The Last Time We Say Goodbye
Page 58
I could tell you all the factors that made him a prime candidate for the six o’clock news.
But I couldn’t tell you why he did it.
I turn the TV off and head back upstairs. I’m standing at the kitchen window drinking a glass of water when I notice that the playhouse light is on. Outside, at the edge of the back lawn, its windows are glowing brightly.
It’s been ages since I’ve been in the playhouse. Years, probably.
I tromp through the snowy yard and try the door. It’s unlocked. It swings open soundlessly.
“Hello?” I say, a bit nervous. I do not want to find a burglar or a squatter. Not that there’s anything valuable to steal or that squatters hang around kids’ abandoned playhouses in Raymond, Nebraska, in weather that’s well below freezing. But you never know.
“Is anybody in here?” I call.
No answer.
It smells old inside. Like dead flies and dust. The curtains, which were once bright and cheery, are so faded I almost can’t tell what color they used to be. There’s a grungy layer of dirt all over everything, scuffing under my feet. I spot an old mousetrap in the corner, unsprung with a dried-up hunk of cheese on it.
I right a chair that is lying sideways on the floor.
The floor above my head creaks. Like there’s someone in the loft.
My heart starts doing calisthenics. I grab an old toy-sized broom from next to the play kitchen. It’s not my weapon of choice, but if somebody is going to jump out at me, I could inflict some real injury with this thing. Or something.
Maybe it’s a raccoon, I reason. Or a possum.
I shudder. I hate possums.
Slowly, oh so slowly, I climb the ladder to the loft. Then I flip on the light. Zap.
I expect something to come flying out at me, but nothing does.
I remember to breathe out. I remember to breathe in. Out. In. Whew.
I’m getting sick of the there’s-no-one-there game.
I look around. It’s like a shrine to my childhood up here. Dusty dolls and their various accessories line the walls: a tiny crib, a doll-sized stroller, a miniature changing table. In another corner there’s a stack of old Barbies and their clothes, and a virtual army of My Little Ponies, which were my favorite back in the day. What little girl doesn’t love My Little Pony, I ask you? Horses + hair you can braid + pink = happy camper.
There’s nothing else.
I sigh and climb back down the ladder. I stand for a minute, looking around. I have hundreds of memories of this place, and they are all pretty silly. Like one time when Sadie and I locked Ty out of the playhouse and he ran around yelling through the windows, “But I’m the mailman! You have to let in the mailman!”
So we told him we’d let him in if he brought us a letter or something. Therefore he went into the house and borrowed an envelope from Dad’s office and on one side he addressed it, in crayon, to:
Sis.
Playhowse
R Backyd
And on the other side he wrote: I the male Man. Let me in.
We cracked up. And we let him in. I mean, how could you say no to the male Man?
I stifle a laugh. Mom thought it was so funny that she fashioned a little “mailbox” out of one of Dad’s shoeboxes, with a slot on the top for Ty to slide the envelopes in. I locate the box on the little craft table in the corner. I sit down carefully in the undersized chair, and take a deep breath, in case this hurts, and then I remove the lid.
Inside the box there aren’t any letters from kid Ty. Instead I find Mom’s gleaming silver sewing shears, and under them, like a long-lost treasure trove, the missing photographs. I rifle through the stack: Dad and Ty playing chess. Dad and Ty standing by the grill together one Fourth of July. Dad and Ty at Carhenge one summer (which is a perfect replica of Stonehenge except it’s made of spray-painted old cars), pretending to hold one of the cars up. Dad wearing Rollerblades at the parking lot. Dad giving two-year-old Ty his first haircut. Dad’s college graduation photo. Dad and Ty watching TV. Dad with an electric knife showing Ty how to carve a Thanksgiving turkey. Mom and Dad at an H&R Block company picnic. Dad pointing to a sticker on his shirt that says I VOTED. Dad teaching six-year-old Ty how to ride a bike. Dad wiggling one of Ty’s front teeth. Dad and Ty going hunting.
I let out the breath I was holding. Here’s the mystery right here before me, but not quite solved. All these pictures, Ty collected them, but why?
I return to the top picture on the stack. Dad and Ty playing chess. It’s different from the other pictures. It’s smaller, for one thing. It’s obviously been cut down from a six-by-four photo to a three-by-three square. It’s a bit crooked, like he couldn’t cut in a straight line. It has a jagged edge on one side.
Then I know the answer.
I get up. I go back to the house, down to the basement. To Ty’s room.
I get Ty’s collage from behind his door and lay it on the bed. I set the chess picture on the white space of the part that’s empty.
It’s a perfect fit. Three by three square.
Mom was right. This is where Dad’s photo should have gone. Ty thought about it. He gathered up all these pictures as candidates. He decided on this one, cut it to size, but in the end, he didn’t put it in the frame.
He wouldn’t forgive Dad.
I become aware of the scent of my brother’s cologne. It’s all around me. I close my eyes.
“No,” I say, because I’ve accepted this by this point, talking to nobody in case there’s somebody actually there. “I won’t do it.”
