Ol' Shadrach

Ma always said that the house was too darn ugly to buy it from the “crazy fool” realtor who acted as though it was a lost and forgotten annex of the Biltmore. Rosalinda agreed that Daddy should not have jumped the gun and bought the piece of junk. Daddy, on the other hand, said he knew something we didn’t about the house and that it was a secret that would go down with him into the grave. This didn’t make Ma any happier considering that she said he would be in the grave before President Kennedy met his maker. Daddy would always laugh and chuckle.
         “Sure would beat having to stay here on God’s green earth any longer with that brother of yours,” Daddy always responded. Ma didn’t like Daddy mentioning Uncle Lars in front of us.
         The house Ma despised was an old, two-bedroom structure with a door and three windows that Ma said were held together with Daddy’s tobacco-laced spit. It had a small, four by six foot porch that served as the bathing room for us kids. (Rosalinda always fussed about having to bathe outside in public, and Ma told her every time that the closest family that lived near us was the Petersons who lived half a mile down the road and if she didn’t stop her pouting she would make her bathe in the Mississippi in Memphis in front of every Baptist in town.) The house was nestled on about twenty acres of land. Most of it was plowed and used for farming, but the back five acres were forested.
         When you first walked into the house, you were in the kitchen, which Ma didn’t like because she said she didn’t like cooking in front of everyone in Tennessee. The room to the left was the family room with a large fireplace surrounded by hard cobblestone that froze my feet in the winter (Daddy didn’t like to build a fire and Ma was just plain scared, so it was my job). One of the two bedrooms, mine and Rosalinda’s was on the right side of the kitchen and the other, Daddy and Ma’s, connected to the family room and curved around the back of the kitchen. The family room and the two bedrooms each had one window. The dining table was pushed in one corner of the family room and an old rocking chair in which Paps told us stories at night before he died stood in the other. An oil painted canvas bearing his stern figure hung above the fireplace and was always the cleanest item in the room.
         Ma said that Paps was a good man who took care of her family, even when things were hard. Daddy didn’t believe Ma’s family ever had to face hard times ‘cause Paps was the richest man in Fayette County when he was alive. Ma said he wasn’t always rich and that he started out living on the streets of Memphis.
         I asked Ma once why, if Paps was so rich, we weren’t living in a huge mansion in Nashville. She told me to not ask such fool-hearted questions and to get back to work dusting Paps’ picture.
         That summer was the hottest summer I can remember and we had to keep the door and every window open in the early morning and closed from mid-morning to late afternoon. When the evening came, the door and windows were flung open again to grab every cool vapor in the late night. I felt extremely hot every second of every day, even late into the night. I awoke almost every night sweating and staring out through the window yearning to sneak onto Mr. Drayer’s property next door and plunge into the pond that was surrounded by the old oak trees.
         One evening, I woke in my usual muggy bed and looked out the window at Mr. Drayer’s pasture. The old oaks were still in their same place, refreshed by the spring-fed water of the pond. I imagined myself jumping into the cool, clear water as the stars tumbled and dashed about with the waves from my entry. I could feel the water all around me its cool, refreshing hydration covering my tired, sweaty body. I had almost lost myself in my dream when I heard a noise outside. I opened my eyes and sat up to look out of the window that was over my bed. A dark figure darted in through the light between the shadows of two trees by the pond. Was somebody out there?
         I looked deeper into the shadows for any movement. But nothing stirred.
I was about to turn back to the bed, but the shadow moved again, running from the trees to Mr. Drayer’s storage shed which sat about three yards from them. There was someone out there. I hoped it wasn’t anyone dangerous. I had heard stories that a few inmates at a penthouse just outside of Memphis had escaped a few weeks before. Three out of the five that were on the loose were found and sent to better-secured facilities, but two were still at large. These stories now flooded my mind and fed my imagination which, by now had taken to creating weird, twisted scenarios.
         Maybe it was one of the Peterson boys who had escaped into the night to catch salamanders in Mr. Drayer’s pond. But why would he be hunting at night?
I watched for over an hour, waiting for the figure to reappear. Nothing moved. I slowly crawled back in bed with eyes wide open. I tried to close them to let sleep have its way, but they wouldn’t stay closed for more than five seconds. I kept thinking about the shadow and every few minutes I looked out the window expecting to see an escapee in an orange suit come running from the pond to the house. But there was no one.
