It was a clear, cool April night, the kind when you're wishin' that spring was here, and the calendar says it is, but when the season's chill north wind tells you it's not.. He walked back into town, through the quiet darkness of the streets, and into a place that had once meant so much to him. He returned out of the night and out of the dark, places where he had been as no one. He knew each step of this place, as he measured them along the smooth-worn sidewalks of his past. Such was the home of his youth. Such was the home of his youth.
Even as he walked, he felt the waves of memory wash over him, even though it had been some twenty years since he had last come this way. Even as he passed over once familiar and still familiar terrain, and regarded the sights that loomed up out of the blackness, he felt a sense of comfort with both the memories and the place. He knew it well. Yet he knew it not at all.
He walked until he found a coffee shop, not quite all the way into the town, but far enough that he felt the comfort and knew he could rest. He got his coffee and sat in a corner of the place, put his knapsack against the wall, and pulled his tobacco and papers from his jacket pocket. He rolled the cigarette with care, as he always did, performing the oft-repeated action with a ritual deliberateness, studying the finished product for a moment, seeming to weigh the success of the job, before putting it to his lips and lighting it. He had thought he should sit and have a smoke, and perhaps a thought or two, before he continued the walk into town. He was glad he'd found this place. There were people, but only a few, so he could be by himself for a few moments more. He thought he needed that.
Finally, though, he felt it necessary to continue his journey. He had had all of these past two decades to himself, and now it was time for others to return to his life. Since that long ago time when he had left this place behind, thinking he would never return, such had been his feelings in those dark days, when the father and son had parted in anger; bitter, apparently bottomless anger; the kind that may never beg forgiveness, but which may go on into the forever. Even as he stepped from the coffee shop and shouldered his pack, the thought of it caused a deep and dark pain to rise within him, until it caused him to stand and wait for it to pass. It was hard even after all this time. Such had been the feelings in those dark days.
It had been a time when fathers and sons had fought over nothing, but over everything. Over the length of hair. The choice of friends. The petulant attitude. Over everything, but over nothing. And it had led to the parting, and a mean bitterness toward one another. Not since he had left had he set foot in this place.
But now he'd passed through so much life. And he found that he must return. To lay the past to rest. Before it was too late. A time he felt was coming, even though he could not explain how it was that he knew.
As he continued the walk toward the centre of town, he found that emotion continued to wash over him as it had earlier in the form of the memories of the past. Much of the main street hadn't changed, surely many of the names of the stores had, but most of their fronts remained the same, so that the sense of comfort he had felt earlier was reinforced. It was in some ways like he had never left, so strongly did he feel the sameness of the place. Despite the destination, he found himself smiling. It was good to be home.
He knew exactly the place where he must go. He walked nearly the entire length of the town's main street, as he headed toward the place where he had spent his life when he'd been young. Although he had no way of knowing for sure, something told him his parents had not moved in all these years. It had been a comfortable, two-storey house they'd lived in, the home they'd bought when they were first married. He thought he knew his father well enough, even having not seen him for all these years. He felt the old man would always stay in the house, regardless of his financial position, or just about anything else. And his mother would go along with what he said. Because that was the way it always was. It was the way it had been back in those other times, and there would be those who would be unable to leave those times behind, even though the world had, and his father would be one of them.
The house lay just off the main street, and as he approached, he wasn't surprised to see that it was nearly the only residence left on its street, nearly all the other property now being part of one commercial property or another. He wondered how much money his father had been offered for the property, only to turn it down, as much from stubbornness as for any other reason.
Finally, he stood at the end of the sidewalk to the house. He stood feet apart, rocking in his cowboy boots, looking to the side door; the one they had always used to enter and exit the place. He felt tears in his eyes. God, how it felt. What it brought back.
He stood so for a few moments, making no effort to walk the short distance to the door, not really even knowing if his parents still lived in the house, but also knowing that they must, he having been drawn to this place and no other. It was home. His home. And he had come back to it. He shifted under the weight of the pack. Nervousness with the emotion. He breathed deeply, trying to dispel it. Without much apparent success.
