Max Cauler - 1. The Story

Why did he come? He didnʼt owe the old man anything nor his mother . . . What did she ever do to stop him? Nothing but to patch him up when the old man was done. He was his own man now, and he had no need of false affection; he owed him nothing. Not that the old man would ever ask for anything.

The crack-crunch of frosted grass underfoot—silvered blades crushed and snapped—were his company on the walk up the slope. Nearer to the top of the rise, a bright-red cardinal sang from a winterʼs oak tree nearby, bare of all but a few leaves wizened and curled around their edges—grasping little fingers. The crisp, dry air carried the song clear and sweet; the color reminded him of blood. The phantom taste of iron bloomed on his tongue with the association—he spat on the cold ground, watched until crystals began to form in the spittle—the old man had made sure of that; the taste wasnʼt something to forget.

The rise afforded a fine view of the town, his hometown, where he grew up and then fled from. The morningʼs clarity of air provided a view well beyond, to the outlying hills with the deep green of pines nestled into their sides where he played—and ran to when he tried to escape from the old man. Only to come home some time later with sticky, tacky hands and hoping the old manʼs temper had left him. Sometimes he got lucky. But it was a toss-up as to which was worse: the pine sap or the turpentine that was the only way to get the sap off. The smell of turpentine was awful, but was no match for its sharp bite in cuts and abrasions.

A slight, stinging breeze blowing uphill brought him the scent of diesel: a school bus making its early-morning rounds. The dry air carried the smell easily, as if overnight all of the impurities had been freeze-dried out of it—nothing left to prevent the sharp scent.

The old man drove a truck—diesel, long haul— and was the only time he was truly free of him. Free to make mistakes . . . and not to suffer for them. The rest of the time heʼd had to toe the line, be careful, or the old man was on him. It wasnʼt always like that, heʼd been told, but it was the only way he remembered it.

He took after his mother, slight and fair-haired, and he didnʼt like sports—didnʼt like them because he wasnʼt any good at them, though he tried . . . tried damn hard, for him. Maybe . . . maybe the old man thought that naming his son after himself would create something like him. It didnʼt turn out that way. The old man was often disappointed.

Being forced onto the ice in skates too big for his feet, one of his old manʼs pairs—ʻI was skating when I was sixʼ—had earned him a broken ankle at thirteen. They were loose, and he could hardly stand up in them, no matter that he pulled the laces tight enough to put grooves into his fingers that took long to disappear and to make his fingertips turn blue and throb. The plaster cast made his skin itch like hell and turned him white and scaly underneath. It earned him no sympathy from the old man. He took what pleasure he could when his friends signed his cast, ʻGet well soonʼ, and with other little notes—especially Tommyʼs. Tommy put the tiniest little star and a heart right on the top curve where only he would see them. That made his heart sing.

Standing there on the hill, the morning frosty, he could feel some of the joy he had felt swell up in his chest again just by remembering the scene. His breath came short, he coughed a dry cough, and he pulled out the inhaler and took two puffs from it, feeling the powdery taste at the back of his throat. Damn diesel.

Tommy.

The last time he saw him, he was sixteen. They hadnʼt heard the truck. They werenʼt paying attention to anything except to each other. The old man wasnʼt expected. His mom was out to the grocery, and he and Tommy were making out in his bed, kissing, and his hand was wrapped around Tommy—who was bigger than he was in every way and was hard and thick, and the skin slid like silk up and down the length of him, and he was leaking and tasted so sweet. They didnʼt hear the old man, but he heard them, and he pushed open the door (unlocked because he wasnʼt allowed) as his lips and tongue were wrapped around Tommy.

He spent a week in the hospital—ʻHe fell down the stairsʼ—and Tommy ran away after a beating from his own father. Nobody talked about nothing. When he got out of the hospital, he ran away, too. As luck does, his first ride dropped him off at a truck stop, and for a place to sleep and a ride, he learned to pay. Each time. He took lots of rides. When they asked him his name, he told them: ʻMax Cauler, named after my old man.ʼ Young, too young, and stupid. He figured it would get back to the old man, maybe a lot—pay him back. Truckers talked, told tales, he knew.

