Fire At Our Fingertips

When something is a secret, it’s more alluring. It feels forbidden because of the way I lock myself in my craft room and lie about what I’m doing. I’m only sewing clothes. I’m only making jewelry. I’m only weaving baskets. Only doing things that don’t involve exploring my vulnerability and burying it under the floorboard that I loosened just for this purpose. Being behind a closed door with my pen whispering to paper, my senses has gotten stronger. I sense every faint step, every floor creak, and everyone’s intention to enter into this room. The hairs on the back of my neck dance and send shivers down my spine.

My hands glide across my desk, gathering the letters back to their hidden space. I quietly pull fabrics from the wardrobe to toss onto the bed. I’ve only been sewing clothes.

Two knocks lightly tap the door. “Come in!” I say with a handful of a forgotten dress and a needle in the other hand.

The door opens and my son, Aaron, moves into the room, giving me a clear view of my husband, who’s been out at sea for months. Issac brought the smell of saltwater with him, like perfume lingering on a coat. The bags under his eyes are heavy, carrying the story of an insomniac fisherman. My eyes tell the story that I wasn’t expecting him.

“He was able to come home early.” Aaron breaks the silence.

Issac stands in the door frame. His tired eyes look around the room. Maybe he’s trying to find the right words; maybe he doesn’t have any. He opens his mouth and for a second I think he’s going to say something.

He yawns.

Aaron clears his throat. “I’ll go grab his welcome home basket.” In passing, he lightly nudges Issac forward. A simple gesture that moves a mountain.

Issac’s body sways like he’s still stuck at sea, then he walks toward me.

“I brought you something.” These words creep out of Issac’s lips, hoarse and quiet. He pulls out a clam shell. “You could put the rings you make in here, right?”

“I can, thank you.”

Silence lingers between us. There he goes again, drifting his eyes across the room.

“We missed you.” I try to bring him back.

He opens his mouth, slightly, and I think he’s about to yawn again. He doesn’t. He closes his mouth and places a kiss on my forehead. Aaron walks in with the basket. We give Issac a moment to look inside the basket. He smiles when he sees his favorite pastries sitting on top. He gets to a mug made in Aaron’s pottery class.

“I made that.” He says proudly. Not nearly with the same enthusiasm that he would when he was a child, but that’s only so he sounds more mature at eighteen today. He kept the same youthful look in his eyes, no hiding that.

The next morning, I was sitting at the kitchen table and drinking tea. Aaron walks into the kitchen and joins me at the table.

“Ma, I really don’t know if I should be upset or not.”

I thought he was referring to Issac going to bed so quickly yesterday. “He’s just tired, honey. He could barely hold himself up yesterday. Did you see his eyes?”

“I’m not talking about him going to sleep.”

I took a sip of my tea and gestured for him to continue. He folds his arms, then places them on the table. He tells me his side of the story and my imagination turns me into a fly on the wall, observing the past.

Aaron stood in the hallway as he saw his father at the other end of it. Issac dragged his feet and swayed side to side as he walked forward. When the two are finally standing in front of each other. Aaron is the first to speak.

“We missed you.”

His father nods, then notices the growth in Aaron’s height. “I see you have gotten taller.”

Aaron crosses his arms and leans on the wall. “I did…a while ago.”

He pauses his story to speak to me.

“Did he not miss us?” Aaron leans back in his chair. “He couldn’t even say that back.”

I had been wondering the same.

“Of course, he missed us, Aaron.” I take a deep breath. “It’s been months, just give him time, okay?”

He puts his hands in his jacket pockets. “Time to what? Care?”

Yes.

“Time to adjust. Just-”

We both hear the sound of the bedroom door knob twisting from down the hall.

“Be patient, Aaron,” I whisper to him.

Just be patient, Francine.

In mid-yawn, Issac waves at us as he approaches the kitchen. “Where are you off to?” He notices Aaron lacing his boots.

“A walk.” Aaron responds with ice.

I become a fly on the wall, observing the present. I sit back and sip from my mug.

Issac gestures for me to pass him his jacket. “It’s been awhile since we went together.”

“Okay.” Aaron’s tone melts down.

I don’t try to hid my smile as the two went out the door together as I had planned. I mentioned his morning walks to Issac around midnight.

I had woke up to Issac sitting at the foot of the bed, with a glass of water in his hand. I crawled to sit behind him, wrapping the blanket over us both. The shine from the moon made strands of his gray hairs appear silver. A lot more silver strands than he had before leaving. He looks over his shoulder.

“Did I wake you?”

“No,” I say. “What woke you?”

He takes a sip of his water. “A dream.”

So, I ask about it.