Then, it was time.
He headed up the sidewalk to the door. Just before he knocked, even as his hand was poised over the door, he paused, just for a second, and wondered. But only just for a second.
A woman came and peered out of the door's window and into the night. His mother. Changed, but the same.
He held his hand up in a type of abrupt wave, as she seemed to struggle to make him out. Then, a look of recognition flashed across her face, surprise, perhaps even happiness, he thought, and he saw her fingers move to the lock on the door.
"Frank," was the only word she could apparently manage as she threw the door open.
"Momma," he answered, as he stepped inside and put his arms around her.
They just stood, silently, perhaps remembering what it had been like.
Finally, after a few moments of this silent memory, they stepped apart, regarding each other.
"Are you all right?" she asked, her voice hesitant and uncertain.
"Yea, I'm all right," he answered.
There was another silence.
"You heard about your father," she finally said.
"No," he answered, he now filled with her uncertainty. "What about Dad?" he asked.
"He's in the hospital," she answered, her voice filled with hurt and concern. "He's had a heart attack."
He felt the energy drain from him. "Oh, God," were the only words he managed. He stepped forward and embraced her again, holding her close, feeling her against him, closing his eyes and trying to draw some of the pain from out of her and into him.
"When?" he finally asked, pulling away, and swinging his pack to the floor.
She reached behind him to close the door. "Two days ago," she answered. "After supper. We were sitting and watching Jeopardy and all of a sudden he started having trouble breathing."
"How is he?" the son asked.
"He's not great," the mother answered. "The doctor thinks he might pull through if he makes it through tonight and tomorrow."
"Christ," the boy said. "I'm so sorry, Mom."
"I'm just glad you're here," she answered. "I don't know how you knew to come, it must have been my thinking about you, but I'm glad you're here." She leaned over and gave him an abrupt tiny kiss on the cheek. "Come, sit, you must be tired." She offered him a familiar chair at a familiar kitchen table.
He sat.
"Can I get you anything?" she asked. "You're sure you're okay?"
"Yea, Mom, I'm okay," he answered, "and I could use a tea, if you don't mind."
"Heavens no," she replied, as she turned into the kitchen to start preparing it. "I'm just so glad you're home. So glad."
And, as he watched her go about preparing the tea, he also wondered what had brought him back to this place at this particular time. It was an odd thing to have happened. Very odd, indeed. Or so he thought.
Later, in the night, as he lay tucked into the bed he had slept in as a boy, by the mother who had tucked him in even in those days, he continued to wonder about such a coincidence. But there was one thing he knew, as he wondered. He was glad he had come to this place. Glad for her. And glad for himself. And perhaps another would also be glad. Or so he hoped.
If there was time for such gladness. If he made it through tonight and tomorrow.
He and his mother had spent a couple of hours talking. Mostly about where he'd been and what he'd done through all his adult life, she not having known him since he'd been but a boy. And he had been many places and done many things with his life, traveling to far off locales and working at whatever presented itself on such occasions. His mother had sat across the kitchen table, appearing to listen intently, but he thought that while she might have listened, she did not hear, her mind being elsewhere, in the stark sterility of the hospital, with the man she had loved since they'd been sweethearts in high school.
And even now as he lay in his bed, and looked out the bedroom window into the reaching finger-like branches of the old maple tree that still lived outside, he found that images of the father also filled his mind. But he found that he remembered the good there had been before the bad; the happy times the family had spent. He remembered laying snug and secure in this bed on a long ago Christmas eve night, filled with nervous excitement at what was to come in the morning, if he could ever bring himself to sleep. He remembered working with his father at his grandmother's house, fixing this or that, as they had often done on the Saturdays of his youth; the old man's patience as he showed the boy how to do this or that. He remembered the two of them skating on the ice-covered river down by the dam, as they had done that one moonlit night when there had been no others around, and there had just been the two of them. They had talked about men things like hockey and how to get along with a seemingly difficult sister.
