Weird story
Another weird little story. The concept wouldn't leave me alone, has been hounding me forever; the sense that this story gives off demanded I write it out. Maybe it'll stop bugging me now. Input welcome.
You could always feel when December was coming in our house; there was always that change in emotion, that strange rising/falling of energy. My mother would always become slightly more on guard, more alert -- always waiting for the sound of tires on gravel outside, always swiftly moving to the window when she heard a cardoor slamming closed, always waiting. My father, by contrast, always became more lethargic, as if by becoming more leaden he would be resistant to the December radiation. He reacted to every stimulus belatedly, straining every prompt through the this-is-nothing-this-is-nothing-there's-nothing-going-on filter. The two of them still moved in concert, were still a couple in every since of the word, but you could always feel when December was closing in.
Sometime between the first and the fifth it always happened. Speaking honestly, I vastly preferred whenever it happened on the first than when it did later. The energy in the house, my mother's anxiousness combined with my father's lethargy, could almost be charted geometrically; they were both variables whose values squared every day after December 1st. He only arrived on the Fifth once, but it's a year that I've never forgotten. It was the first year that I ever actually saw him, this man who drew my mother away for one month of every year.
It was evening. My father had returned home from work covered in grime as if this were just one more day; as if this were not December; as if this were not the Fifth; as if his wife was not home, awaiting another. He had washed while my mother had prepared dinner, her nervous energy chattering at him in a staccato, abrupt fashion. It wasn't until we had actually begun to eat, some halfway through the meal, whenever he arrived. The sounds that she'd been waiting for came -- the slow crunch of tires on gravel, the slamming of his cardoor, the single blow of his horn from outside.
As soon as the first of the signals had been given, she'd known, her eyes darting around like an addict's, racing to each of my brothers and sisters, myself, and last to my father. She remained frozen a moment, head bowed, eyes closed, before she rose and began to move towards the door. My father rose a heartbeat after her and reached out, catching her wrist -- nothing was said, but the gesture was clear. This was the first time he had ever attempted to stop her, to prevent this cycle of shattering and healing.
She didn't struggle, didn't attempt to pull herself away. She let him hold her wrist, his thin-fingered, stained hands wrapped around her, and they both paused to examine the other, to really, truly look. They remained this way, locked, communicating in some way that my still youthful mind didn't understand, couldn't follow. Several minutes passed before there was a gentle, light knock on our door. Even then, even as young as I was, I still remember being confused at how gentle a sound could create such a shock, such a change in our house.
The stalemate that my parents had been locked in was broken with such abruptness that it were as if a weapon had gone off between their fingers. My mother's right hand drew quickly back to her breast, cradled by her left as if it had been seared, burned by some heat. My mother's back had been to us so we could not see her expression, we could only see the reaction to it on our father's. He nodded gently to himself before he turned and move towards the door of our little trailer park home, opening the door with a sort of listless politeness; a manner of dessicated civility.
In the doorway, we could see him, finally. I was the middle child, but I had asked my older siblings in hushed tones about where our mother went, conversations always held late at night. It seemed the only time suitable for such talk; isn't that when you discuss ghosts, bogeymen, and demons?
He was small for a demon, small for the impact he had on our lives. Compared amongst men, rather than against the views of children, he would have been a giant. He had long hair that was left wild, blown out and knotted behind him, as if he had just ran, or even flew, some great distance. He was dressed in black clothes that only loosely fit him, almost draped on him in the dead air, no breeze to stir or breathe movement into them. Even from where I sat, still rooted at the table, I could see the scars on him. He was covered in them. His hands, his forearms, his neck, his face, scars of all shapes and kinds covered him, devoured him.
All was still for a few moments before the stranger spoke, inclining his head towards my father in courtesy, "John." His voice matched everything else about him; deep, earthy, and somehow scarred.
My father seemed to respond autonomously, bowing his head in response, "Richard." My father's right hand curled into a fist, the weapon held tight against his thigh, pressed hard there rather than wielded as obviously desired.
The stranger, Richard, turned his head to look towards my mother, met her eyes. His words were spoken carefully, with a rigidity that I did not understand. The only comparison I had for it then were the church rites, the structured way that the priest's words mean so much more than their phonetic weight.
"Marilyn, are you coming with me?"
She remained as she was, still and looking at my father, for a heartbeat more before she nodded softly, once to him and seemingly once to herself. She turned then and began to move towards this stranger, this Richard. As she neared him, she did not slow, and began to move past him and out the door. Her right hand, the one that she had treated almost as if burnt, as if wounded, by my father reached out and brushed gently along the inside of Richard's wrist, fingertips brushing just over his flesh before she exited.
The stranger himself stood a moment longer before he offered a careful bow of his head towards my father and then turned as well, making his exit after her. Never once had he acknowledged us, looked towards her children. Even at the time, I remember feeling as if we were simply not important to him.
The stranger hadn't closed the door after himself when he exited and my father moved woodenly forwards to do so. Thinking back now, imagining the setup of our little trailer and driveway, he would have still seen them as he closed the door. He'd have watched her, I imagine, climb into the stranger's car and maybe even drive away from him, from us, away from her family. I wonder, now, if she looked back? Did she see him, standing there in the doorway as she left? I haven't the answer.
