Curiosity ~ Lucidity ~ Humanity
He knew he and his brother wouldn’t be told the real story. Or maybe his brother did know the truth because he was older. Their parents sat them down at the kitchen table a few weeks ago and said, we’re going on a family adventure, so we might not be back here until a few years go by, you’ll have new schools, you’ll make new friends, and we’ll make new memories.
He didn’t understand. His mother came into his room one day and put a box on the floor. That’s all you can take, she said, so choose your favorite clothes, your favorite book. Whatever you need, we’ll get, there are stores where we’re going. A few of his friends’ mothers came over and his mom gave one the blender, one the toaster, one took almost all the food in their kitchen. His mom hugged each one, and he saw her cry in the arms of one of them. He tried to hear what they whispered about, but couldn’t make out the words.
The one thing that made no sense was that night they’d been told they were leaving, his mother said, mostly to him, you can’t tell your friends. He was about to protest when his father held up his hand, like, don’t talk, and then he said, you can call your friends when we’re on the road, but you can’t write them.
He hated that he wouldn’t be in his class at the end of the year, but in some new class with new kids he wouldn’t know, somewhere. He stuffed his clothes in the box his mother gave him, but he continuously emptied and packed it again, then again, because there was always something he wanted to take that there was no room for. He refused to leave his baseball cards. He had a great collection, a complete set of the ’59 Yankees, and the ’60 team too. His ’61 set missed a few cards. He had a pennant he’d gotten at a game his school had taken a whole bunch of kids to. He took it down and was trying to decide whether to roll it up or fold it when his father appeared at the doorway, saw what he was doing, and came in.
Sorry sport, his dad said, pennant stays. Then he noticed his box of cards and he said, hate to say this but the cards stay too. If you want to leave them for a friend, I’ll be sure they’re delivered.
That’s when he knew this wasn’t just some adventure. He wasn’t sure why, but he understood they were running away. Now it made sense that he couldn’t tell his friends. And he also understood that the cards would too easily identify him as a New Yorker. But why were they running away? His father went to work every day, he and his brother went to school, they had dinner like they did every night. Nothing seemed wrong, or different.
Then one night his father came home and as soon as he walked in, he announced, this is it, tomorrow we go! He looked outside and saw that there was a small beat-up trailer attached to his father’s car. It was just white, there was no name on it, and it looked ancient.
His mom came out of the kitchen and his dad said to them all, get your boxes. He went to his room and looked at all his stuff that would stay behind. He pulled his baseball cards out from under his bed, took the lid off the box. They’d taken him years of careful collecting, and he’d gotten a few special ones from flipping cards with his friends. He grabbed a pen off his desk and wrote two of his friends’ names on the lid. He hoped his father was telling the truth when he said whatever he wanted to leave with someone would be delivered. He realized he’d been crying. He wiped his eyes.
His brother stood at the door, watching him.
Dad’s in trouble, he said.
What kind of trouble?
I don’t know exactly, but he got mixed up with some bad men. Mom wouldn’t tell me more than that. Either he was going to leave alone, or we were all coming too. We have to go with dad. You see that, right?
He wiped his eyes on his shirtsleeve and nodded. His brother tousled his hair and brought his box of clothes into the living room.
They had a quiet dinner. His mom cleared the dishes but didn’t wash them. His dad said, no TV tonight, we’re all turning in early because we’re getting an early start.
It seemed like he’d just fallen asleep when his mom stirred him awake and said, it’s time. He dressed in silence, took one last look at his room and tried not to cry.
None of them spoke. His father had already loaded the boxes into the small trailer. They all got in the car. His father started it up and slowly drove out of the neighborhood in the dead of night.
Bio-Fragment: Burt Rashbaum has been writing for over half a century. He started out using a quill but the swan finally went on strike and he switched to a pen. When he's not in trouble from writing he's playing keys with the band The CBDs, but that still gets him in trouble. "I know there's some way out," he said recently, "and it involves ink. Or pixels. I'll figure it out. Stay tuned."