by Sam Elswit
“Does he even know that I was coming?” he demanded.
“He does,” I replied, “after you sent that return letter, I let him know you’d be back today.”
Joshua kicked at a large rock in the dirt road. It flew into the neighbor’s field. He clenched his fists and visibly tried to calm himself down. He closed his eyes, inhaled then exhaled before letting his hands release.
An accusatory finger poked into my face as I started to pull my work gloves back on.
“This isn’t over,” he said, “and make sure that in the future, you stay out of my business.”
I held my hands up as though his pointing finger were a loaded gun while letting the handle of the mallet rest against my thigh.
“I meant no harm, honest,” I replied.
He leaned in close, with a stern face. He was cute when he was angry. If I weren’t so scared for my life, I might have been turned on. I started to wonder if he inherited that white-hot, irreconcilable anger from his father. Probably best not to pry right now.
Joshua stormed off, leaving his belongings on the side of the road. As he stood on the porch he turned around, nostrils flaring.
“What the hell is your name?” he asked.
I laughed to myself.
“Isaiah,” I shouted back.
“Joshua,” he replied in kind.
I couldn’t hold back my smile. In any other situation, I may have been offended. I’d never seen a grown man act so childish, and I could just imagine Bart acting the exact same way. They were made for each other.
Chapter 4
Joshua
The house looked exactly the same as it always had. It almost seemed like dad had gone out of his way to make sure of that. Even the dust on the old standing piano in the corner looked the same. The shotgun which hung over the mantle of the fireplace was the cleanest part of the whole room, but even that was starting to show some signs of wear and tear.
The front door looked straight at the foot of the staircase. To the left of the front door was the living room, cold and silent, dusty old furniture waiting around a fireplace for guests who wouldn’t come; to the right, the dining room with its old wood table dominating the space while a chest of fine china stood silently in the corner; and tucked away behind the dining room was the kitchen. It was probably the only room in the entire house which was clean. No doubt that man outside, Isaiah, made sure of it.
Upstairs, I could hear dad coughing. The echo of his deep belly cough made the picture frames on the wall jump slightly. I started to creak my way up the staircase. My feet remembered where to go, and I merely followed them to the destination.
Who the hell did that man think he was, sending a letter to me to come out and meet with my father? Sure, dear old dad was on his final throes but did he really think I wanted to see that? I would have been perfectly happy receiving a note that told me he was dead, I could have moved on with life, stayed at college without coming home.
Then again, seeing Isaiah was causing something to stir. That old feeling in the pit of my stomach yearned for another moment where I could talk to him. Maybe it was my lack of friends which made me want to know someone who looked close to my own age.
Why wasn’t he in college? He looked fit enough to get a sports scholarship at the very least. Maybe he could have been a professional rower, or football star. Instead, he’s throwing his life away to my dad on his farm. What a way to live.
My nostrils were still filled with the scent of his masculinity. Something I hadn’t smelled since I was living at home. All those city people just smelled like perfume and exhaust fumes. They barely knew what a hard day’s work was really worth. What the hell was I thinking?
At the top of the stairs, I saw dad’s bedroom door was wide open. The foot of his bed was just within view. His feet still hung off the end since he never bothered to buy a larger bed. Of course he wouldn’t.
I crept toward the door, hoping he didn’t hear me coming, but I wondered why I did so. If he knew I was coming then it was pointless to try to hide, yet somehow I felt so ashamed in the moment, like I was back to being that kid who shrank away from his torment.
“Jesus Christ, just come in already,” he shouted from inside the bedroom.
I realized I’d been holding my breath and exhaled, reluctantly walking forward into his darkened room.
The windows were drawn closed, the beige drapes stretched down to the floor letting in only the dullest cracks of light. Beside the bed sat a standing tray, covered in pill bottles with pills of all shapes and sizes. In the center of the room on his king sized bed which was still slightly too small, lay my father.
His once burly arms were crossed over the flannel blankets of his bed; a mountain of pillows was stuffed under his back to keep him upright. The expression on his face told me that he’d had enough of lying in bed.
“Took you long enough,” he said.
I began to swivel on my heel but was stopped.
“Wait!” he shouted. I paused, let out a drawn out sigh and returned to my place, leaning against the door frame of his room. “Look, I’m new to this whole … making up, thing. Okay? Just talk with me for a minute.”
It felt strange, looming over him as I did. I started to wonder if this was how he felt when he yelled at me before I left to go to college. This overwhelming sense of power came over me, as though I could leave at any second and there was nothing he could say to get me to stop. Still, I lingered. My curiosity had been piqued.
I strode into the room, pulling open the curtains in the corner to let some light in. He lifted his hand to press the sun away from his face. The natural light filtered in, showing the ghostly pallor which had taken hold of his body. His skin was no longer that vibrant red I remembered. The color of his veins marched the length of his skin.
I felt bad for shoving salt in an already wounded man, so I tugged half of the drapes closed to return him to his artificial night. I leaned against the window that overlooked the road, gazing down at the stranger Isaiah as he went about his work on the fence.
