Remnants of a Silence by Saul Brauns

“She was reckless and calculated. Sharp but dreamy. I think she was lost. Overcome by the world’s endless configurations.” A wave of chills swept over me. Papa was only eloquent when talking about her, so I tried to soak it all in–every syllable, hand gesture, intonation–to paint a picture of her in my head. Papa never even showed me photos, because as he said, “It’s in the past.” I had stored a few features such as angular nose and fair skin in my reservoir until then, but those were surface-level. I had been yearning for characteristics to vitalize the shell of a person in my head.

I muttered, “How’d you meet?” as if there was a bubble in my throat. Papa’s control faltered for a moment, and a melancholy smile escaped. The floorboards let out a creak as he stood up from his favorite faded leather armchair. He walked over to the half-empty fridge and grabbed a six-pack of beer.

“It was a real coincidence,” Papa reminisced. He cracked open his first beer before continuing, “She was daydreaming and missed the train home. Stuffy air, bunch of people, why not wait outside? So she strolled through the city streets trying to pass time. I was working by the station then, strolling around myself, when I saw a young blonde woman carrying about four shopping bags. She was on the phone, but I knocked into her anyway to be safe. The snatch was clean, but her wallet slipped out of my fingers as I walked off, right onto the foot of another woman. The woman looked down, and then back up at me. That’s how I met your mom. I dropped a wallet on her foot.”

“But didn’t John set you up at that party? And when were you a pickpocket?” Papa littered these things throughout his stories. You’d ask him a question and learn some crazy other thing you didn’t even know you wanted to hear.

“That party was later down the road. Don’t get me thinking about my age, just know I’ve been around for a while. And I was a pick for some time, but that job wasn’t made for a guy like me.” Papa was never too successful at any one career from what I’d gathered. His true talent lay in being a dad. He set his first beer down and popped open a second. “She picked the wallet up and strolled off with it more casually than you could imagine. I didn’t even make a sound. She was there one moment and then she was gone the next. I never asked where she went, but I wonder if she knew it then. You know? Like I did. Cause I knew right then that she was the one.” Papa’s outstretched legs retreated toward his body. He hurriedly glanced toward the window, but the pane was too murky to see out of.

There was a long silence.

“I wanted to say something. I swear I did.” He took a large swig of beer to finish off his second bottle before snapping open a third. He went on, “But I let her walk without a word.” The kitchen light flickered and moths swarmed the dying bulb.

“It was love Papa. I think it’s normal to be scared. That’s what–”

“Scared?” he interrupted. “I wasn’t scared. You don’t even know what scared means.” He looked down at his tired Orvis boots longingly. Gnats picked at the mud stuck to his toe box. A mosquito buzzed around his ear; he swatted it, then put the third beer to his lips and practically swallowed it whole.

He spoke in a low, somber tone: “It took a few years for us to be reunited.” Papa took off his hat to wipe the dribbles of sweat forming on his forehead. He tugged and fiddled with his collar. Then opened up a fourth beer before continuing, “I didn’t want to say the wrong thing.” Papa’s voice trembled; I wanted to tell him none of it was his fault, but the lump in my throat warned me that if I tried to talk now, I’d start to cry.

“When you were a little kid, she’d talk about all the places we were gonna go when you got older. I didn’t say a thing back, but I hoped. I still do, that maybe, somehow, she’ll come back and we’ll visit New York as a family.” The air was still and soundless. My eyes began to well.

Tink. A piercing bead of water fell from the broken sink faucet. Tink, tink. Tink, tink, tink. They fell faster and faster and got louder and louder. The noise was deafening, filling my head with pressure like a balloon. I plugged my ears to escape–to get away from this room and Papa’s quivering voice–but in the quiet, another sound emerged. Like a sputtering engine, Papa’s heart began to churn.

“She would say that if she got up and left, and never came back, I wouldn’t even notice. It was that first interaction. I always knew that was it. If I had called out to her, then everything would be different. This is her revenge!” Papa clenched his beer and slammed his fist against the armchair rest. He pointed at me. “If you don’t understand, and I know it’s hard for you to understand, then just accept it. This is the way things are.” The well of tears within me erupted and streamed down my face. I was quiet, for fear that if Papa noticed my crying, he might shatter. A breeze could have rolled through the kitchen and broken him into a million pieces. Like a puzzle strewn across the floor that couldn’t be pieced back together. I tried to say something. I wanted to tell him we’d be alright, just the two of us together, but something stopped me, so I cried in silence.

Saul Brauns

Image by Kredite from Pixabay – A wallet full of notes with fenale fingers prying it open. Red painted finger nails.