So here he was back, back in his hometown where nobody knew nothing except that he had run away. Back in the place he thought he would never return to. Freezing his ass off, gloved fingers tucked under arms, breath frosting the air, on a damn hill where his mother had flung the old manʼs ashes to drift in the wind.

Enough.

Going downhill was more difficult than the walk up. Although remaining cold, the sun-warmed grass had thawed just enough to make each step a balancing act. Silvered blades turned playground slide, and had his hands been in his pockets . . . As it was, with arms free to windmill at his sides, it was a close call. It was with immense relief that he reached gravel and lot and car—and broke out in sudden laughter. What for, he wasnʼt sure, but he was grateful for having done it.

The car turned over and started easily. It wasnʼt much to look at, but it ran good and put out an abundance of heat once it warmed up. The best way to warm it up was to drive the car, and so he pulled out of the lot and headed into town.

He knew that he would pass his parents’ home—his motherʼs home—on the way to town but it surprised him nonetheless when he looked out of the driverʼs side window and there it was. He stomped on the brakes harder than he should have and the car fishtailed into the curb before it stopped. Not much had changed. Still two stories tall—still a square box—and what looked like the same boring shrubbery outlining the front of the house. It needed a coat of paint, in contrast to a picture-perfect garage set off to the side. That was new. He wondered what kind of car it housed. Patting the dash, dust-free and sun-bleached brown, he mumbled something resembling, “Donʼt worry, girl, no need to be jealous.”

He could see Tommyʼs house up ahead, three doors down and on the opposite side of the street. Putting the car in gear, he drove slowly by and noted that it was blue now, robin’s egg blue. It used to be white like his parentsʼ. Did Tommy's parents still live there?

The main town center still consisted of all of the old brick buildings from the 18^th century but most of the tenants were different from what he remembered. Gone was the drugstore—and he supposed so was old Mr. Bennet, probably gone to his grave—replaced by a tacky shop, the inside of the big, plate-glass windows plastered with cheap posters: We buy gold and silver. Exchange your antiques for cash. Do you have unwanted jewelry? We'll pay top dollar. Ugly banners hung from the upper-floor windows. There used to be apartments behind those windows, though not very good ones even when he was a kid. Building after building—something different, something less.

He didnʼt know why, but he was surprised when he discovered a second stoplight. The downtown business core had expanded—extended beyond the former edges of town, where newer businesses had taken hold and surrounded those homes he used to consider farmhouses—businesses that werenʼt there when he lived here and some that were but had moved to be among the new ones. Fast-food restaurants had taken hold, too, and dotted the landscape around the town edges—all of the usual suspects. And just as in the rest of America, he thought, the more things change the more they become the same—all in the name of convenience.

Driving back into the town center he slipped into a parking space set in back of a farm-and-home hardware store—customer parking only—that used to be a local grocery store which had now moved to be among the newer, shinier, stars on the edge of town. Even the post office had moved. He didnʼt think that it was for the better. He got out of the car and walked around the side of the building.

Turning from the alley onto sidewalk resulted in a bump, in an otherwise perfect skip. The young girl—blonde ponytail curled over shoulder butted up against knitted scarf—paused to look up at him after stepping back. She smiled prettily, only to grab her ponytail and pull it up over her mouth and hide . . . sunshine. He returned her smile a little wider than given and turned to walk the other way; it made little difference to him which way he traveled. Heart lighter for the accident.

Heard—

“Max, you have to watch where youʼre going.” The deep voice brought him up short. Turned him. A well-built, brown-haired man (in the process of squatting) placed a loving hand on the girlʼs shoulder. He looked up and made eye contact.

—and recognized.

Impossible.

Rising slowly—while he, himself, stood stock-still—and never losing eye contact, he lifted a hand upon standing. Strong, weathered fingers rose: did they know their intent? A trembling of lips: what emotion should they display?

