Appalachian Tapestry

by Caden Holbrook

​

         It’s a Wednesday in mid July. There are wildfires burning up north, across the border. The fires have brought a thick smog down, so the sky is painted yellow. It burns my eyes and my lungs and my throat when I step outside, and then I start to cough, and then I start to hack… It isn’t worth it, so I’m inside, trying not to glance at the yellow sky and trying to ignore the fact that fire’s eating away at the planet at just the same time cancer’s eating away at my lungs. I can still smell the smoke though. It’s clinging to every inch of this old house, and you have to wonder how you can smell a burning tree when it’s 520 miles away.

I’ll be dead by September. The doctors won’t commit to that, obviously; they’ll huff and haw about timelines and probabilities and “good chances”, but I know my body, and I’ve seen a thing or two. I’m going to die in September, and I’m going to die alone, and that’s okay.

         And, no, I’m not going to moan about how the world has been cruel and how I’ve just been misunderstood. I’m an old man. I’ve burned too many bridges, and I haven’t cut any new paths–and now I’m old, and sick, and going to be dead in a few months. Don’t feel sorry for me; I sure as hell don’t.

         I stopped treatment last fall. I’ve had plenty of time to make my arrangements. It started with the finances–easy enough when there’s nothing to leave and nobody who wants them. Then it was the lawyers, and the estate, and appointments I wish I could have missed. A few months go by and here I am.

         Anyway, I’ve locked myself inside, and I’ve given up on what was supposed to be a day of yard work. These days, I can’t focus long enough to watch anything, and I sure as hell can’t read through a book. There’s only so many times I can play solitaire on my phone. There’s an unread voicemail staring me in the face anyway. So it’s time to do what everyone does when they’ve run out of distractions: it’s time to clean.

         I start with the storage closet. I don’t know the last time I touched it. Five years ago, maybe six. When did I even move into this place? There’s too much dust. Junk is piled up to the ceiling.I pull out a cardboard box labeled “EM.” Out comes a mare’s nest of cords and cables. Goodbye, unopened footbath. I want to throw it all away, to rip and tear and pull until the whole closet’s empty. I start doing just that, and I stop paying attention to what’s coming out.  There’s no need to handle a bunch of old football cards with care, and I’d probably prefer it if that ugly green lamp broke on its way out.

         Then my fingers graze against rough cloth. My breath catches in my throat–not in the way I’m used to. I can’t move. I bunch the cloth into my fist. And then I tug. And tug. The whole thing comes loose, with a tumble of useless crap alongside it, and I’m sitting on my ass with an old patchwork quilt in my lap.

         I pull it close to me. The fabric is rough. It used to be a warm green; now it’s a faded gray. I can smell the summer: barbecue, backyard cigarettes, and spilled beer. I wrap the quilt around me and I close my eyes, and the rustle of quilt on floor becomes the rustle of quilt on grass.

***

         We’re in Whitesburg, Kentucky. He’s 24, and I’m 22; he’s just graduated, and I’ve just dropped out. We sneak away from the Fourth of July party at his dad’s trailer, hike halfway up the mountain. We stop at the old sitting rock. We could fit on it when we were kids, sit next to each other and sometimes even hold hands. But the rock is too small for either of us now, so we lay down on the grass and the next thing I know we’re under the quilt together. Pine mountain is at our back, and the trees surround us. I almost forget about the party going on down below, but we’re still close enough that I can hear his dad’s barking laugh and my aunt’s half-drunk shouting. We talk in half whispers. Every time I move, I think the whole world can hear it. The shifting of grass, the crunch of the earth–I might as well be shooting a flare into the sky. I might as well be shouting, We’re here! We’re right here! Come, come look!

“I don’t like the Fourth of July,” he says.

         “Is it the fireworks?” I ask.

         “Yeah,” he finally answers. He’s half lying. He gets a certain look about him. His jaw gets tight and he can’t look you in the eye.

         “What’s wrong?”

         “It’s all fucked up, Tom.”

         “What is?”

         “All of it. There’re a hundred sixty thousand soldiers in Vietnam right now. A hundred sixty thousand! Nixon’s letting three hundred people die a week, and how many do you think he’s letting them kill?”

         Albert pauses like he’s waiting for me to say something. I could point out that he’s got a job and he’s been in school and he’s not the one who could be drafted any day. But that’s a whole other discussion, and I know Albert and his method. He’ll pop like a balloon and everything that has caused him any trouble will come spilling out. He’ll bury the real problem somewhere in there, whatever’s actually bothering him, and you’ll have to sift through the waste. Vietnam and Nixon aren’t his real concerns. I wait him out.

         “Introductivo lost the Derby, and the best this state can manage is Huddleston, and what the hell is a man supposed to do with a degree in history in a place like Whitesburg? I ain’t gonna teach at the high school forever, I can tell you that.”

         Another pause.

