Michael Cunningham - A Home at the End of the World

From the roof I can see a distance. I can see our small holdings, and the fields and mountains beyond. I can see a red convertible gliding past. In the grass near the porch lies a toy of Rebecca’s, a doll named Baby Lou. It lies grinning with stony rapture at the sky. I can’t believe Clare forgot to pack it.

I pass through a moment of panic. I know Clare and Rebecca aren’t coming back. I’d have said something before they left but I couldn’t risk it—what if Jonathan had decided to go along? I can’t let the house break up. It’s taken too long to build. Jonathan and I belong here, together. Clare has taken Rebecca to the world of the living—its noise and surprises, its risk of disappointment. She’s probably right to have done that. It’s where Rebecca should be. We here are in the other world, a quieter place, more prone to forgiveness. I followed my brother into this world and I’ve never left it, not really.

I have work to do. I have a roof to fix.

The panic passes.

Rebecca will be back someday, and the house will be waiting for her. It’s hers. It isn’t much—a termite-gnawed frame building remade in small pieces, with the work of inexperienced hands. It isn’t much but it stands now and will still stand when she’s twenty. Now, right now, I can see her. It’s as clear as a window opened onto the future. What I see is a woman with light brown hair, no beauty by the world’s standards but the owner of a sly grace and a steadfast, unapologetic way of filling her skin. I can see her come to stand on the porch of a house she’s inherited. A house she never asked for, a house she can’t quite think what to do with. I can see her there, standing in a winter coat, breathing bright steam into the brilliant air. That’s all I see. It’s not a significant vision. But I see her with surprising clarity. I see her boots on the floorboards, and the winter crackle of her hair. I see the way her jaw cleaves the frigid light as she stands before this unwanted gift. I touch my own jaw. I kneel there, on the roof, feeling the plain creaturely jut of my lower skull. Time is passing, and I get to work. The hammer makes a metallic, steady kind of music that shivers up and down the framework of this house. I hammer one shingle into place. I hammer another.

Late that night, Jonathan wakes me by touching my hair. I open my eyes and see his face, bright in the bedroom darkness, so close his breathing tickles my cheek. He puts a finger to his lips, and beckons. I follow him out into the hall. The dots on his boxer shorts swim in the darkness. He is wearing only the shorts; I am in Jockeys and an undershirt. He beckons again and I follow him downstairs. Shadows cling to the complications of his back.

In the living room he says, “Sorry to wake you up like this. But there’s a job I need your help with.”

I ask what kind of job needs doing at midnight. By way of answering, he picks an object up off the table beside the sofa. I take a moment to focus—it’s the box with Ned’s ashes in it. Holding the box in both hands, he goes to the front door.

“Come on,” he says.

We walk out onto the porch and stop at the rail, looking into the deep black like two passengers on an ocean liner. On moonless nights this house could be afloat; it could be sailing through space. All that offers itself from the surrounding night is a starfield and the restlessness of trees.

Jonathan says, “I’ve changed my mind about waiting to scatter these. It’s suddenly occurred to me that this is as good a place as any.”

“You mean you want to drop Ned’s ashes now? Right here?”

“Mm-hm. I want us both to do it.”

“Um, don’t you think Alice would want to be here, too? I mean, shouldn’t we have some kind of ceremony?”

“Nope. Mom will be glad to hear I’ve taken care of it. She’s not much for ceremonies these days.”

“Well,” I say.

“Let’s go.” He steps down off the porch, and I go with him. Walking onto the grass is like stepping off into space proper. I move with a light-headed, space-walk feeling.

“Jon,” I say. “Jonny, maybe we should wait to do this. I mean, don’t you think you’ll be sorry you didn’t plan something?”

“If you don’t want to, I’ll do it myself,” he says. He walks several paces toward the road, which is a dull silver stain on the darkness. Tree frogs put out their clicks and groans. The Seven Sisters pulse overhead in a small clustered storm of stars. I follow him. As we cross the road I am reminded of myself in childhood, following my brother into the cemetery to celebrate our heroic future together. Jonathan moves with a determination that is both ritualistic and slightly crazed. He is wearing only those polka-dot boxers as galaxies explode overhead.

An empty alfalfa field stretches beyond the road. Alfalfa brushes and sighs against our bare legs. Although I know from daylight that this field ends in brush and an abandoned shed, all I can see at this moment is an ocean of alfalfa. As we walk Jonathan says, “I just realized how ludicrous it is to hold on to my father’s ashes until I find some sort of perfect home for them. I’ve decided this is a perfect place. This field right here. I don’t even know who owns it, do you?”

“No.”

“Oh, Bobby. I wanted to be part of something that wasn’t dying.”

“You are.”

“No I’m not. I thought I was, but really, I’m not.”

“Jon,” I say. “Jonny.”

He waits, but I can’t tell him. I can’t tell him what I know—we both have devotions outside the world of the living. It’s what separates us from Clare, and from other people. It’s what’s held us together as the ordinary run of circumstance has said we should grow up and part.

After a while he says, “So I think it’s time to get rid of these. Right now. Here. This seems like a good enough spot.”

We are so far into the field that the darkness has closed behind us, blotting out the road and house. All we can see is alfalfa. Crickets make their racket and mosquitoes swarm around our heads, unable to believe their luck. We stand there in a starry, buzzing darkness complete as the end of the world.

“The lid’s a little tricky,” he says. “Just a minute. There.”

He sets the box on the ground. “This is hard to believe,” he says. “My father used to carry me on his shoulders. He once tickled me until I peed in my pants. I still remember how bad he felt. And embarrassed. And a little indignant.”

“Do you want to, like, say a few words?” I ask.

“Oh, I guess I’ve already said them. Listen, will you reach in at the same time I do?”

“Okay. If you want me to.”

We both bend over. “I’m going to count to three,” he says. “One, two, three.”

We reach in. There’s a plastic bag inside the box, and we work our hands through the plastic. Ned’s ashes have a velvet, suety feel. They are studded with chips of bone. When we touch them, Jonathan draws in a breath.

“Oh,” he says. “Okay. I think that was the worst part. Have you got some?”

“Uh-huh.”

We stand with handfuls of ash and bone. “She was right,” he says. “It really isn’t much more of him than a pair of his old shoes. Okay. Here goes.”

In silence, we sift the ashes into the field. We walk small circles, distributing. It’s too dark to see them fall. They disappear from our hands. If they make any sound it’s drowned out by the insects and the rustle of alfalfa.

We go back to the box again and again. We don’t speak until the ashes are gone.

“All right,” Jonathan says. “Dad, I got this far. This was the best I could do.”

He picks up the box and we head into the area of darkness where we think the house must lie. We’ve lost our bearings scattering the ashes, and we miss the house by some distance. We must walk along the road for nearly a quarter mile. We give a passing Volvo something to wonder about—two men walking a country road in their underwear, holding an empty box.