Just Whistle

1.

Charley

If reincarnation is real, and if my soul or my energy or whatever it is that makes me me can return for another shot at life, then I hope to return as a cardinal. Afternoons spent in the treetops, flitting from branch to branch, whistling chipper tunes with songbird friends… It’s about as satisfying an existence as I can imagine. Worries such as health and heartbreak would be imponderable, and my most pressing concern would become the neighborhood cat’s tendency to stalk furred and feathered things. I exhale an envious sigh, pull my gaze away from the crimson bird perched atop the traffic light, and press gently on the accelerator as red changes to green.

It’s been a long time since my last visit to the tiny Pennsylvania town of Lake Caywood. The streets themselves look the same as they did a decade ago: there’s the post office and the bank, and Doc Delaney’s Tavern that seems always to be flooded with light and laughter, each in exactly the same location as it was ten years ago. But something feels different now. Unfamiliar. Like that piece of the town that once belonged to me no longer does, and I no longer belong to it. We were intimate for eighteen years, but time and distance have turned us into complete strangers.

Being in this place that no longer knows me… it causes me to question how well I truly know myself. Anymore, at least. And whether or not I actually do.

Remnants of Christmas linger on Main Street. Wreaths with red bows adorn every lamppost, twinkling icicles of lights hang from rooflines, and window displays consist of snowmen and scarves and wool stockings stuffed with thick peppermint sticks. They’ll come down tomorrow, or maybe the next day, once the world has officially stepped into January. A shiver runs through me, but it isn’t the anticipation of a new year that has me feeling jittery. It’s the dread that sits like a dead weight in the pit of my stomach. Sensing this elevation of nerves, Rhett hangs his head over my shoulder and affectionately nuzzles my cheek. “Okay, okay,” I mutter, reaching up to scratch the soft spot behind his ear. “I love you, too, but I’m driving right now. You’ve gotta sit down, pup. Rhett. Sit.”

He does, but not until administering a final sniff that sprays the right side of my face with dampness. Dog snot. I wipe it away with my sleeve and drum my thumbs against the steering wheel. I should make two stops, but only intend to make one, so at the intersection of Copper and Main I turn left instead of right.

It’s a tree-lined road, and for three seasons out of every year a canopy of leaves shades the pavement below, but for now the limbs are bare. Overhead, skeleton branches form webs of wood, barely moving in the still afternoon. The sky is that murky shade of grey that only makes an appearance in nature’s palette during the coldest months. Sunlight filters down in the same manner that it would through clouded pond water and I instinctively gulp in air, suddenly fearful of drowning, making my lungs tight with oxygen.

I pull the Jeep onto the side of the road, gravel crunching beneath its tires, and grip the steering wheel with white knuckles, my foot pressed heavily on the brake. Rhett’s nose finds its way to my ear and fills it with a loud sniff. “Okay,” I say out loud, to him and to me and to no one. “Okay. So… okay. We’re doing this.” I glance down at the scrap of paper curled into my cup holder, triple-checking the address that’s scrawled there, even though I know it by heart. I could probably navigate the rest of the trip with my eyes closed.

I know this road.

I know this land.

I ran barefoot through the orchards here, climbing squat apple trees to reach sun-kissed fruit that hung from the highest branches. I reached into lush bushes, braving brambles and thorns to fill buckets with plump berries that stained my fingers the color of calligraphy ink. I lay flat on my back, grass tickling my exposed skin, and stared up at those vines of hops that stretched into oblivion, imagining the giant I’d find if I climbed to the top. On August mornings I played house in the cornfield, and when it got too hot to bear the breezeless rooms, I sat on the banks of the pond, serenaded by chirping frogs, catching catfish and then tossing them back with a splash.

I know this land because I grew up here.

The road is deserted, but I use my left turn signal anyway. “Five-nineteen Copper Drive,” I say, sounding stronger than I feel. “We’re really doing this.”

***

At one point in time the roof shone like new pennies, sunlight glinting off of it; now its coloring is more of a sea-foam green. Dormant chimneys stand at opposite ends of the farmhouse, terracotta bricks contrasting with the blueness of the sky, and embraced between them is what I for so many years referred to as “home.” My gaze slides from left to right, just as it would over the pages of a book, but it isn’t a book that I’m reading. It’s my past.

Once brilliantly white, the structure is now chipped and peeling. Ribbons of paint curl away from the siding, revealing wood that’s been forced to weather the elements, and the porch railing looks as though it could have used a fresh coat at least four or five years ago. On the second floor, a shutter hangs slightly askew.

The sight hurts my stomach and my heart.

