Ike Hamill: Migrators

“What?” Joe asked. He tried to look annoyed, but Alan saw the smile creeping in around the corners of his son’s mouth.

“It means you’re psychic, Joe,” Liz said. She pushed a blond strand of hair behind her ear. “This is a huge responsibility. You have the amazing ability to psychically guess your dead great-grandfather’s favorite expressions. You’re going to be famous all over the world.”

“Come on, mom,” Joe said. He couldn’t hide his grin anymore. “I’m trying to do homework.”

As she stood up, Liz cupped Joe’s chin and gave him a kiss on the forehead.

“I’m off to change. Don’t you boys start dinner without me.” Liz collected her bag and jacket and headed down the hall.

Alan finished his preparations for the corn and put the ears in the microwave.

“I’m going to go warm up the grill,” Alan said to Joe. He picked up the little metal tray that held the steak and the veggie burgers. He was careful to tilt the tray so the blood from his thawing meat didn’t trickle down to the burger side.

“It’s a little early, isn’t it?” Joe asked.

“I’m hungry. Aren’t you?”

“I guess. I’ll be out in a minute. I only have a little more to do.”

Alan backed into the screen door and opened it with his elbow. Across their little dooryard and the driveway, the Colonel had paved a small parking area. Two guests could park there side by side, but they never did. Anyone who came to visit always seemed to pull directly in front of the barn, blocking the cars parked inside.

Just past the driveway, the Colonel had built a little screened-in patio dubbed, “The Cook House.” It was just the right size for a picnic table, two folding chairs, and a grill. Alan liked to sit out here in the evenings. The screens did a good job at keeping out the bugs and you could experience the house without feeling encompassed within it. He sat the tray on the counter next to the grill and took a seat. Joe was right—it was too early to cook.

A few minutes later, Liz appeared from the shed door. She held a drink in each hand. Alan stood to push open the door for her.

Liz handed him a drink.

“What’s the occasion?” Alan asked.

“It’s after five. Do we need an occasion? How about our son’s first day of middle school? Cheers,” she said and they clinked their glasses.

Alan took a sip. “You make a hell of a drink.”

Liz smiled.

“I found some of the barn paint in the shop. I’ve got plenty to do that door panel after I spackle it,” Alan said.

“Which panel?” Liz said. She turned towards the barn.

“The one with all the holes in it,” Alan said. From old photos, Alan knew that the Colonel had replaced the barn’s original sliding doors with the giant garage door it had now. The middle panel at the bottom had at least twenty small holes in it. You could see them from the road.

“That’s from when the Colonel tried to shoot a porcupine,” Liz said. “You can’t cover those holes.”

Alan laughed. “We’re memorializing the sport-shooting of rodents now?”

“Alan, can you just wait? Maybe do it after Thanksgiving, when everyone visits?”

“I can’t paint after Thanksgiving,” Alan said. “It’s getting dicey now. There’s only a few weeks of outdoor painting weather left.”

“Then can you do it next spring? Those holes have been there for years and years. One more winter isn’t going to hurt anything, is it?”

“Honey, you have to stop treating this place like a museum. We live here now. You bought the place fair and square. In fact, you were more than generous.”

“Alan.”

“No, I’m not going there. I’m just saying—this is our house. We don’t have to maintain it exactly how your cousins remember it. That wasn’t part of the deal,” Alan said.

“How about just for this year?” Liz asked. “Can we just put a pin in things for this year and then we’ll start making changes in January? That will give everyone another Thanksgiving and another Christmas with the house just as it was. Then we can start making our changes, okay?”

“You don’t think that you’re just setting the wrong expectation? I mean, painting the house purple would be one thing, but with those holes you’re drawing the line at what I would consider basic maintenance.”

“Let me tell you the story,” Liz said.

Alan wanted to roll his eyes, but he kept them steady, locked onto his wife. It was too nice a night to have a full-blown argument.

“My grandmother used to have her bridge club over every fourth Thursday. They took turns—Evelyn’s house, Louise’s, Peg’s, and then here. The Colonel would hide up the bedroom when they’d come. He’d work on a model, or a puzzle, or his writing. Halfway through their game one day, Louise said, ‘Oh, look!’ All the women rushed to the kitchen window to see. There was a little woodchuck sitting in the middle of the driveway.”

Liz’s face lit up as she told the story. Alan found himself grinning despite his frustration.

“It was sitting up on its haunches and working its little hands in front of its mouth. The four women were entranced by the cute little thing. But the Colonel had a blood-feud with woodchucks. They would burrow into his garden and eat everything. So as the women watched the cute little woodchuck, BAM! It exploded into a million pieces.”

Alan laughed.

“The Colonel was up in the bedroom, and he saw the thing through the window as he stood up to stretch. All he had up there was his shotgun, so that’s what he used to dispatch the woodchuck.”

“What did the women do?” Alan asked, giggling.

“They quietly went back to their game. They didn’t include this house in their rotation for a little while, but eventually they came back. The worst part according to the Colonel was that he had to hose down the driveway before any of the women would go outside to their cars.”

“That’s a riot,” Alan said.

“So that’s why we can’t fix that panel just yet. Someone tells that story every Thanksgiving, and they always point to the door after they get to the punchline.”

“But if the woodchuck was in the middle of the driveway, his shot would have never it the barn door. Plus, if the woodchuck exploded from the shot, then the holes wouldn’t be so tightly grouped, would they?”

“The holes in the barn door are from a different time. That’s when the Colonel tried to shoot a porcupine and missed. That’s not the point. It’s just that everyone always looks at the door after someone tells the story about the woodchuck. It’s a continuity thing. People like to remember the story and then punctuate it with a glimpse into something the Colonel left behind.”

“He left all this behind,” Alan said.

“Please don’t cover up the holes,” Liz said.

“Fine. I won’t, but you have to understand—I’m running out of things to do around here. Joe and I cleared all the brush and did all the landscaping this summer. We have a shed full of wood, and I cleared all the cobwebs from the front windows of the barn.”

“Alan!”

“I’m kidding,” he said. “I know about the sanctity of the spiders. I suppose I could get a job up at Christy’s. Maybe they need someone to count the returnable bottles or pump gas.”

“It’s only a couple of months,” Liz said. “Why don’t you get your fishing license? You could fix up the boat, couldn’t you? Spend some time on the stream?”

“Fishing.” Alan said. He flattened his mouth into a line. “Fishing?”

“Lots of people enjoy it. People kill for a few months off. Can’t you enjoy it?” Liz asked.

“If either us were the type of person who would enjoy a few months off, we wouldn’t be together.”