Mom
had sent me to retrieve Uncle Sal from the basement. The party upstairs was for him, after all.
Sal perched atop the basement dryer. He hunched his back in solitude. Light crept
in between shrubs and fell through a small window in narrow streams on his
mirthless figure. In the dim lighting, he resembled a wayward monk who had
spent too many years bowed in unanswered prayer and could no longer look up.
He didn’t acknowledge me coming down
the stairs, didn’t even react when I stopped at the base without a word of
greeting. His head remained slack, collapsed before him. I leaned over and cocked my head to the side,
trying to determine if he was conscious.
His eyes were open. Fixed on a
deerskin-bound pocket journal he clasped with both hands in his lap. Was he protecting its contents? The cover was worn, discolored with dirt and
plant matter and blotches of what appeared to be blood.
The furnace clicked on.
Suddenly I was glad that I had stopped
at the bottom of the stairs and not continued towards him. I looked back to the door I came from.
He stumbled up the cobblestone drive in
the rain. Grams, currently occupying the
guestroom, opened the door to a shabby man clad in a torn up windbreaker and
threadbare boots. Disheveled locks and
an unkempt beard created a gnarly shadowbox around his face. Lips were severely chapped, lacerations
glistened in the rain, exhausted eyes gazed into hers. She nearly left the bum to the elements when
he spoke and she recognized him.
The prodigal son had returned.
When Sal disappeared four months
before, his only farewell was a pharmacy receipt for Lomotil and a Z-Pak left
on his pillow with “I’m going where I can’t be found. Don’t look” scrawled on the back. His wife discovered the note in their
downtown flat three days after the purchase date printed on the receipt. She spent most of her nights in a motel, and
likely returned to her skid row clients that night.
Naturally, Grams let him in and
notified the rest of the family, but we quickly realized that, besides his
appearance, something was amiss.
“Sa—Sal, everyone’s won—wondering
where you are,” I stammered.
He looked at me. He stood up.
Sighed. Setting the journal on
the dryer behind him, he wiped his fingers on his flannel shirt and approached
me, side-stepped passed me, climbed the stairs. Before reaching the door he
muttered, “Those bastards and their fake lives.
What steeping shit do they give if one of their own is missing? One less distraction from their paychecks and
million-dollar sleep quarters.”
Before I could respond, he vanished
upstairs. I didn’t follow. My eyes were fixed on the journal. All the time he spent in hiatus, no word of
where he was or why he had left. Now
back, he hid in the darkness of the basement?
That journal must have had answers.
I pried my right foot from the
bottom stair, let it drop to the floor, repeated with the left. Half way across the room I turned to look
back up at the door. No one there. I was alone.
Temporarily undiscovered. I crossed
the final eight feet.
The journal rested before me, its
full form materialized completely now that I was directly in front of it. Crude stitches of twine kept ordinary lined
notebook paper fixed to hand-cut deerskin.
The cover was plain, no leather thong holding it closed, nothing etched
into the hide. No need for a title when
the earthen tints evoked multiple stories on their own. I pulled back the front flap, flakes of dried
blood falling to the floor, unsettled.
Finally escaped. Dodged that pitiful excuse for society and am
finally where they cannot reach me. I
will start over, just me. No betrayal,
no work but what is necessary to survive.
I will be self-sufficient. . .
Found a cave. Seems abandoned. Call in from the entrance,
shine light into darkness. Back wall is
visible, no movement. Will set up camp,
take shelter. . .
Built fire. Matches running low. . .
Set traps outside of cave, will try
to catch first meal in wild. . .
Success! Caught marmot. Roasting on fire. Hot meal for free. . .
Exploring area in day time. Seems reasonably secluded. Only traces of hunting parties long passed. .
.
Plane circled overhead. Dove for bush to avoid discovery. Branches cut my face. . .
Bathed in nearby spring. Had not shaved since departure. Have lost track of days. Reflection in water
horrendous. Tried to at least wash away
grime. Lay down on the bank, closed my
eyes. Thought I heard singing. Cannot find anyone. . .
Stumbled on deer carcass. Shot in the neck. Bled out.
Meat is rotten. Will cut skin and
dry, use for warmth and new binding for journal. Old one falling apart. . .
Raining fiercely outside. Wind blew out fire. Cannot resuscitate. Had to move sleeping bag to opposite wall. East side slopes from mouth, water creeping down
in thin streams. Small pond gathering at
back of cave. Nowhere to exit. Thunder.
Lightning strikes along tree line.
Fear cave will asphyxiate and spew me out into rain. . .
Made it through storm. Cannot believe it. . .
Winter approaching. Few animals in sight. Too tired to hunt. Food source dwindling more by the day. Cannot
survive. . .
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