         “And my daddy would kill us if he saw us here, Tom.”

         I can’t speak. There’s a hole in my chest–no, a burning knot and it’s twisting tighter and tighter with each breath.

         The party down below seems a lot louder. Fireworks burst and there’s a gentle rain of blue and red and white. They reflect in Albert’s eyes and mix with the blue of his pupils. It’s like a tiny world; the night sky in microcosm. I think I can even see the stars. His mouth is drawn tight, his jaw taut. He tugs on a tuft of his dark beard.

         “I’m sorry,” I say. I want to go somewhere else. I want to be far away from him. And I want to hold him. I want to pull him in and hold him tight and tell him, to hell with your daddy, but I don’t.

         He doesn’t say much for a while.

         In fact, he doesn’t say anything, not until the fireworks have stopped and we can’t even hear the party anymore. The crickets are chirping and we’re staring at the stars.

         “Tom?” He finally says.

         There’s a certain weariness in his voice. I don’t know what he’s going to say. I feel a knot in my stomach.

         “Yeah?” I ask. My throat’s tight, clenched like a vice.

         “I think we should get back to everyone else. They’re gonna wonder where we’ve gone.”

         “Yeah.”

 We’re still boys–in our twenties, sure, but boys–and I don’t have the vocabulary and I don’t have the heart. I think about the things I could say: Why don’t we spend the night here? maybe, or the simpler thing, the one I’ve wanted to say since he was 14 and I was 12, Will you kiss me? But I only say “yeah,” and there’s a long silence, and I hear him shuffling under the quilt. We’re closer than we’ve ever been before. I can’t even look at his face.

***

          It’s a Friday in mid July. I haven’t moved much for the past two days. It hurts to move anyway, and I’ve been here in the old leather recliner. The blanket’s wrapped tight around me. I cried for the first few hours; I can’t cry anymore. I can only sit and try my best to disappear into the dark leather and stew in my thoughts until I have to piss or until I need a drink of water so bad my throat feels like it’s laced with needles. Or maybe razors. The cycle goes on.

         I manage to sleep at some points, though I can’t tell you for how long. All I know is, it’s Friday now, and I’ve been a useless lump for almost two days, and all I can think about is that blanket and that boy. How long ago was it? Longer than I’d like to admit. But that night’s still there. I’d done a good job keeping it bundled up and tucked away. It just took that little tug, and everything crashed down. I almost listened to that voicemail.

         But it’s Friday now and I’m done being sorry and the feeling is less pain and more empty numbness. I manage to tear the blanket away, and I stumble through my house, and I try to ignore the pile of crap that’s strewn across the hallway. I’m not coordinated on a good day, not even when I was healthy, and my legs are wet dough and I almost trip over my own feet.

         Somehow, I manage not to fall and kill myself, and I’ve made it from the recliner to the kitchen. I’m hungry–fuck, I’m hungry–and I settle on a half finished bag of chips.

***

        It’s a Thursday in August. It’s 1989, or maybe 1988; I’m 39, or maybe 38. The summer evenings are just starting to get cool. I’ve got my classroom window open because otherwise we’d all be melting, and the last thing you want on parent-teacher night is a bunch of sweating, tired, exhausted parents. The cicadas are chirping. The sun is just about to set, and I’ve just finished my spiel about how excited I am to meet all these wonderful kids, and I’ve just promised these parents that this bunch is a special one–I can feel it! And finally, mercifully, parent-teacher night is almost over, and all that’s left to do is shake the hands of all these parents–who I hope and pray I’ll never hear from or see or, for a certain few, smell again – and offer little platitudes and promises.

         They go by one by one, and I feel like the door’s got some sort of gravitational pull. I’m inching just a little closer with each parent that steps out. Just a few more minutes, a few more sweaty handshakes, and I can be home and I can sit down to cold pizza and a cat in my lap.

         “So you’re teaching history now, Tom? I can’t believe it.”

         I can place the parent’s voice, but not the face. It doesn’t take long before I recognize him, but I don’t have any words to offer. I’m left with his hand in my own and my mouth half agape.

         He’s so much older now. He’s still got his beard, but gray hairs are starting to break through. The rest of his hair’s already iron. I know his blue eyes, and I know his smile. Fuck.

         “Albert Hyle,” I manage to respond; I pray it didn’t take me as long as it felt. “You’re Serena’s dad?”

         The man smiles and nods, and I finally let go of his hand, even though I want to pull him in for a hug. I’ve hardly seen him since that Fourth of July–we’d pass, and maybe say a word or two, but eventually he moved up to Louisville and I moved out to Lexington, and I figured I’d never see him again.

         Albert looks over his shoulder, but he’s the last parent in line.

“It’s been too long, Tom.”

         “Feels like a lifetime.”

         “Know a nice place to sit?”

         “Here? No.”

         “Anywhere.”

         “How come?”

