Fractured Memories

I remember the suitcase. It was brown and had hard sides. One of the latches never worked, so he wrapped a belt around it. Twice. He took his time packing. Folded each shirt.

"Duffel bag," Danny told me. "It's blue. He just threw stuff in it. No folding."

"He folded the shirts"

"That was the Grand Canyon. Suitcase. Good trip."

Every time. It's always this way. 23 years of me and Danny having this discussion. On the porch. In our cars. Over a counter at a deli. I know his quotes.

My mother in the doorway of the kitchen. Arms crossed. Not speaking. Her expression was masked. Danny remembers her yelling. Remembers her throwing a dish at the wall near the toaster. Shards falling under the refrigerator. I have no memory of her saying anything.

"Are you certain?" I once asked him. Being nice about it.

"You weren't there," he said. As if I was lying to him. "You were in your bedroom"

"I was in the hallway"

"Your bedroom, Ben"

I was in the hallway. I was wearing socks. Gray ones with a hole in the heel. I felt the floor through the hole. I've stood in that hallway so many times since. I could draw it. Did draw it. For years I drew. Mostly on the back of my dad's receipts. He would bring them home in his pocket. From the hardware store. Never complained.

Our biggest disagreement is whether he says goodbye.

I know he stopped at the door. Turned around and looked at me. Hand on the doorknob. The way you look at something when you're setting it down. I've been holding onto that image ever since.

"He looked at his watch," Danny stated. "That's what you saw him do. He looked at his watch"

"He was looking at me"

"At his wrist,t Ben"

Thanksgiving last year. We had been drinking wine,ne and Mom was passed out on the couch watching a replay of the parade. Me and Danny sat on the porch stairs. We wore our coats that night. Danny was spinning a bottle top in his hand. He's 41 now and still lives with unpacked boxes in his house. I've never brought it up. Nor has he mentioned how I leave relationships. Via text at 2 am.

"Maybe he told you something and told me something else," he said. "He probably did both"

I wanted to disagree with him. I wanted to tell him that was wrong.

"Probably," I said.

A car drove by. "Don't get used to that," Danny laughed. That ended the conversation.

I called my dad three years ago. I found his number in the address book my mother keeps in her drawer. With rubber bands and old batteries. It was her writing. Crossed out and rewritten under it. He answered the phone on the second ring. I think he was waiting for it to ring.

We spoke for about 40 minutes. About the weather in Tucson. His new knee. He explained it to me in depth. I let him. I asked him why he left. My voice cracked doing it.

There was a long pause. I checked my cell to make sure he was still on the line.

"I don't recall that happening"

Almost laughed. Same thing Danny tells me. Just with his voice. I told him I forgave him. I don't know if I do or not. Told him like I'd tell someone on an airplane. Hope they enjoy their flight.

Never called him again. Never told Danny.

He called me last month. Out of a gas station outside of flagstaff. Could hear trucks and a low-volume radio in the background.

"I'm heading to the canyon,n" he told me. "Don't know why. Woke up wanting to go"

I didn't tell him I've been there twice since my dad left. Stood there both times. Remembering how to throw a rock.

"I'll be there"

Took me 11 hours to drive. Danny sent me a picture of the sunrise. No message attached to it. I stared at the photo during a red light. Caused the person behind me to honk.

His truck was in the parking lot. Parked at an angle. Danny was at the railing. Looking out. Hands in his pockets. Shoulders hunched up to his neck. When I walked up to him, he didn't greet me. Looked at my right arm.

"Bring your good stone arm?"

"Yes"

"Good. Because we don't have water. Pretty dumb idea"

We started walking down the bright angel trail. We only went so far before we stopped. Danny found a stone. Picked it up. Rolled it around in his hand. Waiting for me to throw. That's always how it is with us.

I told him about calling my dad. Found the number in the address book. Spoke for 40 min. About his knee. He told me...

Danny didn't look at me while I told him this. Still rolling the rock. When I finished, I felt like I broke something.

"I called him as well," Danny said.

"What?"

"Called him two years ago. Got his number fromMom'ss phone bill." He rolled the stone between his fingers. "He asked about you. If you still drew"

I haven't drawn since I was 15. Sat down on the side of the trail. Leaning against the red rock wall. Danny sat down beside me. Close enough to touch.

"What did you tell him?"

"That I don't know." Danny shrugged. "Was the truth"

"Did he say anything else?"

"He said I was the one he taught how to skip rocks." Danny looked at me. "By that lake in page"

"It was a river,er" I corrected him. "And I was the one who knew how. You would throw them like frisbees"

"Lake Ben"

"We were near a bridge"

"We were near a dock"

We sat there for a bit. Something flew over the canyon. Hawk? Raven? Didn't speak up about what it was.

Danny stood up. Dusted off his pants. Walked over to where the trail ended. Looked at the rock in his hand. Then out into the distance. Handed it to me. Pointed towards the ground.

"Your turn"

I grabbed it. It felt warm from Danny's hands. Was it me who knew how, or did he teach me?. I didn't ask. I swung my arm back.