Reunion

Shawn was gazing absentmindedly at his reflection in the rear view mirror when he let out a yawn so massive tears formed at the corner of his eyes. Even in First Class, the six hour flight from San Diego to Philadelphia was always exhausting; he was still at least 2 hours away from reaching his old family home across state lines in South Jersey, but already, Shawn was counting the minutes until he could return to his life in La Jolla. He had almost hoped the flight would be cancelled, giving him the best excuse he could ever hope for to avoid returning to his relatives. But then, as he sleepily took his seat in 2A, he decided it was better this way; his mother still occasionally brought up the Christmas Cold War of 2005 when he chose to spend it in Paris rather than attend the annual family dinner. Shawn didn’t think he could take another 10 years of similar torture. 

“We’ll be there in 15 minutes, sir,” the driver said then, pulling Shawn out of his thoughts. “You must be looking forward to getting some sleep.”

Shawn rubbed his eyes in response. When he looked back up at his reflection, the occasional gray hairs that peppered his mat of jet black strands seemed to have doubled in a matter of hours and the lines on his face appeared deeper than they were yesterday. He looked old. 

“Feel free to take the long way,” Shawn said to the driver sardonically. “I’m still deciding on a hotel room.”

The driver glance at the GPS directions on her dashboard. “Looks like your destination is in a residential area. No hotels out there.”

“I know,” Shawn said. “I grew up here.”

“You visiting family?” the driver guessed astutely. As she threw the question at him, Shawn started noticing familiar landmarks zip past the tinted windows of the backseat; local eateries he had frequented, malls he took his dates to, an old movie theater that was transformed into luxury condos for city folk who wanted a “simpler” life. But none of these sights bought him any comfort or nostalgia; he watched them me and go, his steely gaze never changing, not a drop of sympathy for this place he had called home.

Shawn scoffed at the driver’s question. “Unfortunately,” he said. Even through the rear view, Shawn could tell he had made her uncomfortable with his response. She was young, maybe late 20s, and she reminded Shawn of  a doe with her hazel brown eyes and many freckles. 

Shawn felt a jab of pity for the girl, so he heaved a sigh and said, “Actually, I’m here for a funeral.” The word tasted bitter in his mouth; none of his friends or coworkers back in California knew this. This is the first time Shawn acknowledged the whole, pathetic affair aloud.

“Oh,” the driver said softly, her eyes glowing with sympathy. “I’m so sorry… Who?”

Shawn resisted the urge to laugh at her question; human’s penchant for morbid curiosity never ceased to amaze him. “My brother,” he said, his voice even.

The black Toyota these two strangers shared pulled up to a traffic light. It was the only car on the quiet, tree-lined street dotted with its many colonial-style houses that were common in the area and the small car and its two occupants were bathed in red light. The driver watched Shawn through the mirror for a moment and although Shawn did not make eye contact with her, he took note of the maroon color her eyes took on under the stop light. To his horror, Shawn realized upon closer inspection that tears were now welling up with tears.

“I’m so sorry,” he said in a thick voice that suggested she was doing her best not to sob in front of him.

Shawn scratched his arm uncomfortably. “It’s fine,” he said, and then quickly added, “I mean, it’s not fine, but you know…”

The light turned green, turning the driver’s eyes a lovely grass-green, but the Toyota stayed put. Under normal circumstances, Shawn might have gotten angry, but he knew he was two left turns and a right turn away from passing over the threshold of his parent’s house, something he was eager to put off for as long as possible, so he said nothing. Even this highly awkward situation was preferable to going back to that place.

“Were you two close?” the driver asked, dabbing her eyes with a tissue. 

“We used to be,” Shawn said, not entirely sure why he was confiding in this stranger. “But then I went away to college in California.” He thought about this for a moment then let out a curt laugh. “It’s funny… you know that expression, ‘Familiarity breeds contempt’?” The driver nodded. “Well, that’s what my family was like. We were too close, you know? The expressed implied- or, rather, I inferred that the antidote to that contempt was distance. I guess I thought by getting away we could put the past behind us and learn to get along from a distance.”  He lingered on this thought for a beat and then rubbed his temple; he needed a drink. He could feel a headache coming on. “I guess there was too much distance.”

The diver nodded, her eyes glistening. “California is pretty far.”

Shawn didn’t respond to this; he didn’t have the heart to tell her it wasn’t a physical distance he was talking about.

A few minutes later, he was unloading his suitcase from the trunk and waving goodbye to this girl he was sure he would never see again. 

He took his time making the short trip from the curb, up the red brick walkway, and up to the front door of his childhood home. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting after almost a decade since his last visit, but he was surprised by the condition of the building; it looked the same as it had always looked. But then, that was the entire story behind the Wallace family; steadfast, resolute, unchanging. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it, his Uncle Jon used to say.

