The Breadwinner

Right, so this is a draft. I really, really need to go back and make some major changes. Unlike poetry, where I can just sit down and write out what I had in mind for the poem, short stories take longer and it is more difficult to maintain internal cohesion. This is my first attempt at realistic fiction--that is, fiction not set in a fantasy setting.

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The Breadwinner

The hours of moving were down to this final box. He clasped the cardboard egg crate as though it were a child. But this particular parcel didn’t contain hopes for the future, but rather memorabilia of the past. The trophies, certificates, medals, and pictures served to keep the warm emotions associated with them alive in his mind. It’s not as though such memories could ever fade, and yet he was burdened by the box. He struggled, clutching it to his breast, as if reluctant to ever to let go.

The boxes and bags had left a maze through what had seemed a very roomy den when empty. He knew just the place for the contents of his box, though navigating the journey was no simple task. With his vision obscured by the bulk of the box and his back bent under the weight of its contents, he silently prayed not to stumble over a coffee table or put his foot through a crate of china. He thought again how ridiculous it was that the family owned so much junk. He regretted not insisting that all the silly trifles, dragged along because someone “couldn’t possibly part with them,” be auctioned off with the threadbare furniture, or maybe simply left in the previous house. Let them be worries for the new owners to deal with.

Finally, he arrived at the perfect shelf for the contents of his box. He arranged the trophies and plaques along the shelf, creating a timeline from his earliest in the junior softball team to his latest from the war. He propped open the photo albums to his proudest moments. It took some nit-picking to arrange everything. Finally, he took a step back and proudly gazed at the display. There was no room for any pictures of his family. He left those at the bottom of the box. He’d find someplace for that other stuff later.

A shout broke his thoughts.

“Joe! Joe, hon, could you come here?”

Unburdened, he easily navigated through the precarious piles of junk and into the adjoining kitchen. His wife stood level with a low-hanging telephone, her brown hand still resting on the receiver. She looked up from a scrawled note as he entered.

“Talked to the principal’s secretary: said he’s free in about a half-hour,” she quickly explained. “Pretty lucky. Maybe Izzy’ll be able to start school tomorrow.”

“Maybe,” he ventured absently. “May want a few days to settle, though. We’ll see what the principal says.”

“Hey, thought I’d start something for supper. Found the frozen food. Figured we’d have a Banquet.” She grinned ironically. “Mind stopping by the store for some bread?”

“Yeah, sure. No problem,” he replied, smirking to hide his weariness.

Mary chuckled and stretched up to peck him on the cheek.

“Find a razor. I’m kissing a cactus.”

“Love you too, Mary,” he chuckled.

His mind was already wandering to the tedium of travelling across town to the school, and with only a soggy pie to welcome him home. At least he could anticipate a fresh loaf of bread to liven up the gummy pot pie. He set his mind on a warm loaf of Italian. The thought lifted some of the deep exhaustion from his body and mind.

He hadn’t yet had a good chance to reacquaint himself with the town. He had taken a peek down the walk after tolerating the chatter of the overly enthusiastic realtor when he first examined the house, but the neighborhood was unfamiliar. He hoped it would be home for good. He was fed up with all the moves, the repeated dredging up of the familiarity of home just as it was beginning to take root, the never being around quite long enough to make any true friends. Surely Isaac felt it more than any of them. Teenagers weren’t as welcoming to newcomers. Maybe he’d fit in better here, where he belonged. Mary had been excited at the chance to return to their roots.

“What about David?” he had asked, surprised.

“What about him? I have you, now.” Her words had charmed him into agreeing. Now that he was here, he could feel an inevitable encounter looming.

The day was warm and dry, but fresh: a fine change from the unfamiliar scent that haunted the new, old home, charged with the tang of cardboard boxes and disturbed dust. He found vigor returning to his step as his exhaustion evaporated in the sunlight. It was good to have the chance to walk, unshackled. He was on an errand, but yet he felt momentarily free.

He turned left at the yellowed boulevard, towards the distant monolith of a high school, a great, brick cube, above all but the rusty grain elevator, which towered over the town like a headstone. Likely, the elevator had once been the beating heart of the town’s economy, but the trains had left with the rains. Most would have avoided the place, but Joe had always thought the arid climate ensured that only the strong survived. The rain was scarce, but that made it all the more glorious.

He passed by the park with its squad of pine trees, holding the last remnants of the previous rain in their prickly needles as they stood awaiting the next, stalwart, patient. He remembered sitting under those trees as a soft drizzle filled the air with the rich smell of life. He had known Mary, but only pitied her from a distance. He shared the pine with another girl, one with eyes black as a thunderhead and pink lips like a flower blooming in the brown grass after a shower.

He suddenly found himself standing before the high school, gazing up past the three flagpoles declaring country, state, and tribe to a certain window, from which he recalled always having gazed down, dreaming of freedom and glory. He saluted the aluminum shafts, then stepped up to the front doors. They opened with little effort, no longer the impenetrable barriers between himself and freedom. Now he had other shackles.

It was a short climb to the principal’s office, a place he once dreaded, but with which he’d always found himself all too familiar. He noted the telltale scuff marks marring the polished shine of the waxy linoleum, stretching up and down the halls past formations of lockers and stern classroom doors decorated with colorful graffiti.

The woman seated behind the secretary’s desk was too young to trigger any memories of being ushered past under her disapproving glare, and so he ventured a friendly greeting. She returned it warmly and asked his name.

“Joe Baker. Here to get my kid registered.”

She nodded and offered him a stack of papers and a pen.

“Mister Circling Crow will see you soon.”

“Wait. David Circling Crow?”

“Yep. You know him, or something?”

“I knew him.” Without offering more, Joe snatched up the papers and dropped into a padded seat. He imagined he could feel the secretary’s inquisitive gaze on him, but he only frowned down on the forms. Her curiosity was still evident when he rose, returned the papers, and was told to go on in. He muttered a thank-you and entered the heavy office door.

The tall, lean man positioned behind the polished oaken desk rose quickly at the sight of Joe. He nudged his long, black braid back with a sinewy arm, suit sleeves hiding the tattoos, and grinned broadly. A dark mole stood out on his upper lip. Once, Joe would have given a friendly ribbing over the mark. That was before the lean man’s allegiances were obscured.

“Joe! Hah, I didn’t believe it!” The mark glared towards him like an insect eye, contrasting with the broad, polished grin it was embedded above.

“Yeah. Hey, David.” His lack of enthusiasm was lost on the lean man as the he stepped around the table and gave Joe a jovial slap on the back, now laughing with delight.

“Want your kid enrolled, huh? Hah, knew you could do it! Who’s the gal?” There was another firm thump, this time on his shoulder, before he maneuvered to make the gesture more difficult. That grin never faded. That mark never blinked. Joe was silent for a moment before murmuring his reply.

“Mary.” He spoke it slowly and carefully, anticipating. The lean man peered closely at Joe, his heavy eyebrows meeting.

“…Mary? You mean--?”

“His name’s Isaac. He needs to be enrolled.”

“Isaac.” The slim man fell silent for a lingering moment, his thoughts mirrored through the shifting of his long face. “What’s he like?”

“Good kid. Wants to join the Army.”

“Like his father,” the lean man grunted bitterly. “He shouldn’t, you know. Worst thing you ever did.”

“That’s the worst? I’m not doing too bad, then. Wanna hear how Mary is?”

“Wanna hear how Beth is?” the lean man returned quickly. Joe felt heat rise in his forehead as the lean man continued with a dirty smirk. “Had three kids. Had a blast making ‘em, too.”

“You son of a--!” Joe took a menacing step forward, balling his thick fists. David held his ground, his voice seething, but calm.

“Watch it, bro. You came to me.”

“Really didn’t figure you’d make anything of yourself.”

“Could say the same about you, except I was right.” This final jab was the breaking point. Joe could feel his temples pounding and raised his knuckles, the lean man doing likewise. The air seemed suddenly thick as the two squared off like bulls.

Without warning, the office door burst open and a slight, short student hurried in. Taking little notice of the two, she slapped a slip of paper down on the large desk.

“Announcements!” she chirped, and, as quickly, darted from the room.

The two men glared at one another, but the stifling atmosphere that filled the room seemed to have slipped out the opened door. After some moments of silence, David cleared his throat and spoke in a collected tone.

“Who am I to deny an old friend? Happy to have your kid enrolled. Thanks for stopping by.” The lean man slid into his chair behind the desk and waved Joe off with a dismissive flick of his wrist. The mark on his upper lip seemed to glower up at Joe.

Joe bit his tongue and strode briskly from the room without another word. He didn’t pause for the secretary with her cowed stare. His mind was reeling as he shoved through the front doors and out into the scorching sun.

He stood at attention on the prickly lawn outside the school building, his burning gaze directed up at the three flags that whipped and snapped in the gusts of arid wind. It was some moments before he was able to collect himself enough to continue on his way, his fingers still balled into tight fists at his sides.

Blinded by his churning emotions, he didn’t take notice of his surroundings until he found himself standing before the general store. Its quaint, Old West appearance drew memories of a youth inspired by stories of shootouts, the good gunman with the white hat soundly defeating the evil outlaw with the black hat. He grunted with bitter irony at the thought and strode up the age-bowed steps and through the rusty-hinged door. A tarnished brass bell tinkled overhead as he entered. With some relief, he noted the check-out counter was abandoned. He walked without pause towards the bakery counter in the back. There had been a time when he had visited the counter frequently, anticipating the relaxing, homey aroma of freshly-baked bread or the soothing simplicity of crisp flavor. It wasn’t freedom, it was domestic contentment, but boy it smelled good. He felt a longing tickle in his belly as he arrived, only to be greeted by a handwritten sign with a smiling face at the bottom, sitting amongst nothing but crumbs.

“Ask about our discount loaves!”

He prowled the aisles in search of an attendant. The sound of muffled laughter drew him to a half-opened door marked “office.” Glancing inside, he saw a desk cluttered with paperwork, empty Coke cans, and bubblegum wrappers. A young woman with close-cropped black hair and a tight yellow t-shirt that was two sizes too small sat on the edge of the table, chattering into a cell phone. She made no sign of noticing him, so he gave a loud, gravely cough, which caused her to jump in surprise and glance a narrow shoulder.

“Crap! Customer. Sorry, Ellie.” She snapped the phone shut and turned to face Joe. He gazed with wonder at the eyes, dark as storm clouds, and the small lips that puckered out like a pink flower against her tanned skin. The resemblance was so startling, he grunted out the name before he could catch himself.

“Beth?” The moment after speaking it, he noticed the discrepancy. No, not Beth. The smoothness of her flesh was marred by a single, dark mark on her upper lip.

The young woman frowned warily and eyed him with apparent distrust.

“Uh, no. Vikki. Beth’s my—Can I help you?”

“I’m sorry, it’s just that you look so much like—“He paused, the words catching. “I… saw the sign at the bakery counter.”

“Oh, yeah,” she grunted, waving her cell phone, “Guess the baker’s sick, or something. Been gone for two days, so we don’t got nothing.”

He stared at her in silence, both drawn and repulsed. She shifted under his gaze and diverted her eyes.

“Was there something else?”

Joe hesitated a moment before responding.

“No. That was all.”

He lingered, imagining this girl, or one almost like her, sitting beneath a pine. He could envision her fond smile, the beckoning tilt of her neck. The young woman’s wary tone cut through his fantasies.

“Need help finding the door?”

“No, I got it. Thanks.” He turned away at last, though her figure lingered in his mind as he exited the store and turned towards home.

“All outta bread,” he muttered as he entered through the side door. His eyes fell on the weary-faded form of his wife as she crouched, peering into the oven. Her hand was cupped to her brow as if in exasperation, holding back long, woody brown locks.

“Looks about done. Call Izzy down,” she said absently, her thick form still bent.

He paused at the foot of the carpeted steps and drew in a breath to call. The sharp ring of the telephone interrupted him.

“I’ll get it,” he called, plucking up the yellowed receiver. “Hello? Hello, sir. Yes, sir. Sir? Oh, no, sir. Ah. Okay. Goodbye, sir.”

He dropped the receiver back into its holster and stared at the phone, frowning.

“Active duty?” Mary leaned against the wall, neck craned to gaze up at him. Concern wrinkled her brow.

“Yeah. Hoped it’d take longer. Said I got about a week.”

“So soon?” A frown weighed her lips. If they had ever been pink, the color had drained long ago. “Gonna tell Izzy?”

“Probably after supper, or something.”

“Get him enrolled?”

“Yeah. I think he’ll be okay.”

“Why wouldn’t he be?” She gave him a quizzing glance. Her eyes weren’t gray; they were brown, like her hair. There was no variety in her color.

“It was David. He’s principal now.”

“Was he trouble?” She searched his face, her own stern as iron.

“When wasn’t he?” he grunted in a flat tone.

A small, amused grin played on her lips, and she gave him a quick embrace.

“Supper’s about ready.”

“I’ll get him in a second.”

Joe made his way towards the steps, but broke off to approach his shelf. He dipped a hand down into a box set nearby and pulled out a large, silver-framed photograph. He stared into it at himself and his wife, a young child drawing away from him and clinging to his mother’s thigh. He glanced up to the shelf, considered for a moment, and then replaced a picture of himself grinning triumphantly before a squad of uniformed men with the portrait photograph. He began to take down the assorted medals, trophies, and certificates off the shelf, replacing them with similar photographs to the centerpiece silver-framed one. Each successive shot showed another year cut into the face of the two adults, while the child was a little taller each time, and a little more centered between the two. The final photograph he placed on the shelf was more casual, with the two men linking arms and grinning jovially as his wife sat between them with an amusedly exasperated half-grin. A smile played on his lips for a thoughtful moment before returning to the stairs.

He ascended the steps and poked his head into the first room at the head. “New Divide” played from a custom-modified stereo and Joe paused some moments to listen as he leaned against the doorjamb, watching the young man hide the room’s ugly wood paneling with posters of Linkin Park and Revenge of the Fallen. He was lean and quickly becoming tall. He didn’t have his mother’s mousy hair, or his father’s dark mark.

Isaac turned to rummage through a box of albums, but paused as he saw Joe. He nudged down the volume and raised his dark eyebrows inquisitively.

“Supper’s ready. Your mom made pot pies.”

“Oh, yay,” the young man muttered in monotone as he snapped off the stereo. Joe grinned in spite of himself. “Can’t wait to get settled,” Isaac continued, stacking some albums on a shelf. “What’s the school like?”

“Like always. You’ll get along fine.” He paused a moment before venturing nonchalantly, “Met a rude girl at the general store. Name’s Vikki. Watch out for bratty girls like that.”

“Probably not my type, anyhow,” Isaac said absently, stepping back to scan his music shelf before turning about. “Well, we gonna eat, or what?”

Joe chuckled and draped an arm over the young man’s shoulders. They descended together.

Pale pot pies sat before each of the three chairs around the round table. Mary was already seated, poking a fork at the soggy crust of her pie with a look of distaste. She looked up as the two arrived and smirked wryly.

“Here we go—a terrible, cheap meal to break in the dining room.”

The two chuckled and took their places. They look up their cutlery and were about to begin when Mary interrupted in a droll tone.

“Hon, let’s not begin before we say grace over this gourmet supper.”

The family linked hands as Joe intoned with irony.

“Our Father, who art in Heaven—“

A deep rumble interrupted him and he glanced up to a window. Outside, the sky had grown dark and rain pattered against the window. He continued in spite of the interrupting thunder.

“—Give us this day our daily bread; and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us—”

Another growl shook the house and the family was framed by a silvery flash of lightening.

“—Amen,” he concluded.