         Chills ran up my spine. I had never been this frightened in my entire life. I wanted Daddy. I closed my eyes quickly. I saw criminals with distorted faces fly across my mind. I opened my eyes and lay awake, trying to muster enough courage to close them once more. I barely blinked, knowing that if I let my eyes rest any, I’d see the faces in my head and let the monsters come out of the dark places. Rosalinda had told me that monsters like to attack when you aren’t looking.
I scanned my room, eyeing my closet quickly, then moving to my dresser. A few small items lay on its top in a disordered pile. I looked closer. I could make out the outline of my red ribbon I had won at last year’s county fair. Next to it, I saw a long, silver piece that glimmered as if it were metal. Rubbing my eyes, I squinted into the darkness to look closer, keeping an eye out for any desperate criminals. It was my harmonica. Its long, metal frame curved down to meet the screws that held it onto the wood.
         Daddy had given it to me two Christmases ago, and to this day, I still remember how I felt when I opened the gift. It seemed odd at the time. I felt peace. Like Daddy was apart of me and I was apart of him. The harmonica was just like his.
         Daddy taught me a few songs, and now, in the frightful darkness of the hot summer night, I felt like I needed to play one. Wanting not to disturb Rosalinda, I quietly made my way off of my bed. Its metal mattress springs squeaked under the pressure. I tiptoed to my dresser, softly grabbed my instrument, and made my way back. I sat down, smoother this time, so as not to disturb the springs. I lay on my back and put the harmonica to my lips. Soft air flowed out of my mouth, causing the notes to come out cracked and weak. Still, I felt the strength I needed. I played an old song Daddy had taught me on his harmonica. “Ol’ Shadrach” was a sad, solemn tune; as sad and solemn, Daddy said, as the day the Babylonians led the captive Hebrews back to Babylon to be their slaves. And as sad and solemn as the day King Nebuchadnezzar ordered the three faithful men into the firey furnace. But the story, and the song, gave me hope. Those guys with the funny names survived because Jesus was with them. They were okay. They lived.
         I played the song quietly for another fifteen minutes, staring at the ceiling and remembering that Christmas, which now seemed like yesterday. I played the song over and over. I wasn’t afraid.
         My eyes drooped, threatening to close, but I struggled to keep them open. I had to finish the song. The last note I remember playing before lazy blackness overwhelmed me, was a low and eerie tune.

I was swimming in the cool water of Mr. Drayer’s pond. Matthew Peterson was chasing after salamanders. Night fell so suddenly and a hooded man ran up to Matthew and threw him into the water. I knew that he did not know how to swim, but woke up before I could save him.
         It was morning, and Ma was yelling at me and telling me to get up and help Daddy in the field. The early sunshine was beating on my eyelids through the window. I hopped out of bed, put on my jeans and shoes, grabbed one of Ma’s breakfast buns, and snatched up my harmonica.
I ran to catch up with Daddy. That summer he worked for Mr. Drayer (who owned thousands of acres of land all over the state) because the farm hadn’t produced enough good crops the fall before. I had to help gather the cattle and bring them to the barns to eat in the mornings.
         The day was long and sweltering, and I wanted it to be over. On my way home that evening, I took a detour to the pond. I looked for any traces of the person who had stalked the place the night before. In the grass along the west bank, I noticed that some of the foliage was pushed down. There was a trampled path from the storage shed to the two ruts that served as a road which curved into the pasture about fifty yards away. I walked to the storage shed and poked my head inside.
         I called a hearty hello to anyone occupying the barn. All was still. I stepped in deeper and looked around the musty structure. By now the sun was drawing its air-borne journey to a close, causing the light to slowly fade. I couldn’t see very far into the square structure, a small glimmer caught my eye. I moved in deeper and caught a familiar scent that wisped across my nose. It reminded me of Mr. Drayer’s tractor.
         I looked closer at the glimmer of light that had captured my attention and pulled away some dead grass around it. It was a pocket knife. Picking it up and making sure no one was watching, I quickly walked out of the shed, and shut the door. I could see the western window of the house out of which I looked last night. I put the knife in my pocket and ran home.
