The long pull

My grandfather lived on the bank of a small river that rose and fell with the seasons. Every morning for as long as I can remember, he was out by that river with a fishing pole in his hand. He was absolutely still out in the water, letting the edges of the river lap around his tall, waterproof boots as he surveyed the water and woods around him. I never knew what he was thinking when he was out there. I never thought to ask, and even if I had I think he wouldn’t have given me a straight answer.
“Nothing much,” I can hear him replying. “I just wait for the line to pull.”
That was him, though. To expect any more than a small reply and a little joke would only lead to disappointment. When I was 8 my sister, my cousins, and I tried to get Pap to quit smoking. We’d steal his cigarettes and flush them down the toilet, or otherwise hide them where he wouldn’t think to look. Failing that, we climb up on his lap, feigning a desire for a hug, and reach into his left breast pocket and crush the one or two cigarettes he kept there. He never got mad at us for that. My grandmother was, in fact, very pleased with our endeavor and encouraged us by showing us where his stash of cigarettes was. We did as much damage as possible and he quit a few months later, without a word about it.
He was 54 when I was born. He’d served in World War II but never spoke of it. My grandmother always talked about him coming back from the war and how happy they both were. She even showed me pictures, as if she thought she had to prove it. But he never mentions it at all. He’ll talk about his childhood and his early years working in factories after he’d gotten married, after my father was born. But anything of that in-between time seemed to be lost. Or purposely forgotten.
My father is a very similar man. There are hardly many situations that I can recall that he’s shared something with me. He has always been a wonderful and devoted father and husband, but there seems to be something missing. Maybe he inherited it from his father; that sheltered and closed-off quiet that is so easy to overlook.
Pap was always a small man, though much more so as he aged. As the years progressed he became more stoop-shouldered and seemed to shrink. Towards the end of his life he shuffled slowly around the house that had previously shared with my grandmother. He rarely ventured out to the river in those final years. His fishing pole was laid aside and forgotten. The tall boots only came out of the closet on days of particularly heavy snowfall. The river was still there, rising and falling as usual, but my grandfather didn’t seem to notice it. He didn’t have the energy to stand for as long as he used to.
I think he knew that his life was winding down when he called me. It was the first time I could remember him calling me, at least without my grandmother initiating it. I was surprised when I heard his voice, faint and old, on the other end of the phone.
“It’s Pap.”
“Hi! How you doing?” I tried not to sound too excited or nervous, pushing myself to small talk about the weather like we usually did.
“As good as can be,” he chuckled lightly and coughed into the phone. “How are things in Ohio?” I didn’t remind him that I’d moved to New York months before, it wouldn’t have done anything but embarrass him.
“Things are going well. It’s been beautiful here lately.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Really nice. Warm, but with no rain.”
“Well, you gotta send some of that weather my way.”
“Will do.” We both laughed slightly. “Will do.”
There was a pause in the conversation. Usually this is when my grandmother would jump in and ask how work was going or how my parents and sister were. Without her we just had this silence. I was about to add something about the weather when he spoke.
“Well, I just wanted to say hello.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“I hope you’re doing well.”
“Yes, certainly. And you?” We’d already done this but it seemed like the only thing I had left to say.
“Well, I’m feeling old, huh? Just feeling it in my joints these days.”
“Did you go to the doctor?”
“Naw. I’m done with doctors now. Too many pills to take and things to eat or not eat. Who can remember it all?”
“Well, if you need anything—“
“No, no. I’m fine. Just wanted to say hello.”
“Okay.”
“Nice talking to you.”
“You too.”
“Bye.”
“Bye.”
The receiver clicked on his end and I hung up the phone. That was our last conversation. When I saw him next he was in the hospital, a few weeks after we talked, and had slipped into a coma.
He looked peaceful in the coffin. My mother had arranged for him to wear a suit; she had to buy one for him because he didn’t own any that fit him. I’d never seen him in a suit before, it was unfamiliar. She wanted him to look his best and my father didn’t seem to care what he wore. At least I didn’t think so, until I approached the coffin and, smiling softly down at him, noticed that he was wearing his tall, waterproof fishing boots.
We went back to Pap’s house to tidy up some things and begin preparations for packing the house up. An hour or so after we had started, my mother found an old cardboard shoebox underneath Pap’s bed. It was filled with pictures of my father and his brother, of my sister and my cousins and me, and, on the very bottom, a faded black and white photograph of a young man in military dress. Written on the back, underneath my grandfather’s name, was the following:
photo taken May 1, 1945
wounded June 6, 1944
He had been wounded on D-Day. I flipped the photograph over again and saw it: underneath his stiff collar, pinned tightly to his left breast pocket, was the Purple Heart. This was amazing. I wondered if my dad knew that his father had sacrificed so much and been honored for it. I had to tell him.
“Dad!” I called out, leaping up from next to my mother, who looked curiously at me before turning back to the stack of old photographs from the shoebox.
“Dad?” I called again, heading into the living room where I’d seen him last. My sister was there, flipping through the television.
“He’s outside,” she said. “He went out back a few minutes ago.”
I stepped out of the front door and turned, photograph in hand, to walk to the river behind the house. When I looked up after a few steps, I stopped myself. My father was standing ahead of me, along the bank of the river. He was as still as a statue, looking out at the wild trees and slowly rolling river as it passed. He was stoic. I turned around and headed back towards the house. I could always tell him about the photograph later. He’d come back in soon enough. For now he looked content to be alone, gazing out at the woods and waiting for the line to pull.

