Trigger Warning
Jack Avery shivered on the wooden deck that overlooked his backyard and the woods beyond. There was no smoking in the house he shared with his wife Denise. He lit a Marlboro and thought of how many times he considered bucking the rule and smoking in the living room. He worked too hard to be handcuffed by stupid rules, right? In the end, it was always easier to keep the peace, step outside, and feed his craving.
It was the Saturday after Thanksgiving, and what he craved even more than nicotine just then was a break – a break from the darkness that hounded him after his father’s death eight months ago, a break from the inescapable holiday tunes he was already sick of, a break from his visiting in-laws, and maybe a break from Denise. Just when their marriage went stale was hard to say. Trying to pinpoint when was like spotting a road sign in the thickest fog. It’s there somewhere, but you just can’t find it; in fact, maybe you passed it. When he thought of it at all, which was not often anymore, he could not figure out what it was that couples did to prevent losing each other, but he knew he had driven in the fog for quite some time.
He stepped inside where Denise’s brother Bill sat in the Lazy-Boy sipping Woodford Reserve. Bill’s two kids played at his feet while his wife, along with Denise, and her mother, gossiped on the couch. The TV blared unattended.
“Smokin’s gonna kill you,” Bill said with a smile.
“Bourbon’s going to kill you,” Jack answered. He wanted to say my bourbon, but didn’t.
The in-laws’ visit was always a day or so too long, and they had reached that point yesterday. Jack grabbed his long black winter coat from the hall closet and jammed a fresh pack of smokes in the pocket. Denise spotted him. “Where are you going?”
“Out for a little while,” Jack said. “I’m feeling a bit restless.”
“Oh-oh, Denise,” Bill said with a laugh. “Better watch him. He’s restless.”
Jack ignored him.
“I think you should stay. We have company,” Denise said, her expression hardening.
“I’ll be back. I just want to get a start on going through my Dad’s things.”
“Now?” she said. “You have to do that now?”
“Yeah. I won’t be long.”
Denise rolled her eyes and sighed with disgust. Jack didn’t wait to hear any follow up line she might have planned. He started for the door, picking up a bottle of Jameson from atop his liquor cabinet. Jack felt the bracing cold air of freedom as he closed the door behind him.
He hadn’t cried when his father died, not even at the funeral. They had stopped being close years earlier. There hadn’t been a real argument between them in years, yet a dormant, volatile cloud, separated them. Differing opinions on politics, religion, cars, careers – each a nagging little land mine that together created a zone impossible to cross. It doesn’t matter, Jack had thought. It’s just life. I don’t really care. But here he was, driving down Route 61 to the storage units where his sister Louise had taken the old man’s belongings after they cleaned out his house. Jack wanted to throw it all away, but Louise had packed most of it and was certain that the myriad boxes contained things they should inventory.
Jack undid the padlock and sent the metal door clattering upward. He faced five towers of boxes of differing heights, a coffee table on its end, two pole lamps, two table lamps, one with a tattered shade, a complete lawn care set including a Craftsman lawnmower, electric hedge trimmers, three weed eaters, and an assortment of shovels and rakes. His father’s well-worn black recliner now supported three boxes, the top one bulging with old correspondence and utility bills. Jack and his sister had agreed, their dad had saved everything, but Jack couldn’t understand why Louise thought three year old water bills had to be reviewed. “So much crap,” Jack mumbled. Framed pictures with cracked glass, ancient camera equipment, a mound of ugly Hawaiian print shirts, enough ties to represent the entire history of neckwear, and hats – stained flat caps, bucket hats, newsboy caps, a Boonie hat, two fedoras. “Junk,” he said, shaking his head. “All junk.” Despite the absurdity, he felt a tinge of anger toward his father for the worthless inheritance surrounding him. “You, who always prided himself on leaving nothing undone, left me this.” Then, in an exaggerated will-reading voice, Jack announced, “And to my only son Jack, I bequeath shit, all this shit.” Jack reached for a wide-brimmed black fedora, shook it out, and put it on his head. He slid a box away from the towers, sat down, and lit a cigarette. A light rain had started to fall, and cars whooshed by, probably families on their way to holiday shopping.