         Once I reached the house, I fed the pig so I wouldn’t have to hear Ma’s nagging when I walked inside. My bed looked open and inviting when I walked into my room, so I plopped down. I pulled out the treasure I had found and examined it. The silver casing on each side of the wood was what had caught my eye. It looked like pretty old. I half expected to see the initials of the owner on it, but the sides were smooth. This was exciting. I had a mystery on my hands. I looked down and saw that the knife was in someone else’s hands.
         “Where’d ya get the knife, Bradford?” Rosalinda asked. “It looks old.”
         “It’s none of yer business,” I snapped back at her, trying to grab it from her.
         “It’s not yours, Bradford.” I hated when she used my real name, and she knew it. “This isn’t the same knife Daddy gave to you last year, when you turned ten.”
         “I know, Rosabrenda.” She scowled at that.
         “Don’t you call me that, you dung bug! I’ll squoosh you like you d’serve.”
         “You can’t squoosh me!”
         Before I knew it, I was under a mass of hair, nails, and dress and was promptly squooshed. Rosalinda was sitting on top of me, my stomach side down.
         “Tell me where you got the knife, you twerp!”
         “Get off me,” I wheezed.
         “Not until you tell me, Bradford.”
         “I found it in Mr. Drayer’s storage shed by the pond. Now will you let me breathe?”
         She got off of me, but didn’t give me back the knife. It wasn’t fair. She was three years older than I was. I didn’t stand a chance of ever seeing the knife again. “Ma!” she hollered. “Brady’s been snooping around Mr. Drayer’s pond!” I hated Rosalinda.
         Ma called me into the kitchen. I walked to the kitchen where she stood over the oven. She made me tell everything, including the shadowy figure from the night before.
         “I know who that sounds like,” Daddy called from the family room when I had finished.
         Ma told him to be quiet.
         “They’re going to find out soon, anyway. You might as well tell ‘em.”
         “Well, I reckon we don’t need to spill the whole pot of beans to the children!” Ma protested. “The kids don’t need to know about everything that happens between us and Lars!” Ma’s eyes widened when she realized what she had said, and she put her hand over her mouth.
         Rosalinda’s face brightened. “So it was Uncle Lars that was runnin’ around Mr. Drayer’s place last night?”
         “I didn’t say that!” Ma snapped.
         “There’s no ‘scapin’ now, Blanche,” Daddy’s voice called out again. “You might as well tell ‘em.” He walked into the kitchen. “Rosie, let me see that knife.” She handed it to him, and he examined it thoroughly blazing away, it seemed, every small notch or crack.
         “Yep,” he said. “Looks like Uncle Lars’ knife.”
         “Uncle Lars!” Rosalinda and I both chirped. Ma rolled her eyes to the heavens.
Daddy looked at her. “Like I said, Blanche, them kids are gonna find out about him anyway, so might as well tell them while their young and innocent.”
         I think Ma gave up on trying hiding it. She told us the story about Uncle Lars, while Daddy frequently interrupted to make things clearer or more precise. Daddy later said Ma was “smoothing the story over a bit” to try to not lose her confidence in her own kinfolk.
         Apparently, Paps was rich up until about five years before he died and he did live in a mansion in Nashville. He and Grandma Lardner gave birth to Lars first, Aunt Matilda second, Ma third and Aunt Lettie last. They grew up and Lars was jealous of Paps’ fortune. He tried to convince Paps to give his estate and money to him in his will, but Paps wouldn’t be wavered.
         Because of a few careless mistakes on the title of the estate, Paps had to have it replaced and for some reason, he had Lars take it to be changed. Lars acted as though he was Paps which wasn’t hard to do because Paps’ first name was also Lars, and Lars was born on the same date as Paps who was exactly thirty years older. Lars changed all the information on the title to fit himself, and when asked why the date of sale was before he was even born, he said that this was one of the items on the title in need of change.
         When Lars was forty-two, he somehow got a hold of the title of Pap’s estate and took Paps to court, accusing him of living in a house that belonged to himself. Because the realtor who had sold it to Paps was a private realtor and long dead, not much could be defended against Lars’ claims. What was worse, the jury was paid off so Paps was cornered. Paps was proven guilty and was forced to hand over all of his estate and pay a tribute of $500,000 to Lars. He moved in with Ma and Daddy and stayed with them until he died.
