Barry rolled his head between two pillows. He closed his eyes as if they would block out the sounds of Elea and Jon bickering on the other side of bedroom doors. The window shades held the sun back, but a ray crept through a small opening at the bottom of the sill. Barry could feel the warmth of the sun shining under his chin. He painfully tried to flood the voices of his parents with the sound of his own thoughts. But Elea’s sharp words pierced through the wooden door—through the feathered pillows—through Barry’s shallow thoughts.
“If you think it’s best to fail on us now, then so be it—.” And then her words vanished into silence, surmounted by Jon’s deep muffled tone.
Barry’s face cringed as he released the pillow from around his ears. He then leaned his ear to the wall to hear the lost words from across the hall. But all he could hear was the high pitched notes of his mother.
“I’ll show them,” Barry thought. “I’ll set them straight. And then force them to grow up.” His hands rolled into fist. Then he let his fingers spill flat onto the bed sheets.
“I’d leave you too if it weren’t for Barry and this house,” sang sharply through the wall.
Barry’s eyes widened. “The house,” he whispered. “Their weak spot.” He sat up and he cracked each one of his fingers back, sending off a continuous snap that filled the room. “The house it is.”
Silence enveloped all the house, ‘til Barry could hear Jon slip out of the bedroom. The sound of the door carefully creaking—the sound of the man’s steps sinking into the floorboards. And after a short time, Barry could hear Elea barge through. Then she knocked on Barry’s door before she swung it open. “Time for breakfast, Hon,” she said in her best motherly accent. “What would you like to start your day?” She ruffled Barry’s hair, kissing the side of his cheek. She walked to the window, setting the sun free to roam about the room. “So, Bar. What will it be?”
Barry squinted his eyes from the sunlight. “What was all that?”
“What was all what?”
“Before,” he said. “With Pa. Did you two just fight?”
“No, dear. Don’t be silly,” Elea said quickly. Her eyes darting about the walls. “I love your father. We would never do such a thing.”
Barry bit his lower lip. He racked his mind about what he believed he had heard. “I thought you two were arguing before.”
“We were just discussing some bills. Some finances. That’s all. But we weren’t fighting. Maybe just a few loud tones. But never fighting.”
Barry shoved his hands into his pockets. He picked at the cuticle on his thumb with his forefinger, scratching away the dry crust of scabs accumulated from a prior pick. “I guess I’ll have some toast. Cereal. I’m not that hungry,” he raised his shirt, patting his stomach with his hand. “Had a lot of dinner last night.”
“Okay, Bar.” She looked into his eyes. “Come out when you are dressed. It’ll be ready in five,” she said. Her voice trailing to the kitchen.
Barry dressed quickly. He walked into the buzz of the kitchen where Jon sat with his hands folded in his lap—the remnants of crusty toast on his plate and the residue of milky wheat left in the bottom of his bowl. His eyes were closed. He seemed to be in the depths of some outer worldly thoughts that consumed all of him. Enough of him to silence out Elea washing dishes, the television, and Barry’s feet pattering upon the kitchen floor.
“Morning, Pa.”
Jon’s face jolted up. A quick smile traced his beard. But it soon faded. “Morning,” he said. “You’re breakfast is ready. Eat up before the toast freezes.”
“You’re toast is cold? I’ll just make some fresh toast,” Elea interjected over Jon’s words as she scrubbed soapy dishes through the sink water.
“It’s fine,” Barry said. “Still warm.”
“Good, ‘cause I’m heading out to town to get some things with Lola. She needs some curtains and, you know, I could always pick up a few things,” she laughed.
Barry squinted a stare towards Elea. But then he blinked. His eyes rounded and he sighed. His knuckles bunched up into fists for a moment. Then he slowly released the tension. “Cut the shit,” Barry said smoothly. “Just cut it already.” His eyes blinked out a droplet of water that ran down his hairless face. “I know where you go when you go out with friends. Pa told me. He told me all about it. And stop lying about you and Pa. I know you two fight all the time. And you just go and play the perfect little housewife. With your shows and your breakfasts. All with a serviced smile every morning. Please, Ma, just cut it.”
Elea stepped back from the sink, dropping a small juice glass into a bowl—sending shards of sharp glass throughout the soapy sink. She seemed not to notice. Or she ignored the shattering sound, standing motionless for only a second, frowning. Then she quickly smiled, turning towards Barry and Jon. “What are you talking about, Hon?” She turned back to the sink and she continued to wash the dishes. Her eyes to the TV screen.
“You two fight constantly behind closed doors as if I wouldn’t know. And you go to motels and sleep with other men. Pa told me. He told me everything. He followed you. He knows. He’s just not man enough to confront you.”
Jon sat with his eyes closed. His hands in his lap. He tapped his left foot against the leg of the table in a monotonous beat that coincided with his slowed, controlled heartbeat. “To the beat of the waves out at sea,” he thought. He drifted deep within his own thoughts, sheltering out the heated conversation between his son and his wife.
Elea feverously scrubbed a plate for some time before she placed it in the drying rack. Then she twisted off the water. She turned to the table to face her men, but Barry had already made for the door. Jon sat stilled, continued to his thoughts.
“You just are going to sit there with your head in the clouds? With your head in the sea?” Elea said as she ran after her son. “Barry. Come back. I’ll explain. He is lying. Whatever he told you, he is lying. He always does.” But it was too late. Barry had sprinted down the block and he was out of shouting distance. Her yell powerless over the sound of pounding waves and the knell of the church’s bell.
She returned to an emptied kitchen. Jon’s chair ajar from the table. His plate placed aside the sink filled with broken glass. She looked to the back door where she found her husband rocking his weight between his toes and his heels with his hands locked behind his back. “Your head in the clouds?” she grunted. “I should have known it was in the sea. Right where it belongs—drowning in the sea.” Elea threw his plate to the floor. The remaining uneaten crust skidding to the back door. She kicked the porcelain shards from her path as she opened the door, shouting, “What did you tell our boy? What did you tell him? What poisons did you feed him? You better watch yourself, mister, or you will find yourself in a real hole. No job, no money, now,” she pinched her forefinger and thumb together, shaking her hand between his stony gray eyes. “And you are this close to losing it all.”
“It is what it is,” Jon said softly. He opened his eyes to peer out at the now foggy horizon. “I’ll fix things right. Things will get better, in time.” His lips pressed firmly.
“Well, the time is now. The time is right now, Jon.” She looked down at her hands. A deep red veined from her wrist down to her thumb. She winced at the sight, catching the wound with her apron, squeezing the cloth tightly around the cut. “Damned thing. This damned thing. I’m going to be late now.” She turned for the kitchen where Jon could hear the sound of water running from the sink alongside the sounds of his wife muttering obscenities and the muffled voices on the television.
He continued to balance his weight between the balls of his feet to the backs of his heels. The fog began to lift as the sun grew higher in the sky. The stray gulls that flew overhead were now visible—not once falling to the sea for a fish in their sights.
Jon loosened his lips
to moisten the dry corners of his mouth. “My time will come soon,” he thought, watching the waves crash, eating away at the shore. “As soon as I see him again. The old Padre. He will know when.”
Jon continued to sway ‘til he heard the sound of the sedan’s tires sputter out of the drive—fading down the road.
He walked to the bed of rocks above the break, continuing down the coastline along the stony path. The fog eventually eased. The sun shining down a mid-spring warmth that caught Jon’s high cheeks. “I’m coming soon,” he said, directed towards the deafening waves. “I’ll be home soon.”