The Long Road Home
The man he feared for so long was no longer. Memories of the old man invaded from time to time, more often than usual lately. Flashes of his father ripped through reality, invading his life, his space, refusing to just let him be. Even as he loaded his truck, Jason remembered a vacation. He was eight and they were supposed to go to Disney World. Something he said, something he did must have set the old man off, he wasn't sure now. But he was sure it was his fault, it always was. At least, that's what his father always told him. That day the old man had yelled and yelled about something, some chore that wasn't done, some secret wrong doing that wasn't discovered until just as they were leaving. Whatever it was, Jason had screwed things up once again. Instead of leaving for vacation, they spent the night in the emergency room having his broken arm set. "Damn kids," his father told the doctor, "I never have understood the attraction to tree climbing." He never did apologize for breaking my arm, Jason thought as he slammed the door.
Now he was dead. The call had come the day before. Jason remembered how big and scary the old man seemed growing up. He spent most of his youth hiding from him. As a man, he spent most of his days trying not to be like him, but more and more afraid of becoming him every day. He was supposed to go to see this man be laid to rest; the people there would be talking about him, this great man who would be missed. All Jason could say is that he was glad the old man was finally dead. The funeral would be on a Wednesday.
This was supposed to be his weekend with his son. His ex wasn't very happy about his call saying he would have to be out of town instead. To her it must have seemed like another way of running away. Their relationship wasn't always so rocky. Before, it was young and fun, intense and passionate. Theirs was the kind of love people envied, other couples struggled to attain it. When he left, she cried. She begged him to stay, begged him not to walk out on their family. She didn't understand what he feared more than anything was that he would be his father. He never wanted kids. He had always thought to spare a child of growing up with a father like he had grown up with. When she told him she was pregnant, he knew he had to go. He figured an absent father couldn't hit.
He knew he had broken her heart; he had broken his own in the process. Some days he thought of her less than others. He loved her, she was home to him. He hated himself for letting his fear overpower his love for her and his son. Now though, his weekends with his son were precious. He would go to pick him up from the little ranch house they had once been so happy to buy. She would walk him out, always looking more beautiful than he remembered. Kyle always ran ahead, his cotton-white curls bouncing around his head like a halo. He would take a running leap into Jason's waiting arms, clapping his pudgy little hands together like two-year-olds do. She would smile softly, sweetly like the young girl he once knew so well, and they would exchange niceties before Jason drove off. That was how he spent every other weekend. The ones not spent that way were spent wishing he knew how to be a better man.
The sun was setting as he drove away. The hours ticked by like the dotted lines that separated the highway lanes. He smoked to pass the time. He listened to music between cigarettes. He thought when he had nothing else to do. He thought about the old magnolia tree he used to climb in their backyard, he thought about his first kiss with the little blond haired girl who lived next door when he was eight, he thought about all of the times he had wiped tears from his mother's eyes.
His mother, she had been his saving grace more times than he could count. She told him when to hide, she warned him when she knew it would be bad. When she died, he thought the old man would finally kill him. He had no protection anymore. He was ten when she was gone, it was the first time he had ever hated anyone. He didn't even hate the old man for the beatings, not yet. But he hated her for leaving, hated her for taking the pills. Her note said she was sorry, said it was too much. He remembered thinking, as he looked down on her in the coffin how peaceful she looked, like she had laid down for an afternoon nap. Jason couldn't even take deep breaths or hold his arms too close to his sides on account of his sore ribs. His hand grazed lightly over ghosts of the bruises as he remembered. That was the moment he hated her, he envied her peace. He hated her for leaving him.
Thinking about her was too much and he was thankful for the bright light of the midnight diner that broke the monotony of the long, black road he'd been driving for so long. He put out a half-smoked cigarette as he stepped out of his old truck. Standing felt good, like an old friend you just met after years apart.
Inside the diner he sat in a daze, calculating in his mind how much longer he had to drive. He stared at the swirls of cream floating in his coffee. As if on instinct, his hand wondered to his breastbone, to find that old medallion, as it always did when his mind was blank.
The activity around him did not serve to break his daze. The truckers driving in from the dark, abandoned highway sat road-weary enjoying mediocre coffee and cigarettes.
"You know," he said to the woman he noticed standing next to him, "this was the only thing he ever gave me. It's supposed to be for protection. Damn thing never worked to protect me from him, though."
The woman, who he did not know, muttered something he did not hear. "I'm not sure why I've kept it all these years," he continued on. "Nostalgia, maybe. No, that can't be it. I think it's because getting this piece of metal was the single most important event in my life. It's the only time I ever felt like he actually loved me."
"Sir," the gum-smacking waitress next to him said, yanking him back to reality, "that's great and all, but all I needed to know is if you wanted more coffee."
"Oh," he answered her quietly, "no thank you."
He began making his way down the black highway once more. The road signs were few and he drove the roads from memory, though he wasn't sure how. It was almost half of his life ago since he had made the trip. All those years ago, when he was driving away instead of toward, he was only seventeen then. Jason left right after high school, and he'd only stayed that long because the old man said he couldn't finish. He was always telling Jason how stupid he was. So, Jason had stayed, finished school, and then he left. Since then, he hadn't been back. He had never had a reason to go back. As he drove, Jason couldn't think of one single reason why he was going back now. The only reason he was going back was because of his father's death, but his father's life had never been a reason to go back - so why should his death be?
Most sons would go their father's funeral out of love, but that wasn't the case for Jason. What he felt for the old man definitely wasn't love. He never could figure out quite what it was he did feel, but love was not it. As he drove, he smoked; as he smoked, he contemplated why he was making this trip. After miles of possible reasons, he finally realized it was out of obligation. As if a son was ordered by some cosmic rule to be at his father's funeral. Surely that was a rule, wasn't it?