         “What were the mistakes on the title?” Rosalinda asked.
Ma ignored the question, but Daddy came in the kitchen and answered for her.
         “For one thing, Paps didn’t put ‘Sr.’ beside his name and for another, he spelled his last name wrong. When he wrote the date on the line—“
         “Robert!” Ma interrupted. “Please shut yer trap.”
         Daddy stopped talking about the mistakes Paps made and moved on to the fool Paps was. “The dang man couldn’t spell, could hardly read and write, and had the same sense in him as one of Mr. Drayer’s steers.”
         Ma didn’t seem too excited with what Daddy said. She closed her eyes and gritted her teeth.
         “I shore don’t know how as heck he earned all that money.”
         Daddy paused for a breath and Ma opened her eyes, relaxed her teeth, and quickly continued the story before Daddy could go on any further.
         Lars was visiting the family last summer (well after Paps was dead) and he and Daddy had gone hunting in the woods behind the plowed fields. On the trip back, the two men had split up, because Daddy said he couldn’t stand being around Uncle Lars one minute longer. When he had reached the house, Uncle Lars was excited and said he found an oil spring on our land in the forest. He asked if he could buy the whole property from Daddy and Ma, but Daddy refused. He didn’t want to sell the land for anything. Lars kept asking and bothering him about it even after Daddy and Ma forced him to leave and go back to Nashville.
         He was back now, Daddy supposed, trying to somehow pry the land out of their hands.
         “Why would he be sneaking around on Mr. Drayer’s property?” Rosalinda asked.
         “Because he thinks we’re idiots like Paps, and we can somehow practically give it over to him if he can find the right way.” Daddy had a fire in his eyes and a stern tone in his voice. “But I’m not gonna let that dirty pig-brother of your Ma to run me off of this land.”
         Something didn’t make sense to me. “Didn’t anybody ever find out about what really happened and that the jury was full of stupid traitors?”
         “I don’t get that either,” Rosalinda agreed.
         “Don’t ask me,” Ma said and looked away.
         “Maybe Lars threatened the jury with their lives not to tell, so no one found out.” Rosalinda suggested.
         “Why can’t you tell, Daddy?”
         Ma quickly interrupted and sent me and Rosalinda to the dinner table to eat in silence. That night, I lay awake wondering about the whole story, playing with it in my head. Why had Paps let Uncle Lars do this to him? Why didn’t he stop him?
I couldn’t get to sleep and apparently, neither could Rosalinda. I heard her roll over in her bed across the room plenty of times in the night. I looked out the window at the distant trees that surrounded the pond. I wonder if Uncle Lars would come tonight. I turned back around and was startled to see Rosalinda looking at me.
         “Can’t get to sleep, too?”
         I replied with a low murmer of acknowledgment.
         “One thing I don’t get, Brady. How did Uncle Lars get enough money to pay off every one of the jurors?”
         I sat up and thought about that. “Maybe he got a loan.”
         Even though it was dark, I could tell she was looking at me like I was a dumb ox.
         “No, stupid. You don’t get a loan to pay people off.” She paused. “Do you?”
         I thought about that. Maybe it wasn’t Uncle Lars who paid the jurors off after all. Maybe it was someone else.
         I turned to look at Rosalinda, when a loud, overwhelming explosion filled the silence of night. At that instant, the room lit up with an orange-red light. It grew brighter in one moment then slowly faded to almost nothingness. Rosalinda and I launched to the window. I arrived first because my bed was right under it, but Rosalinda quickly, and with little effort, pushed me aside.
         “Rosie!” I protested.
         “Shh! Shut up!”
“What do you see?”
         “I don’t see anything. Except for maybe…We could probably see better from Daddy and Ma’s room. C’mon.”
         She jumped off the bed and quietly tiptoed out of the room. I followed and she led us through the kitchen and the family room and stopped at the threshold of Daddy and Ma’s room. I bumped into her and she nearly bit off my head.
         “Shh!”
         We looked into the room, and saw our folks fast asleep. We started moving again and tiptoed to the window. Fortunately, it wasn’t over their bed. Unfortunately, the blinds were covering the glass. Rosalinda, as quietly as she could, tried to pull the string to cause the blinds to pull up. They screeched and scratched against the frame of the window.
         “So much for that.”
