Homecoming

The sun was setting behind the hills, and the glare revealed the oily residues of passengers past on tinted panes of plexiglass. The intermittent ka-thump of the train cars and the passing of telephone poles through my field of vision were a reminder that I was moving toward something I didn't want to face. 

The funeral was set for tomorrow morning. I had no idea how I was supposed to give a proper eulogy for a man with so much ugliness. I wondered if anyone would be there and if I should even bother showing up. 

I grabbed my duffel bag and suitcase just as a shrill voice came over the P.A.: “Stony Creek station.” 

Despite the baggage, I didn’t mind the long walk through town. The sodium street lights flickered on to a dim glow as I came toward my old house. After about a minute, they gained full intensity, bathing the street in peachy light. 

At the porch steps, I pulled a hidden key from under a fake rock, made my way inside, and turned on the hallway light. 

Walking into the living room, I glanced over at the rocker. I imagined Ma there getting lost in her sitcoms and variety shows, because real life didn't come with laugh tracks and prompted applause. Pale blue light flashed across her expressionless face. 

The stairs groaned with the pressure and release of each step as I slowly plodded upward. My room was pretty much as I'd left it. A simple, scratched-up desk and wooden chair sat by the window, and the twin bed mattress without a frame was tucked by the wall under the slanted ceiling, which had taped to it a faded Led Zeppelin poster. 

I remembered Dad bursting through the door with unmitigated fury over something I had (or hadn't) done. He threw me against the wall, and with his hands encircling my neck, I started to black out. I could still hear Ma wailing through sobs, "Stop it, Hank! You're going to kill him!" But he couldn't hear her. His eyes revealed a kind of crazed, adrenaline-fueled trance. The smell of whiskey hit me just as I lost consciousness. 

The next day, Ma seemed oblivious. I didn't understand how she could just go about pretending that nothing had happened--like we lived in some kind of "Leave It to Beaver" fantasy world. "Let me fix you some eggs, Honey," she said. Yet, I suppose it was more than eggs she was trying to fix. It was our lives as well, as if food would fill these widening emotional chasms. 

I grabbed a flashlight from off the desk and climbed out of the window and onto the porch roof as I had on so many nights previous--those nights when Dad was shouting or Ma was crying and I just needed to escape. 

Across the street was Caroline Connors’ house. She was the only good thing in this beater town, and the only reason I could have had for staying. She had a way of ensnaring herself in relationships with older guys who treated her badly. Maybe they were stand-ins for her absent father, giving her just enough validation but no more than she thought she deserved. One night while sitting on the roof, I took a flashlight and pointed it at her window, waving my hand in front of the beam as if to signal. She came over and climbed up to my perch where we talked for hours, both sharing our need to get away from our lives in this town. 

I wondered where she was and what she was up to this evening--thinking she was probably away somewhere married to some guy she couldn't stand. I hated that I had these thoughts--resurging crests of jealousy--but my mind just couldn't help but go there. Just then it caught my eye. From across the street a light was flashing from a bedroom window: Our secret signal. My heart leapt into my throat.