He’s sailing in the sea and notices a door floating upright along the waves. In this dream, the idea of reaching the door exists in his mind, however, he never puts in the effort to see what’s beyond the door. He can’t sail towards it, he’s not in control of the wheel. He doesn’t want to go overboard to swim because he knows the water is where death takes many fishermen. So, he just observes from afar, allowing the waves to create a distance between the ship and this magical door until it’s out of sight. Then, he wakes up.

“It’s just a dream.” He shrugs.

I ask how many times he has had this dream.

“Lost count.” He scratches his beard. “I’m glad to be back home.”

I nod. “How long are you here for this time?”

“A few months. More than four.”

It’s strange how ‘a few months’ can sound either too short or too long depending on what he’s talking about. A few months home seems like not enough time. A few months gone, seems too long. I start to think about a conversation I had with a friend from the textile shop.

“Janet’s husband is only home for three.” I say in pity.

“Is he?” Issac brings the cup to his lips to drink more water, but there isn’t any left. So, he swallows air, then clears his throat. “Must’ve picked up extra time at work,” He stands up and walks over to the dresser to sit the cup down. “I remember this,” he picks up a framed picture of him smiling with Aaron as a toddler on his shoulders.

That was the day they came back from one of their walks.

“He won’t admit it now, but he misses going on walks with you.” I say. “You should join him tomorrow morning. Don’t tell him I told you.”

And that’s how I planted the seed in his head. Apparently, telling him that was enough. The following days they would meet in the living room, getting ready for another walk. I’d sit in the kitchen, taking in the scenery as a father-son bond grew again. The banter between them was like that of two close-friends. After the walks, Aaron would call his father ‘Old Man’ when Issac would crash on the couch after walking in the door. Moments later, Issac would tie Aaron’s shoelaces together when he’s caught taking a nap in the rocking chair. I would smile and laugh, and suffer the soreness of a face showing too much joy.

After one month, the rug in the living room began to carry the heat from their arguments. I came home from the market one day, expecting to see them both getting ready for their walk like they’ve been doing. Instead, I see clenched jaws and death stares. Tension lingering in the air like strong cologne. I scrunch my nose up as if I can smell it.

“What is going on?” I finally say while hugging the paper bags of groceries close to my chest.

“I’ll be back later.” Aaron growls out before leaving out the door.

He doesn’t slam the door shut, but the wind does. Two framed pictures of us tilt against the patterned wallpaper. The breeze reveals a strong smell that I searched for in the living room. I see the green-tinted glass bottle with a homemade label of ‘Salt Cider’, a fisherman’s well-known hard liquor passed down to a recovering alcoholic. Although, I’m not sure if this is his first time breaking sobriety. I don’t ask, I rather not know. I would like to know what happened between him and my son.

But, he’s in between bottles, so I don’t ask. Issac starts to drag his feet to me to grab the bags.

“I got it. Go rest.” I shoo him away, hoping he’d go to the room and crash into a deep sleep. Instead, he stands, swaying side to side as I place everything where they go.

He hiccups. “That boy is something else. Didn’t raise him right.”

Is he saying I didn’t raise him right or we didn’t raise him right? Either way, I know he’s wrong. So, I don’t respond. It’s best to let him talk to a wall right now.

“That boy is a child trying to be a man.” He sits at the table and grabs hold of an empty bottle.

I run the water to prepare to wash the dishes in the sink.

“Do you know what happened?” He slurs, referring to the argument.

“I don’t know, Issac.”

He joins me at the sink and leans on the counter. “Let me tell you about your boy.”

I try my best to work my way through his drunk storytelling to make sense of it all. I open an ear to him and tell my tongue to take everything with a grain of salt. He burps, apologizes, then starts to tell his side of the story.

While I was out getting groceries, our son walked into the living room to meet with Issac for their morning walk. However, Issac was asleep on the couch, surprisingly, still with a good grip on the neck of the empty bottle, until Aaron knocked it out of his hand. So, he says.

Issac woke up to the sound of it falling onto the floor. As the bottle rolled under the couch, Aaron stood over him.

“Are you going to sleep here all day, old man?”

Issac snaps into defense.

“I’ll do what I damn well please in my house.” Issac furrows his eyebrows, and scrunches his nose up.

Aaron laughs in his face, then before sitting in the armchair across from the couch. “You mean our house?”

“Did you pay for it, boy?” Issac sits up. “This isn’t your house.”

The two stare at each other before Aaron lifts an eyebrow up. “I’m going for a walk.” he finishes slipping on his boots.

“Go get a house while you’re out.” Issac opens another bottle and takes a swig. “Then, you won’t have to care about when and where I sleep.”

