Fortunate Son.

They say the house has to go within the week.

            The market is falling. We’re losing equity by the minute. Dust has made residence on top of furniture and old picture frames of family too old for me to know. I take that week off from work. The boss isn’t happy, but I tell him that it has to be done. That soon, it will all be over.

            When I unlock the front door and step inside, I realize the job might be bigger than I originally thought. Boots still sit waiting by the door, as if at any moment their owner will come around the corner and take them out to tend the garden or take a walk into town. The light flickers on the second time I hit the switch, it’s filament waking from a long given rest. Something scurries down the hall at my presence.

            Moving carefully to the kitchen, I’m hit with the smell of rotting food. A pair of dehydrated apples sits poised in the fruit bowl. Once I sweep away the flies they’re first things to go. I then, after equipping a face mask, brave the sour remnants of the refrigerator, and think whilst cleaning stale juice from the floor about why the rest of the family never came to clear it out.

//

            I was awoken by yelling from downstairs. I sat up in my bed, and was still impressed by its new oak frame. It wasn’t long before this that I was gifted my big boy bed, a substantial milestone in a young boy’s life. The mattress was still being broken in.

            I kept my breathing quiet, trying to listen to the voices downstairs. I could make out one voice, my mother’s, but nothing else. It sounded as if she was in a shouting match with herself. I crept from my room to the top of the stairs to get a better listen.

            ‘All of it, Dad? Are you kidding?’

            ‘You didn’t even think, for one moment, that maybe the rest of us would want to go through it, take some of mom’s stuff? You’ve gone insane haven’t you?’

            There was a long silence after that.

            ‘The war was 20 years ago, Dad. You had no right.’

            Another silence.

            ‘No, you’re selfish. Don’t speak to me at the funeral.’

            That was in ’91, the year Grammy passed away. When she passed, Grandpa burned up most of her possessions in a drunken fit of midnight grief. When he called my mother the next morning, it marked the end of their relationship. Like she asked, he didn’t speak to her at the funeral.

//

I decide to take a break from cleaning the house, mostly out of disgust, and instead take a walk around the rest of the property. It’s a nice plot of land, must be 4 or 5 acres total, with wide open fields and a tree line blocking out noise from the main road. Since he passed, I’ve had a few notices already from developers looking to turn it into a housing estate.

            A small ways from the house sits a ramshackle wooden barn. A small gravel path connects it to the rest of the drive, and I follow it down to the front doors. The bolt across is rusted shut, and it takes a bit of hammering to get it to swing free. I pull the doors back and cough from the plumes of dirt that kick up. Once my sight has adjusted to the dark interior, I realize that in some ways it’s in better shape than the house. The work bench is well organized, a set of tires is stacked neatly off in one corner.

            I sweep through the garage, inspecting mason jars filled with old screws, loose drill bits, and a half smoked pack of lights still sitting in their spot on top of the tool box. Then, a glint of sun through a gap in the wall reflects the shine of metal. It’s difficult to tell what it is at first, the majority of the body is hidden behind old plywood. I move carefully over to it and push the wood away, exposing the body of a motorcycle. The key is still in the ignition. I pull it out to take a closer look.

            It’s certainly worn in age, there’s no question, but it still has its main components. Unlike those that you see at scrap yards, its rust isn’t hiding its imperfections, but rather hiding its old beauty. I wipe away a layer of thick dirt to expose the name: Harley-Davidson, and I can’t help but think to a bar sign hanging in the kitchen with the same name.

            I turn the key but nothing happens. I try the kick starter, still nothing. A small spider scuttles out from the engine bay at my disruption.

//

I don’t remember much, but before I got my big boy bed we used to come and visit.

            The memories are hazy at best, but one that I can’t misplace is the feeling of a firm hand on my shoulder. As that hand pushed my bicycle forward, the wind tussled the golden locks of hair covering my eyes. As it pushed me farther and farther up the drive my lips spread into a smile and I laughed. I looked up and noticed for the first time that the leaves had changed color. It was cool, but the sun warmed my face as I continued to be pushed up and down the drive by that firm hand on my shoulder. I couldn’t know now how long we were out there, only the feeling of the sun, that cool breeze, and that firm hand.

            ‘Woah,’ he said.

            I looked up then to see dark clouds rolling over the far hills, blocking out the sun. We sat there in silence for a moment, watching them devour the light blue of fall sky. Then, a voice from the house broke the silence and that firm hand guided me home, away from those clouds, back to where it was dry, safe, and warm.

//

            I find myself staring at the motorcycle for a long moment before I finally tear myself from it and head back inside. As I cross the threshold of the door, I look out to the hills and expect to see dark clouds. There’s nothing.

            Being not particularly keen on returning to the kitchen, I instead focus my attention on the bedrooms. A left from the front door leads down a small hall, with a bedroom at either side. I step into the one on the left first, and am quickly brought back to the Harley sign I found out in the barn. The walls are covered with automobile memorabilia. There’s tanker signs, road signs, calendars of cars from the 50s and 60s with scantily-dressed models draped over the hoods. There’s the old scent of cigarettes not from the air but from the deep insoles of the carpet. On the nightstand, there’s a picture of Grandpa and Grammy from their wedding day. He’s standing tall, looking at the camera and squinting from the sun. She has her arms wrapped entirely around him, placing her full weight into him. She was in the middle of laughing when the photo was taken. 1970 is written in the corner in pen.

