The butterflies took flight as I pulled around the corner. One more left, and I?m there. I heard all the stories of his drinking and abuse. His Cherokee blood ran deep and it didn?t take much alcohol to make it boil. My aunt?s bitter face, as she spoke his name, exposed the story. Telling me how one time, he beat her and my mother, at about age five. They were then forced to sit on the sofa as he took a picture of their little, bruised faces. At this point, I had met several lost family members, and none gave a happy tune to his song. The memory of Bryan always sounded out the Blues.
The Southern California smog darkened the sun?s rays as I passed each house. Some new, others tired. I slowed the car to a crawl as I came up to the house on the corner. I knew my grandfather had family there for years. Not blood relatives, but those of his second wife, Bella. The house was being added onto in the same fashion as many of the homes in the neighborhood. If the houses were not being tore down, they were upgraded or simply left to time. I had studied the maps as if I was going in with the S.W.A.T. team. They were burnt into my psyche to the point I knew exactly were I was, and I knew his house was just around the corner behind the neatly errected and plumbed two-by-fours.
As I straitened out the rental car, it was there just on my left. The house my grandfather had lived in for over three decades; that is if he was still there. Yellow siding with white awning, and a short veneer of red brick. Most likely the same as when he bought it in the early seventies.
In the drive was an old ?64 ford pickup with a ?69 camper on the back. The truck, rigged for the camper, sported a two foot wide, back bumper for easy camper access. Next to it was a maroon ?72 Sport Coupe. