Peter Stravlo
Peter Stravlo
I was thrilled when my stepdad finally returned. This time determined to make everything right. I sensed it in the taut cleft of his chin, the ever-fine physique tan and lean, his full shock of black hair.
A lot had been left undone. He started by welding the weathervane, yet it tilted again as he came down from the roof. Then he pitched hay, shod both horses. They gave him a quizzical look, as if not convinced he was really there.
There were an infinite number of things to be done and I was trying not to be an irritant as he fashioned a new hinge for the corral gate, knocked rust off the axe chopping kindling, rewired the dimmer switch in the dining room. The chandelier he’d made out of antlers from bucks he hunted down; twenty-four points total.
One of the things he left when he went was his Zippo. Mom used it until the odor of filling it was too much sadness. She displayed it on the green shelves above her hope chest. The shelves were scattered with other remains; a monogrammed hunting knife, a silver bolo inlaid with turquoise, his beige Stetson, snakeskin boots, reading glasses, brittle leather gloves, the crucifix his mother told him never to take off, so he didn’t, even when making love.
I dreamed of Mom and my stepdad reunited, hope stored in the shadows I walked by every day. It was easier to leave it all on the green shelves than bring to light what might have been.
My heart leapt to the conclusion Mom had returned when I heard the glider loveseat sway on the porch, before I realized it was my stepdad oiling the squeaky mechanism.
My stepdad loved telling stories, thrived on being the center of attention, was so good at it every version rang true. He did have this embarrassing habit of injecting sexual, racial, and ethnic innuendo into his tales; was undiscriminating in that way, at least. I wrote it off as a generational flaw because he loved us so well.
I went out back, pictured him mixing cocktails under the giant blue spruce, animating tales for friends, everyone wondering what inappropriate twist he would come up with this time.
It was then I came across a rectangular ditch, six feet deep, and in the oblique evening light could just make out the green of more shelves. They were knotted together with old rope, and intuitively I knew they were additional green shelves to go with Mom’s hope chest. I got on my knees, tried to lift the bundle. They resisted, as if rooted to the earth.
Over and over I tried to get my stepdad’s help, like a recurring dream. He wasn’t interested in my discovery, breezed all around, mountain and sky close and dark, moved with predetermination from one task to another.
I looked down at the green shelves, imagined my stepdad doing things Mom would have loved for him to do all the time he was gone; sharpen her cutlery, roto-till her garden, paint her potting shed, fix the broken string on her piano. Spit-shine his rattlesnake boots before taking her two-stepping on Saturday night. Of a morning, they drank strong black coffee in front of the picture window, watched cottontail deer oblivious to the danger he posed.
Tugging at the shelves, I slipped head first into the ditch. In the shadows I saw the additional green shelves installed above Mom’s hope chest; the Zippo, boots, bolo, Stetson, reading glasses low on his nose, everything coming to life. Mom and my stepdad danced along the green, drinking and smoking with lively loving eyes for each other, full of vigor in the prime of their lives; exactly the way I would want to remember them.
They twirled around me. Their laughter filled my head. A belief in the memory of a possibility sitting on green shelves passed by every day.
I unsheathed the monogrammed hunting knife and cut the old rope. On the additional green shelves I put Mom’s coffee cup, her thimble, the diamond ring he’d given her that she hadn’t worn since he left, until yesterday. Her metronome, spade, and diary that explained how he never took off his crucifix. I even managed to get Mom’s hope chest onto a green shelf.
My eyes fluttered. The first light of a new day insisted I pay attention. My silver temples reflected in the vanity mirror. In a few seconds I realized what was happening. The first day after my stepdad had been gone all these years, the first day after Mom’s funeral.