shutters with curved shapes cut into them. The holly bushes
that grew in front and along the side of the house looked the same, and so did the two middle-sized chinaberries in the front yard, but the skinny poplar Mom had planted beside the house the year
we moved here seemed quite a bit bigger than I remembered it. At one end of the porch was a wide clay pot planted with dry-looking red geraniums. There was a vacant feeling in the air, but I
couldn’t see the garage around the corner toward the back of the house, so I wasn’t sure if anyone was home or not. I leaned the bike against the porch rail and climbed the steps to the
front door.
Knocking twice, I called, “Mom? Hello?” but there was no answer, so I opened the door and stepped inside. I could smell old smoke from Mom’s cigarettes and the little cigars
Jack smoked, and fried bacon from earlier that morning.
The sense of emptiness continued in here, but I didn’t entirely trust it. Houses usually feel different when people are in them, no matter how quiet the people are, but somehow I
couldn’t tell about this one anymore. Since Jack had moved in the second year after Dad died and we had moved up to Dallas from Jacksboro, I was a stranger here and the house no longer really
made sense to me.
I looked down the hall toward what used to be my bedroom but was now Jack’s weight room and wondered if any of my stuff was still in there. I visualized the red chili-pepper lamp I’d
left on the dresser and my dartboard and the Cowboys poster on the inside of the door. Thinking about this caused a weird feeling in my chest, and I made up my mind that if it turned out there was
nobody here I’d go in there and see if there was anything I could salvage. Maybe bust something of Jack’s while I was at it. I called to Mom again but still got no answer.
I walked on into the kitchen. There were dishes drying in the rack and next to that on the white-tiled counter I saw a glass ashtray with three Kool butts in it. Each one had Mom’s bright
red lipstick on the filter and had been stubbed out half smoked. Reasoning back from that, I knew Mom had gotten up first and had a cup of coffee while she read the Morning News. Then
she’d have made breakfast and eaten with Jack and after that cleared the table, washed the dishes and had another cup of coffee over the puzzle page before leaving the house. In my mind I
could see her setting the ashtray beside the drain rack on her way out the back door, saying, “I’ll wash you when I get back.”
In the living room I noticed the dark green cloth-bound book with a little brass latch on it lying on the side table next to the old blue easy chair where Mom always sat. Her diary. She was the
only person I had ever known who kept one, and she had always been faithful about it. It wasn’t like her to leave it out in the open like this, but there it was. I stood for a while having a
silent argument with my conscience, then walked over to pick it up. The house still felt empty. I carried the diary back into the kitchen where the light was better, intending to sit at the table
and maybe read the pages dated around the time L.A. showed up on Gram’s porch.
I had just found the right date and caught a glimpse of the words
. . . absolutely gave me the creeps . . .
when there was a loud rap behind me. I flinched like the thief I knew I was and looked around. Of course it was Jack. He must have whacked his can of Schlitz down onto the
counter, his trademark move, closing in silently and then making some loud noise to scare the shit out of you. Now he walked around the table and was lowering his butt lightly into a chair across
from me, a tense-looking guy with quick movements and a lot of dark hair on his chest and eyes that had a funny jitter in them.
“The prodigal son,” he said as he leaned back in his chair and looked at me. “Your mama’s not here.”
“Yes sir,” I said.
“Grocery shopping or
that grew in front and along the side of the house looked the same, and so did the two middle-sized chinaberries in the front yard, but the skinny poplar Mom had planted beside the house the year
we moved here seemed quite a bit bigger than I remembered it. At one end of the porch was a wide clay pot planted with dry-looking red geraniums. There was a vacant feeling in the air, but I
couldn’t see the garage around the corner toward the back of the house, so I wasn’t sure if anyone was home or not. I leaned the bike against the porch rail and climbed the steps to the
front door.
Knocking twice, I called, “Mom? Hello?” but there was no answer, so I opened the door and stepped inside. I could smell old smoke from Mom’s cigarettes and the little cigars
Jack smoked, and fried bacon from earlier that morning.
The sense of emptiness continued in here, but I didn’t entirely trust it. Houses usually feel different when people are in them, no matter how quiet the people are, but somehow I
couldn’t tell about this one anymore. Since Jack had moved in the second year after Dad died and we had moved up to Dallas from Jacksboro, I was a stranger here and the house no longer really
made sense to me.
I looked down the hall toward what used to be my bedroom but was now Jack’s weight room and wondered if any of my stuff was still in there. I visualized the red chili-pepper lamp I’d
left on the dresser and my dartboard and the Cowboys poster on the inside of the door. Thinking about this caused a weird feeling in my chest, and I made up my mind that if it turned out there was
nobody here I’d go in there and see if there was anything I could salvage. Maybe bust something of Jack’s while I was at it. I called to Mom again but still got no answer.
I walked on into the kitchen. There were dishes drying in the rack and next to that on the white-tiled counter I saw a glass ashtray with three Kool butts in it. Each one had Mom’s bright
red lipstick on the filter and had been stubbed out half smoked. Reasoning back from that, I knew Mom had gotten up first and had a cup of coffee while she read the Morning News. Then
she’d have made breakfast and eaten with Jack and after that cleared the table, washed the dishes and had another cup of coffee over the puzzle page before leaving the house. In my mind I
could see her setting the ashtray beside the drain rack on her way out the back door, saying, “I’ll wash you when I get back.”
In the living room I noticed the dark green cloth-bound book with a little brass latch on it lying on the side table next to the old blue easy chair where Mom always sat. Her diary. She was the
only person I had ever known who kept one, and she had always been faithful about it. It wasn’t like her to leave it out in the open like this, but there it was. I stood for a while having a
silent argument with my conscience, then walked over to pick it up. The house still felt empty. I carried the diary back into the kitchen where the light was better, intending to sit at the table
and maybe read the pages dated around the time L.A. showed up on Gram’s porch.
I had just found the right date and caught a glimpse of the words
. . . absolutely gave me the creeps . . .
when there was a loud rap behind me. I flinched like the thief I knew I was and looked around. Of course it was Jack. He must have whacked his can of Schlitz down onto the
counter, his trademark move, closing in silently and then making some loud noise to scare the shit out of you. Now he walked around the table and was lowering his butt lightly into a chair across
from me, a tense-looking guy with quick movements and a lot of dark hair on his chest and eyes that had a funny jitter in them.
“The prodigal son,” he said as he leaned back in his chair and looked at me. “Your mama’s not here.”
“Yes sir,” I said.
“Grocery shopping or
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