The Kindling

Jacob drew the blue bandana from his back pocket, wiped the sweat from his brow. The air was cool and crisp this late in Autumn, but busting firewood was hard work. He’d forgotten how hard, and he'd been at it for a while.

He loosened his grip on the handle as he stuffed the bandana back into his pocket. The head of the old splittin’ maul sank into the soft ground with a thud that reverberated up through the soles of his boots. He sighed as he rested his weight on the end of the handle. Muscle rippled in his forearm beyond the rolled-up sleeve of his flannel.

You don’t need to work out; he could hear his father saying, an echo from his past. You need to get out and work.

Old man had been right. Jacob had spent the last twenty years—an entire military career—in the gym. Nothing challenged his body like the cords of firewood he’d cut, split, and stacked. Not twenty years ago. Not today.

The thought of his father drew his attention toward the house, a log cabin nestled into the tree line, perched at the top of a holler in the rolling Kentucky hills. Smoke listed from the chimney. He could almost see, behind the reflection of the naked trees lining the fields, the outline of his father in the window, watching, making sure Jacob wasn’t slacking. But Jacob wasn’t an angsty teenager anymore. And his father had grown so frail, he could barely stand on his own for more than a few minutes.

Still...if he squinted, he thought maybe--

His attention was drawn away by the tale-tell crackling of gravel under car tires echoing through the trees. He turned to face the length of the driveway that separated two single-acre fields before disappearing into the surrounding trees. A sleek black car crept into the clearing. Jacob was used to unfamiliar cars descending the hill. Folks tended to get lost in the backroads; tourists, mostly, on their way to nearby Cumberland Falls State Park to see the moonbow, or up to Stearns, to explore the history of the old coal mining town. Young Jacob had delivered countless directions to strangers through rolled-down windows.

But times had changed since then, or maybe Jacob had. He found himself a little on edge. Apprehensive. He wondered if this was how his father had felt when strange cars pulled down the drive while Young Jacob had been outside playing basketball or mowing the grass.

He took a wide stance behind the maul, his hands resting on the end of the handle about waist height. The car’s windows were tinted dark; Jacob kept his eyes fixed on the driver’s window, anyway.

It slowed to a stop. There was a long pause and Jacob was surprised when the window didn't roll down and the door cracked open. It hung there for a moment before it swung wide. A woman climbed out and faced him, sheepishly.

Jacob’s grip tightened on the handle; blood drained from his knuckles. His breath grew shallow. This couldn’t be right. It wouldn't be her.

It couldn't be her.

“Hey, baby boy.” Her words were careful, playful but cautious. Her brown eyes glistened with hope. Her Latin American accent was still molasses-thick, despite having left Puerto Rico more than twenty years ago.

Jacob's face grew hot. She shouldn't be here. She didn't belong here. She didn't deserve to be here. Here, at his home. Where he'd once allowed her to convince him that they would build a life together. Where they planned on building a life together. She didn't belong here.

And yet...

His brow creased. His eyes went soft. And that flicker of rage dwindled into despair.

“What are you doing here?” he pleaded, silently chiding himself for the quiver in his voice.

She flinched, shuffled. She licked her lips. “I needed to see you.”

The flicker returned, rage igniting within him, chasing everything else away. Thoughts roared in his mind, a cacophony of questions. One question split through the din the way the maul’s twelve-pound steel wedge had just split through a piece of stubborn white oak.

What about when I needed you?

“Hold on,” she said, raising her palms. She moved to the back door and opened it. Leaning in, she said, “Come on,” her tone light, encouraging.

A little girl stepped out, hugging a purple unicorn to her chest.

Jacob’s world tipped. She had a... She brought her...

But wait. He tried to do the math. How long since they'd last seen each other? Since they’d last been together?

Since she left his heart splintered in pieces?

The woman turned, placed her hands on the girl’s slight shoulders.

She met Jacob’s eyes.

“I wanted you to meet someone,” she said.

Silence, stillness lingered between them. Jacob didn't trust himself to speak, to move. He glared down at the little girl. She stared back, innocence glistening in her eyes.

Her bright blue eyes.

Jacob's chin quivered. He moved then, swiftly clamping his hand over his mouth and then dragging it down his bearded chin.

His chest heaved. A sound escaped his throat. A sob. A laugh. The beginning of a question.

Who...

How...

Even Jacob wasn't sure which.

The woman bit down on her lower lip. Her fingers tightened and the girl looked up at her, but she kept her brown eyes fixed on Jacob.

"Could we..." she shrugged, clearly struggling to keep her composure. "Can we go inside? Talk?"

"No," Jacob said, finding his voice. He stepped forward, too quickly. The maul handle fell to the ground. The girl recoiled, folding into her mother, and Jacob drew back, realizing that his actions could justifiably be misconstrued as anger.

But they weren't borne of anger. Anger had been flushed away by something else. Something similar to what he had felt when he first saw the car creeping down the driveway, but stronger. More visceral. A protective apprehension.

"No," he said more softly. "No, let's..." His eyes went back to the house. Was he certain that he couldn't see his father standing there?

She followed his gaze. She looked back at him, knowingly. That's right--he'd talked about his father hadn't he? Jesus, what hadn't they talked about? There wasn't anything about him she didn't know. Of course she'd find him. She'd always find him. They'd always find each other.

"It always comes back to us," she'd once told him.

Jacob moved closer.

"What are you...how did you find me?"

"Does it matter?" she responded. "I went to your house. You weren't there. I recognized your dad's name on the sign for this road. I just...we need to talk."