There had been good times and they were fond memories. But after had come the bad, as much his fault as the father's; or so he now realized all these years later. The father wanting only what he thought was best for the boy, but the boy was unable to see what was best, and really unable to even know what might be best. He remembered the first time he had refused to go to the barbershop with his father. "No son of mine is going to go around looking like a girl," the old man had thundered. The boy had tried to explain. Had tried to tell the father that his generation didn't see things the way the one before had. That things were different now. That the world was changing. But the father had been unable to see -- to understand. Or so the boy had thought.
That really hadn't been the beginning of their disagreements, those had started earlier, perhaps when he'd first balked at spending his Saturdays at his grandmother's fixing this or that, or maybe when he'd refused to go to church with the family one Sunday. It seemed the length of his hair became the symbol of the friction between them. He wondered if he had the chance to see the old man, whether the father would notice that his hair was short now, that finally it had been he who had relented and gotten it cut of his own accord. Looking back, it seemed so silly.
Sleep would not come to him, so he climbed out of the snugness of the bed, and slipped into his jeans and jacket. He crept down the stairs, remembering how often he had done so when this had been his home, and silently unlocked the front door and disappeared out onto the porch. Once there, he pulled his papers and tobacco from his jacket pocket and rolled a cigarette. He rolled it carefully between his fingers before putting it to his lips and lighting it.
He sat on the steps to the porch and took a long drag, inhaling deeply, as he looked out across the parking lot of the neighbouring service station to where a restaurant was located. Except for some exterior changes, the restaurant had remained nearly unchanged since he had last sat here and looked toward it. How strange it seemed to be back in this place. To have traveled the world, and to have come back here to where his life had started.
He sat and smoked, soaking up the quiet stillness of the spring night, not really even noticing the coolness. He found himself hoping that his father would be all right and that he would live to see tomorrow. Somewhat to his surprise, he found that he wanted to see the old man again. To see if anything had changed. Or if things had gone beyond change and could not now be undone. Only tomorrow held the answer. He flipped the now-spent cigarette into the driveway and went back into the house hoping for sleep.
And he did sleep, but it was a fitful sort of sleep, the kind where reality mixes with the world of dreams so that sometimes you're not sure which is which. So that he awoke in the morning feeling unrested and rumpled. The clock on the night table said it was only about seven o'clock, but he rolled out of bed anyway, sure he could hear another who was up and about in the house. He slipped into his clothes and headed downstairs.
His mother greeted him as he walked into the kitchen.
"Sleep well?" she asked brightly.
"Not worth a damn," he answered, wondering at how she could always be so bright and alive in the morning, even as she always had been when he'd been young.
"I had trouble too," she said, ignoring his profanity, and the admission seemed to make the brightness dim, so that she suddenly appeared concerned and troubled. But only for an instant.
"You ready for breakfast?" she asked.
"Just some coffee," he answered.
"It'll just be a minute," she said. "I've got a pot on for myself."
And he watched her as she fussed about the kitchen, getting him out a mug and such. It had always been "her" kitchen, even when he'd been a boy. His father had rarely ventured into it, and on the few occasions when he did, she would shoo him from it. Even his sister hadn't seemed to feel entirely comfortable in the place. It was like it was her special place in the house; the place where she felt the most comfortable. He remembered back to when he'd been nearing adulthood, to the time when things with his father had been extremely tense. An evening's entertainment had turned into a night's worth, so that it was early in the morning before he staggered home. It had been about an hour before his father usually got up for work, so he'd assumed no one would be up, and he could creep silently into the house and make his way to his room without the dreaded lecture.
As he'd put his key to the lock, opened the door, and tip-toed into the kitchen, he looked up to see his mother sitting at the kitchen table, hands cupping an early morning coffee.
"You're up early," she'd said.
"Late," he'd answered.
