Jack's Departure

I woke up at 5:30 this morning with this part of the story bubbling out of me, so I got up and wrote it down. What story?  The one I started way back in May with a letter from Sally Harcourt Beech.  Maybe this is the prologue.




I listen for the heavy tread of Jack's feet descending the stairs, the change when he steps off the old carpet onto the wood, the scrape and jangle of the keys he rakes from the hall table.  There's an abrasion of air as he pulls the heavy front door open, and a solid thump as it fits back into its jamb. The cranky spot on the porch floor squawks and the screen door snaps as he opens and closes it.


I pace his quiet passage across the grass, then the step or two on gravel. There is only the subtlest metallic click as the well-kept truck's door opens and is pulled closed. In my mind's eye, I watch him buckle his seat-belt across the expanse of chest and belly. He'll check that the radio and heater are off before he starts the engine. A person shouldn't put additional drain on a vehicle's battery during start-up.


I imagine the truck quietly clearing its throat as they key is turned, like a speaker needing a sip of water before beginning the lecture. Jack always leaves the truck pointed out to the driveway, so the crunch of tires on gravel is authoritative and to the point -- an exit with no undue haste, no expression. No drama.  The yielding gravel lowers its voice as Jack's truck moves along the drive. The Doppler Effect, I remember, though I'm not sure from where.


It would be easy, natural, to follow that trail of thought to some earlier year when I could still name the arrival of certain concepts.  Like the definition of "maritime."  Seventh grade. I was so sure. I raised my hand extra high and Sister Honora chose me to answer.  I said "Peace!"  I was wrong.  Perhaps it was a compliment to choose me to answer. Perhaps she was expressing her confidence in my facility with language and my parents' intelligence. Perhaps that's why I still feel the shame of being wrong decades later -- why I don't like to commit to an answer.


By the time I drag my focus back from the high-windowed classroom, the truck's tires have met the highway, and the gravel is silent.


The birds fill in the open places in my hearing now that I'm not focused on Jack's departure. The house seems to take a large, sighing breath, flexing its walls, stretching in the thin early sun like the barn cats do.  Or maybe it's only me, breathing deeply, expanding my presence in the house that has been so full of Jack.


I peel back the light blankets and swing my legs over the edge of the bed. I sit for a minute, maybe two, enjoying the uncomplicated morning light, the cool air, the communication of cardinal and chickadee-dee-dee. And now I'm finally on my knees next to the bed. There's no longer a cutwork dust ruffle -- Jack vetoed that years ago -- and so the long, narrow box slides easily out from its dusty, dark lodgings under the bed.


I don't even brush off the dust. It's Wednesday, so I'll be washing the bedding later today.  I set the box on the bed and climb back in among the covers, a child trying to extend the pleasure of receiving a gift.