You Only Get So Much (8 page)

Chapter 15

The next few weeks of
summer drag on like a never-ending holiday meal where you just want to go home,
but you're too drunk to drive and your relatives keep plying you with alcohol.
You want to get away, but you can't. This house, as big as it is, isn't big enough.
I find myself constraining bouts of anger and annoyance at the girls and my
parents as they take over portions of the house.

Boxes of my parents'
belongings arrived just a day after Mom announced they were moving in, which
tells me that she had made arrangements for the move well before informing me
about it. The boxes filled up half of the three-car garage and I'm forced to
wonder where the hell all this stuff was stored previously and why the hell
they have so much stuff in the first place. Granted, Mom needs her colorful
pants collection—but that's only a few dresser drawers of
seizure-inducing patterns. This collection is a life's worth of knick-knacks
that nobody really needs or wants. The boxes are labeled —a few with my
name on them—and at some point I should take some time to go through
them. I have the time, but lack the motivation. It's not like I'm busy.

We've got the routine
down now and it's clear that Mom is running the show and I've been relegated to
assistant, with chores and prescribed living quarters. I'm rather content about
this arrangement—less pressure—but I can't help feeling like a
teenager again. I'm stuck in the house waiting to turn 18 and asking to borrow
the keys to the car. I often find myself out on the deck overlooking the city
and sitting with Dad. The poor guy is stuck with me, but he likes being
outside—or at least we think he does—so that's where he goes. If
he's hearing me, I don't know, but if he can, he's heard it all.

Kendall comes out of her
room every few days and sneaks into the kitchen to eat while her grandma is
cooking. She's basically stopped talking to me entirely, which means I get
called an "old ass," a lot less now. This is nice on several levels.
I can't be sure what it was that made her so upset with me; but then again, I'm
not making any effort to figure that out either. She's got her boyfriend and
her fancy black eye makeup to keep her company, anyhow. If she wants Uncle
Billy at arm's length, I'm OK with that.

Gracie seems to be the
happiest with this change in living arrangements. She's got a grandma to watch
over her every move and when that's not enough for her, she comes and finds me,
which I rather enjoy. We go to the park or just watch TV. She cuddles up next
to me on the couch and only wakes me when I start to snore during her shows.
It's a good deal for both of us.

I'd forgotten how
anal-retentive Mom was.
 
A place
for everything and everything in its place. I don't dare leave a glass out on
the table or my shoes by the front door.

"I won't live in a
house filled with clutter, William," she says. "Clutter breeds
disorder and that makes us all lazy and apathetic."

She's on top of every
one of us correcting and redirecting our actions. Gracie's used to it because
she's a kid. Kendall just seems to ignore her. Yet, I'm stuck in a constant
flashback of my childhood.

I've found myself coming
up with reasons to leave the house. The physical therapy appointments are nice
little getaways with just Dad and me. I talk and he listens. I've told him
things that I've never told anyone else. Things about Jane and me. Things about
Monique and how I messed up.
 
I
might be driving Dad to physical therapy appointments, but it's probably more
mentally therapeutic for me than him. I've never really had the opportunity to
converse with my dad before. He wasn't that kind of dad growing up. You didn't
just ask him a question and get the benefit of a heartfelt conversation. He'd
answer and move on to something else. Very matter of fact. I guess that's how
fathers are supposed to be. I've never experienced anything else and can't say
I was any different with Aspen. I was always writing or re-writing; the need to
finish my work trumping my time with her.

Man, I was a dick to
that poor kid.

* * *

This evening I escape when Mom is distracted and
thankfully didn't ask me where I was off to. I can't say that the truck drove
itself, but without much input from me, I arrive at a destination I haven't
seen in years—not that it's changed all that much. The Bowl and Pitcher at
Spokane's Riverside State Park. The park is a sprawling wooded landscape on
either side of the Spokane River just west of town.

 
The treed
park includes access to the river, hiking and bike trails and a campground.
I've never figured out why people decide to camp at the park. It's five minutes
from civilization, sure, but wouldn't that be an incentive to make the trek out
of town farther? So it tends to be full of white-trash tent and tarp campers,
who in the summer get blasted on light beer and throw their empties into the
river.

I pass the campgrounds and maneuver the truck into the
parking lot near the Bowl and Pitcher, a bend in the Spokane River that
includes several large basalt rock formations that resemble, at least slightly,
a bowl turned on its side and a pitcher of some kind. Most people just refer to
it as the Bowl and Pitcher, and leave it at that.
 

I walk down the steep, but paved incline and step onto
the wood and cable walking bridge that spans the river, providing me a better
view of the namesake features of the park. They just look like big brown rocks
to me. No bowl or pitcher. The bridge sways with even the lightest of steps and
I make sure to hold onto the railing to my right.

Jane used to hate walking across this bridge, especially
when it was full of onlookers checking out the rushing water. But she liked to
hike, so we came here often. It's nearly dusk and the place is practically
deserted, but the unsettled feeling still creeps into my stomach as the wood
under me bounces as I walk. I used to torment her by rocking the bridge back
and forth. At the time it was funny—or at least I thought so. Today,
alone, it's not funny and I pick up the pace to the other side of the river.

The shadows are deeper on the west side of the river bank
and despite being August I feel a chill and pull my jacket collar up a little
bit tighter around my neck.

About that time, a couple walking hand-in-hand descends
the path toward me. The man, probably in his early 20s, sees me first and pulls
on the hand of his female companion to slow her pace. He motions her to the
other side of the trail, away from me.

