# 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.