"Frank, what will your father say?" she'd asked, giving him her best scolding look.
"I don't care, Mom. He doesn't care," he'd answered.
"Don't sell him short, son," she'd said. "He cares about you."
He'd not answered, choosing instead to turn away from her as he hung his coat on one of the hooks behind the door.
"You're up awful early," he'd said to her, as he turned back into the kitchen.
"Just having my coffee," she'd answered.
"But Dad won't be up for an hour," he'd remarked.
"I always get up earlier than he does," had been her reply. "I guess it's something I do from when you kids were younger. I used to get up before everybody, just to have some time to think about things before all the commotion started." She'd paused. "I guess you could say it's my quiet time."
He was returned from the memory and back to the present, as she set his coffee in front of him.
"Sorry, if I'm wreckin' your quiet time this morning," he said.
"I'm just glad you're here," she answered.. "It was good to know you were in the house last night. I didn't want to be alone." As she said the last words, tears welled up in her eyes.
He rose to go to her, but she turned away, brushing the tears away with her ever-present apron.
"I'm just a silly, old woman," she said.
"I don't think so," he said ever so softly.
They drank much of their coffee in silence, he seeming not to want to disturb her time, and she seeming to take advantage by disappearing far inside herself.
"What time are you going to the hospital?" he finally asked, as he walked across the kitchen to put the now-empty mug near the sink.
"I'll go about nine," she answered., bringing herself back to the here and now and away from where she might have been as they'd shared the quiet time.
"I'd like to go, but do you think I should?" he asked.
"What do you mean?" she asked in return, her face looking puzzled.
"Well, he's pretty sick by the sound of it, and I wasn't exactly his favourite person when I left," he answered. "I don't want to set off his blood pressure or something."
"Don't be silly," the mother answered. "Of course, you'll come. He'll be glad to see you. It'll do him good," she added, and there was certainty and finality in her voice as she said the last.
So he didn't argue, instead he told her he was going back upstairs to take a shower, and he left her in the kitchen while he did so.
He felt good as he let the too hot water course over him. There had been no shower in the house when he'd been growing up, and he remembered the Saturday night bath ritual, when he and his sister would take the weekly plunge, usually after an argument about the necessity of such an action. Now he couldn't remember the last time he'd had a bath. Usually, when he was on the road, he cleaned himself up as readily as he could depending on what facilities were available, and it seemed he always ended up having showers. He'd had a few baths, but they were rare, and he hadn't had one for a while. Now, as he stood in the makeshift shower his father had pieced together in an old house not built for one, he remembered back to those bath nights, and he remembered how he'd used to like to lay deep in the water, with it just under the bottom of his nose, and watch the steam as it misted and curled off the surface.
But he also remembered his father's concern that too much hot water would be used in each bath, and it was like his Dad was outside the bathroom door even in the present as he showered, listening to the sound of the shower, timing him to make sure he used only the required amount. So he was quick about his business and the memory of the Saturday night baths was a brief one.
Finally, he sat on the front porch, with his morning cigarette, waiting for his mother to announce that it was time to go. She'd again offered something to eat after he'd finished in the shower, but he had again declined, following his habit of usually not eating in the morning.
When it was time, they climbed into his parents' car, and headed for the hospital.
There was little conversation as they drove, she seeming to be caught up in her own thoughts as she had been earlier, while he was also with his, wondering what he would find when they arrived at their destination. It had been a long time. A very long time. Perhaps too long. Perhaps too short.
His father was in the ICU and few visitors were allowed, so they had to stop at a nursing station. The nurse told them he had come through the night fine, but that they could only see him one at a time.
"You go ahead," the son said, as they stood outside the room. "You should maybe warn him I'm here. He should want to see me."
To his surprise, she didn't argue. "I suppose you're right," she said instead. "But I wish we could go in together."
"It's better this way," the son answered. "He should be prepared. It might come as a shock"
"He'll want to see you," she said, and she took her son's hand and gave it a firm, little squeeze, at the same time giving him a soft, sincere kiss on the cheek.
