Firewood

Firewood

When Joseph opened his mouth it made a strange crackling sound, as if parts of his tongue were cracking. The wood stove had been left on overnight, and now the house was an almost uninhabitable desert, the corners of his eyes and crevices of his skin all bone dry and aching. He glanced at the end table beside his recliner and saw a large, very old, glass of water. Small white particles floated near the bottom of the glass. He couldn’t wait; it would have to do. He slowly leaned as far as he could to the side, aiming his mouth for the large metal straw resting against the side of the cup. Joseph realized that his urostomy bag was full to the point of bursting, an uncomfortable sensation as he leaned over. Still, he needed the drink. When his lips met the straw he sucked and the sudden moisture at the back of his throat made him cough.

Hopefully, his caregiver would be on time today. Joseph desperately needed a shower and a shave and to have this damn urostomy bag changed. He looked up at the clock on the wall and saw that he would have to wait three hours. He hadn’t eaten yet.

Joseph pushed the remote button on the side of his chair and the recliner slowly lifted him up into a standing position. The sound emanated throughout the lonely old farmhouse. He grabbed onto the walker in front of him and slowly began to slide himself into the kitchen. His knees ached, but not more than usual. The slow glide into the kitchen took close to five minutes and by the time he got there, Joseph had forgotten why he’d got up.

‘Food,’ he thought to himself. He celebrated in the idea that his memory was still intact and comparably good to others his age. He grabbed a slice of bread from the counter, a butter knife, and a jar of peanut butter. The rapping at his front door made Joseph sigh. Someone had come early today. Lucky.

He shuffled over to the door. A tall man with dark hair and a scraggly beard stood in his doorway wearing flannel and jeans. He looked like a catalogue model. He couldn’t have been much older than 30. Joseph was not used to visitors outside his caregiver and so he let a moment of silence linger between the two of them, the old tools from the shed lightly beating into the tattered wooden column on his porch.

“I was driving by and noticed your stack of firewood out there,” the man said, pointing to the front of the farm. “I was wondering if it was for sale.” He had a gregarious spirit, and unlike most young people, didn’t seem to be bothered by talking to someone old. It had been while since Joseph felt like anything more than a decrepit burden.

Joseph looked out toward the large pile of wood stacked towards the front of his farm. His neighbor, a farmer and family friend, would deliver those piles of wood each week. Every few days, his caregiver would bring some in for him to put in his stove.

“I’m Adam, by the way.” The man extended his hand with a broad, genuine smile.

“Hi, Joseph.”

“So, is the wood for sale?”

Joseph hadn’t had actual company for a few years now, and relished the idea of the once known comfort, even if it was only momentary. “Why don’t you come in?” Joseph asked, and backed slowly out of his doorway and into the mudroom. Adam stepped inside and waited patiently while Joseph rolled back to his living room recliner to sit down. Adam saw the fire dwindling and Joseph watched as he spritely leapt over to the stove. Oh, to be young again. He picked up the fireiron while asking, “Mind if I shuffle this around a bit?” As he did, the fire seemed to take on new life.

“Thank you,” Joseph said. “Do you live around this area? I don’t meet many new people these days, especially not young ones.”

“Yeah, my family has lived around here for a while. I grew up in Lehigh County. How long have you been in this house? It looks older than you do.”

Joseph chuckled, “Yes, that’s why I keep it around. Makes me feel good about myself.”

“I didn’t mean—” Adam began. Joseph cut him off with a palm and a smile.

“It’s ok, I know what you meant. This house belonged to my grandparents. It is over a hundred years old. I imagine I will be here when I level up.” Adam scrunched his eyebrows. “It’s how I like to think of dying. You’re really just leveling up.”

Adam smiled, “Wow, so you’ve lived here your whole life?” Adam asked.

“Went to preschool just down the street. I think it’s a Burger King now.”

Adam’s bright white teeth shone through his black beard and mustache.

Joseph and Adam began talking and a few hours had passed. Joseph explained his Hungarian roots, his time in the Navy (and being kicked out of it), growing up as a queer man in the 60s and 70s, living through the AIDS epidemic. Adam held onto each word as Joseph related the intricacies of his life. As Joseph continued telling his story, Adam reached into his back pocket and pulled out a shiny little black book—a diary. Joseph looked at the book in Adam’s hands.

“I’m a writer,” Adam said, “I hope you don’t mind. Just—your story is really fascinating.”

