Under the carport sat an old Ford pickup that was once red but only patches remained, as it had mostly faded to orange. He walked over to it and ran his hand along the truck bed. Patted her like she was a horse. A single crack spread across the width of the windshield and there was a small dent in the tailgate. The tires were worn and the truck bed was rusted in each of the four corners. A spare tire lying in the back. He opened the door and sat down behind the wheel. The bench seat was split here and there, slithers of foam sticking through the splits. A note was on the seat and he picked it up and read She’s gonna need some love. He folded the note and tossed it down on the floorboard. The key hung from the ignition and he pushed in the clutch and gave it a turn and the engine strained but hit and he gave it the gas. It paused, gave a quick backfire like a popgun, then roared and in the rearview mirror he saw a gust of gray flow from the tailpipe and out across the driveway and he let it run for a couple of minutes.
He walked up the steps of the front porch and dropped the bag and he unlocked the door and walked in. The hardwood floors had been refinished dark like espresso and the fireplace in the living room had been bricked up. He walked from room to room and saw that all the walls had been painted a fresh coat of white. Random bits of mismatched furniture appeared in each room—a bed and a dresser in the bedroom and a coffee table and a beige couch and a bookshelf in the living room. In the kitchen he found a table with two chairs and on the counter sat a coffeemaker and a microwave. Next to the microwave was a new pack of cigarettes. Then he opened the refrigerator and found a six-pack of beer. Dear old Dad.
He took a beer and he opened the back door. The backyard grass was high and a wheelbarrow was overturned in the middle of the yard. An empty five-gallon paint bucket and some rollers and brushes were in one corner of the porch. A white plastic chair in another. He sat down on the steps and held the cold beer bottle to his eye and he tried to relax. Closed his eyes and breathed the heavy, free air. A bead of water trickled down the bottle and along his cheek and disappeared into the two-week-old beard he had begun as part of his new world. He then opened his eyes and opened the beer. Tiny insects danced across the tops of the high grass and oak trees kept out the lowering sun. On each side of the narrow yard the neighbors had erected six-foot-high fences to keep their cookouts to themselves. He rubbed his eye again. Felt the knot on his head. Felt his ribs. Then he lay back on the porch and stared at the cobwebs surrounding the porch light. A butterfly was trapped. Fighting but losing. A dog barked from somewhere and then another joined.
Eleven years, he thought.
Enough time for the people he had known to get married. Maybe more than once. Maybe more than twice. Time for them to have kids. To have jobs that they would now be doing well in, enough time for promotions and titles and offices with windows and maybe even company credit cards in their pockets. Enough time for the bookshelves in their living rooms to be filled with photo albums of snapshots from summer trips to Pensacola and Gulfport and when the kids were old enough a weekend at Six Flags or maybe even Disney World. Enough time to be in the second house because the first house wasn’t big enough anymore. Enough time to have them driving vehicles they swore they’d never drive, vehicles with sliding doors and roof racks and enough cup holders for everybody. Enough time to forget about people who weren’t there anymore. Enough time for their bodies to change and their faces to change and their hairlines to change and their personalities to change and enough time for the construction of the new stores and the new restaurants to cater to the needs of the new people.
He sat up and then stood and freed the butterfly from the cobweb while it still had a flutter in its wings. He held it between his fingertips, its wings veil-thin and chalky. Then he let it go and it tried to fly but instead swirled straight down and fell at the toe of his boot. He knew that if he left it there the ants would come and what a wicked way to die so he put his foot on the butterfly and ended it and he washed it away into a space between the boards with his beer. He walked over and sat down in the plastic chair and began to talk to himself.
She’s one of them now. You know that.
Yeah, I know it. Known it for a while. Just seems different sitting here free instead of holed up. It all right with you if I pout about it for half a damn second?
Fine with me.
Good. Then leave me alone.
He sat and finished his beer and then he set the bottle down on the porch. He stood and walked back through the house, admiring the attention to detail of the paint trim. Noticed the consistency of the floor stain. Smiled at the notion of his dad who was too old to do it himself anymore but who was no doubt standing ten feet away from whoever was doing it and making sure they did it right. And he knew that his dad was sitting there. Waiting. And he didn’t want to keep him waiting any longer.
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