Homecoming

Alexander Frasse

I pulled up along the corroded sidewalk of that single story Lustron to see Phyllis already pulling some boxes from the garage out into the drive. It was a pleasant day and as I exited my car Phyllis put down a rusted tin of Newsweek’s she was carrying to greet me.

“Arnold! How have you been?” Phyllis asked. She surprised me with a hug and wrapped herself around my torso. A cold wind shot a ripple of sensation down my spine.

“It’s good to see you too Phillip.”

She speared me with a contemptuous glare.

“Sorry. Phyllis.”

I pulled her off of me and started towards the garage. I treaded forward looking into this abysmal pit of gratuitous nostalgia that I would have once called “the garage.” I tried walking through the labyrinth of cardboard and tin pales and wicker baskets but found the task to be dauntingly impossible.

“Jesus Christ!” I muttered to myself.

“I know,” Phyllis said from behind me, “It’s kind of sad, really, this is all She had.”

“Lets get this over with.”

“Yeah, we should hurry,” Phyllis said, “It looks like rain’s coming.”

I looked to see her motioning to a dark storm cloud approaching slowly from the east. I nodded and marched into the garage.

I began lifting boxes and carrying them out to the driveway wherever I could find room. Box after box of superfluous memories; Boxes of fishing tackles and fine linen dresses and pine combs and Magazines with pictures of Richard Nixon on the covers. I had just bent over to grasp hold of the molded corners of one large brown carton of envelopes when my left foot caught on the teeth of a garden rake. I tripped backwards and fell onto my back, looking up as a shower of envelopes and letters poured onto me.

“F**k!” I yelled, “Goddammit!” I slammed my fist against the leg of a wooden chair next to me, snapping it in half. Phyllis rushed down to my side to help.

“Get the hell off of me! I’m fine,” I snapped and sat up hastily gathering the letters and stuffing them back into the box. Handfuls of bittersweet war letters, tax return policies, tender misplaced memories shoved back into the dank pit they came from. Phyllis sat on her knees staring at me. I grabbed at a cluster of envelopes and thrust them to their box. As my hand stubbornly jostled the letters, out from the pile fluttered a small white piece of paper, no larger than an identification card. I snatched up this tiny sheet to see what it was. Turning it over I saw before me a scratched and faded Polaroid of a family around a Christmas tree. A middle-aged woman wore a bright red blouse, a ring of pearls around her neck. She smiled brightly and clasped the shoulders of two handsome young boys before her. I pushed the picture into the bottom of the box, and looked beside me at Phyllis.

“Why weren’t you there?” I asked her, holding my breath. She sighed and picked up a couple of envelopes on the ground before her.

“Arnie, I think you know,” She said, handing me the envelopes. I put them in the box with the others.

“Yeah,” I said, “I suppose I do.” From the skies above the garage came the clap of thunder.