But I couldn’t tell you why he did it.
I turn the TV off and head back upstairs. I’m standing at the kitchen window drinking a glass of water when I notice that the playhouse light is on. Outside, at the edge of the back lawn, its windows are glowing brightly.
It’s been ages since I’ve been in the playhouse. Years, probably.
I tromp through the snowy yard and try the door. It’s unlocked. It swings open soundlessly.
“Hello?” I say, a bit nervous. I do not want to find a burglar or a squatter. Not that there’s anything valuable to steal or that squatters hang around kids’ abandoned playhouses in Raymond, Nebraska, in weather that’s well below freezing. But you never know.
“Is anybody in here?” I call.
No answer.
It smells old inside. Like dead flies and dust. The curtains, which were once bright and cheery, are so faded I almost can’t tell what color they used to be. There’s a grungy layer of dirt all over everything, scuffing under my feet. I spot an old mousetrap in the corner, unsprung with a dried-up hunk of cheese on it.
I right a chair that is lying sideways on the floor.
The floor above my head creaks. Like there’s someone in the loft.
My heart starts doing calisthenics. I grab an old toy-sized broom from next to the play kitchen. It’s not my weapon of choice, but if somebody is going to jump out at me, I could inflict some real injury with this thing. Or something.
Maybe it’s a raccoon, I reason. Or a possum.
I shudder. I hate possums.
Slowly, oh so slowly, I climb the ladder to the loft. Then I flip on the light. Zap.
I expect something to come flying out at me, but nothing does.
I remember to breathe out. I remember to breathe in. Out. In. Whew.
I’m getting sick of the there’s-no-one-there game.
I look around. It’s like a shrine to my childhood up here. Dusty dolls and their various accessories line the walls: a tiny crib, a doll-sized stroller, a miniature changing table. In another corner there’s a stack of old Barbies and their clothes, and a virtual army of My Little Ponies, which were my favorite back in the day. What little girl doesn’t love My Little Pony, I ask you? Horses + hair you can braid + pink = happy camper.
There’s nothing else.
I sigh and climb back down the ladder. I stand for a minute, looking around. I have hundreds of memories of this place, and they are all pretty silly. Like one time when Sadie and I locked Ty out of the playhouse and he ran around yelling through the windows, “But I’m the mailman! You have to let in the mailman!”
So we told him we’d let him in if he brought us a letter or something. Therefore he went into the house and borrowed an envelope from Dad’s office and on one side he addressed it, in crayon, to:
Sis.
Playhowse
R Backyd
And on the other side he wrote: I the male Man. Let me in.
We cracked up. And we let him in. I mean, how could you say no to the male Man?
I stifle a laugh. Mom thought it was so funny that she fashioned a little “mailbox” out of one of Dad’s shoeboxes, with a slot on the top for Ty to slide the envelopes in. I locate the box on the little craft table in the corner. I sit down carefully in the undersized chair, and take a deep breath, in case this hurts, and then I remove the lid.
Inside the box there aren’t any letters from kid Ty. Instead I find Mom’s gleaming silver sewing shears, and under them, like a long-lost treasure trove, the missing photographs. I rifle through the stack: Dad and Ty playing chess. Dad and Ty standing by the grill together one Fourth of July. Dad and Ty at Carhenge one summer (which is a perfect replica of Stonehenge except it’s made of spray-painted old cars), pretending to hold one of the cars up. Dad wearing Rollerblades at the parking lot. Dad giving two-year-old Ty his first haircut. Dad’s college graduation photo. Dad and Ty watching TV. Dad with an electric knife showing Ty how to carve a Thanksgiving turkey. Mom and Dad at an H&R Block company picnic. Dad pointing to a sticker on his shirt that says I VOTED. Dad teaching six-year-old Ty how to ride a bike. Dad wiggling one of Ty’s front teeth. Dad and Ty going hunting.
I let out the breath I was holding. Here’s the mystery right here before me, but not quite solved. All these pictures, Ty collected them, but why?
I return to the top picture on the stack. Dad and Ty playing chess. It’s different from the other pictures. It’s smaller, for one thing. It’s obviously been cut down from a six-by-four photo to a three-by-three square. It’s a bit crooked, like he couldn’t cut in a straight line. It has a jagged edge on one side.
Then I know the answer.
I get up. I go back to the house, down to the basement. To Ty’s room.
I get Ty’s collage from behind his door and lay it on the bed. I set the chess picture on the white space of the part that’s empty.
It’s a perfect fit. Three by three square.
Mom was right. This is where Dad’s photo should have gone. Ty thought about it. He gathered up all these pictures as candidates. He decided on this one, cut it to size, but in the end, he didn’t put it in the frame.
He wouldn’t forgive Dad.
I become aware of the scent of my brother’s cologne. It’s all around me. I close my eyes.
“No,” I say, because I’ve accepted this by this point, talking to nobody in case there’s somebody actually there. “I won’t do it.”
