to keep an eye out on Pop as well.
Sometimes Kurt could hardly believe this was the house he had grown up in. It was like the cancer that had slowly rotted out his motherâs belly. At first, you couldnât tell from the outside what was happening on the inside, but in the last year or so, the rot and decay and stink had started to spill out onto the front porch, the yard, the driveway, and beyond. And now that the snow had melted, he realized just how much crap there was outside. As he walked up the cracked walkway to the porch, he knew he was going to have to say something to Pop about the mess before the neighbors did.
Kurt had tried numerous times to help his dad clean up, but Pop had only gotten upset. Taken it personally. He was a collector, he said. Why couldnât Kurt just respect that and leave his shit alone? Kurt, of all people, should understand the value in other peopleâs junk. Hadnât the salvage yard put food on his table his whole life? Hadnât it put this very roof over his head? The problem was Jude Kennedy was a collector, but he didnât collect antiques or snow globes or even those little spoons from all over the world. He collected everything . The bloody Styrofoam trays that cradled his ground beef, the plastic rings that embraced his beer, the junk mail that filled his mailbox. Advertisements for oil changes and grocery store fliers were as valuable to him as his dead wifeâs china and his own Purple Heart. The house had always been full, but when Kurtâs mother was alive at least it was clean. Now it was filthy. There was one path that you could walk through, which led from the front door to the La-Z-Boy where his father spent most of his days and all of his nights and then on into the crowded kitchen and, finally, into the bathroom. Every time Kurt visited it seemed to get just a little bit worse; the pathway just a little bit narrower. He wanted to help him, to just empty the place out, give him a fresh start, but at this point he wasnât even sure where to begin.
Most Fridays, heâd sit with his father in a spot cleared off on the old couch and watch a basketball game or baseball game or just old episodes of Law & Order . Pop would draw hard and long on one Kool after another. The air was minty and thick; there was a layer of ash on everything. Kurt would catch him up with what was happening down at work as well as stuff happening in town. He brought drawings that Gracy had made, with GRANDPA scrawled across them in waxy crayon. He was usually there at least a couple of hours. But tonight, heâd promised Elsbeth heâd be home by suppertime, so heâd have to make it quick.
âHey, Dad!â Kurt said by way of warning as he slowly cracked the unlocked door. He knew his father sometimes left the door to the bathroom open, and he didnât want to embarrass him by walking in while he was struggling to use the contraption theyâd gotten at the medical supply store after the stroke.
âCâmin.â His fatherâs voice crackled, scratchy and deep like the crush of fallen leaves, and Kurt pushed the door open as far as he could. Something was blocking its full arc. The light was dim inside, but it looked like a ratty footstool.
Jude wasnât in the bathroom but in the recliner, already wearing his pajamas. He didnât usually lounge around in his nightclothes; despite the state of his home, he still showered every day, used a straight razor to shave, and wore clean, pressed Dickies and collared shirts. This attention to hygiene and grooming was a relief to Kurt.
âYou okay, Dad?â Kurt asked, making his way through the messy living room to the kitchen with the bag of groceries.
âWhatâs that?â he asked. Growing up, Kurt used to be able to tell when his father had been drinking from the soft slur that signaled three or four or more cocktails. But ever since the stroke, Pop always sounded drunk. The
Sometimes Kurt could hardly believe this was the house he had grown up in. It was like the cancer that had slowly rotted out his motherâs belly. At first, you couldnât tell from the outside what was happening on the inside, but in the last year or so, the rot and decay and stink had started to spill out onto the front porch, the yard, the driveway, and beyond. And now that the snow had melted, he realized just how much crap there was outside. As he walked up the cracked walkway to the porch, he knew he was going to have to say something to Pop about the mess before the neighbors did.
Kurt had tried numerous times to help his dad clean up, but Pop had only gotten upset. Taken it personally. He was a collector, he said. Why couldnât Kurt just respect that and leave his shit alone? Kurt, of all people, should understand the value in other peopleâs junk. Hadnât the salvage yard put food on his table his whole life? Hadnât it put this very roof over his head? The problem was Jude Kennedy was a collector, but he didnât collect antiques or snow globes or even those little spoons from all over the world. He collected everything . The bloody Styrofoam trays that cradled his ground beef, the plastic rings that embraced his beer, the junk mail that filled his mailbox. Advertisements for oil changes and grocery store fliers were as valuable to him as his dead wifeâs china and his own Purple Heart. The house had always been full, but when Kurtâs mother was alive at least it was clean. Now it was filthy. There was one path that you could walk through, which led from the front door to the La-Z-Boy where his father spent most of his days and all of his nights and then on into the crowded kitchen and, finally, into the bathroom. Every time Kurt visited it seemed to get just a little bit worse; the pathway just a little bit narrower. He wanted to help him, to just empty the place out, give him a fresh start, but at this point he wasnât even sure where to begin.
Most Fridays, heâd sit with his father in a spot cleared off on the old couch and watch a basketball game or baseball game or just old episodes of Law & Order . Pop would draw hard and long on one Kool after another. The air was minty and thick; there was a layer of ash on everything. Kurt would catch him up with what was happening down at work as well as stuff happening in town. He brought drawings that Gracy had made, with GRANDPA scrawled across them in waxy crayon. He was usually there at least a couple of hours. But tonight, heâd promised Elsbeth heâd be home by suppertime, so heâd have to make it quick.
âHey, Dad!â Kurt said by way of warning as he slowly cracked the unlocked door. He knew his father sometimes left the door to the bathroom open, and he didnât want to embarrass him by walking in while he was struggling to use the contraption theyâd gotten at the medical supply store after the stroke.
âCâmin.â His fatherâs voice crackled, scratchy and deep like the crush of fallen leaves, and Kurt pushed the door open as far as he could. Something was blocking its full arc. The light was dim inside, but it looked like a ratty footstool.
Jude wasnât in the bathroom but in the recliner, already wearing his pajamas. He didnât usually lounge around in his nightclothes; despite the state of his home, he still showered every day, used a straight razor to shave, and wore clean, pressed Dickies and collared shirts. This attention to hygiene and grooming was a relief to Kurt.
âYou okay, Dad?â Kurt asked, making his way through the messy living room to the kitchen with the bag of groceries.
âWhatâs that?â he asked. Growing up, Kurt used to be able to tell when his father had been drinking from the soft slur that signaled three or four or more cocktails. But ever since the stroke, Pop always sounded drunk. The
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