“How’s school?” he asked.
I blurted out a guffaw. I’m sure he didn’t even care.
“It’s fine,” I replied, snidely.
“How are you doing in your classes? I hope better than high school,” he added.
“Why are you asking about this?” I spat at him, “I know you don’t really care.”
“I do care,” he said.
“If you cared so much then why didn’t you give me your blessing when I left?” I asked.
He went silent and thought about his answer, the first time I’d ever seen him do something of the sort. In his silence, I stared back out the window. Isaiah really was a fine looking man. I watched closely as he tore off the flannel shirt he wore to reveal the rippling muscle I hadn’t bothered to notice until now.
With his mallet back in his hands he set about hammering in another stake. His body moved with precise rhythm as he’d bring it above his head only to crash it back down with all his muscle in unison, ending with the satisfying thud of his mallet striking the post.
“What would you have me say?” he asked, snapping me from my moment, “I was a father trying to connect with a son who didn’t want anything to do with him.”
“Didn’t want anything to do with you?” I asked, trying to pull my attention away from the window. I crossed my arms and leaned my head against the window frame before turning to face my father again. “I worked my ass off for this farm. I did every chore you asked of me and then some.”
“You also snuck out just about every night to play with your friends by the river. You did your chores but you did them all just enough. I was looking for a partner who could manage the farm when I left,” he said.
“I’m not your partner,” I shouted, “I’m your son!”
He went silent again. I waited to see if my real father would reveal himself. I expected shouts and cries, and holy damnation, but instead he just leaned his body back into the pill
ows and slumped further down into the bed.
“I’m sorry,” he half spoke, half whispered.
“What?” I asked. There was no way I had heard what I thought I did. My father didn't apologize for anything.
“I’m sorry,” he said a little louder. The dinging of an alarm brought him to action. He reached his arm over to the tray of pills to silence the timer, followed by him grasping at a pill bottle. He fumbled with the top for a moment.
I couldn’t stand seeing him so weak. I wanted the loud, crass father I’d grown up with. Guilt brought me to his aide. I stepped over to the bedside, snatching the bottle from his hand. With a quick twist the top came loose and I returned the bottle to him.
“Thank you,” he said, weakly.
I exhaled as I returned the top to the bottle and placed it amongst the rest of its kin. I took a seat in the nearby chair, moving a book half-read to the nightstand. He gulped the pills using the glass of water from the tray.
Where had my father gone? This wasn’t the man who raised me. This was a doppelganger occupying his body. I wanted to leave.
“I wanted a better life,” I offered.
“I know,” he said, returning the water to the tray, “I know.”
“But you don’t,” I replied, “if you had it your way you would have had me sowing fields and tending to this stupid, old house. You think I have good memories here? I don’t. You wanted me to be your partner but you raised me to be your slave. Did you really want me to be out there building your fence like that man … Isaiah?”
My heart jumped into my throat when I said his name. I couldn’t understand why.
“You leave that kid out of this,” he replied, “And, for the record, he came to me. I didn’t find him.”
“What?” I wondered.
“He saw me comin’ out of the grocery store. Helped me with my bags since I could barely lift them. Said he didn’t mind helpin’ out around the place if it got him 3 square meals and a roof over his head.”
Someone like Isaiah working for food and shelter seemed like a joke. I nearly laughed, but considering how much the medical bills must be costing, I started to think he might be telling the truth.
“There’s no way that’s true,” I scoffed.
“You can ask him yourself,” he replied.
“Okay, then I’ll do that,” I said. I stood to leave but somehow started feeling nervous. That rumbling in my stomach gripped at me hard. It was a feeling I’d never really felt before, but felt so natural. I sat back down in the chair beside my father. “I’ll ask him later,” I added, “it’s not like he’s going anywhere.”
I lied. I couldn’t fathom talking to him now. I’d embarrassed myself earlier during my introduction. No doubt he was probably angry with me. It would probably be for the best to let him finish his work; then maybe we could talk.
The image of his muscles flooded and took hold, not wanting to release my mind. My father quietly fell asleep beside me, and here I sat, planted and unable to move. Why couldn’t I just get up and talk to him?
Chapter 5
Isaiah
It was a funny sight, walking in on Bart and his son napping the afternoon away. Joshua had his arms crossed with his head rolled over his shoulder. His father almost mirrored him perfectly. If only they knew how much alike they were, rather than poking at their differences.
I sat the tray of food on the dresser. The aroma of the piping hot stew filled the room almost instantly.
“Supper’s on,” I said. Joshua snapped awake, almost falling from the chair on which he rested. I had to stifle a laugh while looking away.
“What’s for dinner?” he asked.
“Just a stew I threw together,” I replied. Joshua’s father opened his eyes and smiled.
“I knew I kept you around for a reason,” he said with a big grin.
“I’m sure that’s the only reason,” I replied, “Did you take your afternoon medication?”
The old man grunted then leaned over to the pill bottles. I pushed my way between the chair and the bed to help him with his medication as I always had. Joshua didn’t budge and stood his ground, or in this case, continued sitting in the chair.