What have I been doing for all these years? I silently ask myself. Because at this moment in time, parked outside the old farmhouse with the Jeep’s radio whispering to me, staring into windows that are too dark, all of those years spent in Michigan suddenly seem like a monumental waste of time. Where I should have been is right here.

But I’m here now, and showing up is half the battle. That’s what he’d say anyway. I roll my eyes, suddenly irritated, because it’s a phrase I’ve grown to hate. A person has to do more than just show up. A person has to try.

I shut off the engine and remove the key. As a result the heater stops blowing, the radio falls silent, and Rhett, sensing a furthering of adventure, rapidly wags his tail. “Okay,” I tell him, and he leaps into the front seat, following half a step behind as I climb out of the vehicle. With all four feet on solid ground, he executes a full body shake, sniffs the soil, and promptly raises a leg to mark a fallen tree branch. He then sets out to claim additional territory—a fence post, a pinecone, a patch of already-dead grass, the trunk of a cherry tree growing not far from the porch—while I retrieve my bags from the trunk.

I haven’t brought much, but it will have to be enough.

I have no idea how long I’ll be staying.

My breath clouds in front of me as I walk to the porch, floating up and away in white wisps. The air is so crispy that I can just about crunch it. “Rhett!” I call before mounting the first step. “Come on, pup!”

He is across the yard, his nose in a hole and his butt in the air, but he raises his head upon hearing my voice. “Come on,” I repeat, and allow him one more sniff before clapping my hands. “Now, Rhett. Let’s go.”

His muscular body bounds across the frozen ground, ears flapping, and he slams on the brakes just in time to avoid a collision with my legs. “Whoa!” I exclaim, laughing and running a hand through his wiry fur. “Careful.”

Rhett pants happily and nuzzles my hand. Then he leads the way onto the porch, stands before the front door, and scratches once with his paw. “Hold on,” I mutter. “Just be patient.”

The key is in my coat pocket. I reach for it, grip the cold metal, insert it into the lock. For a moment I think that it doesn’t quite fit, but then I jiggle it and something clicks and the heavy wooden door swings open. I half expect the air in the farmhouse to be musty, like it hasn’t circulated for a while, but it just smells like Gramps: strong tobacco and lemon drops. To think that he was here three days ago, putzing around this very kitchen, makes me catch my breath. I blink once, twice, dismissing tears from my eyes, and step inside. I kick the door shut behind me and let my bags fall. Rhett scampers ahead, snout to the floor, exploring… but I just stand there.

Everything is exactly as I remember. Formica countertops, slightly dull after an uncountable number of swipes from sudsy dishcloths and years of housing pots of slippery potpie, screaming hot from the stove, set aside without the use of a trivet. There’s the solid oak table, giant in stature, which required three uncles, two cousins, and a grandfather to finagle into the house. It’s where it’s always been: in the center of everything. We used to stand around it and talk around it and eat around it. When I was just little and Noni was still in good health, she’d tuck her white hair beneath an indigo bandana and roll piecrusts on this table while I nibbled discarded apple skins. Very seldom was it that we’d use the more practical table—the one meant for dining—when partaking of a meal. Everyone simply preferred this one.

The wallpaper is faded, the curtains are drab, and the wood beneath my feet is scuffed and splintered. And yet… this place still feels like home.

I leave my bags where they’ve landed and step farther into the house, flipping on lights as I go. Mahogany crown molding, once polished and gleaming, now hosts cobwebs and a thin layer of dust, and the rugs in the living room are no longer vibrant and bright. They’re tattered from years of foot traffic. The area directly in front of Gramps’ favorite chair, in fact, is practically worn through. Without him sitting there, pipe clenched between his teeth, the large leather armchair seems emptier than a chair without an occupant ought to seem.

Overhead, Rhett’s toenails click-clack against hardwood floors as he explores the maze of rooms above me. I imagine him nuzzling doors open with his nose, poking his head under beds, experiencing scents that are completely new to him. He’s never been here before, after all; this is his first trip to Pennsylvania.

I glance at the clock on the wall, which used to chime every hour, but stopped ticking well over three decades ago. Gramps kept it all these years because it had been a wedding gift, designed and built by a man named Oliver Clay. They’d been friends once upon a time.

The clock is useless, but the darkening sky outside suggests that five o’clock is within sight. For a lot of people, tonight’s happy hour will include champagne. It suddenly occurs to me that my decision to disregard the stop I should have made was a bad one. Tomorrow might be Thursday, but businesses will no doubt be closed. I hurriedly retrace my steps and scoop my purse off the kitchen floor, rummaging in it until my fingers find my phone. Five missed calls and two texts, all from him, but he’s not the person I need to be in touch with. I retrieve a scrap of paper from my back pocket, dial the number that’s scrawled on it, and silently hope that someone will pick up. It takes three rings.