After a few deep drags, Jack opened a cardboard box. He pulled out a musty Army uniform. Louise had told him that she had packed some “old army stuff” and that she thought he would want to look at it. He tore off a gold pin with U.S. on it and fastened it to the fedora before shoving the box away with his foot.
The Jameson weighed heavy in his pocket, so he opened the bottle, took two chest- burning swallows, and set it at his feet. Jack reached for a cheap, metal strongbox. It was deep, and despite having a hasp there was no lock. Inside were personal possessions from his dad’s bureau. Jack opened the purple felt case and saw the gold wrist watch his dad wore only on Sundays. The jewels and cutaway face which revealed the workings had been a childhood fascination. He gently snapped the case shut. There was the initial ring his mother had given to his dad for his fiftieth birthday. Jack thought the old man had been buried with it on; clearly he was wrong. It showed signs of being worn, and Jack knew his father loved the ring. Inside was an inscription from Jack’s mother: “Love forever, Elizabeth.” Jack felt a slight pull on his heart. He recased the ring and placed it beside the watch.
Bundled with a rubber band was a thick stack of greeting cards that his father had saved. There were some from Jack’s sister, but most of them were from him. In fact, Jack believed every card he had ever sent to his dad must have been there. He had even saved the envelopes. Jack opened several of them and was faced with his own scrawl, never much writing, and nothing very sentimental. He had always been too hard or too busy to let emotion slip in, but just then it hit with heavyweight force. Tears crept into his eyes, as he realized how little he knew about his parents, about feelings, about love. He reached for the whiskey.
The next two boxes were filled with pictures. It was as if remnants of the last forty years had been shuffled and tossed together in a salad mix of memories. Smiling out of a 3×5 frame was eight-year-old Jack and his dad with fishing poles lakeside. “He framed it,” Jack mumbled, wiping away tears and lighting a cigarette. “I can barely remember that day, but it must have meant a lot to him.” Jack leafed through photo after loose photo of his mother at home and on various trips she had taken with his father. She had died sixteen years ago when a less than benevolent God had let her rot to death with cancer. Jack had learned not to let her into his thoughts because he missed her. They had always been close, and her absence made even good memories hurt. In the palm of his hand, Jack held a photo of his parents from some event they had attended, or maybe an anniversary. They were formally dressed – the old man even had a carnation on his lapel – and mom wore a corsage. It must have been twenty-five years ago, but there they were, smiling at each other, clearly in love. It gave Jack a cold rush. He had never thought that his father had treated his mother well enough, being a man slow to praise and used to being waited on; still, his mother had been completely dedicated to him. He had to admit it; they must have done something as a couple to stay together.
Between swigs of Irish whiskey, he kept pulling bits of his photographed childhood out of the box. He shook off a chill and realized that evening was on the way. He closed one box and lifted it onto a stack. He was about to close the second one when he noticed a flowered envelope sticking out from a photo album. Its age made it fragile; it required tenderness. The note inside was from Jack’s mother to his father, and she had written it before they were married.
John,
Thank you for taking me bowling and dancing this past week. I hope that you had as much fun as I did. Since we have been dating, I have come to know that you are a kind man and a strong man. I have never known anyone like you, and I have never wanted to be with someone as much as I like being with you.
Jack felt a bit like an intruder, finding it hard to imagine his parents as so full of youth, life, and love. He ran a sleeve across his eyes and read on.
I know that some of the girls at work are jealous because I am so happy and probably talk too much about you at lunch, but I don’t care. I don’t plan to spend my future with them anyway. That I hope to do with you. All of the plans that we talked about for our future, a home and a family, always pick me up when I’m feeling down. Only you can make me feel that way.
Always your girl,
Liz
The words of his mother, the shame of not recognizing how people close to him had felt, his hard-heartedness at not allowing that his parents could possibly have loved each other, had known something that he did not – how a couple stayed a couple – punched him hard in the chest. He sat and cried openly. Between gulps of whiskey and drags from a cigarette, he cried.
Finally pulling himself together, he pocketed the love note and replaced the box. He pulled the door of the storage unit down. It came to rest with a metallic rattle. Jack fastened the padlock. Then it was back to his car and the drive past Christmas lights just then flickering on in the gathering twilight. The rain had changed to snow. Jack Avery was on his way home to look for his relationship. He hoped that Denise was not too angry to help him find it.