Homeward Bound

Death comes for us all, at least once in a while. Eventually, it came for my dad.

 And it fell to me, as his oldest, to clean up his estate. It’s been a while. Since we all moved out, actually. It was odd driving down that old road. Last time I drove down towards the house, I still had training wheels on my bike. 

Orange and yellow covered the sides of the road, the tree limbs hanging bare overhead. The paved asphalt turned into a path of gray gravel and dirt walled in by dense oak. The house was two stories, all the bedrooms upstairs. Dad’s room. Allie’s room. Paul’s room. And mine.

 Dad working in construction had its benefits. He built on the cheap, little by little, while we stayed in a motel. Some of his construction buddies tagged along to help. A couple months in and we had a brand new place. As little kids, it was like a palace. It was a good way to adjust.

Dad was good most of the time, I remembered, as I unlocked the door. There was a key left under the mat, probably by the estate manager. She told me where it was over the phone. Dad would have loved that. He would have been more creative. A potted plant or a rock. Up in the gutter once. He always knew I would forget my keys. I was always forgetting things back then.

A thin film of dust covered the hardwood paneling of the floor. The boards still creaked like when we were kids too. We’d run all over the house ignoring Dad’s rule of ‘no running in the halls’. We did until Paul broke his arm. Walking up the stairs, I could almost see it again. Paul knocking his arm against the railing. Dad carried him to the car, both of them crying. Dad cried so much harder. I still don't know how he managed to drive to the hospital, tears all welled up in his eyes.

We listened a lot better after that. Allie didn’t though. She always got away with it.

I went to Dad’s room first. Figured he kept most of his important tax and property documents in there. The stuff his estate manager and lawyer needed. His room hadn’t changed much. Still the same twin bed, the blue sheets, the bookshelves. Dad escaped the stereotypes sometimes. I never saw someone read as much as him. He didn’t even watch tv. Only did when we forced him to. Usually cartoons. MTV and VH1. He loved the songs. Didn’t look at the screen though. Just tapped his foot as he read his books. 

The bookcases took over an entire wall of his room. From one end of the left wall to the other ran a massive set of shelves, built by hand. It was massive when I was young. I needed a step ladder just to reach the middle. Dad would always say the books at the top weren’t exactly child friendly.

This time I could see the top shelves. Turned out most of them were just dense academic types.  Scanning the shelves, I placed my hand down. I felt something, like a bump in the wood. It didn’t feel like a knot. My dad liked to build with reclaimed wood, so I expected knots in furniture. This felt like a button, like one you find in an elevator. I pressed it down. There was a click, and the middle of the bookshelf loosened itself and opened ever so slightly away from the wall. 

I pulled at the loose shelf. It swung open like a door. Behind it, I could see a tunnel. Lights switched on, one after the other. The walls were framed with cheap plywood, much of it eaten away by termites. I felt my heart beating hard, almost against my ribs. The smell of dust and decay filled my head, making me light-headed as I squeezed through the passage. At the end of the tunnel, I found a room, dimly lit like the rest. I needed fresh air. 

I felt air. Cool, Fall air.

There had to be a window somewhere. I felt around the edges of the room, grabbing hold of a lever. A soft click. A latch opened, revealing a hidden window. I could see my old backyard. So many memories. 

The open window also illuminating something else. A small table. On the table, I saw a small piece of paper along with what I figured out was some sort of manuscript. Dad loved to read. Did he want to write all these years too?

I picked up the note. It read:

I wish I could have loved your mother and loved you the way you all deserved. I loved someone once. During the war. 

I came back. They couldn’t.

It was something we just didn’t talk about at the time. Not without risk.

You deserved more. I shouldn’t have pushed you away like I did. Maybe I was jealous. You got to live the way you wanted while I just locked myself here. I guess I did the same with your mother.

Anyway, I want you to have this. I don’t care if you burn it, or you publish it or dump it somewhere. It’s my truth. I want someone to know.

I love you all.

—”Dad”

I placed the letter back on the desk and stared at the book resting on the table. I sat down. The red-bound book was bound in red leather, a blank cover. I picked it up, my hands shaking more than I wanted to admit. 

I had no idea what to expect holding the book in my hand. And the tunnel. Some kind of secret study?

Dad disappeared sometimes, mostly late at night. We handled it pretty well. I always thought he was going to bars with construction buddies. Maybe he stayed home all this time.

I felt my hairs stand on end, the book still in my hands. I opened the first page, the first of hundreds. 

It’s strange learning about your family in their own words. I learned more about my father that day. More than I expected to know.

I understand now. I just wish I’d known him better.