Shawn’s mother opened the front door before he got to it, which Shawn knew meant that she had been waiting, watching from the darkened kitchen. Mrs. Wallace had her hair in rollers and covered in a plastic hair net, no doubt getting it ready for tomorrow’s funeral attendees. 

“Mr. Hot Shot Lawyer too good to show up at a decent hour now, huh?” was her greeting. 

“Good evening, mother,” Shawn said flatly, pushing past her. 

Mrs. Wallace would have slammed the door but seeing as it was not 2 pm, she resigned herself to giving Shawn a dirty look that he could see even under the cover of darkness.

“You know I look ten years younger when I don’t get my full 8 hours of sleep, Shawn,” Mrs. Wallace angrily whispered. “I gotta look my best tomorrow for my baby.”

“Yes, Ma,” Shawn said automatically, grabbing a beer from the fridge. He scoffed when he saw all his family had was Heineken, but he knew there wouldn’t be any hard liquor in the house. He made a mental note to pick some up before the funeral as he took a regrettable sip of beer. 

“Well, it’s good of you to come, anyways,” Mrs. Wallace was saying. She always softens up once she’s gotten in a good jab or two at her eldest. “You look fat, Shawny.”

“Thanks, Ma.” 

Shawn was grateful that his mother was too tired to take that evening’s conversation about his weight any further and both mother and son retired to their sleeping quarters. Mrs. Wallace suggested Shawn take his old bedroom, the one he had shared with his now dead brother, but Shawn assured her the couch would do. He stripped down to his undershirt and underwear and slid under the throw that had decorated the living couch for as long as he could remember. 

Shawn fell into an uneasy sleep and dreamt of his brother. Flashes of memories swarmed through his sleep-deprived brain; the two of them hunting venison with their father in the Barrens; Shawn showing his kid brother how to spit a loogie; Shawn making fun of his teen brother’s pizza face on the night of his 8th grade prom… Shawn’s brother in the hospital after he crashed his motorcycle into the Delaware River. But something was wrong. Shawn was looking down a cliff face, pieces of the wrecked bike trailing all the way down the muddy bank. His brother was in the roaring rapids, struggling to keep his head above water. From this distance, he could have been mistaken for a piece of driftwood. But Shawn was confused; why was he just standing there? Why wasn’t  he scrambling down the cliff face? Why wasn’t he calling for help? His brother was in trouble and all Shawn could do was watch? He might die. He can’t call for help because his lungs are filling up with water. He needs your help, Shawn! Do something, Shawn! Your brother is dying!

It was too late; his now limp body was so far he barely registered as a dot in Shawn’s field of vision. Shawn reached out lamely and cried, “Andy!”

But he wasn’t watching his brother get swept away by the river’s rapids; he was sitting up in his mother’s living room, on his mother’s couch, under his great-grandmother’s musty hand-knitted quilt. Shawn rubbed his face, his head still pounding from the night before. It took him a minute to sort through his memories, and then he remembered; Shawn was there when Andy crashed his bike. He was in SoCal, partying and getting drunk on the night before his graduation from UCLA. Just as Andy was being resuscitated at the hospital, Shawn was passing out in his dorm room. When Shawn finally picked up his phone the next day, Andy was alive, but on life support.

When Mrs. Wallace was coming down the stairs, Shawn was back in the same suit he had arrived in. “You’re not wearing that, are you?” she said, eyeing the wrinkles at the hems of his blazer and trousers.

Shawn grabbed his mother’s keys from the coffee table. “I’ll be right back,” he said.

Mrs. Wallace’s hands flew up to her hips with practiced ease. “And just where do you think you’re going?”

“I just need air.”

“Shawn!” Mrs. Wallace cried as her son covered the distance between the sofa and the front door in three massive strides. “The lawyer will be here in an hour! Shawn!

Shawn ignored her and sped walked down the street as long as his long legs would take him. It was only early autumn, but there was already a biting chill in the air that Shawn hadn’t noticed the night before. It was one of the few things he missed about life in the Mid Atlantic. You can’t get autumns like this in SoCal. 

After he felt he had put enough distance between himself and his mother, Shawn slowed until he came upon a familiar oak tree. A bed of beautiful crimson, auburn, and rust colored leaves rested at the base of it’s trunk. Shawn squatted by the tree and buried his face in his hands, the inescapable thoughts of his brother still haunting him.

He thought back to last night and the nice driver. She had cried for Andy, a man she didn’t even know, and she had cried for Shawn, assuming that a man who has just lost his only brother would be beside himself with grief. He knew he should be. But even after he had gotten the phone call, Shawn had not shed a single tear. 