A dark-blonde-haired women—short, slight and previously overlooked—opened the passenger-side car door behind them with a clack and swoosh.

Interrupted.

He chose that moment, when he turned at the noise, to remove himself from the scene. Back pressed hard against the alley-side wall of old rough brick and newer aluminum siding, he overheard . . .

“Iʼve asked you not to call Maxine”—emphasis—“by that boyʼs name.” Loudly said, “Not in public, where everyone”—louder still—“can hear you, Tom.”

Which, he thought, defeated her wish.

Married then and a family. Safe? The question was not without a certain amount of humor. Was anybody? A sobering thought. And then another. He called her Max.

His breathe came in short gasps and clouded the air. He used the inhaler and tried to calm himself, though his heart continued to hammer in his chest. Heʼd hid that pain, put it away, for so long. Was his heart now betraying him over those faded memories? Is this what it felt like?

At the sound of a passing car—a bad muffler—he jerked his head around and saw their car drive past the alley entrance. Time to press on, time to head home. He had a four-hour drive upstate ahead of him, and there was no sense sticking around. But first he needed something to eat, and so he hopped back into the car and headed to the edge of town and to the conveniences he had fussed about earlier.

Returning home meant driving past his motherʼs house. Against all sense, he stopped again. This time at the curb in front of the house. He sat there in the car, engine running. Is it so I can do it again, he thought—run away? The house looked as empty as it had the first time. He sat in his car—thinking, not thinking—unsure of what it was that he wanted. The passage of time escaped him.

Until.

The car pulling up behind him was impossible to mistake—if for no other reason than the sound of the muffler—and pulled him out of his reverie. Tommy—no, Tom now—shut down his engine. He reached up, hesitantly—did he want to, did he not—and turned the key and shut his own engine down.

Tom took it for permission to get out of his car, and after a deep breath, he did the same. A few steps, just a few steps, and he was enveloped in strong arms and squeezed so hard that his breath rushed away. Arms that hung useless, ineffectually dangling at his side, found purpose once his brain caught up. He returned the hug and just as tightly. Lips brushed against his ear, no distance between them, and Tom whispered to him. Shivers cascaded down his spine with the breath of it. A much younger Tom did not own such depth, such a tone, as went with this.

The pulling away and release hurt more than he expected, and there was no way to hide it, though he didnʼt realize to what extent he was giving the damage away. Tom offered him a soft smile of compassion, making him wonder just what it was that Tom was thinking. But then he had a wife and a child, and that was the end of it. This time, when Tom raised his hand, his fingers knew what to do.

He watched as the car backed into his motherʼs drive, and as Tom drove off, he returned to his car and started the engine and sat there a little stunned. Tom had whispered, “Your mom called and told me you were here.” His mom had called? Were they on such good terms? That probably meant she knew nothing about the real reason why he had left. Thinking of her caused him to look toward the house.

She stood in the picture window, one hand gripping the edge of a curtain and the other resting over her breast. Soft fogging from her breath outlined the side of the windowpane. Older now and in her fifties, but her hair was still the same color as his. That was surprising. She was still the same slight woman. When she noticed him looking, she removed her hand from her breast and placed it flat on the pane of the window.

He nodded once, slowly, carefully maintaining eye contact in that brief moment, and then put the car into gear and drove off.

*

Leaving had been easy, more of a fight-or-flight response than anything else. No one could color him a coward, but all of the fighting back had never made much difference. The old man won every time. Unless he escaped. Which he did fearlessly and only at first because fear has a way of creeping up on you. But once youʼre committed . . .

The first lesson, his first taste of fear, was provided by a no-nonsense trucker: Rides are not always free. It was hard and fast and went on for far longer than he had expected that it could—being young, quick-on-the-draw, and fast to shoot. The act, along with the lack of control he had over it, had left him stunned and quaking with aftershocks on the asphalt when the semi pulled away. He hadnʼt ever considered the act before. Trading blowjobs with Tommy and jacking off had been the whole of his experience.