         Rosalinda grabbed the wand instead and slowly leveled the blinds so that we could see through the spaces. What we saw was something we had only heard in many of Paps’ stories.
         A fire was alive on the edge of our plowed field and the forest. It was quickly growing into a full-blown bonfire and spreading across the field towards the house. We stood in utter fear as we watched it advance.
         The fire was growing more rapidly than what I’d ever expect. It was coming closer and closer to the house, eating up rows upon rows of corn, alfalfa, and silage. I looked at Rosalinda. Her horror-stricken face was illuminated by the dancing waves of orange light.
         My mouth was dry and wouldn’t form any words.
         “What do we do, Rosie?” I asked finally.
         “W…we should probably tell Daddy,” she replied unsteadily. I ran towards Daddy’s side of the bed and tried to form the words of doom that I had to speak.
         “Fire!” I squeaked. “Daddy, get up!” I pushed Daddy over onto his side, but he went back into his position, and fell back asleep. I tried to arouse him again, this time jolting him out of slumber.
         “What is it, Brady?”
         The words I spoke felt like they were from a dream. “The field’s on fire!”
         He instantly sprang to life, as if he was expecting the disaster. “Blanche, get up!” He aroused Ma and she awoke instantly.
         “What, Robert?”
         “Brady said the field’s on fire. Call the fire department.” Daddy ordered.
         Ma’s face turned white. “Do you think they’ll get here in time?”
         “I don’t know. But we have to try. Brady, Rosie help me get all of the towels and blankets and buckets we can find and meet me outside on the porch.”
         Ma scrambled out of bed, pulling the blanket off her resting place. She turned and ran past the window, stopped, turned around, and looked through the blinds.
         “Dear God in Heaven!”
         “Hurry! Let’s go!” Daddy ordered.
         We scrambled out of the bedroom, each running towards a different room in the house. I ran to my room, pulled off the covers of Rosalinda’s and my beds, grabbed my coat, and ran toward the front door. I was out on the front porch when I realized that I was forgetting the one thing that was very important to me. I ran back to my bedroom, and my hand grappled on my dresser, searching for the Christmas gift from Daddy. I threw some dirty socks and some awards I had won from school off to find my harmonica sitting on the wood, waiting to sing its next melody. I grabbed and shoved it in my coat pocket and ran out the door.
         I dashed around the house to the back to find Daddy, Ma, and Rosalinda already trying to put out the flames which were only about fifteen yards from the house.
         “Brady!” Daddy yelled over the growl of the flames. “Put one of those blankets to use and get to work!”
         I grabbed one of the blankets and let the other’s drop into a pile on the dirt.
         “Go on the east side of the flames!” Daddy ordered.
         I ran across the remaining untouched ground towards the east, past the outhouse, which, I could already tell, would be devoured in no time. On the other side of it, I met up with an army of flames advancing on us. I grabbed the blanket, folded it and whisked it above my head and then down onto the flames, my hands shaking with fear. I repeated this over and over until long after my arms started aching with pain.
         We battled the flames for over twenty minutes, running back and forth to where the fire was advancing, and beating it back. By now the outhouse was smothered in orange heat, crackling and spitting coals. It was a temporary loss, but we felt that we had the fire under control. “At least it won’t reach the house,” Rosalinda yelled.
         I could hear Daddy yell back above the flames. “Rosie, grab the bath bucket in the house and bring it out! We can use it to carry water from the well to douse the flames.”
         Rosalinda dropped her blanket and ran to the front of the house. The blanket fell into the inferno. It quickly caught on fire and was devoured by the flames.          Suddenly, a gust of wind picked up and carried the flaming cloth, which had become lighter than a feather now that the flames ate up its substance. It flew onto the side of the house which instantly welcomed the heat. The fire spread faster than we could blink, covering the whole back wall of the house within seconds.
         I grabbed my blanket and started beating the flames on the wall into submission, but they weren’t ready to give up their fight. There was more wood to devour here. The fire soon spread to the side walls. Daddy ran to the front of the house to get Rosalinda, while Ma and I continued to battle the flames.
         After what seemed like hours, Daddy finally came out with Rosalinda, who clung to him like kudzu with a pale, wide-eyed expression on her face. He set her down and started attacking the fire on the house. The flames were now gobbling the roof, and I turned from my work to look through Daddy and Ma’s window. My heart stopped.
