J.T. Warren - Remains

“I’m aware of that,” I said.

“That would be wonderful. Thank you,” My mother said at the exact same time. “Albert,” my mother called, shifting her gaze up into the living room.

“No.” I almost dropped the toast, “No. Don’t tell him.”

“Why not?” mom asked.

“Just—I want to do it for you by myself. As a present,” I said. Sarah rolled her eyes again, and sipped coffee. My father never responded, which was just as well. I got up and brought the plate with the leftover eggs back to the table.

“Are you going to go and see Jayne Killian today, dear?” mom said to Sarah. I waited. As if on cue, Sarah rolled her eyes, and let her fork clink against her plate.

“Yes,” she said, exasperated, and then under her breath, “although, I have no idea why.”

“I imagine it would be nice to see old friends when you come back in town,” mom said. She wasn’t going to leave it alone.

“Especially when they’ve become nothing more than baby factories for their fat husbands,” Sarah said to the plate.

“Sarah! Honestly, such talk,” mom said, making a half-hearted swat at Sarah’s arm.

“What?” Sarah asked, “it’s true, isn’t it?”

“You could be nice to her,” mom said.

“What do we have in common anymore, Mom? I have a college degree, for god’s sake—”

“I will not have cursing at this table, young lady!”

“Gosh sake.” Sarah rolled her eyes as she picked up her fork again. “What do I have to talk about? She changes diapers, I write novels.” In the living room, my father turned up the television’s volume.

My mother went on eating as if she hadn’t heard Sarah at all. I waited, my shoulders tense, “What about you, Mikey? Will you be visiting while you’re here?” I almost asked her who she expected me to go visit with, but stopped myself. I had thought about trying to visit Alvin Turner today. I’d also thought about going out to the field, although I wanted to save that for late tonight. I thought about maybe going out to the gravesite, too.

“I dunno, Mom.”

Silence fell, interrupted by forks clinking against plates and the television.

Sarah got up from the table. My mother pretended not to watch her, but did. I waited. I remembered being younger, and the first time Katy had ever stormed away from the table. My father had said something about one of Katy’s “new” friends, and she simply stood up. She dropped her napkin on the floor pushing her chair back, and walked out of the dining room. Sarah and I hadn’t looked at each other, but we were looking directly at each other. My father took two more bites of his meatloaf, excused himself, and followed her. They screamed at each other for another hour and a half in her room. I remembered the tension in the house later, the way no one could sleep. All night, all I heard were the sounds people make when they want everyone else to think they’re sleeping; springs creaking, coughs, sighs.

Sarah turning off the tap woke me from the memory. “If you’re finished, too, dear, you can go,” my mother said. She always said that to me, because I always stayed with her until last. I didn’t want to go, though. Sarah walked past dad, out the front door. I wanted to stay, though.

My father only came out once while I changed the oil in mom’s car. Sarah was with me the whole time, though. She sat on the pavement, smoking, as I rolled under or out from under the car. He walked out into the garage about twenty minutes after I’d started. I could tell it was him by the heavy leather shoes he wore. I could see them from under the car. Sarah stubbed out her half-done cigarette.

“How’r things going?” my father asked. In his voice was something strange. I heard him grunt and start to kneel down. I crabbed out from under the car before he could.

“Fine, dad, just fine.” I pretended I needed a wrench. He stopped mid-crouch. I sighed a little, thinking of his knees.

“Would get out here myself and do this once in a while, but it gets so hard to get down there, you know,” he said.

“Yeah, I know,” I said, rolling back underneath. Sarah got up and walked inside. I watched the heavy shoes come around the car and stop near my head with a neat little scrape-scrape-thunkthunk. The wind through the hollow spaces was the only sound for a bit.

“See in the paper that they got those bones back here, now. The remains, I mean,” my father said. He leaned against the car, and I waited to hear the springs groan. Whenever the guys back at the garage would lean against the cars, there’s be a groan. I smiled, remembering how I thought that same groan came from their own mouths as they’d attempt to sit down or tie a shoe. I thought about all the times I’d gotten called ‘scarecrow’. I was surprised when the car didn’t protest my father’s weight. I tried to remember if he’d seemed thinner. “Jim Clarke is working on them, now. Good man, Jim Clarke. Good Christian man.”

Before I could stop myself, I asked “doesn’t he go to your church?”

“He does,” my father said, and his boots moved a little; the car shifted some. I thought about how in-tune you get with a machine when you’re underneath, and could be crushed at any moment. The oil was already sputtering, coming in two long, thin rivers. It wouldn’t be long now. “Mikey,” he said, and I could tell from the sound of his voice he was staring down the end of the road. “Your mother attends that church every Thanksgiving. She insists I go along. I don’t mind so much, except having to wear a tie. Thing is this; every year she asks Sarah to go. But your sister,” dad said, and somehow, I knew immediately where this was going, “she’s got her own ideas about things, Mikey. She’s into all this bra burning crap,” he said, and I thought that if this were a movie, he’d have a plug of tobacco, and he’d spit just then. He didn’t, though. “Your mother would like it if you went, since you’re here. She’d really like to have Sarah there, as well.” When he finished, his boots moved again: scrape-thunk-thunk.

I crab-rolled until my eyes peeked out from under the car. I set the wrench I’d been using down, picked up a larger socket for it, and took the smaller one off. I didn’t need them anymore, really. The next step in the job was to put new oil in once I got the cap back on. I was buying myself time.

“You want me to ask her to come along this year?” I asked.

He crossed his arms again, leaning back on the car. I felt the car move a fraction of an inch above me. He looked back down to the end of the road, again. “Your mother would like to ask you to discuss it with her. She knows that you two are close. Maybe you can make her see it in a way that your mother can’t.” As he talked, I rolled back under. I slipped the cap back on. I didn’t want to be under the car, anymore. I rolled all the way out, and stood up. The old overalls I’d found out in the garage had fit nearly perfectly. I’d assumed they were dad’s. I hadn’t gotten much grease on them at all. I walked to the small towel where the tools were resting. I picked the whole towel up and moved it over to the top of the huge tool chest on wheels my father kept out here. I wanted to ask him what he intended to do with it, since he didn’t work on anything, anymore. I put away the ones that hadn’t gotten used, and started cleaning the ones that had.

Dad walked from the car to the garage, and stood next to the toolbox. I felt his eyes on each tool I wiped down. It made me think of this scene from a movie Susan and I watched one time about King Arthur. The king watched his knights get suited up for battle in one part. I’d gotten goose bumps watching this look he gave one of them, especially as the guy sharpened and oiled his sword. It was almost like jealousy.