         “Well we ought to catch up, shouldn’t we? I figure it’s better to sit down and talk than stand here and gawk.”

 

         We sit down on a park bench outside the school. It’s my favorite spot, off a little sidepath and nestled between two great oaks. I sit on the right side, he sits on the left. There’s space for two between us.

         “So, a kid, huh?” I ask. There’s a knife in my chest, and I’ve just pulled it out.

         “Fourteen years now. She’s the love of my life.” He smiles, but there’s something else behind his expression. A weight, a weariness. I can’t place it.

         I’m sure I can’t mask the pain on my face, but I try my best, and I’m wearing my practiced teacher smile. “And who’s the wife?”

         “Her name’s Joy. I met her a few months after I moved up to Louisville.”

         “How’d you meet?”

         “Oh, you know.” He sighs and looks away. I try to follow his gaze, but I can’t make out where he’s looking. “I started my Master’s at Spalding, and she was there, too. We got to talking and that was that.”

         Do you love her?

         I must be taking too long to respond, because he says, “But what about you? How’d you wind up teaching history of all things?”

         “Well, you inspired me, I guess.” My teacher smile becomes a bit more of a real smile. “I dropped out that summer, you know. And, well, I was bored and I didn’t want to work at the lumber company the rest of my life or risk getting drafted. So I went out to Lexington and I finished my degree.”

         “Did you find a girl?” I can’t read his expression, but he’s looking away again.

         “For a bit. Emily May. We got divorced last April.”

         The divorce is my fault. She deserved–deserves–better. I can’t give it.

         “I’m sorry to hear that.”

         “Ah, don’t be.”

         The sun’s just about to set now and the sky is orange and purple and vibrant. I wish I was a painter, just so I could preserve that sky forever. The breeze catches a bit of his hair, and I wish I could paint him, too.

         I shiver and it’s not because of the cool wind. I want to be next to him. I want to hold his hand. I want to say now what I didn’t say back in July of 1972. But what good would that do, when he’s got a wife, and he’s got a kid, and he’s managed to move on and  I’m still shaking over a boy I haven’t even seen since I was a boy?

         “So, when did you move down to Lexington?” I ask.

         He lets out a long sigh like I’ve said something wrong. He runs a hand over his face and for a second he just looks tired.

         “Made the move about ten years ago, I think. I would’ve reached out - I didn’t even know you were still here.”

         “Not your fault.”

         “Still.”

         Are you thinking about that night?

         “Do you like it here?”

         “Well as I can. I miss Louisville, but Joy’s parents live down here and she wants to be by them. You know how it is.”

         I want to be by you.

         I’m a selfish fool.

         “Well, how’s your folks?” I ask.

         “Dad died about a month after I moved to Louisville. You didn’t hear?”

         I shake my head.

         “Well, that’s that. It’s been a long time. And my mom, she just lives in the church now, over at Millstone.”

         “I’m sorry.”

         “Don’t be. I’ve made my peace.”

         If only I’d made mine.

         The conversation carries on. We share small talk and the polite stories of friends-made-strangers. The sun sets. We’ve spent hours talking at each other. All I can feel is the distance between us. It’s more than the physical space: it’s a distance between our words. It’s the black hole, the space we’re dancing around.

         “Tom?” He asks after a while.

         “Albert?”

         “If you ever want to talk, I’m here.”

         “About what?”

         He shakes his head.

         “Just know I’m here.”

***

         I don’t know what day it is, but August is almost over. I’ve gone out once for a doctor’s visit and a grocery run. I deleted the voicemail on my phone.

         I don’t want to die alone.

         The feeling set in some time between finding that damned blanket and the next time I really slept.

         It’s not like Albert is the only person I’ve ever felt feelings for. But no one else has stuck around. I cared for Emily May, but I couldn’t make myself love her, and there’s no way in hell I could have put someone else through that again. And when I was teaching, I couldn’t love a man. It would have meant my career. So before I knew it, I was retired, and all I had was my cat, and then the cat died, and I had nobody.

         I wrote him a letter a couple nights ago. I told him that I love him, and that I miss him, and that I’ve spent my whole life hiding from him. I told him how hard it was to have Serena in class: to see someone with his eyes, who laughed the same way. I asked if he remembered playing in the ditch, and if he felt the same way I did back on the Fourth of July. I said I was dying, and that I’ve been a coward, and this was my way of at least clearing my chest. I told him about my other failures: the wife I failed, the time I tried to move to Boston, the way I couldn’t go into Mom’s hospital room, even at the very end.

         But I’m burning that letter now. It’s on top of the quilt and Emily May’s cardboard box and all the other junk from the closet. The smoke’s enough to make me cough, but it’s nowhere near as bad as the forest fires back in July, and I’ve got to watch that letter burn. The sky’s orange right now–the sun is just fading over the horizon, and the flames dance up to meet the sky.