He finally got to the phone. The message played, he punched in his code and then her number. It didn’t take long; she answered on the first ring. “Hey there, I’m sorry to call so late, how are you?”
“I’m alright, are you ok?”
He laughed, “Yes, I think that today of all days, I’m alright”
“Are you ready for tomorrow?”
Her question didn’t surprise him, he’d been asking himself the same one for a long time. He laughed again. It was a clear laugh. A good laugh. It dropped from his lips like precious gems – stones the world had done its best to crush and failed. Like a child’s, it had the piercing, guiltless ring of unadulterated joy.
“No, I’m not; but I’m very much looking forward to it.”
They had discussed the time and details many times already; there was no need to confirm them again. They talked another fourteen minutes, the call ended, and he went back to his bunk. He was all packed, what needed to be given away had been given away. His only bag was packed with a life’s worth of letters, stories, holiday cards and photos; a tattered book on Zen was on top of the pile. He opened it again, his fingers easily finding his favorite passage and read himself to sleep in prayer, smiling the night through.
As usual the click of the lock woke him. His eyelids flickered, and he went to eat breakfast. People greeted and congratulated him in the cafeteria; many came to shake his hand, slap his back. His name was called, and he smiled at his friends. Those who travelled with him showed the way for whom the road stretched onward.
He was processed quickly and uneventfully. The process of rebirth was not as painful as on the way in. A peristalsis of metal and concrete lovingly squeezed him onwards and outwards. Forms were signed. Procedure was followed. His picture and fingerprints were confirmed. Finally, he was given an old bag of clothes. The ones he had last seen when he was still young. He changed quickly and with distaste, but efficiently with respect for time. Another bureaucratic and architectural contraction, and he slipped out the side of an unmarked door into a parking lot of no longer familiar vehicles.
He walked quickly away from his previous home and came to the edge of the curb. He looked up at the sky; he stretched his hands wide, his wrists connected by nothing but his own flesh and bones and breathed deep of air that only he would discern the taste of. He fell heavily forward on his hands and knees to weep. The strong, silent still weeping of a man known, seen and understood only by men no longer capable of it. A deluge of drops hit and splattered the pavement as a lifetime of suppressed tears drained from him in minutes, and that is how she found him, on his hands and knees, in the middle of a wet patch of asphalt.
“Hey, I’m here.”
He hadn’t seen her approach but stood up quickly and embraced her. There was grey in her hair, wrinkles on her face but it was still familiar to him. She felt her hair getting wet as he cried silently into it but didn’t move away; it was something she had looked forward to.
She had bought him new clothes. Soft leather shoes, short black socks, straight soft blue jeans, a comfortable t-shirt and a soft fleece pullover. He changed shamelessly behind the car door, molting for the second time that day. He scooped up his old clothes and trashed them. Then they sat together on the curbside, and she passed him a pack of Newports. He hadn’t stopped crying since he’d fallen earlier in silence. He held a cigarette to his lips, and she lit it for him, he puffed deeply and blew out a cloud of smoke. The cigarette had stopped his tears and he found his voice.
He looked directly at her for the first time that morning. “It has been a long time.” The words hung between them in the quiet still place they shared and under the ashes of the past, a small spark of hope came to life, adding a tiny orange spot to the wastes of his memory. He put the spark to his lips and puffed it again to life before standing and helping her up. “I don’t have a license just now” he admitted, smiling at her. “Why don’t you drive?”
She unlocked the car doors opened as they approached and he sat in the front with her. He put his bags on the floor between his legs and they pulled away. There were a few office appointments first before they went to lunch. They ordered, but she wasn’t hungry, and he couldn’t eat. They stared at each other across the table, he broke the silence.
“Thank you for everything.”
She smiled at him, and he laughed his laugh.
“You know…that’s always been my favorite thing about you”
“Hm? What?”
“That laugh of yours”
“I’m glad.” He laughed again. “What else can I do but laugh?”
“I suppose that’s fair. Are you ready?”
He nodded, they packed their food and left; he had only one place he wanted to go.
