Matt knew a thing or two about erasure as well. He hadn’t even known if he’d be welcomed at this house.
Sip.
“I’d never even been to a liquor store until this last August,” his mom had said. “It was the third time you called from college. I heard you on the answering machine, asking us to call you back. I heard the hurt in your voice. Your father had told me not to answer your calls or return them. We had to wait until you—”
“—Found a nice girl,” Matt had finished the sentence. The last words his father had spoken to him had been “Call us when you find a nice girl.” Matt should have known his father was deadly serious.
Mother and son had both taken sips. Avoided eye contact.
A realization had dawned on Matt. Yeah, his dad was a jerk, always had been. But his mom? What he wanted to know was why she found it easier to drink than to just pick up the damn phone?
So, he asked her.
Nora had finally looked at him. Her voice, when she spoke, was almost a whisper. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I know it’s too little, too late. I have to start somewhere, right?”
Sip.
“Have you ever awakened in the middle of the night and, for a moment, wondered where you were?” his mom had asked.
Matt had nodded.
“That’s how I feel,” she had said. “I feel like I just awakened after twenty years. Only I’m not in my bed. I’m in a forest. On a dark, moonless night. I want out of that place, but I’m lost and scared and keep bumping into things. All I can do is take baby steps and feel my way to the forest’s edge.”
Matt had smiled at his mom for the first time since he’d come home. He could not begrudge her baby steps. He knew a thing or two about those.
“It’s chilly in here,” Matt had said, standing up, setting his juice glass on the coffee table. “Dad won’t be home for a couple of hours. How about I make a fire?”
“If you’re chilly, I can just turn up the heat,” Nora had offered.
Matt had shaken his head. “There’s something I need to do. It requires a fire. Does dad still keep the axe in the shed?”
His mom had nodded.
“You refill our glasses,” Matt had said. “I’ll build a fire and tell you about school.”
It had taken him longer to chop up the baseball bat than he’d imagined. The axe felt heavy in his hands, as unwieldy as the bat had felt when his dad had forced him to partake in the youth minister’s beatdown.
The bat was made of maple. A hardwood. No matter how savagely Matt had swung the axe, its blade only chipped and nicked the bat.
He had persisted though, hefting and swinging the axe until his arms ached and his sweat chilled him in the December breeze. Eventually he reduced the hated thing to kindling.
Still, the bat would not die. Being hardwood, it had resisted the flames, taunted him.
Matt and his mom had had plenty of time to sip their wine and talk, watching the bat slowly turn to ash, watching its smoke exit through the chimney and outof their lives.
He had told her about college life, about soccer and his nickname: Mustang. About his classes.
He had ached to tell her about this freckled boy named Adam and their upcoming first date nine days hence, on New Year’s Eve—but he held his tongue. That was a conversation for another time.
This conversation had been a long overdue baby step for them both.
Nicholas stood in Debbie’s doorway, nervously proffering a bouquet of lilies which, he’d explained to Matt beforehand, were the embodiment of remorse.
Matt had been skeptical that any flowers would work in a situation like this. He could imagine someone proffering flowers with, “I’m sorry I forgot your birthday” or “our anniversary.” But, “I’m sorry I pretended to be straight, said ‘I do, ‘til death do us part,’ divorced you a few months later, ran off with my boyfriend, and never looked back?” That was asking a lot from a fistful of flowers.
Debbie, for once, was speechless.
Her eyes grew wide at sight of Nicholas, puddled. Her lips quivered. She swallowed air.
