To Build a Home

2 | Wherever is Your Heart

Home. For such a small and ordinary word, it packed quite a punch as I stood outside of my dead brother's house with his son and best friend. All of the people he had left behind were finally in one place. I was immediately reminded of the reasons why I had left Windber.

For starters, everyone knew everyone. Before I could even make it to the front door, three of Phil's neighbors joined us on the lawn. Little Noah was startled by the strangers and hurried off somewhere inside the house. Darren chased after him. I was abandoned next to my brother's sign––Baker Brothers, "We Bake Houses"––in bold font under his chin, his big white smile a beacon for neighborly visits.

I remember listening to Phil and Darren arguing about their business name in the kitchen of our childhood home, before it was sold, when we were in high school and I was locked away in my room upstairs. Those were the years when I'd steal stacks of magazines from any waiting room––the township office to sign papers for the business, the courthouse where Phil was declared my guardian––and cut out pictures of models to make collages. I could do it for hours until I had more collages than magazines. That day, Phil was trying to convince Darren what their tagline should be. He had launched into a long-winded metaphor about flipping houses and baking cookies. To this day I still don't get it, but I guess after ten years, it became a staple in the community.

Mrs. Whitman, Mrs. Bryan, and Mrs. Harrison each carried a different dish covered in tin foil as they approached me on the lawn. They waved and called my name and I thought about running for the door.

"Oh, Ryan," Mrs. Whitman said when they were close enough. "It's so nice to see you. I'm sorry, of course, about your brother. We'll miss that darling face of his."

"Yes," Mrs. Bryan chimed in. "It's such a tragedy. He was so young."

Mrs. Harrison stayed quiet, offering her condolences with a sad smile. She placed her hand on my shoulder for a moment. I knew her son had also died young, though I never knew the cause.

They were each in their sixties, lifelong Windber residents and book club enthusiasts. Their homes were scattered throughout the town, but they often sat by the window in someone's living room waiting for their chance to pounce on unsuspecting homeowners. Or visitors, in this case. They wore different versions of the same outfit, jogging pants and thin turtlenecks, and kept their hair cut short.

"Will you be staying long?" Mrs. Whitman asked. She had worked at the public library for as long as I could remember and was always surrounded by other women. I didn't know the answer, so I just smiled.

Mrs. Bryan added, "We brought some of our best dishes."

They each held up their casseroles. I smiled again and looked behind me. Somewhere inside the red brick house Darren and Noah were running around. I urged Darren to save me, but he was nowhere in sight. Then a dark thought occurred to me. Did he run away because that hug made him uncomfortable? I don't think we hugged once in all of the years I had known him.

"Thank you so much," I said to the women. "I don't think I'll be able to carry them all."

"That's what we're here for. If you need anything, just give us a call." The women followed Mrs. Whitman across the lawn and ushered me between them like a child caught in a housewife tornado. That's another thing about home, no matter how old you are, it always makes you feel three feet tall.

"You know what," I said before reaching the porch, causing the group to stop midway. "I don't think Noah is ready for visitors. He's still a little confused about everything."

A chorus of understanding ensued. It was a condolence competition and I was nominated the sole judge. I nodded along and thanked them as each woman shared a kinder, more understanding sentiment.

It felt like it had been hours since I arrived in town, said hello to Darren, and chatted with the women of the neighborhood. But still I hadn't wrapped my arms around little Noah and told him...what? What do you tell a two-year-old orphan to make things better? I didn't even know if I was prepared to become his guardian.

It played in my mind as follows: come to Windber, plan the funeral, read the will, sell the house, pack what we needed and drive back to my small apartment in New York. It would take a week, or two at the most. Eventually, I'd have to find a new place because there wasn't a bedroom for Noah in my studio, and I'd have to find a babysitter. But I could do those things. I could get through it. But just because I could, didn't mean I wanted to. I didn't know the first thing about being part of a family. I hadn't done it since I was eighteen. Was I the right thing for Noah? My career as an artist still wasn't off the ground. I didn't own anything. I couldn't give him the life that Phil did. Phil.

Suddenly water started raining upward from the grass. I was never so happy for the invention and timing of automatic sprinklers. The women raced around the lawn in circles, shouting, trying to find a spot out of range. It was impressive how the casseroles never dropped or even moved in their containers as if they were built for war.

I raced to the porch and on my way I spotted Darren and Noah in the window, both chuckling, a remote in hand. Darren wasn't avoiding me. He had saved me. Again.

"We're just going to leave these here," Mrs. Whitman called from across the lawn. The platters were placed in a row on the sidewalk in front of my car. The sprinklers continued to shower. "We'll stop by for the containers later."

"Thank you Mrs. Whitman, Mrs. Bryan, Mrs. Harrison. I'll see you later!"

I ran back out onto the grass and danced in the shower. I could hear the women chatting, looking back and wondering if Ryan Baker returned to Windber crazy as ever. "They do things differently in New York," I heard one of them say as they crossed the street.

I continued to dance and waved to the women each time they looked back. Darren and Noah came outside and watched from the porch. "Get over here," I called.

Noah ran so quickly, almost tripping over his little legs. I picked him up, spinning him around in circles like a flying carousel. He squeezed his eyes closed tight and stuck out his tongue to catch as much water as possible. When the spinning stopped, Darren tackled us both to the ground and we three tumbled around in the mud and the water, happiness, for a very brief moment, raining down on us.

Author's Note: Thanks for reading! I loved the way the first part ended so much, it was difficult to follow it up with something as good. This was my third attempt, but I think it's sweet. Did you like it? Comment, vote, share!

What kind of parent/guardian do you think Ryan would be?