The drive there took another hour. Driving past the built-up neighborhood of his youth, the scope of the buildings and people outside took his breath away. They finally stopped at the address he had memorized but had never visited until today. They sat in the car a while.
“I don’t know if I can do it,” he admitted. She just looked at him.
“Don’t you want to?”
“Yes, I do, it’s what I’ve hoped for the last three decades, but I don’t know if I can.”
“You’re going to be fine; here, I’ll walk with you” She got out of the car and opened his door for him. They stepped to the sidewalk. “Come on,” she pushed him forwards, “you’ve done harder things than this.”
He looked at her, smiled and picked up his bag and walked to the door of the house, up the driveway and past the first flowers he’d seen since he went away. He paused, rang the doorbell once, and waited.
A kid opened the door, maybe 10-11 years old, in pajamas. His eyes widened at them, and he ran back into the house screaming, “Dad, Dad!” They stood at the step and smiled at each other, waiting. Before long a middle-aged man came out of the house, he paused in the hall as soon as he saw them. The light of recognition came to his face. He put his hands on the wall for support, stumbled, then ran at them. The two men fell into each other’s arms. They held each other weeping silently as the kid came back into view peeking from the house.
After they broke their embrace, the man invited his visitors inside. They all sat at the kitchen table. She looked between the two of them. The resemblance of father and son was markedly present. Same hair line, same nose, same jawline.
Shortly the younger man spoke. “I’m glad to see you, you know mum gave me all your letters.”
The old man smiled. “Do you have any questions? You never wrote back.”
“I didn’t know what to say. It was clear to me how you felt, and I knew I’d see you again. Do you want to meet your grandson?”
The old man nodded but frowned in confusion when the young man loudly called his name. The answering patter of socks broke his trance as understanding dawned on him.
She shared a look with the younger man as they watched grandfather and grandson meet for the first time. The kid spoke quickly. “I can call you Pop, right? I call Dad, Dad, um, Dad told me . . . he told me to . . . Right, I’m supposed to show you the house, Let’s go.” The kid ran and stood in the kitchen doorway. “Are you coming, Pop?”
The old man stood and followed the kid around the house. He saw the boy’s room, the parents’ bedroom, dining room, den, basement, garage and a room destined to be a nursery. Grandson and grandfather stopped at the end of a hallway as the younger man and the woman caught up to them. They all stood in front of a door. The last room of the house. “Dad said he wanted to show you this one,” the kid said and took a step back. Again, the two men looked at each other. The younger man spoke.
“I’d known for a while when you were getting out. I wanted it to be a surprise.” The younger man opened the door and they all walked in.
The medium-sized room was clean and homey. A dresser stood against the wall with a flatscreen tv on top. There was a bed with throw pillows and a plaid fleece blanket at the foot on top of a downy comforter. A nightstand with a lamp and a family picture, a desk and a familiar chair completed the room.
The old man was surprised. “You kept my chair? Whatever for?”
“Well, I knew you were coming, I wanted there to be something of yours here.”
It was an old classic mid-century Moeller chair. Smooth, unbroken frame, black leather cushion. Familiar to the old man from his own younger days, he sat in it.
The old man’s son, the kid’s father, spoke. “I know it’s been hard; it’s been a long time. But I always loved you. I want you to know that. This room used to be my office, but I cleaned it out last month. I don’t know what your plans are, but you can stay here if you want. My wife is expecting, and I remember how you were when I was young. You’ll have a granddaughter this winter. I put some of my old clothes in the closet for you. I have to heat up dinner so at the very least, stay for that, both of you. Oh, and one last thing, I got you a small present. Top right desk drawer.” With that, he ushered the kid downstairs and left them in the doorway.
She sat on the bed, and he sat in his chair. He sighed; it had been years since he had felt a soft cushion. “Well,” she prompted “Look in the desk.”
He looked at her, turned and opened the drawer, a ragged wet sob escaped his lips for the first time in thirty years. The loud noisy tears of joy that prison could never pull from him fell like soft diamonds on his whiskers, as he pulled out – to show her, the housekey his son had left.
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