After the trucker dropped him off late at night, he very much appreciated that it was summer. Running off with a bit of cash in his pocket and holding on to determination as a shield against turning back wasnʼt going to keep him safe. He was left at a roadside rest area after paying his due. They could be found most everywhere on long stretches of highway and along the interstates. Just a few picnic tables and two glorified outhouses, at times—one for men and one for women—and a light pole out by the asphalt parking area. Nearly always the only place to wash hands was at a spigot at the bottom of a drinking fountain. This was one of them. At least there was toilet paper. He thought that he might have been injured as he was very sore; he hadnʼt fully considered the consequences of the act. It wasnʼt blood.

The next man to make him pay up made him like it. He cleaned up as best he could in a gas-station restroom. Snuck some shirts, a ratty-tatty backpack and some pants from a much neglected and rusty blue donation bin at the edge of a strip mall earlier in the day. He didnʼt feel guilty, reasoning that he was just as entitled as any other poor person it was destined for. He ended up leaving the clothes that he left home with in the trash can, underwear and socks included (no money to clean them). And stuck out his thumb at the roadside. Where to? He had no idea.

“Where are you headed?” the man had asked. “Doesnʼt matter.” That was what he had answered. It turned out that meant back in the direction he came from by a different route, though he didnʼt realize it at the time. It was something he would do more than once and sometimes by choice. What he realized soon enough was that sex with a man who acted like he cared could be good. Really good.

The back of the van was full of ʻsamplesʼ, but he never got a look at them. The man was handsome and, he guessed, somewhere in his early thirties. Conversation with him was easy, no personal questions were asked, and he had a lot of stories to tell and to pass the time. They drove for several hours, stopping here to piss and there to eat—a fast-food place (ʻMy treat,ʼ the man had told him). Toward sunset he fell asleep.

Not for long.

He was woken by the bump of his head against the passenger-side window. It was just going on dark. They had pulled in at some rinky-dink motel with a pothole-filled gravel lot. The man noticed him awake in the green light of a vacancy sign hanging outside of a busted screen door. He was told that a room and food might be part of his immediate future. Oh, God, and a shower. He agreed readily.

A pizza—“extra-large” was spoken into the phone after a careful look—and a six-pack of beer were ordered for delivery from a list in a plastic folder tacked onto the wall over the phone. Afterward, the man took a piss, leaving the bathroom door open, and stood in full view, leaving a lot to be further imagined. He swallowed hard; there was only one double bed in the room. He was told to “Go take a shower” and “to get cleaned up” while they waited. The hand on his ass and a thick, insistent finger told him all that he needed to know. He closed the door behind himself.

Kisses. There was a lot of kissing; the trucker hadnʼt kissed him. Not once did he make an attempt but had just gone on about the business of his pleasure. This was different.

They tucked in soon after eating. He drank two of the beers because he wanted to appear grown up. Not being used to alcohol, he caught a buzz much stronger than he expected. He was amenable and easily pliable when pulled into a kiss and then led to the bed.

This was new. Tommy and he kissed some, but it was nothing like this. It was a hard kiss, forceful and full of tongue, and tasting of beer and supper, and damn near took his breath away. “I want you,” he was told.

Mouth and tongue and fingers had him lying back and writhing on the bed. He had already had a mouthful and a taste, but heʼd have dragged the man back and begged him to take him if he would have tried to leave just then. The man made him needy. And when he slowly pushed inside, the pain of entry had nothing on the pleasure once it began. Every thrust and pull was felt; the man was long and thick and rock-hard.

The kisses rained down—on his mouth, where tongues played a battle of attack-retreat; the side of his neck, where a path of saliva drew a line back up to his jaw only to travel down the other side of his neck in more kisses; on the soles of his feet.