"I hope so," the boy answered . "I really do hope so." And he really felt like he did.
So, he waited. In the small lounge down the hall from the room. And he looked out from the hospital window down the road to where the town cemetery was located; the one where the last two generations of his family were buried. He had found it odd when the town's new hospital had been built and a site had been chosen so close to the cemetery. He and his friends had joked that it wouldn't exactly inspire confidence in those in hospital. He smiled even now as the thought crossed his mind.
But even as he smiled he found himself remembering back to his grandparents. His mother had told him last night that his father's mother was still alive, but all his other grandparents had died when he'd been very young. He could only remember his grandfather on his father's side and even he had died when Frank had been just five. And now that he thought about it, that had been the only real brush with the death of someone close he had experienced in all his life, and he remembered nothing about it, except the drive to his aunt's place in the country following the funeral. Death had always seemed like something far away; a place for others, but not him. While he'd been away, he had wondered once in a while about death, and whether those he had been close to may have perished, but that was hard for him to imagine because he remembered them all being so very young and so very much alive. He'd seen some death in other parts of the world, but it hadn't concerned him.
Even a while back when he'd been in the bus crash in the mountains, and the guy beside him had hit his head and been killed, it had seemed like nothing in particular. He had felt nothing even when he helped carry the body out of the bus, or even when those around wept and talked of the man's family. He had just felt a numbness; the same type of numbness he had carried with him on the road for all these years. And it had stayed with him for some considerable time after, until the one night just a short time ago when he had seemed to see the man's blood-covered face in his dreams, and he had also seen a vision of his mother weeping, seemingly for the stranger who had died on the bus. But perhaps not.
"Frank," he heard his mother's voice say, interrupting his thoughts and returning him to the present. He turned to see her standing over by the doorway to the room.
"How is he?" Frank asked, as he walked toward her.
"He seems better," she answered. "He seems to have more energy."
"That's good," the son said.
There was a slight pause in the room.
"And he wants to see you," she said, answering a question she knew was on his mind.
Frank said nothing at first, but he felt relief flow through him.
"You're sure he's up to it," he finally said, but it was then that he wondered whether perhaps it was he who might not be ready.
"Yes," she said. "He wants to see you," she repeated.
Still, just for a moment, he continued to stand by the window, now looking away from her, out of the window and again toward the cemetery.
"Come, Frank, everything will be fine," his mother said, seeming to be able to sense his discomfort at finally being confronted with a time he had been putting off for all these past twenty years.
He smiled to acknowledge her comment.
"I know," he said softly. "I know," he repeated just as quietly.
And he left the room and walked the short distance to another room where his father lay.
The room was bathed in a semi darkness as he pushed the door open, there being no window, no way for the bright airiness of the outside to intrude into the apparent gloom of the place. He could see the outline of a figure, apparently his father, in a bed at the other end of the room, and he could see the various monitors and other devices that stood by the bed, and he could hear the humming sound they made. He let the door close silently behind him and stood statuesque just inside, seeming to look for a sign that he should approach, while not even knowing if there was another consciousness in the room. Not really knowing what to expect.
He ventured forward a couple of half steps.
"Dad," he softly called.
There was a stirring from the bed.
"Frank," he heard his name called, but it didn't sound like his father, for this voice was filled with weakness and unsureness, not the strength and stubbornness of the man he had known in his youth.
He walked closer, until he could see the man in the bed. His father smiled ever so slightly. He was surprised to receive such a welcome.
"It's good to see you," Frank said, struggling to find the words.
The old man in the bed nodded his head just the tiniest bit but enough to show that he apparently agreed.
"How are you, Frankie?" the father asked, his voice straining and hoarse.
"I'm good, Dad," the boy answered. "How are you?"
"I've been better," the father answered. "I'm so damned tired I can hardly hold my eyes open."
"You rest, Dad," he answered. "I can leave."