Jacob shook his head. "Not here," he said. He glanced at the girl. He looked away--that's where he wanted to be. Away, far away from here. From her. From...whatever this was.

He drew a deep breath.

"Not here," he repeated. "Go back. I'll--"

"I'm not leaving, Jake."

"Go...back..." he said the words softly, but through gritted teeth, "...to my house. The door's unlocked. I'll be right behind you."

Now there was an uncharacteristic fear in those brown eyes, and if Jacob was honest with himself--something he wasn't sure he had been since the last time he'd looked into those eyes--he was glad to see it. Relished in it.

"C'mon, mami," she said, patting the girl on the shoulder, turning away slowly. She ushered the girl into the backseat. Jacob looked back at the house as she fastened the girl into her car seat. She closed the door and faced Jacob.

"I'm sorry, Jake," she said, her voice quivering now.

Jacob chewed on the inside of his lip, shaking his head. "I'll be over in a minute," he said without looking at her.

He stared into the darkening sky above the house as she climbed in and backed away. He didn't turn until he knew she was climbing the hill and disappearing from sight.

He slowed his breathing, wiped his hand down his face.

He left the maul lying on the ground and headed inside.

***

"Did'ja put that maul away?" Jacob's father demanded, scooting toward the edge of the recliner as if he were going to get up and go check, regardless of what Jacob said. Jacob remembered the maul resting on the ground where he'd left it.

"It's fine, Dad," he said, closing the door behind him. "I'll put it up on my way out."

A derisive sound lurched from his father's chest. A throaty wheeze that was sure to be followed by a lecture if it hadn't descended into a crackling coughing fit.

Jacob grimaced as his father extended a shaky hand toward the small table next to his recliner. His other hand covered his mouth as the phlegm popped in his throat like the gravel under the Jaguar's tires in the driveway. He almost had hold of the paper napkin amid the detritus cluttering the tabletop, but he pushed it off the edge of the table before he could grab it. A painful roar exploded from his throat as he tried to bend over to retrieve it.

Jacob sprang forward, his hand out.

"Here," he said, kneeling in front of the old man. "Here, Dad." He pulled the bandana from his back pocket and dabbed the corner of his father's mouth. His father took it from him and coughed into it a couple more times as he settled back into the recliner.

Only now did Jacob register the roar of the television. Some caricature of a news anchor spewing nonsense, misinformation, bald-faced lies. Jacob searched the area--the recliner, the cluttered table top, the floor--for the remote. When he couldn't find it, he stalked across the room to the TV and turned it down to a tolerable level--zero.

"Fuck...fuckin'..." His father was struggling to sit upright in the recliner. The coughing fit had left him breathless, he struggled to shift his withering weight in the soft arms of the overstuffed chair. His oxygen hose got caught under his hand, pulling his head forward. He grumbled, repositioned, tried again.

Jacob blew a stream of breath through his nose, storming to the side of the recliner. He took his father under his arm and helped hoist him back into the seat where he was finally sitting comfortably upright.

He took a few composing breaths, motioned toward the TV.

"Fuckin' border's a mess," he managed.

"Dad," Jacob spoke up before his father found the breath to launch into one of his tirades. "I've got to head home. Are you good for the night?"

"Eh?"

Jacob kneeled next to the recliner. His father flinched as if he'd forgotten Jacob was there.

"Do you need me to help you to bed?" Jacob asked, exaggerating every syllable.

"Bah," he said, waving his hand. "Who was that?" he said.

"What?"

"That car. Who was that?"

"Oh," Jacob said, shaking his head. "No one. Wrong turn."

"Unh," his father glared out the window, up the road. He sat back and glanced at the television. Something seemed to occur to him. "Hey," he whispered, motioning toward Jacob, leaning in conspiratorially. "You talk to them boys I told you about?"

Jacob shook his head. "What boys, Dad?"

Irritation creased the old man's features. "Them boys," he grumbled. "I told you about 'em. They're looking for guys like you."

Guys like me, Jacob thought. He knew exactly what boys his father was talking about. And they weren't looking for guys like him, they were looking for guys like his father. He was nothing like his father.

He sighed, rubbed his forehead. "No, Dad," he said. "No, I didn't talk to 'them boys.' I don't intend to."

"Bah," his father waved him off. "The hell's wrong with you?" And then more softly, as if he were accidentally speaking his thoughts aloud, "Thought you gave a shit about this country. The fuck were you even doin' the last twenty years?"

Jacob snarled, biting back anger.

His father's attention had drifted to the muted TV. Even silent, you could see the words flowing from the man's mouth were ill-intentioned, evil.

"I gotta go, Dad."

His father picked up the bandana Jacob had given him, wiped at his nose. He didn't offer to return it.

"What'd you do with my remote?" he asked, searching the tabletop.

Jacob shrugged as he looked around. "I don't--" he started, but then he noticed it. It was sitting on the sill of the window. Jacob walked over and picked it up. Tapped it against his palm.

"Here, Dad," he said, walking back and reaching it out to him.

"Huh? Oh," he said. "There." He took it and examined the buttons on the front.

"I've got to go," Jacob said, heading toward the door. "Call me if you need anything. I'll be over in the morning."

"Uh-huh," his father said. "Oh, and put my goddamn maul away," he snapped. "Leave it out there, it'll rust."

Jacob closed the door, spitefully trying to cut off his father's words.

"Thing was rusty twenty years ago," Jacob mumbled as he descended the front steps. "It'll last for-fucking-ever."

He could hear the venom booming in the television speakers all the way to his truck.