            Something in me doesn’t feel quite ready to take down all of Grandpa’s signage, so instead I wander across the hall to investigate the other room. Inside, there’s a queen bed, undressed, positioned toward a small window overlooking the property. From here, I can see the sun as it falls steadily downwards until its eventual crash with the sharp outline of the hills. The light gives the room an orange finish. Other than that, it’s surprisingly empty.

            I stand in the doorway for a moment, unsure where to place my attention next. I shuffle through the dresser drawers, opening them top to bottom. Each one seems emptier than the last. I check the nightstand and find very little. Underneath the bed is clear. I’m about the leave the room when I realize I have yet to check the closet.

            I expect it to be empty, and it is, at least mostly. Tucked away in the corner – I almost miss it hiding in the dark – sits a small filing container. I pull it out and place it onto the bare mattress. Inside are browned papers. They’re a mixture of photographs, mostly of my grandparents from around the same time as their wedding photos. Honeymoon, I’m guessing. There’s also letters, lots of letters.

            I investigate one in particular, trying to read through dirt smudges to the words underneath. The writing seems to have been scrawled in a thoughtful rush, haphazard, but careful in its wording.

Dearest Eliza,

We’ve moved now to the east, towards the sea. I wake each morning smelling dead fish and the spilt oil of ships from somewhere in the South China Sea. Gunfire is steady, but it’s not a distraction from sleep like it once was. With all things considered, life is well.

            I haven’t stopped thinking about you since the moment I’ve arrived. I’m unsure if my other letters have already been delivered. Maybe the mail helicopter was shot down months ago and I’ve merely been writing to no one, who knows. How is Maggie? I can’t believe she’ll be two in April. Please, please, give her a kiss from me.

            Word from around here is that generals from both sides have been in ceasefire discussions somewhere on the DMZ. I’m not sure how they’ve managed to convince the North to let them in and out, but things are looking up nonetheless.

            I miss you one million times over. I’ve attached a photo of myself so you can see my new moustache. I won’t be offended if you picture me without it when you sleep tonight.

            To when we see each other again,

            My love,

            Richard

January, 1974

            I place the letter down, it’s words suddenly making the bare room feel heavy. I sift through more of the letters to find similar messages of love and yearning, him to her and her to him. At the end of the pile, there’s a photograph of the two of them, kissing in front of a Welcome to California sign. In the background, I recognize it, although here its without rust and the headlight doesn’t have the same lengthwise crack that it does now. That motorcycle, the Harley-Davidson. It sits poised, that beautiful chariot, as if it knows that it would one day outlive them both.

            At that moment, the rest of the house didn’t seem to matter all that much. The words of the estate agents seem like a dull heartbeat in the back of my mind. Something new has taken priority.

//

I know nothing about fixing motorcycles.

            The garage lights are hazy, but in the setting sun it gives me just enough light to work with. I stand staring at the thing for what must be a half hour, unsure where to start and asking myself what I expect to come out of the whole thing anyways. Eventually, I take an old rag and wipe down the side of the fuel tank, revealing the Harley logo and suddenly it feels like there’s a firm hand on my shoulder.

            I work throughout the night, clearing what I think must be the spark plugs and cleaning out the valves. At a little past one o’clock, I manage to break through enough rust to get the engine spinning. At half three I manage to get spark.

            By the time the sun is rising, I’ve replaced the tires with new tread, cleared the brake lines, and given the exterior a much needed wipe down. Although it’s not perfect, it’s starting to look like it did in the photograph. It’s muffler shines. There’s one thing left to do.

            I drive into town with a fresh cup of coffee and arrive at the auto parts store before it’s open.

            ‘Headlights?’

            ‘Over there,’ he points.

            We exchange money through red-knuckled hands and I gun it back to the garage.

            With a little adjustment, the light slots into place. I turn the key and the electrics light up, the headlight’s beam is startling against the morning. I wheel the bike outside onto the gravel path and stand for a moment looking out at the golden hue of the early sky. I take a deep breath of the cool air. It’s tainted with the smells of oil and new gasoline.

            I get on the bike, and on the first kick, the starter turns the engine over. The exhaust is clean, and the bike thrums warmly beneath me. I’m about to set off when I remember something. I dismount the bike and return to the garage. Under a layer of dust, is his old helmet. With a towel, it becomes like new again, the smell of cigarettes is forever entrenched in the felt lining.

            I remount and pull the kickstand up. With the clutch in, I twist the throttle and get goosebumps at the excitement of the engine. A firm hand grips my shoulder, but when I look back I see nothing. As I let the clutch out, that hand pushes me up the gravel path and then up the drive. That hand pushes me all the way into town and then out onto the freeway where I can really let the throttle go and push the bike to its prime. Out on the freeway I realize that I’m exactly where I’m meant to be, and for a brief flash of a moment, I wonder if this bike could carry me all the way to California.