Chapter Forty-seven: Sanctuary Asylum
The revolting word and place, home, rises. Familiar scenes race by. The smells of Dogwoods mixed with the aroma of low tide invoke memories of spring time in coastal New England. I’m not glad to be back but I’m not displeased the journey is near over.
We come up to the exit for Fairfield. Surging sooty thunderclouds roll towards us as we speed along. The dog hot air pants through the cracked windows covering everything with spit.
With a sniffle, the sky cries with all of the grief I have forgotten. A soothing torrential bombardment of drum shot raindrops, beads of clean water rat-a-tat-tats on the windshield and we hit a break in the clouds. Columns of sunlight scan the highway.
The rain holds back.
My hopes for an overwhelming display of nature dry up and the breaking clouds give way to glaring rays of the night’s nemesis. I can’t smell anything but the steam from the road as it bellows into the car.
How am I going to free myself? I feel an attack coming on.
We pull off the exit and in a couple shoreline miles I will be back in my exile. My clothes are soaked with sweat and I itch from head to toe. My face is an oily mirror. The neck of my guitar must be warping in the trunk.
The oaks and spruces flag down the lane leading to the beach. Children play roller hockey on the sandy asphalt and they pull their nets away as we roll up. The sunlight slides through the budding canopy above. We pull into the driveway without ceremony. My mother and William unbuckle their seatbelts with a click and open their doors.
They get out and my mother heads directly to the front door and pulls a jumble of keys out of her pocket. I sit for a moment and watch William stretch his back.
He is sweat stained.
He comes back to my open window.
“I’ll help you with your things later, right now, let’s go inside and crank the AC,” he says as I mechanically nod and he begins to stroll, arms dangling, to the door. My mother steps inside. I spin my ring.
I feel fine.
Outside the car, an onshore breeze evaporates the moisture from my face. I stack my boxes on the sun bleached driveway and head inside through the front door. They stare at me from the kitchen doorway. My mother attends to her pile of mail on the counter. William heads to the refrigerator. I pass by my mother into the kitchen and grab a cup out of the cabinet by the sink.
“Nothing missing chief, so we’re in business. Look at the good time we made,” William says.
“Great,” I say and twist the faucet on looking at the junk food lining the tile countertop.
The stairs do not bend under my weight as I make my way up to my room. It’s hot as clothes dryer. The AC vent to my room closed so I flip the latch to open it. I slip by my easel and crack the window on the front of the house to let the broiling atmosphere out.
A tube of blue paint sits hard as set glue on the palate at my feet. The cap was not screwed on completely. Out the window, the dark line of thunderclouds surge above the trees. A single engine airplane turns toward the beach. I rush down the stairs with short steps and fling out the door. There is no time.
The largest boxes reach the side porch first. I pile them by the door and with five fast forays all my belongings are under the porches protection. William opens the door.
“What are you doing? I said I’d help you.”
“A storm is coming. I do not need any help now.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely,” I say.
It takes me ten trips to put everything in my room. The stairs add weight to my burdens. A click echoes through the room as I turn on the light. The clouds stole the daylight. I survey my possessions and put my books in neat stacks under my desk and then start on my clothes. I didn’t remember having so much in my dorm room.
A bright white light projects through the window like a flashbulb. Then a howl of thunder shakes walls and the foundation of the old house, a salvo to acknowledge my return. A crack in the sky opens and a wall of water falls. The rain pounds the roof and I watch the road become a river. Children dance and splash the run off. I hear mothers yell for their children from their sheltered doorways. The children danced but left the joy of the storm behind.
The spring shower washes away the humidity. The smell of renewal seeps up through the crack in my window. My room is finished and I slump down in the glittering twilight reflecting off the facsimile Renoir and Van Gogh haphazardly hung, half-illuminated.
My door is jolted and I leap up to answer.
“What?” I yell before I open it.
“I’m going to order a pizza and I wanted to know what you wanted on it,” William asks.
Nausea bubbles.
“I do not want any. You guys go. I am taking a nap.”
“Your mother wants to talk to you. I’m just warning you,” he says and I shut the door, grab an old magazine from my desk and begin to read until sleep can’t be denied.
I wake up and look at my clock and it is eleven-thirty. I’m not tired. I am not hungry, but I am bored so might as well go watch cable TV. A little soft-core porno might wake up my little buddy. I creep down to the kitchen for some water. The top of the pizza box is open on the counter. A half-finished mushroom and meatball pie mocks me. In the TV room, my mother sits with a martini.
I sit down in the leather recliner and she says, “So I see you are up. I’m just off to bed. There’s some pizza left if you want it?”
“I am fine. Are you working tomorrow?”
“No, why is there something you want to do?”
“No, I just wanted to know.”
“Remember if there’s anything you need tell me,” she says.
“Mother, you know what happened. Yes, one of my friends was murdered and the person who did it committed suicide. You must think this messed me up, but I am fine.”
“I was told he was one of your good friends.”
“He was. By the way, I do not think I am going back”
“Good. There are better schools around her for you. We will discuss it at a more appropriate time,” she says.
“There is nothing really to discuss. I have not figured out my plans yet. Go to bed and I will see you tomorrow,” I say.
She puts her drink down and shuffles into the unlit hallway. She turns on the hallway light and I hear the door close. I take a few shots of bourbon to keep the red dots way.
It doesn’t work.