A simple tongue in the ear made him think that he was going to jump out of his body. Nipples were nipped and licked and pinched. And he pushed—and, oh, how he pushed back eagerly each time he was entered. He ran his hands over the hairy chest above him, tangled his fingers in sweaty curls, and placed a timid unpracticed pinch of his own on a nipple. Clasping hard to the hairy thighs pressed against him, he did his best to pull them closer. When his orgasm came, a touch of oblivion hung around the edges. He was soon joined.

He was awakened by an insistent nudge against him from behind. It was still dark. The lingering remembrance of their coupling had him pushing out and opening himself. This time he was taken slow and sweet, with gentle caresses—

And gentle kisses.

The noise of the shower woke him up. The bathroom door was open, and shadowy movement could be seen behind the filmy plastic curtain. Woke again when the man was getting dressed. He told him to go take a shower, called him sleepyhead, and ran his fingers through his hair. Smiled at him.

When he came out, the man was gone and so was the van from outside the door. There was cold pizza inside the box on the small table and forty dollars on the single nightstand. He had imagined that the man had cared for him. He thought—

He was grateful for the cash.

It wasnʼt the last time that he would be given money, and he learned that sometimes he could ask for it and should. It was all about when it was okay to do that and when it was best not to push his luck. No one was in the market for a teenager for long, no matter how pliant and eager. Not for more than a day or two at least—a few days, at the most.

For the most part, the road-going days ended when he was twenty. He got a real chance to settle in with a job at a gas station. The owner, a man named Jake Tompkins, let him sleep for free in a heated storage room at the back of the building—no rent. He could clean up and use the restroom whenever he needed. Jake was a good man. He didnʼt ask for anything above hard work from him and encouraged him to study and to get his GED. “Max,” he would say, “you have to try and make something of yourself.”

Of course, he was right.

It was then that he began talking to his cousin Susan on a regular basis. She was four years older than him and had always been his favorite. He had called once shortly after he left and when he was feeling alone, desperate to hear the voice of someone he loved. Someone who loved him. She had asked all of the questions that one might—he gave her no answers to most of them, except that he was all right—and in the end, he had made her give a solemn promise not to tell anyone that they had spoken. The calls he made after that were sporadic and short—to save money. “Iʼm okay,” he would say it with just enough conviction and added information to confirm that he was. Hearing about what was going on back home wasnʼt always helpful, but he listened. He always tried to make things sound good for her, and most of the time he didnʼt have to try very hard at all. The assumption was that she was doing the same thing for him on the other end.

He did think that he should feel something when Susan called to say that the old man had died. Truth be told, he felt numb about it, and that was about all the feeling that he could muster. It took two weeks to make the decision to drive down after she called back to tell him what his mother had done with the old manʼs remains. Another two weeks passed before he made the drive downstate.

*

Surprise could not be numbered among his emotions when Susan called nearly a month later to say that his mother wanted to see him. Truthfully, he had expected the call sooner. His mother guessed that someone was talking to him and had expressed through the family grapevine the importance that they meet. In a way, it was his car that gave him away. It was too old to be a rental, and that meant he was living within driving distance, so she had figured. From that, she had also guessed that someone in the family had been in touch with him. She put the word out, was clever not to pinpoint, while insinuating that she knew who it was.

Susan had remained faithful to her promise—and to him, that much he was sure of.

Why was he scared? More importantly, what could she do to him? These were his thoughts as he pulled up to the curb. The nervousness he felt had travelled with him from door to door, and an almost unnoticeable tremble of fingers when he pressed the doorbell wasnʼt missed. He stuck his hands in his pockets and waited.

She started to say ‘hello.’ He could see her mouth forming the word, but instead she said, “Iʼm glad youʼve come, Max.” His mother invited him in, offered him something to drink, and he accepted. Not because he was thirsty so much, but for the time needed to ground his self in the room.

The living room was different than he remembered. A pleasing, yellow paint—not too bright—was new. It complemented well the off-white furniture, upholstered in a pattern with blue flowers. The taupe Berber carpet was nice. He chose a chair across from the couch and the partition of a coffee table. The choice allowed him distance and a good vantage point to watch for his motherʼs return from the kitchen.

