Mr. Wharton's House

We stared at the empty ground for what felt like hours before realizing we should probably find the house. An old man was in the house when it disappeared, and he deserved to be located. The house was not particularly interesting, but the man was.

Daniel was the first of us to shake off the shock. He shook off the shock so suddenly it knocked Nick and me into reality with a thud. “Do you think Mr. Wharton is dead?” I shook my head, but then looked at Daniel. “Yes.”

Mr. Wharton’s house was smack in the middle of the block, across the street and a few houses down from mine. Daniel lived a block east, and Nick’s house was next door. Nick was crying. The house was there this morning. It was gone now.

The physics don’t add up. A structure cannot simply end. It went somewhere, presumably with Don Wharton inside of it. It didn’t fall into a hole. To my knowledge, it didn’t float into space. It just stopped existing. There’s nothing there. No foundation, no grass, just dirt. It’s gone, and only earth is there.

Mr. Wharton was my middle school gym teacher. He was a jerk, but for some reason I moved across the street from him when I was old enough to have a job and not care about his bullying or my inability to throw a football. My house is a mid-century modern gem. His was a mid-century piece of garbage, so I had him there. Mr. Wharton is not a bad guy. He just didn’t like soft boys like me. I offended him with my presence.

I came home from work, and the house was gone. Nick was already standing on the sidewalk looking dazed. I parked my car on the street, not in the driveway, and walked over. Daniel showed up a few minutes later. “Do you think Mr. Wharton is dead?” “Yes,” but without conviction or certainty.

I called my mom. She lives in town, but in a different neighborhood, so she didn’t know the Wharton house had gone poof. “You have to call the police.” I couldn’t figure out why I’d call the police. They are supposed to fix things when things need fixing, but what I was looking at could not be fixed, and it could not be fixed by them, for sure. I walked up to the rectangle of dirt and picked up a handful.

It hurt.

It was kind of a burning feeling, but mostly it was heavy. It hurt to hold it. Nick was crying. Daniel said, “Don’t touch it.” I did, though, and it was heavy.

Mr. Wharton’s wife had died decades ago, before I was even his student. I don’t know much about her, but she must have been a saint to live with him. His daughter was good friends with my sister, which still makes me angry. I don’t know what ever happened to Lisa, but she no longer lives here. I should ask. Mr. Wharton’s father was in the Navy during World War II and that seemed important to him. Mr. Wharton was never in any war. The closest he got was knocking me in the head with a dodgeball.

Mr. Wharton’s house is gone. It didn’t fall in a hole, and it didn’t fly up into the sky. It’s gone. That is scary, but also a kindness. I’m going to take this pile of dirt, put it in my backyard, and think about where the house on top went.

Daniel thinks we should walk around the block to see if it just moved somewhere close, or maybe we have collectively forgotten where it was. Sure. I don’t know why not. But it isn’t there. It’s gone. Mr. Wharton, with his mean attitude and his house, is gone. Nick stopped crying. Mr. Wharton’s house is gone.