Color on the Walls

My parents were still happy when I was in seventh grade. Dad would go out and buy the paper each morning before Ben and I woke up. By the time we reached the dining room table, he would already have finished and the newspaper would be folded neatly in front of him, next to his glass of orange juice, with the Sudoku cut out and laid on top for me. If Mom hadn’t been working the night shift, she’d join us, sometimes toasting a bagel for Ben or scolding me for opening another box of cereal instead of eating the powder at the bottom of the bag. Whenever she shifted to form her authoritative stance--legs spread apart, arms crossed, head down, brow furrowed--my dad would go to the pantry, retrieve the old box of cereal, sneak up behind her, and dump the remnants over her head. She would usually blush furiously and stomp her feet and try to swat him, before collapsing into a fit of laughter.

Ben always drove me to school, even when he’d woken up late and a scowl seemed to be permanently plastered onto his face. If he was sick, Dad would take me in the Tahoe. After we pulled up to the curb outside of JMS, he would lock the doors, ruffle my hair, say, “I love you, Crazy,” and prohibit me from leaving the car until I’d smiled and returned the farewell. I would walk home, unless we had gotten a considerable amount of snow, and my parents took turns cooking each night. Every so often, when my head hit my pillow, I could hear the shift of bed springs from the vent behind me that led to my parents’ room, and I would lay there in the dark, completely still, listening. I used to hate what I heard, not realizing how much worse it would be listening to a  half-empty house.

***

Nathan Bishop doesn’t talk to me anymore. When we pass each other in the hallway and my gaze falls upon his, he stares right through me, as if I’m not even there. At the beginning of freshman year, I made the mistake of wandering behind him during passing period and hovering around his locker before lunch. Once, I walked right up to him in a last attempt to break the ice.

“Hello, Nathan,” I said. We were standing in the cafeteria after school. I had followed him down from the locker bays and taken advantage of the fact that, for once, he was alone.

He turned his head away from me and stared off into the distance, fingering the straps on his backpack and biting his lower lip like he always did when he was agitated. After I stood next to him for a good thirty seconds, he finally looked back to acknowledge my presence.

“Look, El,” he said. His hands moved to the insides of his jean pockets. “I think it’s great that you still want to be friends. I really do.” His eyes began to dart around the room and he shifted uneasily. “It’s just… I can’t have you following me around all the time, like some lost puppy. It’s weird.”

I nodded slowly and swallowed. “Okay.”

A small sigh escaped his lips. “Maybe you think we can cope, or eventually move on.” Nathan’s gaze settled upon me once more. “But we can’t. Do you understand?”

I didn’t, but I nodded again anyway, told him goodbye, and left. On the way home I thought about calling my dad and asking him to pick me up. He had always been able to cheer me up, whether that meant buying me a family-sized platter of fries from Culver’s or going window-shopping down Kessel Road. It wasn’t until I’d pulled out my cell phone and punched in his number that I remembered I wasn’t still in middle school, and Dad no longer lived in town. So, I slipped my phone back into my bag and began the two-mile trek home.

Nathan’s dad, Evan, had been friends with my father since they were frat brothers in college. Each year, they took three or four trips to the northern border of Michigan, where they would stay in a cabin for a week and go hunting.

Ever since I was little, I remembered the time frame surrounding each trip and what it consisted of. My dad would begin planning everything about the week an entire month in advance, scrawling little notes on slips of paper or giving Evan the occasional phone call to fill him in. When Dad packed his bags, he always triple-checked to make sure he had everything, tunelessly humming Oh, Canada while he did so. After he finished, he’d sit on the edge of his bed and pull me and Ben into the space beside him, holding us tightly and promising to bring us back a little something--maybe some meat, a wooden carving, or a rabbit’s foot. Departure day would arrive and he’d spare a few seconds to say goodbye before he eagerly threw his belongings and himself into Evan’s old blue truck. Mom, Ben, and I always stood at the living room window and watched as the black cloud spewing out of Evan’s exhaust pipe slowly disappeared from view.

When Dad came back, he would have a shine in his eyes and a flush to his cheeks, as if he’d been walking for twenty minutes in the cold. At the dinner table, he animatedly described his experiences in the forest and bragged about how many animals he’d shot. He would let me and Ben explore the landscape of his new beard before he shaved it off the next morning. Sometimes he told me about the families of deer he’d seen, or nests of baby cardinals, and we gave names to all of them.

But year after year, when Dad returned from his hunting trips with Evan, a broad smile stretching across his face as he threw his bags onto the living room floor, he came home fruitless; Ben and I never received the little somethings he had promised us.

***

At first it happened so slowly that I didn’t even realize anything was wrong. Mom started to work more night shifts than usual, appearing at dinner and breakfast less and less. Evan purchased a pool table and Dad frequently visited him so that the two could improve their billiard skills. It wasn’t uncommon for me and Ben to make our own meals. In my parents’ absence I found solace with Nathan, my lifelong friend.

One night of eighth grade, after my whole family had been together, I got ready for bed and slipped beneath my quilt. It had been a long day and I was prepared to drift off to sleep, but the low sound of two voices traveling through the vent behind me kept me awake.

