For You

Wednesday, July 8th, 1953

“Your soul is often a battlefield, upon which your reason and your judgment wage war against your passion and appetite.” Dean read from the slim book.

“Back to Gibran, are you?” Dean looked up. He hadn’t even heard her come in.

He smiled and set the book down, “It helps pass the time. He has a way of conveying imagery along with the words.”

“That he does.”

Four weeks had passed since he had first opened his eyes in the hospital and Dean had nearly recovered enough to be released. Howard visited him daily, as did Maggie. Day after day, as she made her rounds, she brought him books. Each time he smelled the delicate lavender scent of her perfume he had felt his spirits lift.

Alone in the hospital, it was all he could do not to think of June and the children. In some ways, it still felt overwhelming. It caught him at odd moments. How had he survived when they had not? More and more, he returned to a vortex of conflicted emotions. How could he actually feel relief at their absence? What kind of monster was he? There were moments when he was actually thankful that he no longer had to hear the rude, whiny comebacks from the kids. No more endless squabbling over what show to watch on the television.

With survivor’s guilt came relief as well that there would be no more arguments with June. There would be no more nagging or hostile stares from her direction. Each time he felt that sense of relief, he felt renewed guilt. If only he had been a better husband, a more involved father. Why had he lost his temper with Danny that night? If only he had paid better attention to the road.

The would haves and could haves ran through his brain each night in the darkened room as he struggled to fall asleep.

The cycle of guilt seemed endless. It was a parade of conflicting emotions marching through his brain as he lay in the hospital bed.

What kind of a man am I? What kind of man is relieved that his family is no longer eating him alive with their needs, complaints and dissatisfaction?

Maggie seemed to sense it. Their talks ranged from philosophical discussions to religion, and even to the metaphysical. And always they had circled around books.

He had given Howard a list of titles to buy - Salinger’s latest book, The Crucible by Miller and the newest from Hemingway. He tore through them. He breathed in the words and consumed them. The stories distracted him mostly, although in quiet moments he found himself comparing the characters in the stories with his own life. Beside his bed, a stack of sales reports and contracts to review had been ignored and remained untouched.

When he had finished with a book he would set it on the side table for Maggie. By the time he handed her the third one she had laughed.

“I fear I don’t have as many free moments to read as you do, Mr. Edmonds, I’m only two chapters in on the one you gave me a week ago!”

Dean smiled, “Start a library of your own then. That way you will keep all of your patients occupied and out of trouble.”

The doctor had visited daily as well, checking on his progress. His ribs had healed well and his leg would soon be relieved of its heavy cast.

“You’ll be released soon,” Maggie had said, after she watched Doctor Ridley jot some indecipherable notes on Dean’s chart that morning and nod curtly at her as he headed out the door. “Maybe even tomorrow.”

She handed Dean a small cloth-bound book. “I’m sorry, it isn’t much, but I thought it might get you started.” She patted her pockets, “Oh, and this goes with it. Everyone is writing with ballpoints these days.” Maggie handed him a slim, inexpensive pen. “I do hope you will find a way to put some of those words floating about in your head on paper.”

Dean opened the book. She had given him a blank, unlined journal.

“Thank you,” he said. She nodded and gave him a brief smile before hurrying out of the room.

He hadn’t seen her again. It had been the last day of her shift, and he was discharged the next day.

Howard had driven him home, silent after a few attempts to engage Dean in a discussion about the quarterly sales report.

It had ended once Dean declared, “You have handled it better than I could, Howard. Keep at it. In a few more weeks I will do a thorough review if you want. But for now, make my mind up for me. I trust you will make the best decision.”

Howard had straightened his shoulders and nodded, turning onto Grand Street where the car made its way up the driveway.

“Will do, Dean, you can count on it.”

The crutches cut into his armpits as he slowly hobbled up the front path. The cast on his leg would be removed in another week. Meanwhile, it felt as if it were made of lead, it was so heavy.

“Several of your neighbors have taken turns cutting the grass.” Howard held the front door open, “And my wife said the refrigerator is full of meals.”

“Thank you, Howard. And please thank Doris for me, the angel food cake you brought on Monday was delicious.”

Howard smiled, “She will be happy to hear that. It is a family favorite.”

Dean’s leg ached. Despite lying in bed for weeks on end, the effort it had taken to leave the hospital, and even to sit upright in the car, had been exhausting. He could feel the weariness washing over him. At the moment, all he wanted was to fall into his own bed. He stood there, trying to figure out a way to get Howard to leave so that he could finally be alone.

“If you need anything, don’t hesitate to call me, day or night.” The older man frowned, “I hate to leave you here on your own, especially with that cast still on. Are you sure you won’t come stay with us?”

Dean tried to imagine staying in Howard’s house, four walls filled with laughter, children, and love. He had visited it on a few occasions, usually just giving a honk in the driveway when Howard’s car had been in for repairs and he needed a ride to work. He had never been inside.

