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CHAPTER SIX
What I am about to relate to you, in the details I remember, as unfiltered as I am able, is time compressed. If one is looking for a victim, look elsewhere. It may appear to you that I was the subject or the object of a series of unrelenting tragedies, which is, of course, true. But in another manner, these events took place during the resiliency of youth when, however damaging, there was always in the breast, hope. Now that hope is finally extinguished, I find myself free in another sense; I am free to pursue the past with a very cold eye indeed. And in the recording and recollecting, I discover the lukewarm emotions with which I witnessed volcanic events. I cannot rise above the tragedy. I find, personally, no cathartic event upon which to pin my own redemption.
The prospect of freedom from the suffocating confines of the long valley is what kept me of a fixed purpose. Only the days passing until I turned seventeen seemed to walk on bound feet. In the meantime, these events, as devastating as they were, took place within the context of an abundant, wild nature. And of course there were the mysterious polarities of the girls–young women. And there was the prospect of freedom of the seas.
About midnight I roused myself from my room with effort. I put on my coat and slipped down the stairs, and went through the darkened lobby except for a single light behind the registration counter top. As I stepped onto the veranda a viciously cold wind stung my face. Down the steps I looked up at the bright red neon sign. I noticed one of the letters was intermittent, gaseous. So now, down the sidewalk a few hundred yards, I turned back, and through the snow saw TEL BRUXELLES in a garish red light that signified all things. Underneath this commandment, in a fluid script, was written (English Spoken) in lower case letters. These words echoed, thus in my mind.
I walked past the side of the courthouse. It too had the sense of permanency until I noticed something was missing. It took a moment, peering through the street lit snow, to realize that the two magnificent Douglas firs were gone. They had been replaced with . . . nothing. Down the street and opposite was the blank windowed shell of my father’s cabinet shop. It had permuted through beauty salon, bookstore, and finally a health food store before quietly folding with the rest of the town.
As I walked the silent snow filling streets I noticed all of the side roads were still dirt. A block behind the hotel, and south, I looked for Emerson High School. The high school was a beautiful two-story building of blond brick with cement capitals. The High School had been razed, and in its place was a hopelessly nondescript single story aluminum building that looked like an auto parts store, but was, I discovered, a ‘middle school,’ whatever that is.
I looked at all of this in wet shoes and with muted emotions. I felt no sense of loss, or nostalgia. The houses that I recognized I could barely put a family name or face to. It was useless. I returned to my room shivering, and filled the glass with amber whiskey and lay back down on my bed.
The liquor did not, that night, knock me into a deep sleep as it usually did. Instead, I found myself enmeshed in a dream from which there was no refuge. The images and details were precise and unmerciful. It was snowing, and the mournful sound of the whistle on the Portland Rose came across the valley once more, and I was there . . .
“The Brethren” is copyrighted © 2001 by T. O. McCallister. All rights reserved. You may not republish or reproduce this work without the expressed written permission of the author by any means mechanical, electronic, graphic, including photocopying, taping, or information storage and retrieval systems. Permission can be granted by writing the author at alimed42@yahoo.com. He also welcomes your feedback to this story. All violators will be persecuted.