You could always feel when December was coming in our house; there was always that change in emotion, that strange rising/falling of energy. My mother would always become slightly more on guard, more alert -- always waiting for the sound of tires on gravel outside, always swiftly moving to the window when she heard a cardoor slamming closed, always waiting. My father, by contrast, always became more lethargic, as if by becoming more leaden he would be resistant to the December radiation. He reacted to every stimulus belatedly, straining every prompt through the this-is-nothing-this-is-nothing-there's-nothing-going-on filter. The two of them still moved in concert, were still a couple in every since of the word, but you could always feel when December was closing in.
Sometime between the first and the fifth it always happened. Speaking honestly, I vastly preferred whenever it happened on the first than when it did later. The energy in the house, my mother's anxiousness combined with my father's lethargy, could almost be charted geometrically; they were both variables whose values squared every day after December 1st. He only arrived on the Fifth once, but it's a year that I've never forgotten. It was the first year that I ever actually saw him, this man who drew my mother away for one month of every year.
It was evening. My father had returned home from work covered in grime as if this were just one more day; as if this were not December; as if this were not the Fifth; as if his wife was not home, awaiting another. He had washed while my mother had prepared dinner, her nervous energy chattering at him in a staccato, abrupt fashion. It wasn't until we had actually begun to eat, some halfway through the meal, whenever he arrived. The sounds that she'd been waiting for came -- the slow crunch of tires on gravel, the slamming of his cardoor, the single blow of his horn from outside.
As soon as the first of the signals had been given, she'd known, her eyes darting around like an addict's, racing to each of my brothers and sisters, myself, and last to my father. She remained frozen a moment, head bowed, eyes closed, before she rose and began to move towards the door. My father rose a heartbeat after her and reached out, catching her wrist -- nothing was said, but the gesture was clear. This was the first time he had ever attempted to stop her, to prevent this cycle of shattering and healing.
She didn't struggle, didn't attempt to pull herself away. She let him hold her wrist, his thin-fingered, stained hands wrapped around her, and they both paused to examine the other, to really, truly look. They remained this way, locked, communicating in some way that my still youthful mind didn't understand, couldn't follow. Several minutes passed before there was a gentle, light knock on our door. Even then, even as young as I was, I still remember being confused at how gentle a sound could create such a shock, such a change in our house.
The stalemate that my parents had been locked in was broken with such abruptness that it were as if a weapon had gone off between their fingers. My mother's right hand drew quickly back to her breast, cradled by her left as if it had been seared, burned by some heat. My mother's back had been to us so we could not see her expression, we could only see the reaction to it on our father's. He nodded gently to himself before he turned and move towards the door of our little trailer park home, opening the door with a sort of listless politeness; a manner of dessicated civility.
In the doorway, we could see him, finally. I was the middle child, but I had asked my older siblings in hushed tones about where our mother went, conversations always held late at night. It seemed the only time suitable for such talk; isn't that when you discuss ghosts, bogeymen, and demons?
He was small for a demon, small for the impact he had on our lives. Compared amongst men, rather than against the views of children, he would have been a giant. He had long hair that was left wild, blown out and knotted behind him, as if he had just ran, or even flew, some great distance. He was dressed in black clothes that only loosely fit him, almost draped on him in the dead air, no breeze to stir or breathe movement into them. Even from where I sat, still rooted at the table, I could see the scars on him. He was covered in them. His hands, his forearms, his neck, his face, scars of all shapes and kinds covered him, devoured him.
All was still for a few moments before the stranger spoke, inclining his head towards my father in courtesy, "John." His voice matched everything else about him; deep, earthy, and somehow scarred.
My father seemed to respond autonomously, bowing his head in response, "Richard." My father's right hand curled into a fist, the weapon held tight against his thigh, pressed hard there rather than wielded as obviously desired.
The stranger, Richard, turned his head to look towards my mother, met her eyes. His words were spoken carefully, with a rigidity that I did not understand. The only comparison I had for it then were the church rites, the structured way that the priest's words mean so much more than their phonetic weight.
"Marilyn, are you coming with me?"
She remained as she was, still and looking at my father, for a heartbeat more before she nodded softly, once to him and seemingly once to herself. She turned then and began to move towards this stranger, this Richard. As she neared him, she did not slow, and began to move past him and out the door. Her right hand, the one that she had treated almost as if burnt, as if wounded, by my father reached out and brushed gently along the inside of Richard's wrist, fingertips brushing just over his flesh before she exited.
The stranger himself stood a moment longer before he offered a careful bow of his head towards my father and then turned as well, making his exit after her. Never once had he acknowledged us, looked towards her children. Even at the time, I remember feeling as if we were simply not important to him.
The stranger hadn't closed the door after himself when he exited and my father moved woodenly forwards to do so. Thinking back now, imagining the setup of our little trailer and driveway, he would have still seen them as he closed the door. He'd have watched her, I imagine, climb into the stranger's car and maybe even drive away from him, from us, away from her family. I wonder, now, if she looked back? Did she see him, standing there in the doorway as she left? I haven't the answer.