         The bed was on fire.
         I knew that both Daddy and Ma were relatively safe out here, battling the flames, but they were always in their bed when I was younger and I woke up in the middle of the night afraid of monsters and the dark and bad dreams. This was where they always comforted me, gave me advice, and helped me grow.
         The flames lingered over the bed like demons eyeing their prey before fully devouring it. They danced around it mocking its position as a comforter. I could almost see faces in the flames, laughing at my confidence in such a fleeting thing. They paused for a few seconds, turned to me one last time, back to the bed, and jumped onto it. They engulfed it, leaving nothing for the eye to see through their dancing orange bodies.
         I stood horror stricken as I watched them devour their sacrifice.
         I turned back with tears in my eyes and tried to fight back the storm of fire which was advancing on the house, for Ma could not keep it back on her own. I felt all the strength and courage leave me. I threw the blanket I was holding down towards the ground and gave up. There was no use now. Why go on, now?
         I felt cold and feverish and started shivering. I didn’t know what to do, so I put my hands in my coat pocket and moved them around to generate heat. My hand touched something metal. It was long with square holes on the side. I pulled it out. My harmonica. I looked at it for a few seconds, tracing its silver sides and wooden frame and felt its smooth surface bending down to where the screws were placed. I put it to my lips and played a solemn tune as I watched the flames dance around. I didn’t know what else to do.
         Putting it back into my pocket, I felt stronger than I had felt all night. My father was with me. He was still here. This harmonica was a sign of his love and presence.
         My shoulders righted themselves and my arms and hands came to life. I grabbed the blanket at once and began beating the flames back under control. I felt more power surge into my arms and the flames readily obeyed.
         By now a fire truck came rolling around from behind the trees, but it was too late for the house. It was just a matter of time before the roof caved in. In fact, right when they turned on the hose, it bid us farewell and collapsed out of sight, sending sparks and coals flying in every direction.
         The flames eating the house were easily put out, but nothing was left of it except the two front walls. The flames that engulfed the field were harder to put out because we didn’t realize that they quickly spread to Mr. Drayer’s property and to the pond. The oaks survived, but the floor in the shed burst into flames, causing the shed itself to catch fire and burn down. The fireman told us to stay out of their way, so I gladly went back near the remains of the house and looked at it one last time before resting my head on Ma’s lap and watching the last of the flames being destroyed.

I woke in the morning in a hospital room, still on Ma’s lap. She was sitting in a chair next to a hospital bed. Raising my head, I was surprised to see Daddy in the bed. Tubes were stuck in his arm and his head was bandaged with a strip of white cloth. He was asleep, or at least it seemed so. I looked at Ma with a quizzical expression. Her eyes filled with tears that were ready to fall at a moments notice.
         She told me that when Daddy went back into the house to rescued Rosalinda, a crossbeam from the burned out ceiling had fallen and hit the side of his head. He recovered then, but later that night, he had a concussion. The firemen called for an ambulance and had Daddy taken here where he fell into a coma. Ma stayed with him all night. “I did, too,” I informed her.
         I thought about this for a moment. Daddy had gone back into the house to find Rosalinda, and in the process our home, our house, had turned to nothing and attacked him back. It wasn’t fair. If only Rosalinda hadn’t gone back into the house. If only Daddy would have never sent her back. But he did go after her. He was brave. I decided right there that I would be brave like that when I grew up.
         Aunt Matilda came and took Rosalinda to stay with her for a while. Ma told me how Uncle Lars was found unconscious in our forest near the oil spring. He was the one who started the fire. She said he knew we wouldn’t be able to afford to build a new house and we would have to sell the land. The explosion we heard was when the fire reached the oil spring, causing the underground oil to combust into flames. The blast destroyed any hope of using it for drilling, so Uncle Lars was out of luck and in jail.
         Uncle Lars had been visiting the pond the last few nights and Ma said that there was an empty gasoline can hanging from one of the trees. Lars had used it to start the fire and had stayed with it in the storage shed the night before watching for a good time to start the fire. Mr. Drayer was in cahoots with him which is why Uncle Lars wasn’t charged for trespassing on his land, but for arson. It was Mr. Drayer who paid off the jurors in Paps’ trial.