“You look very pretty.” He offered the compliment and meant it. She couldnʼt have known that he was coming—he hadnʼt known himself when he got up that today was the day—and was dressed nicely, her hair done up. Light strands of silver threaded through her hair, something which was not noticed from the car nearly two months ago. Small lines edged the corners of her eyes and mouth, though they slipped away when she smiled at the compliment.

The examination went both ways.

“Youʼre taller than me,” she said. Then she added, “Though not as tall as your father.” His slight flinch at being compared to the old man caught her attention. “But then, you take after me, donʼt you?” Her smile was genuine, felt.

“Iʼve missed you,” she said.

He didnʼt want to just come out and say, “Why am I here?”, but the thought was on his mind. That the old man must enter the conversation he realized, had expected, and had tried to prepare for on the drive down. Truth be told, heʼd been preparing for it ever since Susan called him with the news of the old manʼs death. And here he was.

“Your father made some preparations after you…,” she hesitated, “left.” She wanted to say ran away; he was sure of it. “I didnʼt know it; he didnʼt say anything, but he made a will. He also took out a life-insurance policy.” She paused to allow time for that sink in. “He made the two of us his beneficiaries.”

“No.” In his mind the word snapped but the sound of it spoken was flat and dull.

“He loved you,” she offered. “Whether you knew it or not—whether he showed it or not—he loved you.” She rose to her feet. “He was angry with himself.” Her statement was bold. “Often,” she added. He could see her eyes glisten with as yet unshed tears. “You,” she emphasized the word, almost biting it off, “were angry with yourself.” And with as pregnant a pause as possible . . . “I think that you two took that same anger out on one another.”

“What are you talking about? I tried so hard to do what he wanted, to live up to his expectations.”

“Yes,” she looked him square in the face and not without compassion, “and then you got angry when you couldn't.”

He held her gaze only a moment before turning away. What was he supposed to do with that? He hadnʼt expected this to be easy. But insights such as these needed time—time to be consumed and to be examined. Time that he felt was quickly becoming short for this visit.

“I want to show you something.” She motioned for him to follow her.

The bedrooms were upstairs, and that is where she led him. Just outside of his old bedroom, they stopped.

“Do you see the holes?” she asked. He did, several were placed up and down the sides of the door and frame. They were decent-sized holes, werenʼt there before he left, and he couldnʼt fathom why the hell they were there now.

She went on to tell him why, and it shocked him. The old man had come back from one of his trips about three months after he had run away and while his mother was out. He had nailed shut the bedroom door. When she asked him why after she had discovered the act, the old man had told her, “Heʼs never coming back. That boy is no longer welcome in this house.”

“ʻWhat did you hear?ʼ I asked him, ʻWhat do you know?ʼ” She looked up then, and in her face he could see the question, unvoiced, but asked anyway: what had her husband learned about their son? He wouldnʼt—couldnʼt—give her that answer. After pursing her lips into a tight line, she continued. “He said, ʻNothing. I heard nothing.ʼ”

One day, hearing that he had gotten to the old man would have made him happy. But this was a different day, and he was a different person now. He turned away from her, turned the knob, and pushed open the door.

Nothing had changed. The room appeared as it did before he’d left, from what he could remember. Swiveling his head in surprise, he looked at his mother with interest. She wasnʼt as reticent at supplying answers as he had been.

“I was out for Thursday sales in the spring.” Which meant rummage sales, he knew. “I bought a chair for the bedroom that was too big for me to carry by myself. It was loaded into the trunk of my car at the sale, and I wouldnʼt have bought it except your father was home—”

He walked into his old room while she spoke. It was like walking back in time. The old-and-wide console record player that took up a good part of the room was still there. Along with it, stacks of LPs were lined up on the floor between the legs. Book shelves filled with the junk of a teenagerʼs life and not too many books looked a lot tidier than he could ever remember them being. The closet door was ajar, and his old clothes hung there as if waiting for that younger version of him to come sifting through them. His bed was made. He sat on the end of it and continued to look around and to listen.