"No," protested the father. "I want to talk to you."
"It can wait 'til you're well," he said.
"No. Stay," was the reply.
There was silence in the room, as the son waited, and the father paused, seeming to try to collect what remained of his shattered strength.
"It's over, Frank," he started. "I was a fool. I know that now."
"Dad," interrupted the boy.....
But the father wouldn't let him continue.
"Listen, Frank," he said, and there was conviction in the quietness of his voice. "I know we're both to blame. That's what you're going to say. But you were a kid. I could have afforded to have been more understanding."
"Dad, I was a jerk," interrupted the son.
"No more than I was," answered the father. "I caused your mother a lot of hurt," he continued. "She's the one I hurt by being a stubborn idiot. I thought you should be just like me and I couldn't understand why you weren't. So, I drove you away."
"Naw, I left, Dad," he answered. "It shouldn't have been important how long my hair was and I shouldn't have stayed out 'til all hours, and I should have got a job. Just like you said." He paused. "I haven't amounted to much, Dad."
"I can't be the judge of that," answered the father. "You're the only one who can say how your life's turned out. But I just feel that I really let you down."
The son stood in quiet, not quite knowing what to say.
"If you're surprised, you should be," the father said. "Up until a couple of days ago, I was just as angry at you as the day you left. But this thing has made me think. There's no second chances, boy. This is it."
"I think I know that too," answered the son. "I'm not sure why, but I think I know that too," and for some reason he suddenly saw the man who had been sitting beside him when the bush had crashed, after they'd carried him to the side of the road, and he lay there in death. He felt tears in his eyes.
"You're a good, boy, Frankie," the old man said. "Your mother needs you. And if I get out of here, I'll need you too."
"You'll get out, Pop," the boy said. "You're too tough to just lay there and die," and he punctuated the last remark with a smile, and reached out and took his father's hand.
The father also smiled. "I'm glad you're home, boy," he said through the smile. "Your mother tells me you've been traveling. I'd like to hear."
"When you get out, Pop," he said, softly squeezing the hand.
Again the father smiled.
"Forgive me?" he asked.
"Only if you forgive me," he answered, and he leaned over and hugged the old man.
They were both silent when he stood back up. The father's eyes were closed, his face strained with fatigue.
"I'm going to go now," the boy said.
The father re-opened his eyes, just a little and looked at him. He made an effort to nod his head.
"I'll see you later, Dad," the son said.
And this time it was the father who gave the son's hand a soft, little squeeze, and it was the son who smiled.
And he released his grip on the old man's hand, and turned and walked to the door. And just as he pulled it open, he turned and again regarded the figure laying in stillness on the bed, and he again heard the hum of the monitors and other devices. It was good, he thought. Things would be fine. He knew they would. He just knew.
He hugged his mother when he walked up to her in the lounge.
"He'll be fine," he said to her as he put his arms around her, and again he felt tears starting to fill his eyes. "He's going to be fine," he said, repeating his feelings.
"I know he is," she answered. "I know."
And he was fine, but it took him a long time to recover from the effects of the heart attack. But they worked at it together, helping him with his exercises and walking, and all sharing in the diet the doctor put him on.
And he had a chance to tell his parents, and his sister who he also became re-acquainted with, about all his travels and the rest of his life, and the house was again filled with laughter, as they shared this story or that one, as it had once been filled with laughter when they had all been younger.
And he found a job in the town, not much of a job, just cleaning offices at night, but he was resolved to stay for a while, and to get to know his parents again, and to share in their lives. And when his father was better, they went fishing together, and watched baseball games on the TV, and even once they went to the city to see a live hockey game once that season arrived. And it was good. It was very good. And he felt a belonging. Something he had not felt for many years.
And he didn't know how long he would stay, not knowing when a wanderlust, built up over the years on the road, might come again. But, for the moment, it was good to be home. It was good to remember and to be a part of the memories once again.
You only live once, he often found himself thinking. You only get one chance. Make the most of it.