The Eyes of September

Omniscience: The Middle

From chaos to chaos: the reunion, and Thanksgiving itself, was fraught with failure.

It had begun with the note, and the disappearance, which of course no one had suspected until it was much too late to mend fences, and the only option was to wave goodbye from the other side.

On this, Joanna was inconsolable. "How could he have left?" she asked anyone and everyone gathered around the dinner table. "Did you see him? Before he left? Did you run with him? Worse – did you leave him?"

To which none could raise their heads, only lower shame-filled eyes. Because they had all left Seven behind, in one way or another, and abandoning him at the race was the definitive blow they had teamed up together and struck.

They ate burnt turkey that tasted like rubber and sandpaper, downed glasses of sparkling cider and slices of pumpkin, apple, and cherry pie. Talk over table settings diminished greatly. It was hard to enjoy a meal when a member of their party had fallen by the wayside, and his mother was sitting in the farthest chair with tear-spent eyes.

The grandfather tried to bolster their spirits – he gathered the younger two, Corrin and his school friend Haven, and taught them to play poker. He was a sore loser and a joyful opponent, and for a while their banter hung heavier in the air than the previous grief.

But the first bad omen was not to be vanquished.

Joanna insisted on going through the basement. She touched the walls and leftover instruments with reverence. She, who had never shown much affection to her son while he was around, now wanted to take back her mistakes. Because, of course, she believed what all the rest were implying: that Seven had gone off to kill himself, and that they would see the police report sometime in the next week.

Perhaps their complacence regarding the severity of this proposed death revealed more than their abandonment. That is to say: they were apathetic when it mattered most.

One of the uncles – John – thought it was ridiculous. "Just let him run," he said. "Let the punk kid run. Where's he gonna go?"

"Over the edge," his wife's sister wailed.

Arguments broke out between the siblings. The grandfather cycled through games of checkers and chess and suggested a bike ride, on which only Corrin and Haven, again, followed his suit. Esau and Mirrin sat across the table from each other and refused to make eye contact. Something was changing between them. No one knew what; the two had always been secretive about their relationship. But still, it was palpable, and it was shattering.

Eden wandered around the kitchen with clean plates in her hand humming lost, lost, never to be found. She polished silverware and dumped sugary lemonade in the sink. Didn't talk much, because she had never been a talker – no one from Joanna's family was. They were a silent group. And today, minus one, they were a locked casket.

On Sunday the relatives suited up for church. The way each dressed seemed to represent, in a wider sense, their spiritual background: jeans and tennis shoes for some, pantyhose and high heels and stiff ties for others. They took up an entire pew at the local community church. Most people knew them; those who didn't still recognized them from afar.

After the service the pastor came up to shake the grandfather's hand. He had a comb-over and his suit was tight around the wrist. His smile, however, was genuine. "Quite a family you've got there," he said.

The grandfather cleared his throat. He bore the tremendous burden of facing the future in the present – the shame that Seven's disappearance would bring to his name awaited. Right around the corner. But not now, he couldn't acknowledge it now. Instead he inclined his head. Smiled through his pain.

"Thank you," he said. "I'm proud of 'em."

Back in the old Victorian, lunch was prepped for the table. Ham, leftover turkey, whole grain bread, salad, green beans, biscuits, and grape and pumpkin pie. Corrin played EDM loud and so his family talked louder to compensate.

Haven, who had come over for lunch – who would end up staying for the whole reunion, because her own family was split right down the middle – noticed this. "Crazy kind of life," she said.

"Yeah." Corrin made himself a cup of black coffee. Technically, he wasn't allowed to drink it, but he liked the burn it left in the back of his throat. It helped him feel older. Helped him push his grief to the side, the lingering cobweb thoughts of his dead sister.

"You know," he said, "we aren't as happy as we look."

"As evidenced." she meant the disappearance. "Still," she said. "All families have their differences, their divides, their petty arguments and jealousies and squabbles. The biggest thing about family, I think – and I wish I could tell this to mine – is that you just have to let some things go."

He stared at her. "That's stupid.""

No," she said. "It's not."

Neither had much to say to the other after that, until lunch had ended and another poker game had begun. By that time they had grown tired of silence – as thirteen year-olds are apt to do – and resorted to teasing each other mercilessly, then resuming conversation.

Meanwhile the parents where grousing between themselves.

"Where you been, John?"

"Stefan –" John pinched his face up, cheeks red. "– I've been working. Lots of work, lots of working. Did you... you find a job yet?"

One of the wives picked up on the subtle dig. "More pie, John?" his wife asked.

"No." to Stefan: "You sell any of those things you're always tinkering with? You, um, make any money off those things?"

"Well," Stefan said, soft-voiced and even, "I don't sell many. But the ones I do sell – they're worth more than a packet of mail. Or letters, you know, packages, that type of thing – I guess you would know, wouldn't you? All those deliveries you make."

He settled back in his chair. Smiling. "Yeah, the instruments I repair...They're pretty...valuable."

"Stefan." Now his wife was tugging his arm. "The kids need an extra player for poker."

"I'm talking, Joanna, I'm talking...""

Why don't we..." Bethany, fielding an interception, spread her fingers, imploring her sister. "How about a walk? Let's go for a walk, shall we."

So a walk was decided upon, all though two leaving to exercise would do little to combat the rising voices of the two men who remained at the table. Nevertheless the sisters – casting nervous glances over their shoulders, checking on their children – laced up their sneakers and prepared to head outside.

Standing on the other side of the door was a surprise. One that rivaled – no, surpassed – Seven's disappearance.

Bethany turned the knob first, and came face-to-face with an apparition. Color fled from her cheeks. She didn't speak; she couldn't.

"Beth? What is it, what is it?" Joanna prodded her side, pushed her out of the way. Then she, too, fell silent. S

lowly the men in the kitchen and the grandfather and even the children, batting each other with cards, became aware. Their chatter ceased. Their hands dropped. They sat, and they stared, and some forgot even to be surprised.

The man on the front porch crooked his fingers around his pockets. "Guess I shoulda brought some pie," he said, "except I ran outta gas money somewhere between here and Buffalo."

"Daniel." The grandfather was at his feet. "How'd you know we were having a reunion?"