The Color of Home: A Novel (19 page)

Later in the reception line, he helped construct the pedestal. Your dad said it’s too hard to act differently at work and at home. None of us were that smart. Your dad said to be yourself and make sure, no matter what, that you laughed a lot. Your Dad smacked a 500-foot, walk-off home run in the county championship game. Your Dad was the best card player in the county. Your Dad. Your Dad. Your Dad. After what seemed like hundreds of conversations with mourners, all with their own gold nugget about his dad, the pedestal fully materialized. Standing in the shadow, he thought he heard his father say, “The only way home is through.”

On the last day of the funeral, Nick had stood at the gravesite holding his mother’s hand. Some men lowered the casket into the ground. He followed his mother’s lead and threw dirt on top of the casket. What a horrible ritual. Later, after everyone had left the house, he sat hunched over the kitchen table, his mother seated next to him, sipping a Diet Pepsi for the first time.

“This soda is awful,” he said.

“Are you okay?” his mom asked.

“Everyone is gone.”

“I know.”

He downed the rest of his soda with one swig. Against the table, he squashed the can into a flying saucer with the palm of his hand. “I need to go outside for a minute. Be right back.”

He wandered out into the woods behind his house, a pocketknife in hand, on a mission. About five hundred yards into the woods, he found a suitable oak tree. He opened the pocketknife and cut a large piece of bark off of the tree to scar it. Carefully, he placed the bark next to the tree, daring it back into place. Nothing. Fuck it. He trekked back to his house.

“Do you have any paper and a pen?” he asked his mother, still at the kitchen table.

She scrounged around until she found both.

He snatched the items from her and went to his room, locking the door behind him. At his desk, he waited until he sensed something, at first nondescript. After a few minutes, he named it “The Pool of Infinite Sadness.” The desk sank into the pool all the way up to writing level. He picked up his pen, dipped it in, watched the concentric circles radiate out through the pool. “A Piece of Bark.” All of his sadness had to go somewhere.

I go

into the woods

behind my house

searching

for a tree

my age.

I cut from it

a large piece

of bark

in your memory.

I know the tree is

in great pain now,

as I am.

It has lost

its beauty

its armor

and is vulnerable.

I will visit this place often

to watch the tree

heal,

to grieve for

what I have done

and

what I have lost.

The day after he returned from Rachel’s funeral, he called Sassa from his apartment. “I’m going to leave New York for a while. I don’t know where I’m headed, somewhere west. I’ve arranged for one of my employees to take over the studio until I get back.” He started to shake, as if he was out in the snow, as if Sassa, Rachel, had never been anything more than snowdrifts.

“I understand.”

“I’m going underground. I’ll have limited phone access while I’m away. Use my email address in case of emergency.”

“Okay. If there’s anything else I can do, please let me know. I’m so sorry for everything.”

“I’ll talk to you soon. Take care.”

The shaking stopped. He would survive. That’s what he was best at. He had to make his father proud, make Rachel proud, make Sassa proud. With one suitcase, his laptop, and Rachel’s guitar, he hailed a cab to Kennedy Airport.

Nick stepped into Kennedy Airport. Where to go? He singled out Alaska Airlines and approached their ticket counter. He chatted with a sympathetic-looking agent, a plain, brown-haired girl in her twenties with a smile like Rachel’s. She helped him narrow his destination to Boise, Idaho, or Billings, Montana. Less populated, closer to the Canadian border, and colder, Billings struck him as the better of the two. He purchased a one-way ticket.

In Billings, without a specific destination in mind, he hired a taxi to drive him to the center of town. In the cab, he pulled down his Fleet Foxes cap until the visor covered his eyes and fell asleep until, sometime later, a deep pothole bounced him awake. He angled up the bill of his cap and spotted a sign for Ernie’s Auto a block ahead. “Pull in ahead at Ernie’s.” The taxi veered into the used-car dealership. “Wait for me. I’ll be a few minutes.”