The long, black highway eventually turned into familiar streets and signs, gliding past old landmarks and buildings he'd known from boyhood, past the First Baptist Church, the library, and the city hall. The sun was just peeking over the horizon when he pulled into the driveway of the old farmhouse he grew up in. Not much had changed. The trim was more dingy, the paint more chipped, but the house still seemed the same. Jason really didn't feel any of those home feelings, only a sense of ambivalence, which was strange for seeing your childhood home for the first time in fifteen years. For a minute, he tried really hard to feel something, but it just wasn't there.
He walked across the front lawn, the grass moist and shiny from the morning dew, to the front door. He started to knock, then chuckled to himself wondering who he thought would answer the door. He wasn't sure if he would even be able to get in. He tried the handle and it easily gave under his hand, granting him entrance. He stood in the doorway listening to the quiet. Part of him expected to hear the violent sounds of the old man moving about, glass breaking, something banging, the familiar sounds he had heard so many times before. There were no sounds, and he felt relieved.
The house had not been touched as of yet. No one had gone through his things, no cleaning or carrying away. The house smelled of old, dank cigarettes. The smell made him look with disgust at the old burns on his arms from the old man's cigarettes. Jason was sure all of the junk that cluttered the closets and attic was left untouched, probably since his mother had put it there all those years ago. He scanned his line of vision for any remnants of her, something that might be left after all of these years. There wasn't anything. He couldn't even smell her anymore, like he always could right up until the day he left this place.
Memories once again invaded Jason's mind, memories of the years he had spent here. He could see down the hallway into the kitchen. Those were the walls Jason had been thrown against. That kitchen was the same as the night the old man had poured boiling water over his hand. He looked up the stairs that loomed in front of him. They looked smaller than he remembered. Jason had "fallen" down these stairs a few times. As he climbed them now, he wondered how much the old man had changed his old bedroom. The door to the room was shut. The hallway had not been painted in all of those years, and residual paint hung in peeling tatters as they tried to remain at their post. Jason reached out and touched the knob to the door, and as he opened it he was surprised the room he sought refuge in so often had not been changed. Jason's old chair was still in the corner, as was the stereo he had paid for himself with money he'd earned doing yard work around the neighborhood, and the old Van Halen posters still hung next to his Reggie Jackson memorabilia. His tattered old bed he'd slept in all those years had never been replaced, it was the same one he'd wet as a kid, and the same still his feet hung off of before he left home. His old desk and bookshelves still stood in place in a corner. Jason wasn't sure if the old man left everything because he was sentimental or lazy. He walked over to the closet. He paused with his hand on the door and looked in the mirror that hung on the front of it. The man staring back at him didn't seem much different than the boy who had walked away all of those years ago. His shoulders were broader, his eyes a little wiser, but only a little.
There was no point to this reminiscing, this time travel he was doing in his mind. He had left this place to escape him, so he didn't have to hide in his own house. He didn't have any of those warm-fuzzy childhood memories you always hear about, his memories were material better suited for some after-school special, or better yet an R-rated movie. Disgusted with himself for trying to pretend his life had been normal, he left for the funeral. Maybe the sooner he went, the sooner the old man would go into the ground.
The cars were already lining up for the processional when he got there. Unsure of what to expect, Jason pulled into a parking space close to the door and swallowed the lump forming in his throat as he went in. Inside, people huddled together, comforting each other through their difficult time. One lady looked up from the shoulder she had been crying into. Before Jason could avert his eyes, he had caught her attention. He recognized her from church years ago. Now she was coming toward him with a tear-streaked face. With a broken voice she whispered to him, ..My you turned out so handsome... She took his hesitant hand into hers. ..I am so sorry for your loss,.. she went on, ..Your dad was such an inspirational man. I always loved to see him sitting in the deacons' row during church service... Jason thought he muttered some response, probably ..Thank you...
Flowers and plants lined any available wall space, ornate and fragrant. Jason could feel the eyes of so many people on him who thought the old man was a hero, none of these people really knew his father for the monster he was. They knew the deacon who was in church on Sunday, not the man who beat his kid on Sunday afternoon. Jason tried not to let his astonishment show as he made his way to the guest book. He stood there, pen in hand, staring for what seemed like hours at the space waiting anxiously for his name. He couldn't decide what should go there. What words do you write for a man you hated, a man who stole everything from you? Countless people had put their names down ahead of him, but surely none who held such disdain for the old man. Without signing the book, he put the pen down in exasperation and made his way toward the open casket.
He knew he had to make himself go, or he wouldn't ever. Before he realized what he had done, Jason was standing in front of the coffin. The sight of the old man in death shocked him to the core of his being. He had expected rage. He had fantasized about spitting in his face, laughing to the horror of onlookers, maybe even dancing on the bastard's grave. But now, as he stood looking down on his body, he couldn't do any of those things. Maybe death made you smaller, the old man seemed so much smaller than Jason remembered. He looked for some hint of the anger and hatred he was sure the old man spent every day of his life boiling in. What he saw baffled him. There was no anger to be found, only fear tucked behind an apathetic smirk. Jason searched deep within to bring up his own anger, he wanted to let his father know how much he still hated him after all of these years. He searched until his mind was spent, and finally realized there was no anger left. Finally, after all of these years, Jason felt nothing for this man who terrorized him, this man who personally orchestrated the hell of his childhood. He couldn't even feel sorry for him.
Jason turned to leave. He had no penance to pay, this day of atonement was not his. He was not his father, he never had been and never could be. There was no reason for him to see this man buried, no pretense he had to hide behind. So he left once again. Only, this time, he wouldn't look back, not ever. His journey wasn't over by any means, he was only setting out to travel the long road home.
