The Silence Around It

Rusted through. Of course it is. Springs still work. It’s just gonna fall apart if I don’t replace the hinges. Another dispatch from Scott Evers. Read for you by Geezer III. Hold on. I just need to sit here a minute and take it in. Rain in the desert. Marvelous thing. Garage door’s open. Chair’s parked right in the middle. Washing machine’s carrying on behind me. Somewhere down the road a bicyclist just went through. God bless him. Not for me. I’ve reached an age where weather and I negotiate. The desert smells different when it rains. Everybody says that. I think they’re underselling it. You can almost taste it. It grew me. Used to think sentimental people were ridiculous. Then one day I became one. I’m waiting for my son to call. That’s what I’m doing out here. Precious time. You don’t realize how precious a voice is until you have to wait for it. The rain’s coming down harder now. Laundry’s nearly done. Everything feels temporary tonight. Maybe waiting does that. Phone. There we are. A recording. Always a recording first. Imagine that. Before you can speak to your own child a machine clears its throat and reminds you the conversation may be monitored. Wonderful civilization we’ve built. Hold on. There he is.

— hello son. — — yes. — it’s raining. — actual rain. — — how you doing. — — good. — good. — — no. — you don’t have to tell me. — — i mean it. — — what. — — huh.

I lean back in the chair. Rain outside. The machine turning behind me.

— — that’s a hell of a thing to say. — — no. — i’m not laughing at you. — — i’m laughing because now i’m going to think about that for a month. — — you said: — “i feel like i exist and don’t exist at the same time.” — — yes. — that’s exactly what you said. — — son. — — i don’t know either.

Then silence. We’re both thinking. Funny thing about fathers. People think we’re supposed to have answers. Mostly you just become familiar with uncertainty.

— — no. — listen. — you don’t have to tell me what’s happening in there. — — but you’ve got my ear. — — anytime. — — yes. — i mean that. — — i love you too.

The line goes quiet. The rain doesn’t. The washing machine keeps turning. Life has a remarkable ability to continue regardless of your emotional readiness.

My son Jamey is in prison. Now before anybody writes a strongly worded letter, I recognize this is generally considered an unfortunate development. Circumstances could be better. But here we are.

There’s the buzzer. Marvelous. As though the universe has decided reflection time is over. Suppose I should get up. Warm towel. Little steam. That finch forgot the weather. Doesn’t know anything about prisons. Good for him. Phone again. Fred. My brother. A man who has carried concern the way other people carry wallets.

— fred. — — yes. — i talked to him. — — he’s alright. — — no. — i don’t know. — — because nobody knows.

I’m folding shirts. Accidentally feld the same one twice. That’s folded for you literate folks. Efficiency.

— — no no. — i’m serious. — — he’s alright. — that’s what matters. Silence. Rain easing now. — — funny thing. — i wonder who you’d be without worry. — — i’m serious. — — you’ve been worried since i’ve known you. — — yes fred. — that’s the joke. — — i’m aware you’ve known me my whole life. He’s laughing. Good. I was hoping somebody would. — — no really. — who would you be. — — and who would i be. — — hell. — who would any of us be.

People spend so much time preparing for disaster. Money. Children. Health. The future. Sometimes I wonder what remains when the worrying leaves. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.

— — nobody knew, fred. — — not you. — not me. — — by day the boy sold marble. — — married. — child on the way. — — and apparently at night he was dressing like a cartoon burglar and climbing through people’s windows. — — yes. — it sounds strange when i say it too.

The rain has nearly stopped. The driveway’s shining. The desert looks freshly unpacked. Families are funny. Everybody wants an explanation. Nobody wants a conversation. Those are different things. That’s the part that surprises me. Not the prison. The silence around it.

— — alright fred. — — because that’s what brothers are for.

Now what. Besides standing here a minute. Dog food. That’s right. We’re out. Milk too. Civilization continues making demands. Where’s my keys. Garage door hinges. New chair. Rain tapping softly out beyond the driveway. Well. Let’s go see what’s still open.