Home: Part 32

What follows is a work of fiction. Nothing here is either true or relevant. Read at your own risk. Expect nothing, and that's exactly what you'll get. Oh: This could go on for a while.

March 1982

After a winter of steady, persistent rain, spring arrived as sunshine and dry weather. Kathy and I were sitting on the small balcony outside our apartment’s living room. Trees in the woods behind our apartment complex had been budding slowly for several weeks, but on that first day of spring they seemed green and alive.

“I like this so much,” Kathy said. She leaned back in her chair and turned her face to the sun, the first time we’d even seen the sun in three weeks. She undid two buttons on her tan blouse and bared her skin to the sun.

“It’s a nice change, isn’t it?” I asked. I could see that the creek running through the woods was still running high.

“Speaking of change,” Kathy said. “When I was shopping with Holly a couple weeks ago, she said she might be pregnant.”

“I thought you said she couldn’t have kids.”

“That’s what changed, I guess. Something must’ve clicked the right way.” Kathy’s older sister, Holly had been married for nearly a decade. Andrew, her husband, owned a Ford dealership and had done quite well. The two of them lived alone in a large house Andrew surrounded by walnut and almond orchards his parents had planted when they were first married. An arborist and all around environmentalist, Holly managed the orchards for her in-laws.

“I assume she’s happy about it,” I said.

“She’s starting to be, I think. She’s just now far enough along to tell people.”

“That’s good news, then,” I said.

Kathy didn’t say anything, just undid another button so that the tops of her breasts could absorb the sunlight.

Home: Part 31

What follows is a work of fiction. Nothing here is either true or relevant. Read at your own risk. Expect nothing, and that's exactly what you'll get. Oh: This could go on for a while.

January 1958

The roads were slick. My father took each turn carefully as he drove me, Cindy, and Terry to church. Terry and I sat in the back seat; I kept my face turned toward the window and watched heavy flakes of snow fall so thickly around us that I could see nothing beyond the car. My sister had prevailed and convinced Terry that I should accompany them. My father had suggested earlier that morning that it would be a good day to stay home, that he didn't relish the thought of driving across town to get Terry, then another few miles to the church. 

"It's Sunday," Cindy had told him. "It's god's day. He'll watch out for us."

"God doesn't work like that," my mother had said as she stood with her arms crossed and watched us leave the house.

Cindy was in front of my father and me. She stopped walking and stared at my mother. "You don't understand god, Mom."

"Maybe god should do the driving today," my father said. I knew he was joking, but Cindy would have none of it.

"You, too, Dad. You think Sears is going to save you? Or Mom? Or anyone?"

My father sighed. "Not save us, but at least feed us. Let's just go, okay"

Terry lived in a two-story farmhouse that was surrounded by large trees. He was waiting at the end of his driveway when we arrived, and the box of church bulletins he'd brought with him was now between us on the slippery seat. Occasionally as my father rounded corners, the box slid against my thigh, and Terry was quick to retrieve it. Once, he set his hand on my half-leg, looked at me, and told me to leave the box alone, as though I had a part in the matter.

At the church, Terry and Cindy bounded out of the car and left me behind. My father helped me navigate snow drifts that had been plowed against the sidewalk. "Be careful," he said. "God sure the hell doesn't want you to fall."

I looked at where Cindy and Terry had gone. "Do I follow them?"

My father seemed to evaluate things. Perhaps he'd hoped that I was in Cindy's care and that he could just go home. "No, I think you want the big building, over there." He pointed to a set of large double doors through which mostly old people were entering. "That's the sanctuary, or something. Where the service is. There are places for you to sit there. Someone will help you. An usher."

I considered my options, one of which was getting back into the car and going home with my father. "Where do I go when things are over?" I asked my father, who was already getting back into the car.

"Right here," he said. "Or find Cindy. She won't forget about you."