Where the hell am I going?

He remembers thinking, at the time, that it was all going to work out somehow. He was there and she was there and the snow was on the ground, letting them see nothing but white everywhere they looked. Nothing could go wrong with the two of them together and snow all around.
She had just brought James a cup of coffee. He wasn’t cold or thirsty, but he promised her he’d drink it. It was funny, her bringing him something, when she was the reason that they were there in the first place. It was early December, six months since they graduated with some ceremony. Three months since they were to have begun college. If only they’d made it that far. But they had made it here, and that was saying something anyway.
He sipped at the coffee, more out of boredom than nervousness. James thought that he’d be really nervous, that they’d both be, but neither of them seemed to agitated this morning. He was glad for that, it would make this whole thing easier.

I sit here hunched over the keyboard, squinting at the words I’ve just typed onto the page. Why do I have to write in such an unreadable font? It’s always the same: New York, 10 pt. That’s just too damn small. Maybe if I started writing in a bigger font my work would get published. Nah, that’s too damn easy. I’m thirsty, but the words are coming pretty freely now so I’ll just put that thought aside and keep writing.

It’s cold outside as James inhales the last few drags off a cigarette, its crushed pack now sitting in the trash. “This’ll be it,” he thinks. “This is my last pack. I’m fucking quitting.”

Now I want a cigarette. And why haven’t I named her yet? James has a name, he even has an addiction, but she’s got nothing. Is it because I can’t write women? I feel that when I do try to write women, I’m still writing men. Why are all of my female characters fucked up? I mean, they’re alcoholics and drug addicts and pyromaniacs and whores. Or they lack even those qualities and are merely straw-men, things I use to move the plot along or to explain why the male character (oh, so important, those male characters) is where he is. And what’s with all the fucking abortions? Am I that disappointed that I was born. That looks ridiculous now that I’ve written it out. But it’s a somewhat true sentiment nonetheless.

He throws the moist cigarette down onto the ground with force, emphasizing his thought: that’s the last one. He’s said it before of course, but this time he really means it. Now, with the baby coming, he shouldn’t smoke anymore. His mother smoked when she was pregnant with him. He blames his addiction on that.

Did my mother smoke when she was pregnant? Is this my story, am I James? Maybe it’s too early for such revelations.

His knuckles crack as he clenches his fists to warm his hands. Why didn’t he bring gloves? Susan would have remembered to bring gloves for him. But she was gone now and he wasn’t here with her.

Who the hell is Susan? She came out of nowhere. Or from that movie that I just saw. I have no original thoughts. I just keep stealing other peoples. Or dreaming that I actually wrote the Harry Potter series. That woman has a billion fucking dollars! I edit children’s textbooks. And I fucking hate children.

