Going Home

Treeless fields of weeds and grass stretched forward to the horizon. His grandmother’s orchard was thick with seedlings and saplings that crowded the elderly trees. A layer of apples lay rotting on the ground giving the air a treacly aroma. Heavy laden walnut trees added to the perfume of his childhood. He stopped to breathe in deeply, then he lifted the beam from the latch. With frail hands trembling upon the handles, he pulled as hard as he could. The doors to the barn and his past flew open, and the memories advanced with such tremendous force that he struggled to stay on his feet.

The evening's golden sunlight streamed in through rotting boards, illuminating precious things. The milking stool caught his eye, and he walked over to take a seat. His legs had been stronger the last time he’d used it, but he managed to find his balance. He closed his eyes and reached instinctively forward to mime the chore that as a ten-year-old he could have done in his sleep. He remembered how the cow’s warm udder had defrosted his fingers on frigid mornings. He longed for something to soothe them now. The milk pail hung where his father had left it on the day he died nearly fifteen years before. He took it down and placed it on the ground. He closed his eyes and listened as his mind recited the tinny sound made by streams of milk rhythmically striking the pail.

He turned toward the open door where a pitchfork leaned against the wall. Fifty-four years later, and the sight of it still made him angry. He looked up to the dilapidated hay loft where he’d spent more of his first eighteen years than just about anywhere else in the world. He wanted to climb the ladder again to look out from the window. He remembered himself there with a stack of books and whatever food he had swiped from the kitchen. The loft had been his solace—his escape from grandparents and parents, aunts and uncles. It was there he first dreamed of leaving the farm and pursuing bigger things. It was there he sat watching out over the field as the thunder came rolling in. It was there he fell in love with the blue-eyed girl from school. It was there his mother would find him asleep and wake him with a kiss on the nose.

His eyes went back to the pitchfork. That damned pitchfork. It was only an antique old farm tool now, but somehow it still represented everything that had gone wrong in his life. He’d milked the cows when told to. He’d mucked the horses’ stalls. He’d helped plow and plant fields of alfalfa, but he’d hated pitching the hay.

Dad, I need to rest. I’m too tired.

Dad, my arms are burning.

Dad, I can’t keep going.

Dad, I hate this.

Dad! I quit!

His arms tensed and burned at the memory. His ears rang with his father’s response.

Son, just press through it. You can do it. Just press through.

He placed his left hand on the ground to steady himself. His right hand found a hook on the wall, and he pulled down firmly to hoist himself off the stool. His legs cramped from crouching, but he felt stronger than he had in years. Still, it wouldn’t change anything. He walked straight to the pitchfork and grabbed it in both hands. He used it to lift a brittle bale and toss it to the corner of a stall. The bale was dry and light, but he was grey and slender. His arms burned.

You can do it, son. Just press through.

He used the fork to break the bale into flakes. Lift and throw. Lift and throw. Sweat dripped down his forehead for the first time in years as he fluffed the straw into bedding. He took off his double-breasted blazer and laid it over the pile. He slid his tie knot down to the middle of his chest before slipping it over his head. He fixed the knot before hanging the tie between a matching pair of rusted bridles. He untied his wing-tipped Oxford shoes and placed them neatly against the wall. Then he took a bottle of pills from his pocket, and he swallowed them down one at a time. I'm not planning on choking to death. Turning slowly, he looked to the loft where a brown-haired boy and a blue-eyed girl lay gazing out at the stars. His mother was climbing the ladder. She was holding an apple pie. His father was pitching hay into the back of the loft.

In his hand he held an envelope with the words “Last Will and Testament.” There was money, but there were no relatives to speak of. Just a loyal green-eyed secretary and a neighbor boy who would run his daily paper from the end of his driveway to his back door. He lay down in the straw with a view of the loft and the night's first star appearing through the open window.