There were no mattress springs creaking or words of affection being exchanged--there was only an endless conversation about Evan and my dad’s next hunting expedition, which I tuned into with some difficulty.

“...red and blue plaid shirt,” Dad was saying. “I’d like it for the next trip.”

The shift of bodies crossing the room and preparing for bed sounded through the vent.

“You know, Daniel,” my mom said cautiously, “I was thinking that maybe there shouldn’t be a next trip.”

An almost painful pause rang in my ears. Then, “What are you talking about?”

“You haven’t been spending time with your children lately--or your wife, either. They need you… I need you. Here.”

My dad scoffed, creating a sound so disgusting that not even the vent could muffle its offense. “And I suppose you’re the one who’s always around, taking care of them?” Silence passed between them for several heartbeats. “It’s only a week. You’ve never had problems with the trips before.”

“Have I?” my mom asked. “Tell me something, Daniel. Four times a year, you and your old college buddy go to the Canadian woods. Before you leave each time, I always wish you luck and tell you to bring home a stag or a few rabbits, so the kids and I can enjoy a good meal from their father.” She paused, as if gathering her thoughts. “You promise me. ‘Sure thing,’ you always say. Then, you come home, grinning and gushing about how many things you’ve killed and how you’d eaten them all up.”

As silently as I could, I flipped over to face the wall with the vent and sucked in a deep breath.

“I left a note inside one of your bullet canisters, once, one I knew you’d open, reminding you to please bring some game home for Ben and Eleanor,” my mom continued. “When you came back, I opened the canister and there was the paper, untouched. It looked as if your gun hadn’t seen action since you bought it twenty years ago.”

“What the hell are you getting at?” Dad snapped. My whole body began to tremble; I’d never heard him sound so bitter.

“You know exactly what I’m getting at.” Mom’s voice shook. “I know what it all means, you see. You might take me for a fool, but I know.”

The bed creaked, then, as someone launched himself across and to the other side. “You don’t know anything,” my dad growled. “Not a single thing, you hear?”

“Let go of me,” my mom whispered, her voice finally cracking. I heard the shuffle of feet and a few whimpers as she briefly struggled to break free. After a few seconds, she breathed out a sigh of relief. Quick footsteps padded down the hall. Soon, the slam of the bathroom door was all that greeted my ears.

I stared at the wall in front of me. Aside from the huge brown vent in its center, it was white and covered with crayon drawings I’d carved into it when I was little. They were simple things: my friends and family, my goals, my imaginings. Even in the darkness I could make out the purple swirls and orange blotches racing up and down the glossy surface.

I reached out and traced them the way I used to when I was younger.When the tips of my fingers met the cold drywall, I didn’t flinch. The last thing I remembered before falling asleep was the dampness of my pillow beneath my cheek.

***

I used to see my dad a lot when he first moved out of the house. If he knew Mom was out, he’d stop by and ask me about school, my art, and Nathan. He would attempt to talk to Ben, who usually blew him off. Sometimes, he and I would go out to eat, and if Evan wasn’t home he’d show me around their new house, pointing out the latest oddities they’d acquired from the local thrift shop.

I stare at my father across the table, taking in his thinning hair and worn face under the warm glow of the Egg Haven lights. Slung around his shoulders is the aviator jacket he used to wear on his hunting trips. He pulls it more tightly around himself and pokes at the eggs on his plate.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I thought we could try something new.”

“My food isn’t that bad.” I slide my plate over to him. “You can have the sausages, if you want.”

He nods a thank-you and shovels two links onto his own plate, then slides the dish back to me. We eat in silence for a few moments before he asks, “Drawn anything lately?”

I shake my head. “Nothing good.” A few months ago I had taken out a watercolor set he’d given me for Christmas, sat down in front of a blank wall in my room, and painted at random. I covered the wall first in deep purple and red drawings, then in yellows and greens, and finally in shades of gray. After the afternoon was over, there wasn’t a spot of white left.

I twirl the straw around in my glass of orange juice, knowing how much Dad would love to see the wall. My mouth opens to tell him about it, but he’s already asked another question.

“You going to prom?”

“Maybe.” I shrug. “It’s a bit over-priced, and I don’t exactly have a date.”

“Ask Nathan to take you,” my dad suggests. “You always went to the middle school dances together, didn’t you?”

“He has a girlfriend, Dad.” I don’t have the heart to tell him that Nathan and I haven’t spoken in nearly three years.

“Ah, well.” Dad stares down at his food. “I guess… Evan and I always hoped…” He looks up at me suddenly, remembering.

“I’m not mad anymore.”

“I know.”

I eat the last bite of my pancakes, and he finishes the sausages. We stand up and he goes to throw the food away. When he returns, I’ve already slipped into my jacket and pulled on my mittens.

“I guess this is it, kiddo,” he says, smiling. “Maybe we can do it again soon?”

“Yeah.” I look up at him, shuffling my car keys around my blanketed palm. “I’d like that.”

He holds out his arms for a hug, and I accept. “I love you, Crazy,” he whispers.

“I love you too, Daddy.” I squeeze his frame tighter than I ever thought possible, breathing in the sharp scent of Canadian pine. “Always.”

Author's Note

If only I had this same unconditional love for my own mother...