The Son of Every Man

Chapter 3.4

Gabe woke up close to one in the afternoon when Eddie knocked hard on his bedroom door.

"Hey, Gabe, I'm out of here. I'll stop in to see Lydia and the kids, then I'm headed out early to camp."

Gabe heard the front door close before he could choke out a reply. He fell back asleep and didn't wake up again until nearly three, sweating into his sheets.

The memory of the previous night flared up before his eyes opened. He must have completely lost his mind—only a crazy person would have done that...and to Eddie, worst of all. Eddie, who had immediately, mercifully pardoned him...Eddie, who knew him, who knew what he was. How could that be? It seemed impossible, as did facing Eddie again after what had happened, in just twelve hours' time. But Gabe knew he would do just that; he would accept Eddie's forgiveness for the miracle it was. He would shut up, and he would move on.

Gabe began to search his mind, search the house, for his next course of action. A large open space existed between the living room and dining room. If stacked and organized neatly, everything was sure to fit here. He went to his mother's room (which was now quickly shedding its imagined energy) and began ripping objects from their long-time homes. He removed books from a sprawling set of shelves by the armload, constructing a miniature city of paper towers on the floor. He heaved the mattress and boxspring down the hall, leaning them against the wall in the dining room. He stuffed the bedding into bags. Everything that was his father's had remained absolutely undisturbed since the day of his death. Marco's scarred oak chest of drawers contained most of his casual clothes, which Gabe emotionlessly bagged; a dresser valet and its contents were packed into a box along with his father's ties, gold watches and other small items. He tore out the ornate drawers of the vanity and moved it in pieces to the the living room. Then he dragged the empty bed frame a few feet to the center of the bedroom, attempted to lift it onto its side and realized it would not clear the frame of the door. He would have to dismantle it. Breathing hard, he looked around the room. There were deep grooves in the carpet where the furniture had stood. Nothing remained untouched except for Bonnie's black dresser.

Of course Gabe had not forgotten the volumes waiting patiently for him inside its top drawer. There were three and they were all fairly large, thick, leather-bound. He knew that about them because she had used to store them in plain sight, though he had never laid hands on them. Gabe opened the drawer and saw them lying, stacked, next to a white shoebox filled with tangled lingerie. He plunged his hands down along their worn edges, lifted all three out at once, pressed his nose into the topmost cover—it carried a faintly sweet scent—and then set them aside. Swiftly, quietly, he emptied the clothing from the rest of the drawers into an oversized black trash bag. He dragged the bag and the empty dresser down the hall, then removed several brass-framed pictures from the wall (all art prints except for one family photo dated 1991, in which Gabe's ten-year-old smile was an innocent beacon).

By the time Gabe stopped to rest, all that remained in the room were the bed frame and a sad black lump against the wall—the stack of diaries. He had anticipated the space to take on some foreign, desecrated quality now that it was nearly empty, but it hadn't. It looked, as he stood panting in the doorway, like nothing more or less than his parents' bedroom with everything removed.

Gabe heated up can of chili from the pantry, sat himself in front of the television and ate as if it were his first meal in days. He showered, then, still nude, began gathering her notes from the floor, scooping every last senseless scrap into a dustpan before dumping them all into the garbage. He dressed, went back to the bedroom, took up her diaries under one arm, poured a glass of water and went out on the balcony to read.

;-;

Gabe woke up into darkness, propped uncomfortably on the bare plastic chaise lounge. The diaries lay digested, closed and stacked neatly at his side. The sky was black—he could not be sure how long ago the sun had set. He stood at the railing and looked down at the towers and the bit of water fluttering between them. The breeze moved evenly against his face. It was not cold out, yet he no longer sweated into his t-shirt. He gathered up the diaries and went inside. Hunger had struck again.