He stepped into a small, wood-paneled office at the back of the lot and asked for Ernie. Ernie, a tall man dressed in a black suit, black shirt, and black tie, was tinkering at his desk with a small, multi-legged robot that crawled like a spider up a tiered stack of books, searching for warmth.

He moved closer. Too much cologne. Sickening. “Did you make that?”

“Yeah. Hobby. What can I do for you, pal?”

“I need a cheap truck.”

“I’ve got a few you can test drive.”

“No need. Just pick one that’s good.”

“Are you sure? It would be no trouble to go for a test drive.”

“No need.”

On the lot, they circled a black 2000 Ford 150 four-by-four Supercab, larger than any truck Nick had ever seen. Or driven. A few scratches. New tires. The right color. Perfect.

“This one’s really clean for the price,” Ernie said.

Nick sprang up off the running board into the cab of the truck. Towering in the driver’s seat, he turned over the ignition, revved the engine a few times, grinned power. “I’ll take it.”

“Great. Let’s start the paperwork.”

Back in the office, Nick counted out twenty-five crisp $100 dollar bills. He’d made a good decision on the truck. On Billings. On accepting fault for what had happened. He was exactly where he needed to be. “Do you know any good, cheap hotels close by?”

Ernie pulled a pile of notecards from his desk drawer, scribbled something on a blank card, handed it to Nick.

“Can you throw in the robot?” Nick asked.

Ernie glanced at the hundreds on the table. “Sure, buddy.”

Ernie thanked Nick for his business and promised to have the vehicle on the road the next day. A pile of papers and a robot in hand, Nick slipped back into the cab. He pulled out the notecard from the pile, handed it to the driver, pointed to the scribbled address. “Here.” A few miles later, the driver pulled into a circular driveway at the Holiday Inn.

After dropping off his guitar and suitcase in his room, Nick made his way back to the elevator. Inside, he punched the stop button between floors and backed down the wall onto the floor. A seam had formed where the two sides of the elevator door came together. Separate-together. He set the robot loose and watched as it tried to scale the left panel. After a few moments, he pushed up off the floor and restarted his descent to the lobby. As Nick exited the elevator, up against the wall the robot stepped in place, waiting for a new companion.

On foot, Nick left the hotel and made a beeline to a local real estate agency he’d noticed on the drive in. Inside, a heavy woman—twenty-something, with a southern drawl—blended with the smell of coffee and cigarettes in the air.

“I’m looking for a one-year cabin rental to the north.”

“What’s your name, cowboy?”

“Nick.”

“How far?”

“Close to the border.”

“Just for you?”

“Yes.”

“What’s your budget?”

“I care more about seclusion.”

The woman perked up, placed her hand on his shoulder, and smiled. She handed him a book, made her interest clear. “Take a look at these.”

How did the world get to a place where all that mattered was money? And sex? Or had it always been that way? Jackie had once told Nick that people were only loyal to their own processes, and most of the time they weren’t even aware what was happening. In process, sometimes joy shed light, but more often pain did the heavy lifting. He flipped through rental listings before zeroing in on a small, two-bedroom, remote cabin in Great Falls, 150 miles northwest of Billings. “I’ll take this one.”

“Don’t you want to see it first?”

“Not really.”

Since his father had died, in those instances when he’d slowed down long enough to let the sadness in, Nick had fixated on spending time in a secluded cabin in the woods. Why was there such a strong pull toward a cabin? Why had the pull persisted over many years? He had no idea, but the time had come to find such a place and live there. His clues, blurred at best, recurred in flashes of a simple and honest life alone, away from love. He would stay in the cabin, blanketed by surrounding pine trees, dwarfed by distant, snow-capped mountains, for a time.

Nick barreled to Great Falls the next day, testing the limits of his new truck. In the city, he slowly drove up the main street. “Lucia’s . . . Jack’s Music . . . Adam and Eve . . . Great Falls Coffee Company.” He pulled into a parking space in front of the coffee shop. He strolled inside, and ordered a cappuccino from an older man working behind the cash register.

