by Will Allison
After dinner, Lyle followed us back to the farm for a nightcap, at which time Cal suggested a round of golf in the morning. We’d play at Forest Acres, then have lunch in the clubhouse. I told him I wasn’t ready to play in front of other people, but he just clinked his brandy glass against mine and told me to follow his lead. “Remember,” he said, “you can observe a lot just by watching.”
Shortly after I came to live with my grandfather, I decided to join my mother in heaven. My father had been gone for weeks, and though I’d not yet given up on him, I wanted to punish him for leaving me, and I wanted to punish my grandfather for thinking he could take my parents’ place. With half a peanut butter sandwich in my shirt pocket, I climbed out the dormer window of my bedroom and onto the roof. Below me, the propane tank glowed dull in the moonlight, a soft patter of raindrops on its metallic surface. My plan was to jump, but after I stood there awhile, gauging the distance between me and the ground, I decided to run away to heaven instead. From the corner of the roof, I was able to reach the chinaberry tree, but as I shimmied past Cal’s window, the branches scraped glass. By the time I reached the wet grass he was there, smoking a cigarette and looking at me like I was a mule. He took my hand and led me back inside, where he toweled my hair, helped me into dry pajamas, and tucked me into bed. On his way out, he stopped at the door. “Look here,” he said. “If you want to run away, I’m not going to stop you. I’m getting too old for that.” Then he shut off the light.
But the next morning, in spite of himself, he was up at the crack of dawn with his tools. He nailed my screen shut, pruned the chinaberry tree so that its branches no longer reached the roof, and installed deadbolt locks on the doors. For weeks, he slept with the keys on a string around his neck, and unlike my mother, who in my place probably would have stolen them while he slept, I was comforted by the thought that he wanted to keep me close, that I was too precious to be let go.
After we finished our brandy, Lyle and I went back to his apartment and got busy making up for the previous night. We ended up oversleeping and had to hurry to the farm the next morning, when we were supposed to meet Cal. As soon as we turned off Bluff Road, I knew something wasn’t right. The newspaper was still in the yard, the porch light still on. Inside, the house was silent, save the ticking of the cuckoo clock on the mantel.
We called an ambulance, but it was too late. Cal sat slumped in his recliner, an empty pill bottle and rock glass on the table beside him. He still had his suit on, and as he sat there, motionless, it seemed as if the wide lapels were pressing down, pinning him against the worn upholstery. He did not look peaceful so much as deflated, his lips parted where the air had left him.
While Lyle was talking to 911, I held Cal’s hand like I should have done when he died—like he would have wanted me to, though of course he’d never have asked. I was crying so hard and so loud that Lyle had to take the phone into the bathroom. It was bad enough that Cal was gone, but to think he’d died alone because of me, because I’d left him no choice but to go behind my back, that was almost more than I could take. My tears were making a spotty mess of his trousers. His skin was already cold, his fingers stiff. I would learn later that he’d been dead for hours, that he’d probably taken the pills as soon as we left.
When Lyle got off the phone, he came back into the den and put his arms around me. In between sobs, I tried to make him understand this was all my fault, but he kept insisting I wasn’t to blame, that regardless of what I’d said or done, things had turned out more or less the way Cal planned—he’d simply done what he thought was best, and we had to accept that. I knew Lyle was right, but even so, it would be a long time before I could forgive any of us. He was still holding me when the medics arrived, sirens splitting the morning air. “Careful,” he said, gently prying my fingers loose from Cal’s. “You don’t want to bruise him.”
About the Author
Will Allison’s debut novel, What You Have Left, was selected for Barnes & Noble Discover Great New Writers, Borders Original Voices, and Book Sense Picks, and was named one of 2007’s notable books by the San Francisco Chronicle. His short stories have appeared in magazines such as Zoetrope: All-Story, Glimmer Train, and One Story and have received special mention in the Pushcart Prize and Best American Short Stories anthologies. He is the former executive editor of Story. Born in Columbia, South Carolina, he now lives with his wife and daughter in New Jersey. Learn more about Will Allison at www.willallison.com.
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Contents
Long Drive Home
Acknowledgments
Praise for What You Have Left
About the Author