This House Can’t Stand Forever

Summer in the South means the air becomes laden with pollen, sweat, and pregnant rain clouds. Ominous darkness was barely hidden behind the tall evergreen trees that made up the forest behind our house. The faint scent of pine mixed with that of petrichor. A week's worth of rain had saturated the ground. Every footfall sunk into the mud and was quickly followed by a squelching suck as I moved forward. We only had a few moments before the next storm would roll through. As pointless as it was to try painting a house in the middle of bad weather, I didn’t say anything. It was easier to follow Dad when he got these ideas in his head. If you didn’t, he’d likely fall and break his glasses, or his hip, or his other arm.

The log cabin’s white paint was chipped beyond help (or so Mom would say). Black strips were exposed, making our home look like a strange interpretation of a zebra. Some paint chips had broken off during the rain and now lay stuck in the muddy ground like little white grave markers. Dad stood at the top of our rusted metal ladder; a bucket of paint perched precariously on the highest step. He dipped his paintbrush into the mixture and slowly swept it across the top panel. He was in no rush, even as thunder rumbled in the distance. I held the bottom of the ladder, hands nearly as white as the paint in the bucket.

This was not a job for the two of us. The whole house needed to be power washed by a professional. I wouldn’t be surprised if parts of the wood were rotten, hidden behind the fractured paint. Thousands of bugs had created civilizations inside the insulation. But no, I couldn’t bring that up to Dad (or so Mom had told me while watching the Weather Channel). He needs this. He needs to feel useful. Well, he could be useful once his other arm healed properly.

“We should wait until after the storms are done, Dad! The rain will wash anything you do away!”

He says nothing, continuing his patient back-and-forth pattern, covering up the stripes of darkness, and erasing the evidence of decay.

I shift in my spot. The paint manages to cut through the smells of nature. My stomach turns a little more with each inhale. When I open my mouth, I can almost taste the arts-and-crafts projects I made as a kid. The cold mud seeps through my Nike shoes and crawls between my toes. A wasp flies by my head, its angry buzz cutting through the noise of rustling pine needles. It lands near Dad’s hand. Without stopping, my old man flicks it against the house, right into a place he had just painted over. He sweeps his brush over the stunned creature, swallowing it in white and gluing it to the wood.

Sweat rolls down his neck in droves. The red T-shirt he’s wearing is a few shades darker than usual. His balding head shines in the fading sunlight. His breathing is labored even though we’ve only been out here for a few minutes. His broken arm, still in a cast, shudders every few seconds. I pull my shirt up and mop the sweat on my forehead, smacking my lips together. You could cut the humidity with a knife.

Dad teeters on the ladder, and my grip once again tightens. I don’t look away from him until after he’s steady. I grab his ankle, tugging on his faded bootcut jeans.

“I don’t like you up there, Dad. Let me do it.”

He pauses in his work and looks down at me. His paintbrush, each bristle filled with ivory, begins to drip. A drop splatters against the ladder. It weaves a track down the metal like a tear, racing across my hand before falling to the ground. He doesn’t say a word. With a shake of his head, he turns back to his work.

I don’t fight him anymore.

He manages to paint five boards before his cough starts up. No doubt the fumes are aggravating his chest. It's dry, harsh, and loud. I’ve started guessing how often he will cough before the fit stops. The highest I’ve gotten is eight. He carries on as if he didn’t just hack up a lung. He puts the brush in the paint can and rifles around in his back pocket. Moments later he pulls out a carefully wrapped cough drop and pops it into his mouth, tossing the red paper to the ground. And then he’s back to painting. Something warm and wet drops down my face. I don’t move from the ladder.

The outside of the house was only one issue. The air conditioner no longer pumps out cool air. We had to put a fan in each room to keep the house chilled. Water had started leaking from the pipe under the kitchen sink. The near-constant rain had revealed a few holes in the roof. I had to lay pots and pans on the floor to stop the water from pooling.

Whenever there was a problem, Dad wanted to fix it. It makes him feel young (or so Mom would whisper when he wasn’t nearby). It makes him feel useful, even after he hurt himself over and over and over. Even when his brittle bones grew weaker and weaker. Even when his lungs struggled to bring in air and his stomach failed to hold down food. He still thought he could fix it. I guess I respect him for that, in a way. Always trying to find a solution to the impossible.

A flash of light speared through the sky, followed by a clap of thunder by Zeus himself. We both jolt—Dad swings out his arm and knocks the paint can from its spot on the top of the ladder. It dives to the ground, its guts spilling in the fall, the color seeming to float before colliding with the mud. White mixes with brown, charting a vein-like trail. Dad stares at the impromptu art piece, his brush dangling between his fingers. Slowly, I stand on my toes and grab it from him, pulling him out of his daze. I can’t read the expression on his face. I don’t think I want to.

“Come on, that’s a sign for us to call it. Let’s get inside before we get soaked.”

The first raindrop falls on my nose, quickly followed by another on my arm. Dad lets out a huff and begins to descend the ladder. Once he’s down far enough, I place my hand on his back to support him. He grunts and bats it away, moving the rest of the way without looking at me. Rain starts to soak us both. I can’t tell where the sweat starts and the rainwater begins. Dad picks up the paint can as he walks toward the porch, leaving large footprints in the sludge of paint and mud. I take a few seconds to stow my annoyance, lifting my face to the rain. The sun is completely blocked out now. Lightning dances across the sky and the thunder nearly deafens me. I glance at Dad’s work. His paint is washed away with every raindrop, once more exposing the strips of rotting wood. The wasp, feebly struggling against the weight of the combined paint and water, spasms and falls to the ground below. I turn back to the house, putting my shoes into each of my father’s footprints.

I need to empty the pots.