“You know I set a timer for a reason,” I said, resetting the small electric timer.
“That thing gives me a headache,” he replied.
“Better a headache than,” I paused, but that didn’t stop Bart.
“Death?” he asked with a hearty belly laugh, “It’s not like I can do much to stop it now.”
Joshua slurped at his stew loudly, saving me from an awkward line of conversation. I handed the old man some food and he did the same as his son. They really were cut from the same cloth.
“How’s the field?” Bart asked.
“It’s fine. It’s been taken care of just like always. Looks like it’s gettin’ pretty close to harvest,” I said.
“Good!” he replied, “at least you’ll have a little bit of income when I’m gone.”
Again, the room went silent. Having nowhere to sit, I leaned against the corner of the dresser, which I used as a table, and ate my meal.
“You know dad, you could maybe tone down the death talk,” Joshua chimed in.
“Where would that get us? Are we goin’ back to sunshine and roses?” Bart replied with another belly laugh, “There’s really no point in ignoring the facts.”
“There’s the dad I always knew,” Joshua jumped in sarcastically, “Saying shit that really doesn’t need to be said.”
I could feel the tension begin to mount. Joshua was poised for an argument; one I knew would be best to avoided considering Bart’s condition.
“I’m goin’ into town tomorrow,” I interjected.
“Again?” the old man wondered, “Weren’t you just there this morning?”
“I need some good nails for the fence. Tried to reuse some from the barn but they’re all bent out of shape,” I replied.
Bart grunted his approval.
“I’ll come too,” Joshua added.
‘Great,’ I thought, ‘just what I needed to deal with.’ Now instead of just meeting up with Phillip, I would have to find a way to ditch the old man’s son as well.
“Sounds good,” I said, choking back some stew.
“This stew reminds me of what Joshua’s mother used to make,” Bart said, “Did I ever tell you about when I met her?”
“Oh great, here we go,” Joshua added, “Dad, you’ve told that story a million times.”
“Yeah, but he hasn’t heard it,” the old man said, gesturing to me with his messy spoon.
I have to admit, I was curious. While Joshua and his father looked fairly similar, there was a sharpness in Joshua’s cheeks that was definitely not inherited from his dad. There weren’t any photos of Joshua's mother around the house that I’d noticed. In fact, there weren’t any. Most of the photos were of young Joshua and occasionally there’d be one with his father in the background.
“Tell it,” I said.
Joshua groaned and slumped further into his chair. He sat his empty bowl on the dresser beside him then clasped his hands over his stomach.
“She was the jewel of the fair,” Bart started, “that sun dress she wore billowed around in the wind so much it looked like it might just fly off her at any second, and honestly I don’t think I would have cared if it had.” He laughed which turned into a heavy cough. I offered a hand to pat him on the back but he waved me away.
“Matty ran a pie stand. I must’ve eaten half of her goods before I finally came up with enough of a stomach to ask her out.” He handed me his finished bowl of stew, which I placed on the serving tray.
“I felt pretty damn sheepish taking half a day to do anything at all. I don’t think I’ve ever been so scared in my life. Hell, I’ve stared down wild bulls and none of them had my heart pounding like the moment I asked her out.” I could see Joshua’s mouth moving. He parroted his father’s story and exaggerated his hand motions.
His father reached a hand out and slapped his son weakly on the shoulder to make him stop. Josh laughed and readjusted himself in his seat.
“Her name was Mathilda,” a tear started forming at the corner of his eye. I wondered how many times he’d held that emotion back when talking about her. A large man like him living out in the country never cried.
Even Joshua had an expression of surprise on his face when he saw the tears start to flow from the bear’s eyes. It was clear as day to me they were getting to him. He swallowed hard to stop his own tears from forming, but when that began to fail he stood up and shoved his way out of the bedroom.
I did nothing to stop him from leaving. It must have been years of emotions which had built up only to be released at this one moment. I thought it best to just leave him be.
“I think I should let you rest,” I said. I reset the timer on the bedside. The old man nodded, and layed back in the bed with the covers pulled tight over his chest.
I pulled closed the open curtains, and as I did, I saw Joshua standing beside the sycamore. His shoulders drooped and his head leaned against the old tree. He looked so sad, I just wanted to hold him and tell him it was okay to feel. I wanted to whisper to him that everything would be alright in the end. If he didn’t want to be held, then perhaps he at least needed a friend.
I closed the bedroom door to let the old man sleep soundly. I returned the tray to the kitchen, and yanked two beers from the fridge.
A nice breeze blew across the porch. The screen door slammed shut behind me, signaling my approach. Joshua glanced from the tree to see me standing there with beverages in hand. I lifted the beer to show him what it was then set it down on the porch beside me, as I took a seat; letting my legs dangle over the edge.
It was a nice night for a drink; Joshua must have felt the same way as he shook off his feelings and joined me on the patio.
“It’s okay to be upset,” I started.
“What’s the supposed to mean?” he asked, taking a hearty chug from his can.
“Men can have feelings too,” I said. Joshua laughed.
“I really don’t get you,” he said.