         A while later, a nurse asked us to leave the room for a minute. We waited just outside the door and returned when she said we could. The nurse had a worried look on her face when she walked past us into the hall.
         A doctor was soon back to inform us of some bad news. Daddy was dying. The blow to his had had spurred a serious concussion. He told me and Ma that this was shutting all his systems down, and there was nothing they could do about it. It didn’t look like he would make it through the next night. Ma couldn’t hold back the tears any longer. I waited for her to finish crying. I tried not to cry.
         Later that afternoon, when Daddy’s breathing became worse, Ma looked at me in the face.
         “You’d better say so long to your Daddy.” She left the room, silently closing the door behind her.
         “Daddy?” I asked knowing he wouldn’t respond. I took hold of his strong arm which was now unmoving. “I think you were brave and I felt you were there when we fought the fire. I know you were there for me.” I paused, a tear trickling down my cheek. “I want to be there for you. I want to be brave for you.” I wiped a tear with my hand. “But we’ll see each other again one day, and then I could be brave for you.” Daddy didn’t move.
         “Goodbye, Daddy.”
         I let go of his arm, looked one last time at him, and walked to the door.

Summer turned to fall which was cold and wet that year. That autumn was a dismal time for the whole country. On November 22, President John F. Kennedy was assassinated while riding through the streets of Dallas, Texas.
         We left the ruins of the house untouched, as a memorial, I suppose, to the house itself, and to Daddy. I didn’t think Ma was ready to go back and relive all the memories, but I couldn’t help it.
         One cold December, five years after the fire, I had a friend drive me to the ruins. I was surprised to find that they were still left untouched, although a housing development called “Peterson Properties” was being built behind it. That was odd. The name seemed vaguely familiar. Even odder, why would they leave the ruins up in front of a very nice neighborhood?
         I walked into the ruins between the two remaining walls. I looked all around at the bare, winter forest and tried to remember what it was like to live between these walls. I walked into each of the rooms as the memories flooded back into my mind, out of control. I was in Daddy’s arms as he told us the story of the Silver Monster. I was in the kitchen getting ready to eat supper and listening to Ma hum her favorite hymn.
         Back in the present, I walked into each of the rooms. In Daddy and Ma’s, I found a block of wood that looked like one of the legs to their bed. I picked it up and held it under my arm.
         I walked around to my and Rosalinda’s room. Standing in the old doorway, I couldn’t help but relive the memories of fighting and arguing with Rosalinda. I looked around the ground. Something caught my eye near the area I guessed to be where Rosalinda’s bed was. I bent down and picked it up. It was an old pocket knife, silver on the ends with a wooden middle, its blade open.
         My breath cut short and held its position in my mouth. Pain stung my heart as I felt its dark, smooth side. It was a pain that felt as if a wound that hadn’t been touched for a long while was suddenly ripped open again.
         I stood on the ashes of my long lost home staring at the knife feeling my heart crushing under the sorrows I thought I had forgotten.
         This was the pain I had been holding in for years. The bitterness I had once thought would never touch me. Images of my uncle, the man who stole my innocence, the man who stole my father, flashed across my mind. My eyes burned with hatred. I could see no human in the brother of my mother.
         But quietly, a man’s soft voice inside me said, “Let go.”
         The knife fell from my hands and bounced back onto the ashes where it always belonged. My heart felt as though it leaped out of my chest. My shoulders straightened. The hurt and pain was gone. “I forgive you, Uncle Lars.” It left me. All the bitterness and anger that was ready to burst open at any minute left me.
         But then, a new feeling crept inside the empty space where the bitterness had long dwelt. Loneliness. A loneliness that I often felt these past five years but try to ignore. An emptiness that I knew only my father could fill. A lack of strength and courage that was fallowed by boughs of anxiety. A hole that ate away at me with every birthday, every Christmas, and every holiday since that fateful summer.
         Where was my father now? Why couldn’t I be with him, talk with him one last time? Why couldn’t I feel him? Why couldn’t I feel peace? I felt a tear that I had not cried in years roll down my cheek.
         Softly, I reached into my coat pocket, felt for the smooth casing of my gift, and pulled it out. I looked at the gilded, metallic sides and the holes on another long side. The metal curved down to meet the screws. I put the harmonica to my lips and played a solemn tune.