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Homecoming

Sometimes to find what you're looking for, you have to stop searching.

By Adam PatrickPublished 3 years ago 7 min read
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Homecoming
Photo by Shaojie on Unsplash

Jack relished the feel of the textured steering wheel sliding through his hands as he made the turn off of Highway 90. Not that the Chrysler 300 they’d rented at the airport was any nicer than his Mercedes back home in California. And it was a hell of a lot nicer than the little Toyota pickup truck he’d driven in high school. But, traveling these old backroads had put him right back in that Toyota single-cab, a burnt CD in the CD player, neon lights illuminating the floorboard in a fade of blue, and the cold hard plastic of the steering wheel sliding through his hands as he let the wheels straighten.

In the passenger seat, Vendetta scoffed, snatching him from his reverie.

“There’s no fucking service down here,” she said, holding her phone aloft in the window. Jack shook his head.

Nothing had changed here since he left after high school. Nothing. Not that he’d expected it to, but he was still amazed by the absolute sameness of it. Of course, he hadn’t made it into town. He’d headed home straight from the airport, which took him off Highway 27 a good fifteen miles before he hit the nearest town. But even there, he’d imagine the gas station might have changed names, maybe there was a new pizza place. But down here, time stood still.

He felt the familiar pull of the twisting curves as he took the winding road a little faster than he should have. He even recognized the whine of the engine as he let off the gas and accelerated up the hills, like a song he hadn’t heard in a long time but recognized the tune. He instinctively knew which turns he could take with a little more pressure on the gas pedal, and where he absolutely needed to slow to a crawl.

Vendetta didn’t.

“Jesus, what is the big hurry, Jackson?” The only thing Vendetta had ever gripped with more urgency than her iPhone was the handle above the Chrysler’s window.

“Don’t worry, I know these roads like the back of my--”

Vendetta forced her free hand forward, bracing herself on the dash as he slammed on the brakes. Jack locked his arms as he put his weight into his right foot on the brake pedal. They slid to a halt mere feet from a deer standing in the road. The deer twisted its lower jaw once, and with a flick of its ear, she stepped lightly across the asphalt and sprang to the top of the six-foot bank on the other side.

Jack looked at Vendetta and began to laugh.

Vendetta was outraged.

“You think that’s...that’s not fucking funny, Jackson!” She clutched her heart. Jack let out a breath as his own heart rate began to drop. “You could have fucking killed us.” Now one hand was on her forehead covering her eyes.

“C’mon, lighten up,” Jack said after letting out a couple of heavy cleansing breaths. “We’re fine.”

Her hand sprang away from her forehead, fingers splayed to reveal two-inch fake nails with vibrant colors. Her eyes bulged. “It isn’t fine. Jesus,” she said. She placed her hand back over her face and let her head fall back into the headrest.

Jack sighed and continued on.

Maybe it had been a mistake to bring Vendetta. Actually, it was definitely a mistake to bring Vendetta, but she’d all but demanded that she accompany him. She had insisted that anyone would need support at their own father’s funeral, especially him. He hadn’t quite understood what “especially him” had meant, and he hadn’t wanted to ask. He had tried to explain what it was like where he was going. Rural Kentucky was a far cry from Beverly Hills, in more ways than one. She’d reminded him that she grew up in Tulsa, Oklahoma, thank you very much. While Jack had considered that, he’d also found it to be apparent that you can, in fact, take the Tulsa out of the girl. Vendetta was pure Beverly Hills.

In the end, he’d figured that this was some attempt at establishing more of a connection; an effort to cull him into proposing, or at least committing in some way other than leaving a toothbrush and a fresh pair of boxers at her place. Jack just wasn’t quite there. He wanted to be. And at one point he’d thought he was. But the scene on the West Coast, especially the screenwriting scene, was so high-tempo and ever-changing that it was practically impossible to get a grip on who you were, what you wanted, or how to do any of it. Coupling with Vendetta, he’d realized some time after it had happened, had really been his attempt at finding an anchor. A grounding point. Some sense of consistency and normalcy while at the same time, exposing himself to someone familiar with the scene, comfortable with navigating the flash and glamour and falseness of it all.

Consistent, she was.

And persistent.

And now, present.

She had spent a solid ten minutes flipping through the same five stations on the radio, cringing at the twangy tunes each time, before they reached the road that led to Jack’s parents’ house. As he turned in, Vendetta once again braced herself against the frame of the car.

“Oh my God can you even see?”

“It’s--” He caught himself before offering another unsuccessful empty platitude. “It’s easier to see from this side.”

“Why isn’t there a traffic light there!”

Jack left the question unanswered and successfully made the left turn onto the gravel road.

The Chrysler pulled into the drive a few minutes later. Dogwoods stood at the end of the driveway. Once Jack’s favorite trees, in their naked state against the slate-grey skies, they looked gnarled and dry. Grass and weeds had grown to an almost unmanageable density around their base. They parked next to the four-door sedan already in the drive. A woman in a dark pink wool dress stood on the porch, shielding her eyes with a stack of papers from the brightness of the day, even though the clouds kept it moderately dim.

Vendetta made a sound as she climbed from the car. Jack ignored her and climbed out after her. They both glanced up at the empty flagpole, the heavy metal hooks clanging against the metal pole in the breeze. At the base, only a few resilient marigolds had endured.

“Hi,” the woman said, scurrying toward them with short steps, her hand extended. “I’m Sue, we spoke on the phone?” Jack shook her hand. She was much shorter than she’d looked standing on the porch, and her face was bunched up around her nose. Her hair bounced in big curls that barely reached her shoulders. “It’s so great to meet you. I’m so sorry about your loss. Your dad was such a sweetheart.”

“Thank you,” Jack responded. He surveyed the house and the land while Vendetta swatted at gnats.

“Why don’t we step inside,” she said. As she stepped quickly toward the house, she greeted Vendetta. Vendetta shook her hand with a welcoming smile, and then gave Jack a face as the woman hurried ahead of them.

They handled their business at the kitchen counter, where Jack had sat and watched his mother basting Thanksgiving turkeys; where his father made pancakes on Sunday morning before church. He’d expected a wave of emotion, but he only experienced fleeting memories and he wondered what this said about him. After Sue had left he wandered through the house, letting his fingers graze the dusty surfaces. Vendetta had excused herself to the bathroom to “freshen up.” There were no smells to speak of, no sensations at all that took him back to his childhood. To be honest, he’d remembered the linoleum on the kitchen floor differently. Maybe his parents had changed it at some point. But there were other differences too.

He walked out onto the back porch and looked out into the pasture. Cattle grazed in silence. Jack realized just how silent it was. Not only outside and around him but inside too. There was no scene, nothing to navigate. He felt the calm of existence on this back porch. In the breeze whispering in the trees and the bells ringing dully around the neck of some of the cattle.

As he noticed the air moving in and out of his lungs for the first time in a long time, the door squeaked open behind him. Vendetta stepped to his side, swiping expensively manicured hands in front of her face.

“Okay, so,” she said obliviously, her face pinched. “Now what?”

Short Story
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About the Creator

Adam Patrick

Born and raised in Southeastern Kentucky, I traveled the world in the Air Force until I retired. I now reside in Arkansas with my wife Lyndi, where I flail around on my keyboard and try to craft something interesting to read.

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