“Turley’s Funeral Home,” a man’s voice answers. “This is Leonard. How may I help you?”

“Hi Leonard,” I say. “This is Charley Lane. Charlotte, I mean. Um… I’m calling about my grandfather’s funeral. Jasper Lane?” I put a question mark at the end of his name, as if I’m not certain it’s correct, but of course it is. Saying it out loud though, while speaking with a funeral director, just makes his death seem that much more real.

Papers shuffle in the background and Leonard Turley clears his throat. “Ah, Charlotte. Yes. I was actually expecting you to stop in at some point today. Did the trip take longer than expected?”

“It did,” I lie. “I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner.”

“No, no, it’s quite alright. I’m glad you called when you did. We’re just getting ready to close up. But let me see…” He trails off and I can faintly hear the sound of fingers flying over a computer keyboard. “Okay. Here we go. The obituary appeared in the paper on Monday, as you probably know, and as far as Friday is concerned, everything is under control. The service is scheduled to begin at ten o’clock.”

“And it’s just for family, correct?”

“It is a private service,” Leonard assures me.

Gramps hadn’t even wanted that. “Just burn me up and sprinkle my ashes with the hops,” he’d always said. But his brother Kirby, my great-uncle, has been insistent about providing a proper send-off. “People need to be given an opportunity to say goodbye,” he’d told me on Monday when he called with the news. “And he needs to be buried beside his wife.”

I’d agreed to a private service, but Gramps had been adamant about the location of his remains. “He’ll be cremated,” I’d stated flatly, leaving no room for argument, “and I’ll scatter his ashes among the hops. It’s what he requested, and it’s what we’re going to do.” The conversation with Kirby hadn’t lasted long after that, and the only communication I’d had with him since was a newspaper clipping—the obituary—that arrived in the mail earlier this week.

“Is there anything else I can help you with, Charlotte?” Leonard asks now.

I tell him that there isn’t, and thank him for his help, and we hang up.

The house seems too quiet, too empty. Rhett still scampers about overhead, creating occasional clatters that remind me he’s up to no good, but it’s not that type of quiet that I mean. It’s a lack of laughter and voices and music. Gramps never spent New Year’s Eve alone, and back in his heyday he used to pack the farmhouse with people from all walks of life: mail carriers, doctors, barbers, and waitresses. Dorothy Kirkland, wife of the local shoe salesman, always brought chocolate cupcakes piled high with her famous peanut butter frosting, and the staff from the Tavern came laden with more appetizers than could be consumed in a night. Gramps provided the beer, of course.

It was inevitable that someone would bring a guitar or a banjo, and once the strumming began, feet started moving. Floors shook and windows fogged and people mingled, clinking glasses at midnight. The dancing would last into the wee hours, and thinking back on it, I’m not sure how Gramps was able to squeeze everyone into the house at one time. But somehow he did.

He’d be disappointed in my current New Year’s plans, since I have none at all. No music, no guests, and no bubbly. I intend to put on my pajamas, curl up on the couch, and if I’m still awake when the clock strikes twelve, I’ll watch NBC’s coverage of the ball dropping. Not much of a holiday, really.

Rhett’s footsteps race clumsily down the stairs. He skids around the corner, charging into the kitchen, his tail wagging proudly. Held gently between his powerful jaws is a pipe. I reach down to take it from him, hoping that his needle-like teeth have not marred the surface. “Drop it,” I command, sternly. “That belongs to Gramps.” Only after the words are out of my mouth do I realize I’ve used the wrong verb tense.

Rhett releases his grip and I cradle the pipe in my hands, inhaling the aroma of sweet tobacco. Two-toned, it has a marbled red bowl and a black stem. I examine it closely, searching for imperfections, but find nothing. “You know what?” I ask of Rhett, forcing the shakiness from my voice. “We might not have any champagne, but I bet we’ve got beer. The least we can do is toast Gramps.”

Rhett sits on his haunches, cocking his head to one side and watching curiously as I walk to the refrigerator. It hums quietly, and when I yank on the door, light floods the shelves and pools at my feet, illuminating the appliance’s contents. The sight causes me to laugh out loud. There’s a Tupperware container filled with what looks like leftover spaghetti, and a bag of salad that’s seen better days, but it’s the top two shelves that make me smile. They are lined with row after row of beers: amber lagers, golden IPAs, chocolaty stouts, and coffee-colored porters. Gramps bottled each and every one of them.

I grab a pale ale, pry off the cap, and extend the chilled bottle before me.

“This one’s for you, Gramps.”