“You from around here?”

“I just moved.”

“It’s a great place to call home.”

Nick took in the smell of dark roast, and scanned the almost empty shop. “I can see that. There’s something familiar here.”

“That’s what a lot of folks say.”

Cappuccino in one hand, he returned to his truck and headed toward the cabin north of the city. A short time later, he turned into a long gravel driveway and wended almost a mile up into a clearing. A log cabin with an open porch spanning its width, two chimneys spouting up either side, and an adjoining working garden already planted filled the clearing. The landlord pushed open the screen door and trotted out to meet him.

“Hey, Nick, nice to meet you. You picked a great place.”

“It looks perfect.”

“Do you want to see the inside?”

“Sure.”

They entered the large, empty living room. Spacious. That was important. The floor creaked. The entire cabin smelled like wood: burnt oak from the fireplace, Douglas fir floors, western red cedar walls and ceilings. They all infused the place with a smoky, sweet smell, like perfume lingering at a campground not sure of its place. The ceilings sloped up to a fifteen-foot peak at the back of the living room. He gravitated to the huge stone fireplace on the side wall.

“Work?”

“Yes. I have over ten cords of wood out back. Some of it needs splitting.”

“Great.”

Attached to the living room was a small, functional kitchen with an open counter. Nick opened and closed cabinets and ran his hand over the stone counter. “Solid.” He walked down a short hallway into the master bedroom, which had a similar, smaller fireplace splitting the far wall. “Big.”

“The second bedroom is smaller. More of an office.”

“Or recording studio. Internet access?”

“Satellite.”

“That will work.”

They navigated back into the living room. On the kitchen island, he signed a one-year lease and paid his security deposit from the infinite supply of $100 bills.

Later that day in town, he purchased a bed, a sofa, a dining set, and end tables at a secondhand shop. He loaded as much as he could in his truck, but the amount of furniture necessitated multiple trips. Ping-ponging the rest of the day between town and the cabin, he had furnished his new place by nightfall.

Exhausted, he collapsed on his new sofa. The crash, the hard part, nondescript and elusive, was coming. Sleeping in fits and starts, images from the accident jumbled his mind. I can reach her. I can reach her. Jump in. Jump in. Thump! On the floor, sweating profusely, the right side of his chest pulsed with pain. Apparently, he’d thrown himself off the sofa in his sleep. Did he crack his ribs?

In his bedroom a moment later, he crawled into bed. Face up, and still, a single tear streamed down his face. He flashed on a play he’d seen as a boy about WWII paratroopers who plummeted to their deaths when their parachutes malfunctioned. What was the name?
Streamers
.

Nick could have never predicted the extent of the crash. He stayed in bed for eight weeks straight. It was as if he’d stored a lifetime of loss that had to pour out all at once. His dad. Sassa. Rachel. Himself. There were days when he would cry for hours at a time, sobbing so deeply, shaking so uncontrollably, often moaning so loudly, that he literally could do nothing but ball up afterward. Sometimes he thought about Rachel. Sometimes his dad. Sometimes Sassa. Other times, there were no thoughts at all. Just profound sadness that would build until the big release. For those first weeks, he couldn’t do much of anything. He lost his appetite, stopped eating solid foods, dropped twenty pounds. Never turned on his computer. Or his phone. He spoke only when he absolutely had to. At the supermarket. Or a gas station. He’d fallen into a deep hole, one where it wasn’t possible to go any lower. Rock bottom. Part of him had been waiting to go there for a long time, and part of him had done everything it could to keep him from going. Finally there, he understood why. The bottom was more honest, more in line with how he felt before Sassa, before Rachel, after Portland. Where were the finger holds? Didn’t he even want to climb out?