The cup of coffee, now cold, was sitting on the small wooden end table where he’d left it. She was still asleep on the chair next to it, waiting for the nurses or doctors to tell her it was okay to go home. Or bringing her a wheelchair and carting her off into whatever lay beyond the double doors that all the pregnant women were going through. James hoped it would be the latter. He was sick of sitting around and waiting and to do it again the next time she felt a contraction would be torture. Why didn’t he bring something to read? A book and some gloves, Susan would have remembered it all.

I couldn’t take it anymore, I went and got a drink. When I turned the light on in the kitchen I saw that the cat had made a mess of her litter. So I had to sweep it up before I made my drink. For someone who claims to love writing, who wants to be defined by his writing, I sure do find every excuse to not do it. Do all writers do this? Or just the bad ones? I wonder if this inner monologue is annoying anyone? Do I even care? That’s a goddamn beautiful song about battling pink robots. Maybe I should write the story in a different font than this ongoing conversation with myself. That would make it easy for those of you reading this to skip over the parts you don’t like.

A doctor was paged over the intercom. James looked up to see a short, heavyset man with dark, greasy hair moving quickly towards and through the double doors. For no real reason that he could figure, he hoped that that wasn’t going to be their doctor. His baby, his son, deserved someone better than that. The man almost looked like a baby himself. A slight laugh escaped his mouth. He felt odd sitting here under the fluorescent glow of the waiting room lights, he almost felt high. That was another thing he’d have to give up. He didn’t want to be a pothead father. A junkie dad. Sure, one last time in celebration of the baby being born and all, but that’ll be it.

I just thought of something: the mother dies. The whole novel is about James raising his son. Maybe I’ll never name her. I probably won’t have to if I kill her off early enough. She hasn’t even had any dialogue. And she’ll be dead soon, just keep reading.

He doesn’t know how long they sit there, in those stiff and unforgiving chairs, leaning backwards and looking up at the ceiling. She sleeps through most of their wait, he nods off and then wakes up startled, ready to drive to the hospital, before he realizes he’s already there. It’s about three in the morning when a nurse finally comes over and whispers to him.
“Excuse me.”
He looks at her slowly. “Yeah?”
“I think she’d be more comfortable in a room now that we’ve got one available,” she says, nodding her head towards the sleeping mound next to him, her head back, her mouth open, her eyes closed. Her hands folded neatly in her lap. She almost looks dead.

Foreshadowing. Oooohhh...

James nods to the nurse and stands up slowly, his legs stiff and numb from sitting in that chair for so long. The nurse walks off, presumably for a wheelchair. James wishes he could just push her in the chair she’s already in. No such luck. He shakes her and whispers her name. She doesn’t stir.
“It’s time to get up,” he says, quietly. “We’re gonna move you to your own room. With a bed and everything.”
She mumbles something incoherent and shifts slightly. He takes that as a good sign and prods her a little more.
“Here we go. Look, the nice nurse has brought you a wheelchair and she’ll take you right into the room.” He talks to her like she’s a child. Sometimes he thinks she is. Only 17 for Christ’s sake. Not that he’s much older.
The nurse works with James to get her into the chair. Somehow through the whole process she falls asleep again.
“So, how long have you two kids been married?” the nurse asks as they wheel her towards the double doors, the Dantean double doors.
“Oh, I’m not her husband,” James replies quickly, without thinking. He’s gotten this question a lot since she started showing. And the reaction is always the same.
The nurse looked at him sharply and came to a sudden halt with the wheelchair.
“Well, I’m afraid,” she condescended. “Only husbands are allowed in the maternity ward.”
“I’m the father though,” James said. He stared at her.
“Fine.”
She pushed the wheelchair ahead begrudgingly, letting off an audible huff as she stopped in front of the entrance.
“The door,” she said.
“Oh, sorry.” James hurried to catch up, held open the door with one arm and motioned her in with the other. He gave her a small smile, she gave him nothing but a curt “thanks” and shoved off ahead of him.

Is this any good yet? Will anyone I don’t know ever read this? Will anyone I do know ever read this because they want to and not because they feel obligated? Hunter S. Thompson killed himself. People cared about him, cared that he had died. Will anyone care when I kill myself? Will I even have the guts to do it? Or will I die some miserable, shriveled up cockroach?
I’ll leave it at that for tonight.