Orphans

I think I speak for everyone who calls themselves a writer. Along the path of getting somewhere, there are sacrifices that must be made and dear friends are left behind. I call these forgotten stories "orphans" because they don't belong to a finished work and they probably never will. They exist lonely and unused on paper, on hard drives and flash drives, and in some cases floppies. It's not because the writer doesn't love them, we do; it's just that they weren't going anywhere. We put so much work and effort into something and then step back and look at it and say, "What is that?" On the other hand, we could be like the bricklayer who works and works at his project until the day when he sees the completion of his labor and shows it to his companions who all say. "What is that?"

Then he says, "I don't know, but isn't it wonderful?"

The crowd departs and the bricklayer realizes there are no doors, or windows, or roof on the building, but he loves it regardless.  He built it, and he put love and effort and struggles into it hoping it would turn into something, but it didn't.

So an orphan is a piece of writing that at one time had promise but like a giant firework that fell over smoking on the ground, it fizzled. I thought I'd share some of my orphans with you reader, because even if it doesn't tell a complete story. I still love them. I hope you see something you love too.

The Coming Storm

from

Trio

Dave and Art both looked at Steve with anticipation. His turn came to tell a story of some event from this summer or one from years ago.

The idea had been Dave’s, and Art thought it a good way to spend a few minutes while their underwear finished drying in the sunshine. Dave used his turn to tell Art about his harrowing experience with a snake earlier. It all proved to be information Art had no interest in hearing. He hated snakes with a deep-seated fear that neither of his friends could understand.

Art stood up and threw the acorn he’d been fiddling with toward the creek. It ricocheted off of first one tree then another before landing in the water. Normally, he’d have celebrated such a unique throw, but today he seemed reticent.

Steve felt the tension grow stronger, thicker. Art wasn’t going to wait much longer for him to tell his tale. So he took a long breath and began.

“It happened six years ago. It was just a few days before I started first grade, so I remember.

“It must have been in late July or early August, but it was in the evening, and the wind had been building up the whole time we’d been eating dinner. Rita and Mom were clearing off the table while, Dad, Jim, and I sat in the living room. Suddenly, the lights went off. It startled all of us a little I think. Usually it’s already raining before they go out, but that night not a drop had fallen and we were in the dark.

“The light from outside was creepy looking. You know how it gets when the rain clouds blow in from the west late in the evening?”

Both boys shook their heads in agreement. Then Art walked over to Dave and sat down beside him to listen to the rest of Steve’s story.

“Yeah it was kinda purple, orange, and pink. Like the whole world was being lit up with some weird light.

“Before any of us could get scared, Dad said he bet there’d be a good lightning show in a few minutes. So we all went out onto the porch to watch the approaching storm.

“Dad was sure right about the lightning. It took it a few minutes to really get going, but when it finally did, it streaked across the sky from west to east off the clouds like a rock skipping on water.

“For about ten minutes we laughed and enjoyed the show. Then Jim began to talk to dad about going to Vietnam. Not long after he started, all the joy in the moment seemed to disappear.  He didn’t want to go. He was thinking about going to Canada. He knew a guy from Charleston and one from Hurricane that were going to cross the border to avoid the war. They’d already found a place to stay and if Jim wanted to go with them; he could ride along. Dad never said a word. He let Jim go through all the details, then just stood there looking up at the sky as he watched for the lightning. His silence was deafening.

“Finally without any warning, it started to rain. We all moved under the cover of the porch roof and watched. Normally, this would be a fun time. Watching it rain was one of my dad’s favorite pastimes. He always said it was a miracle that water could fall from the sky with such uniformity.”

Dave and Art were listening intensely. Neither spoke.  They didn’t want to interrupt the flow of the story with a stupid question or a lame comment. They wanted their friend to finish his tale because they sensed he needed to.

“The rain fell harder and faster. It was really coming down. It was a torrent of water falling, crashing, running. I guess dad would’ve said it was a miracle the sky could hold so much water. The sound it made when it hit the ground became a painful roar.

“After about five minutes, which seemed like hours, the rain slackened as the worst part of the storm passed. Slowly, the world around us changed. The sky lightened; the wind died down, and the rain trickled off to a light shower. All this time Jim stood with Dad and waited for his reply. Seconds stretched out to become minutes, but he remained silent.”