Throughout, he refused to numb in any way. No drugs. No alcohol. No junk food. No TV. No Internet. Not even a Diet Pepsi. Just the pain. Bottomless. Pure. Death of a great love pain. Or two. Or three. For the first time in his life, he understood why so many people chose to numb, why he’d chosen to numb in the past. The pain was too great. In the past, he’d never gone in as far. If he could get through it, come out the other side . . . but he didn’t know for sure if he would make it, and that seemed like a necessary part of his process. Tonglen had helped a little. Focused him on the breath. Hope in. Pain out. Hope in. Pain out. But just a little.

When the anger came, at first it scared him. So much undirected, unadulterated hate. How could she have died? How could he have died? Why did she leave in the first place? Was he to blame? The anger took over his body. Often, he screamed at the top of his lungs, “Fuck them all. I don’t need anyone,” or “Why the fuck did you die on me?” or “I hate you. I hate you.” For relief, he went out to the wood pile. Split wood. Hitting it head on, with all of his strength, destroying without using words sent the anger into the ground where it spread out, dissipated, lost its hold. After months of chopping, the anger had gone. Never again would he be afraid of it.

Gradually, he started to eat again. First, freshly made juice. Then organic fruits, vegetables, nuts, and organic beef. Many vitamins each day. And he exercised. Two sixteen-kilogram kettlebells. Swings, snatches, cleans, and presses. Five hundred reps four times a week. And he worked with his hands, built a beautiful cherry mission chair, even though he had little experience with woodworking. Finally, he picked up his guitar for the first time, almost six months after moving to Great Falls. Steel strings dented his fingers, made him wish he hadn’t lost his calluses from lack of playing. The guitar body rested on his lap, and warmed him. Nick had missed music.

Six months in Great Falls: On his way into the city for supplies, Nick wandered down a side road and slowed in front of Aurora’s Mysticatz and Mystimutz Animal Shelter. He pulled into the parking lot and stared at the entrance. Did he really want to go in?

Inside the shelter, he checked on the availability of dogs for adoption. Ten. The attendant escorted him to an outdoor holding area where the dogs had gathered. In the corner away from the others, a large black male Newfoundland, sleeping on his back, feet straight up in the air, sunned his belly. Nick laughed.

“Fred Flintstone.”

“Good name.”

“He came to us last month.”

“How come?”

“Too much work for the family to keep a large-breed dog.”

“Oh. How much does he weigh?”

“One forty. He’s healthy and has received all of his shots. He tested negative for joint problems.”

“Oh.”

Nick squatted and rubbed Fred’s belly. Occasionally, when he found a magical spot, Fred wiped the ground with his tail. He’d never had a dog before. When he was young, his mother hadn’t allowed it. And in New York, he was too busy with work. In Great Falls, there would be no rules.

Fred flipped over and sat across from Nick, snout to head. He slavered a long strand that looked like superglue. Licking Nick’s face, he adorned his shirt with the slobber, then extended his paw. Rachel would have loved Fred, especially the messy parts. “Sold.”

“Adopted.”

“Oh. Right.”

He scribbled out the paperwork, donated $50, adopted Fred Flintstone. On the way back to his truck, Fred definitively parked himself in front of the passenger door. He wouldn’t budge despite multiple tugs.

“Newfie brakes,” the attendant said.

“What?”

“When a Newfie doesn’t want to move, there isn’t much you can do about it.”

“Oh.”

With a little coaxing and a large biscuit strategically dangled, Fred released his brakes and sprang into the front seat. Nick pulled out of the parking lot, opened his window, picked up speed. He took a deep breath. Cold and crisp. The sunlight filtered blue, and for a moment transported him somewhere safe. Fred stationed his head outside the passenger window, parting the wind with his snout.

Back in the cabin, Nick filled Fred’s dog bowls and lowered himself to the floor. Fred devoured his food and lapped his water. After Fred finished, Nick scratched behind Fred’s ear. “Don’t worry. Everything will be okay. We’ll figure this all out together. Let’s start by doing something about your name.” Shifting his hand from one ear to the other, he mentally auditioned ‘
F
’ names. Felix, Frank, Floyd, Fenn, Ferris, Fellini.