It was a smaller home, located a few blocks south of Independence Avenue, on a quiet street. The lawn was always well-kept and Howard’s wife had a small vegetable garden on the east side. Once, Howard’s son had come out and handed Dean a sack full of fresh donuts, still warm and glistening with sugar.

“Good morning, Mr. Edmonds. My mother said to bring these out to you and tell you my father will be out momentarily.”

The boy’s hair had been slicked back, pants pressed and shoes shined. He had been wearing the khaki uniform and necktie of the Scouts. Dean’s mouth watered at the memory of the yeasty sweet smell of the donuts in the bag.

From the few details Howard had shared, Dean knew the Jenkins house was as different as day and night to what his own family home life had been like growing up. Where Dean had endured a cold, distant father with a loving but nervous mother - Howard shared stories of the family camping adventures.

Dean couldn’t recall ever going camping with his father. Arthur Edmonds had been far too busy working to ever be involved in Boy Scouts or other activities.

And hadn’t he done his best to repeat that with June? The only difference being that she had hamstrung him every time he tried to be strict.

He shook his head no. Right now, the last thing he needed was a reminder that he was completely alone in the world.

“I’ll be fine, Howard, thank you for handling all of this.”

Howard turned to leave, his face worn, eyes troubled, and “If you need me to stay.”

“I’ll be fine.”

The door closed behind him and Dean stood in the living room, waiting for the sound of Howard’s car to drive away.

When it did, his shoulders sagged and he hobbled to the base of the stairs. He began to hitch his body up one painful step at a time. The house, despite being empty for two months, was immaculate. There wasn’t a speck of dust or a single cobweb in sight. It felt almost dreamlike.

The walls covered with the familiar art and family photos, the furniture the same as when he had left it - yet it felt alien, as if it belonged to someone else. Had he changed so much? Was he so different that the familiar no longer felt like home? Had it ever really felt like home? He sifted through his memories, trying to remember something good, some kindness or moment of laughter.

They were there, he was sure of it.

He reached the top of the stairs. He was out of breath, the muscles in his back gripping and twisting, little fingers of agony moving their way from his ribs to his back and down his right leg. He made his way down the long hall, his gait slow and awkward. He paused to rest against the wall several times.

The first open door was Danny’s room. It was pristine, which was rather shocking. His son had been an absolute slob.

The neighbors must have tidied it up.

He moved on and stopped again at Betty’s room. The bed was made, everything in its place.

Dean was panting now. It took a great deal of effort to move his body forward and he fought off a wave of dizziness.

This has been more exercise than I have had in months.

He limped into the master bedroom.

The pillows were arranged neatly on the bed, everything in its place, or nearly so. He could see that June’s perfume and ephemera had been moved, probably when they were dusted, and then placed in a neat line.

He wondered who had done it. Howard’s wife perhaps? He had met her several times, once when she had brought Howard his lunch that he had forgotten at home. She was a quiet, nervous woman who never met his eyes, preferring to stare at the ground. She was competent, though. He could imagine her wiping down surfaces, making Betty’s bed, and picking up Danny’s toys.

He would have to thank her the next time he saw her. Or send word through Howard.

Dean let out a breath and hitched his way over to the bed, sitting down on it. It was June’s side and he could smell her unique scent mingled with Chanel No. 5 rising up to greet him. Some part of her still lingered here, reaching out, haunting him.

He couldn’t bear to lie down in their bedroom. Not here, not in this bed he had shared with June. With effort, he stood up again and made the return journey down the stairs.

He briefly considered going into his office. The door was closed, as it had been when his wife and children had been alive. The office was not a place where they were welcomed, it was a place where the work from the day continued, if only to avoid negotiating the children or June. He turned instead and went to the living room.

The couch will work just fine.

By the time he had settled on the couch, Dean’s face was dripping with sweat. The lunch he had eaten at the hospital lay in his stomach, a hard greasy lump that defied digestion. It didn’t help that the house was warm, muggy.

The intense summer temps were at their apex in July and August, and it was now the middle of July. He sat for a moment, gathering enough strength to get up once more and then turned on the air conditioning in the window. He sank down on the couch, exhausted. The camel-colored tweed fabric was rough under his hands. Even here he couldn’t shake the feel of them. The ghosts of his family surrounded him. Danny had always chosen that spot over there, too close to the television. He would sprawl there, eyes glued to the screen, with his mother insisting he scoot back.

“You will ruin your eyes staring at that thing!” Danny would move back a few inches, regaining them the moment June turned away.

Betty had preferred the sofa. He could see her now, June would sit in her smaller chair to the left of it. Dean stared at his easy chair, resting at an angle to the couch on the right. He had always sat there. But nothing felt comforting or familiar any more.

This house, Dean felt the cold air from the window unit begin to wash over him, it isn’t home.

Perhaps it never had been. But in this moment, with his mind full of memories and ghosts, he was sure it never could be again.