He felt something; he could feel it building up from within. It was like a pot of bubbling magma. But no matter how many times he saw Andy’s stupid, grinning face, no tears came. Shawn grabbed two fistfuls of hair and scrunched up his face, hoping, begging, he had at least one tear to shed for his brother…

But nothing happened. Giving up, Shawn remembered the drink of whiskey he so badly wanted and left his spot by the oak tree, an immense guilt hovering over him like a cloud. His feet carried him to the nearby liquor store, a spot he had frequented many times, and as he scanned the aisles, he remembered that it was 8am and they wouldn’t be selling hard liquor for another few hours. Desperate, he went to the cashier, looking for the small shot bottles most liquor stores carried. But he got distracted on his way there. 

“Holy shit,” he mumbled. It was one of those old toy capsule machines. The ones that kids would put a quarter in to dispense a plastic capsule with a toy in it. The liquor store had a couple, but there was one in particular that had Shawn’s attention. He wiped away a good layer of dust. “Caleb Cowboy,” it read. “Collect all 12!” 

It was an old show from the '80s that Shawn’s dad had introduced to them. Quickly, Shawn dug through his pockets until he found a quarter and used it to pop one of those plastic balls out of the machine. The machine was so low to the ground, Shawn had to kneel to reach the dispensing chute and claim his prize. Usually, these capsules were clear plastic, but these came in black plastic so you couldn’t see what was inside. Shawn left the liquor store with his little black capsule and no booze.

Back at the house, his mother was sitting at the kitchen table, across from a balding man in a three piece suit. When Shawn walked in, she cried, “There you are!” and dragged him to the empty seat next to her. “You’re just in the nick of.”

“What's going on?”

“This is Mr. Sawyer,” Mrs. Wallace said. “I told you he be here this morning.”

“I’m here to read to you Mr.Wallace’s last will and testament,” Mr. Sawyer said to Shawn, “and you’re in it.” With a flourish, Mr. Sawyer pulled out a single piece of paper from his briefcase and read: “To my brother, Shawn Wallace, I leave all of my most prized possessions, which I keep in my bedroom. I especially want him to have what is in the safe in my closet. The passcode is my favorite episode of my favorite show.”

There was a pause. “That’s it?” Mrs. Wallace said, but Shawn was already halfway up the stairs. Last night, Shawn would have never dreamed of entering his old bedroom. Today, he burst through and made a beeline for the closet. Finding the safe, Shawn put in the passcode: 0321. It was the 21st episode of the third season of Caleb Cowboy. The lock clicked and the door popped open.

The first thing he saw was a letter and he instinctively knew it was meant for him. With shaky hands, Shawn opened it. The bubbling pot of magma stirred violently at the sight of his kid brother’s neat handwriting.

Dear Shawn,

If you’re reading this, then congratulations! You’ve won a million dollars!

Hahaha. I’m just kidding. You know I don’t have that kind of money, doofus.

But I am glad you found this. It means you came home to say your goodbyes. I wish I had been around for that. I wish I could have shared one last beer with you and watched more reruns of Caleb Cowboy like we used to. I miss those days. 

But I know you’re busy and I know life has to go on.

Look, I want you to know that I never hated you for leaving. I know life here wasn’t what you wanted for yourself and, by God, you made something of yourself. It sucks that you had to go all the way to California to do it, but it was the hand you were dealt. And I’m proud of you!  I missed you tons, sure, but you’re my big brother, and your happiness means the world to me.

When my doctors told me I was running out of time, I said to myself, “That’s what you get for taking the Ducati out in the rain, Andy, you moron!” That was the easy part. 

But I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t want you to think it was somehow your fault for not being around more. It wasn’t. You did the best you could when you were here and we had some good times.  That’s all I could have asked for.

Anyway, looks like you’ll have to live for the both of us from now on. 

Make it a good one.

I love you,

Andy

Shawn turned the letter around. There was more on the back 

P.S. See if you can finish my collection of Caleb Cowboy figurines, will you? I never could find that 12th one. Good luck!

Shawn’s brow furrowed. He reached into the safe and, sure enough, he pulled out 11 Caleb Cowboy figurines. All of them had been carefully and lovingly kept in thick, plastic display cases. The only one he was missing was a very rare solid gold figure of Caleb on his trusty steed, Corduroy. 

Shawn reached into his pocket and felt the plastic capsule. With a deep breath, he slowly pulled it out and with his eyes closed, he popped the capsule open and let the figurine drop into his open palm. 

When he opened his eyes, the bubbling pot of magma exploded and a deep well of tears, hot with anger and terrible grief, cascaded down his cheeks. 

Mrs. Wallace, who had been watching from the doorway, crouched down next to her eldest son and pulled him into an embrace. Without a word, Mrs. Wallace took the solid gold cowboy from Shawn’s hand and  placed it down among the others, reunited with his family at last.