The same time that our son stands up, Issac does too. The difference is the way Issac has to work to gain his balance, he falls back on the couch.

“Oh, you’ve been drinking.” Aaron grabs his jacket. “I thought you quit.” He starts walking towards Issac. “What is this?” He tries to grab it. Issac uses one hand to push at Aaron’s shoulder, while the other hand grips around the bottle.

“Don’t worry about what I’m doing.” Issac drinks. “I am the man of the house. You are the child. Remember that.” He taps the bottle to his own temple.

Aaron scoffs. “How about you remember you just came back.”

“Boy-” Issac’s response gets cut short when Aaron corrects him.

“Aaron.”

Issac takes another drink, then grits his teeth. “I will call you what I want.”

Aaron scrunches his nose up. He did this when he was younger too, sometimes biting his cheek on the inside to hold back the fire in his words.

As our son tries to turn his back, Issac grabs hold onto his shoulder. “I am the man of the house and you will not disrespect me, son.”

“Get off me.” Aaron swipes away Issac’s hand.

From there, their bodies rough up the living room as they dance the fight of dominance. I entered the picture not too shortly. If I had come home a few minutes earlier, I would have been able to distance the two.

I finish the last dish as Issac huffs and starts going off on a drunken rant about kids and household issues, as if he’s been here long enough to complain. That’s when I notice a consistent twitch in his right hand, the one around the bottle. His loose grip almost sent the glass bottle to the floor, but he tightened his fingers around the neck again. I glance up at him to ask about the sudden twitching.

“It’s nothing.” Then Issac sways toward the bedroom.

After that argument happened, the two of them avoided each other and spoke to each other only out of necessity. Necessity meaning if the biscuits were closer to Issac at dinner, Aaron would have to say something to him and vice versa. Their constant avoidance became regular, like clockwork. During the night, I would sneak off into my craft room. Lift that loose floorboard and pull out loose sheets of paper. I’d write my worries, my questions, and my fears, but tonight I wanted to write my wishes with the hope that I’m heard.

I had become impatient with how slow things were resolving with my husband and son, so slow, it seemed like the process was on pause. In my Grandfather’s old journal, he wrote “roots grow underground”, it was his way of reminding himself to be patient even when he didn’t see the growth yet. But, I wish he wrote something that would prepare me for when those roots were unexpectedly ripped out of the soil. With black ink on eggshell spaces, I wrote what I needed.

* * *

I asked for help. I cried and I screamed for it. My voice grew hoarse as I sobbed in my own arms. I reread the letter that was delivered today before it drifted out of my touch. My ability to hold myself together was weak. With one hand laying across my chest and the other on my stomach, I tried to comfort myself as cramps hit my abdomen. Hiccups jumped out of my throat and they did so painfully.

I knew I wouldn’t be able to calm down before Aaron and Issac returned. I knew they would find me like this and I wouldn’t be able to explain anything because I’m already struggling to breathe as I choke on salt-filled tear. I’m useless.

Useless like the wish I had wrote two weeks before today. I wished for something to bring my family back together. This is not what I meant. I wish I would’ve stopped myself from writing down vague desires. I should have been more specific. I should’ve been patient.

I could’ve saved us from this.

I use the little strength I have to point to the letter on the floor. Giving them a clear path to the cause. My hand shakes. Aaron clasps his hands around mine, while Issac leans down to pick up the letter that is cursed with a royal blue stamp at the top. The sheet is pale like those that have the power to turn bloodstains of fallen soldiers into rich propaganda. The demand is written with sugar coated vocabulary that makes war sound like volunteering at a farm. After reading aloud, Issac finally sits the letter on the table as if it was going to detonate if not handled carefully.

My son looks at me with less worry and more sorrow. He looks down to see dozens of my prayer beads all over the kitchen floor, some in the dining room. The mess is mine. I had snatched my prayer beads off. All I asked for was help, I felt like a joke, and the one that gave me what I wished for was laughing since I wasn’t specific enough. I wished to bring my family together. I didn’t say ‘Bring us together in the belly of tragedy’ because that’s not what I meant.

For the rest of that evening, we would lay on the couch together. It makes me sick to my stomach knowing that the same war that is dividing us, is the same war that is uniting us. With puffy eyes and a sore throat, I grab a pillow and blanket to retreat to my crafting room where I would feel myself withering for days.

Not writing or sewing or even weaving baskets, I sat in the corner. I didn’t deserve to sit at my desk and look out the window to enjoy the beautiful scenery, not when I can’t help but think about how I brought this ugly outcome into the house. I’m the reason that this family will split down the middle and move in different directions.