“—and I knew that between the two of us, we would be able to get it upstairs. I called out, but your father didnʼt answer me. I thought he mightʼve taken a nap, and so I came up.” She stopped speaking until he turned back to her.

“Your door was open.” She paused again, and he couldnʼt have been more interested in what his mother had to say. “He was sitting on your bed with his back turned toward me and—” He could see that it was hard for her to continue, but she continued to hold his gaze. “He was holding one of your pillows and quietly sobbing.” At the end of her words she clasped a hand over her mouth, and more than a few of the held-back tears escaped to run down her cheeks.

Stunned.

That was the best word to describe what he was feeling. Never did he expect to hear anything remotely like that. Despite being shocked earlier, he could understand the nails and the old man reacting the way that he did with them. It fit. Especially if what he was thinking of had come to pass and the old man had learned of what he had been doing to survive; heʼd certainly made no secret of who he was to the truckers. This, this was something wholly unexpected.

His mother pulled a handkerchief from a pocket in her dress and blotted her eyes. He used the time to close his mouth. He was sure that it had been hanging open for quite some time.

The offer of coffee was eagerly accepted. His mother needed the distraction as much as he did. That, and he needed something to hold onto if more revelations like that were coming.

*

The aroma of coffee was delightful despite his wanting to hop back into bed and throw the covers over his head—sleep the day away. The warmth of the mug was equally welcome. Despite the emotional drain of the visit to his mother and the long drive home afterward, he had suffered through a night of finding sleep indifferent to his need. He blamed every ting-pop sound the radiators made when the hot water ran through the pipes. The truth was, his mother had given him too much to think about.

They had talked for a couple of hours. Both of them were polite and careful not to put too much strain on their new connection. Their talk had included a few announcements. His Aunt Carol, his motherʼs closest sister and mother to his cousin Susan—which probably had something to do with her being his favorite cousin—had asked his mother to come and live with her. His Uncle Ed had died a few years ago of the same reason as the old man: a heart attack. She wanted to accept even though her sister was only a forty-five minute drive away.

In his will, the old man left the usual bequests of the house, savings accounts and all of his personal belongings to his wife, as anyone might have expected. The life insurance policy was to be divided, and she would receive eighty percent of it. He expected that when the old man had taken the policy out sixteen years or so ago that it had seemed like a lot of money to him. Now, his share amounted to the cost of a decent new car—nothing fancy. His mother had mostly convinced him that it was a small thing to accept.

The biggest announcement was the offer to move into the house when his mother moved out. That had led to an emotional conversation. She was sorry. She felt that she hadnʼt done enough, though she had tried. He learned a few things about his motherʼs intervention that he had been oblivious to. He supposed that most children were unknowing about what went on behind the scenes—in the bedroom at night, when the kids were at school—but he was surprised at just how much he had been unaware of. She had given him examples of specific events where she had interceded, but they felt too reasoned, too polished with time, and he was skeptical.

What she wouldnʼt do was offer any explanation about the old manʼs behavior. That was for another time. The focus now was on them.

It could be done. He had friends of course but wasnʼt wedded to any of them. They were mostly casual. Impermanence had a lot to do with it. Four years of near constant moving had meant making close, fast friends that were useful at the time but quickly forgotten when he moved on. His job, working in the audio-visual department of a big-box electronics store, was transferrable—others had done it—and there was a store located within an hourʼs drive of his home town. He didnʼt have much in the way of furniture to move, and his mother said that she was going to leave many things anyway.

The utilities and minor upkeep would be up to him. He wouldnʼt have the expense of rent, she wasnʼt going to charge him anything, and he knew that it was an apology of sorts. For missed time if nothing else. It was also a way to get him back into her life. A fact that he very much appreciated.

He had many things to think about, the most pressing of which were answers.

You can go home again, canʼt you? If not, is a new beginning possible?

Hadnʼt he already taken that first step?