Joseph was flattered. No one in a very long time had taken this much interest in him. When you live under the care of in-home nurses, your interactions are mostly brief and superficial—a rundown of the groceries you need, an inventory of the clean towels, a sterile changing of the piss bag hanging from his abdomen—it was all methodical and uninspiring. He smiled at Adam. “It’s no problem.”

Adam’s ignition screeched in the bitter winter cold. Joseph had let him take some firewood for free. From his glovebox, he pulled the bottle of Hexalen and quickly swallowed the three tablets he had forgotten to take while in the house.

Over the next several weeks, Adam visited Joseph more regularly. Each time, Adam kept his little black book at his side, ready to scribble down any interesting tidbit of information, which was all of it. Joseph had lived an intricate and complicated life, one full of the types of experiences that molded you into an exceptional man. As Adam continued visiting more, he began to notice an essence in Joseph emerging, an energy and light which moved him through space with a youthful ease. Joseph was getting younger.

“You do eat, don’t you?”

“Huh?” Adam had been daydreaming about the life Joseph lived in San Francisco in 1969. He imagined a tall, strapping man in short, puke-green Lycra swim trunks, playing “catch me” with the beach tide.

“Food. You’re looking thin.”

Adam had lost a considerable amount of weight but he tried to wear extra layers of winter clothing to disguise it. There was no clothing that could hide the sharpness of his cheekbones or the sunken yellow of his eyes. “Just a high metabolism,” he said.

“Well, lucky you,” Joseph said, “when I was your age, all I worried about was keeping my figure for the boys.”

Adam snorted.

By the end of winter, Adam was stopping by to see Joseph at least once a day. They played cards, told each other dirty jokes, and Joseph told countless stories about his escapades in his younger years. Adam began to help Joseph around the farm. He collected eggs from the coops and watered the garden. The spring was finally starting to edge its way into the days; flowers began to blossom and a small group of hummingbirds made their way onto Joseph’s front porch, where he kept three beautiful, rustic feeders. The air began to smell of fresh grass and that light, sweet indication of rain.

Adam did not come this day. Joseph wondered if he should call but he didn’t want to seem invasive, and god, he hated those damn smartphones. It was ok. Adam would come tomorrow and have some funny story about how he got caught up building a new shed in his backyard, or something like that.

Adam didn’t show up the next day, either. Joseph began to wonder if perhaps he had said something to offend him. But Adam didn’t show any signs of that. Joseph reluctantly picked up his cellphone. Adam had put his number into it for him, and all he had to do was push one button on the touch screen to call. He let the phone ring six times and heard a voicemail: “Hey, this is Adam. Can’t come to the phone right now, so leave a message.” Joseph called several more times that evening, but with no answer.

The spring rolled on into summer and Joseph became withdrawn. He had no idea what had happened to Adam. He suspected Adam had gotten bored of him finally, and decided to move on. Joseph sat not showered in his recliner, a full warm urostomy bag pressing against his right side. The windows were closed despite the heat and Joseph began to smell himself. Pools of sweat formed under his arms and in his groin. He could feel himself getting bed sores.

When he heard knocking, Joseph didn’t have the energy to shuffle to the door but was excited that Adam had returned. He yelled for him to come in and began laughing, “Well, where did you go off to…”

The postman stood in the entrance of his living room, carrying a heaping pile of mail. “I’m sorry sir, but your mailbox has been overflowing for a while now. We haven’t been able to put anymore mail in it.” He sat the pile of mail down on the end table next to Joseph and began to walk out of the house. Joseph sat silent and as the postman closed the front door shut, a large package slid from the pile and onto the floor. It appeared to have something heavy in it.

Joseph reached down and picked up the envelope. When he opened it, a little black book, which appeared to have writing on every page, fell onto his lap. It was Adam’s. He opened up to the first page to find a note tucked inside:

Joseph,

I want you to have this. I wrote down your story because it is a story worth being told. I’m sorry I wasn’t upfront with you about my illness. If you’re reading this, that means I’ve finally leveled up. I’ve left you a gift inside this envelope. It isn’t much, but I can’t think of a better person to give it to. And since I no longer have a life, a life savings really won’t be useful for me, will it? Thanks for your friendship, Joe. I’ll see you soon.

Adam

Warm, fat tears rolled down Joseph’s cheeks and he swallowed to release the tension in his throat. He pulled out the envelope inside the package and opened to find cash—a fistful of it. He sat back in his recliner and let the tears overcome him, deep, sharp sobs. He placed the black book over his chest and held it for a very long time.