Isolated here, away from the safety of a crowd, this man
sees me as a danger.
 
My scraggly
beard and mop of disheveled hair don't help my appearance much. For all he
knows, I live here in the park. They pass me in a hurry and don't stop on the
bridge to admire the rock formations. In moments they are gone and I'm alone
once again. No more couples in sight.

The funny thing is that I used to be that man, guarding
Jane from passing strangers or the occasional odd guy loitering nearby.
Avoiding the threat from the outside is an instinct. His instinct said I was
odd and I made him uncomfortable. I don't blame him. But I also wish I wasn't
that guy. If I had a crisp haircut and wore a clean pair of hiking boots and a
fancy wind-breaker, would I be viewed as less of a threat? Probably. That's
reality.

It makes me wonder how other people really see me. I'm
quiet—never the first to engage in a conversation, but once up and
running I can hold my own. I don't dress like a slob. It's usually jeans and a
faded tee-shirt. But it's probably the hair. I don't know that I even like the
beard and long hair anymore. It was fine when I was alone and wouldn't see a
soul for weeks at a time. Pulling my hair back into a ponytail was a
convenience. But now I see that my look must be defining me. I'm not looking to
make friends, but I also don't want to see people running in terror away from
me. I pull at the beard, which has gotten stuck in my jacket zipper and realize
that I don't even own a razor to shave with if I wanted to.

After climbing up the singular trail, I'm forced to make
a decision. Left or right. The trail to the left weaves into the forest and the
climb is much more difficult. The couple came from the right trail, downstream
of the river. The answer to where I will go next is clear. In fact, which
direction I would head was obvious to me when I first saw the couple. And it's
now obvious to me why my truck drove itself to the river tonight, too. There is
something waiting for me here. Something from a long time ago.

I continue on the path, the fading light making it harder
to see the rough ground that's filled with loose rocks and other hazards of nature.
It weaves in and out of the surrounding trees and only when there is a clearing
toward the river can I fully see the path, but I know where I'm going. I've
been here countless times.

I know just around the next turn there will be a thin
tree on the left with a large dip in its trunk, giving it the curious look of a
saddled horse. We called it the Horse Tree growing up. I'm surprised that I'm
actually excited to see it, even if it's just a landmark on the way to my
destination.

My hopes are dashed when around the corner there is a
sign that reads, "Take Care of the Nature Around You," alongside a
picture of my Horse Tree. The sign is drilled into the stump of the tree. If it
died on its own or was vandalized, I don't know, the sign doesn't say; but it
makes me sad either way.

My mom used to have a picture of April, Trevor and me
sitting in the saddle of the tree. It sat on a shelf in the living room of the
house we grew up in. We all have on shorts and socks up to our calves. I
couldn't have been more than 6 or 7 years old. My dad's in the background. His
brown photo-gray glasses blocking the camera from seeing his eyes. I bet that
picture is in one of those boxes sitting in the garage. I haven't seen it
for—I don't know how long.

Trees live and die, but I'd be lying if I said this one
being dead didn't bother me. When something is part of your history, you think
it'll be around forever. No matter where you go, your history shouldn't be
wiped away like this.

These thoughts pass through my mind as I continue up the
path toward my destination.

They don't make many large gazebos in public parks
anymore. At least not ones made with thick logs and stone accents. It's more
likely that the park shelter of today would be metal framed with an aluminum
roof to prevent it from catching fire if a wildfire happened to blaze through
the area. But the gazebo up ahead—the one that I came to see—isn't
new, and it looks just as old as it is.

It's called the Carving Shelter.

The once dark brown logs are now faded and splintered.
The five-sided, pentagon shaped building includes a large center structure of
stone that supports the exposed logs that hold up the roof. It's big enough to
house a dozen picnic tables, with a view of the river down the hill.

A string of white and orange A-frame barricades surround
the shelter, connected by a yellow caution tape. A sign reads, "Danger.
Keep Out." I can see the need to keep people out. One of the roof supports
has broken away from the center structure. A pile of stones and crumbling
mortar lay in a heap under the fallen roof support.

The rickety gazebo has seen better days. And I can
remember those better days with complete clarity. Jane and I used to come here
before we were married. We'd pack a lunch in a backpack and take the 20-minute
walk to the gazebo. It wasn't a regular ritual, but we'd make the trip three or
four times each summer. We even took Aspen here once when she was old enough to
walk the trail holding my hand.

The unique feature of the Carving Shelter was—you
guessed it—carvings. On nearly every inch of the exposed logs were carved
words, symbols or drawings of some sort. It looked like the intricate tattooed
arm sleeve of a rock band member with a never-ending string of characters
interwoven with one another. Jane and I had carved our names here many times
only to find that another couple had carved over our initial attempt by
grinding down the log an inch or so to create a new, bare canvas. No doubt the
place had run out of room for first-edition works of art; and the constant
chipping away of the building's support was its undoing.

I step over the barricade, ignoring the warning sign and
go in search of the last carving I made on the shelter, but I quickly realize
finding it will be a significant challenge. You see, to avoid our note being
erased, I hid it on one of the top rafters, next to the center fireplace. The
fading light provides me no cooperation to search, so I flip on the flashlight
on the reverse of my phone to illuminate the area. No luck. It's too high.

Against my better judgment, I pull one of the remaining
picnic tables under the spot where I think the carving would be. I then climb
on top. The spongy table bows with my weight. I shine the light toward the
rafters. Still too far. I push the table against the fireplace for support and
lift a second, smaller table on top of it, forming a precarious scaffold
resting against the fireplace stones. I can touch the rafters now.