sound, a loss of breath. Weightless, loosed from the planet’s hold, the rocket is gone.

“Did I ever tell you I used to work on those rockets, Son? Oh yeah, lot of firepower around in those days, in that nitrogen fuel and those bottles in the desk drawer. Not a day went by that some suit stopped me walkin’ by his glass walls and said ‘Parker you sumbitch we did it again. Come have a toast to the U.S. of A.!’ And I of course obliged him, always good to drink with a man and get to know what you might need to know someday. Don’t forget that Son, don’t ever miss the opportunity to shake a hand, slap a back and shoot the shit -- they’re all regular guys, just like you, get past the fancy suits and be one of the men in the right room! How you ever gonna be somebody if you don’t meet somebody that already is?

“Anyways, that’s what we used to do.”

I pulled the blanket up tighter on his shoulders, careful not to brush it against his chin unless I wanted to hear the “damn scratchy blankets and where’s my stuff from home” diatribe.  If I tucked him gently, without either of us giving any attention to the fact I was tucking him in, he usually wound down with a few sighs and drifted off, into sleep or the television or 1962 I could never tell since his eyes stayed open just enough to catch movement towards the door. I tried leaving my shoes outside his door, dusting the shelves and picture frames around the room slowly, step by step, paying extra attention to the last picture by the door, the one of my parents on New Year’s Eve, which I dusted with my left hand as my right slowly turned the doorknob. A throw pillow had been strategically placed on the floor under my celebrating parents to catch the feather duster as I scraped through the barely open door into the hall, which despite the stale air and echos of winding down lives allowed my first deep breath since knocking on his door.