Steve stopped talking for a second and looked at Art and Dave, who were both listening keenly. He’d never seen either listen to anyone this way. Their attention was so absolute that even when Steve paused, both remained silent and listened to the soundless void. Maybe it was respect or realization that stayed their tongues.

 He needed a moment to collect his thoughts and finish his tale, so he looked away from his friends and took a deep breath. The trees of the mountain caught his eye, and his thoughts ran to them.

They looked so lush and beautiful, but he knew that soon the real show would begin. There’d be fiery colors of red, gold, and orange. Cooler tones of purple, brown, and green would provide balance. The show would be breathtaking.

Only weeks after the beauty those same trees would shed their covering of leaves. The wind would blow most from the branches. Others would cling to their homes longer, but the cold fall rains would put a sad end to a beautiful chapter. It reminded him of how quickly a wonderful thing can change. Like the joy of that last night on the porch.

Steve finally broke the silence and resumed his tale. “Way off, in the distance, the storm raged, but over our yard, there was calm. Lightning cracked in the east and thunder rattled the windows of the house. I saw Jim flinch, and Dad turned toward him. I don’t think he was mad, but he looked agitated. I still remember his words.

“He said, ‘Son, I agree with the way you feel about this war. It’s not our country’s finest hour. We probably shouldn’t be interfering in the politics of other countries. Our young sons shouldn’t be dying for this cause, but we as Americans have a duty to answer the call when our government says it’s necessary. Your government requires your service. Is that too much of a price to pay for freedom? I hope you think it isn’t. On the other hand, if you go to Canada, you’ll become a fugitive of the law. If you go, then you're, in effect, renouncing your citizenship. To me that’s too high a price to pay. You’ll always be a wanted man, and if you go, we’ll never see you again. Is that the life you want to live? On your own in another country with only two friends seems like a hard life to me. Wouldn’t it be better to serve your time in the military? Then you can come home and live your life on your native soil.’”

For a moment, Dad stopped talking and listened to the soft rumble of thunder crash from across the mountain. He waited and allowed an eerie silence to enshroud us. When he spoke again his tone was loud, and I think it shocked us all, including Jim.

‘“But if you go, you go for good. Don’t ever come back here. You’re now a man and men make their own decisions. Right or wrong you must decide what road you’ll choose.’

“When dad finished, I remember Mom and Rita crying. Not loud or anything like that. There were tears on both their faces; silent tears marched slowly down their soft rosy cheeks toward the corners of their mouths. Without a word, they went back inside the house to finish clearing the table and do the dishes. Dad looked up into the sky, walked out to the car, and left.

“Jim and I watched the last of the storm clouds part and the evening sky clear. The smell of the air was fresh and clean, and it felt cool against my face where dampness remained.

“After a few more minutes, he went back into the house. By the end of that week, he was gone. On the day he left, Dad drove us all to the bus station. Jim told us all he loved us, and that he’d miss us. Then he told us he’d try his best to come back when it was over.

“I never saw him again. Within a year, he died in one of those villages along the border. His platoon was trying to get the villagers out before an attack, but the timing must have been wrong. When the planes dropped the napalm, they were still getting them together. Only three men survived, but each one received life threatening burns. They could only identify Jim’s remains by his dog tags. We know this because dad contacted everyone he could. He didn’t stop until he got the story.

“They shipped his body home and we buried him in the cemetery. We go up twice a year, on his birthday and Memorial Day to put flowers on his grave. Dad won’t go with us because he says it’s too hard on him.

“I don’t know if you guys know this or not, but now my dad’s a drunk and the only time I see him is when he’s leaving for work. I watch through my cracked bedroom window. Most nights he doesn’t come home. But sometimes he does and when he does he always leaves before anyone gets up. On occasion, I hear the door close and rush to look out the window at the man who used to be my dad. I watch him struggle to make his way into the car. Some days he sits there for a while looking at the house before he leaves. I believe he hopes someday he’ll be able to forgive himself and come home. There are days when I hope he can do that, but mostly I doubt if he’ll every find his way out of that prison of self-hate."

 Both boys knew of Steve’s dad. They’d both heard people call him a drunk. To both boys, he still seemed to have the shell of a good man, but what was inside that shell had turned rotten, bitter, and hateful. Neither thought he’d ever be the person he was before.  They figured the man too far gone, and to some small extent that’s why they protected their friend as best they could. They liked Steve and would never hurt him. So neither told him they already knew about his dad.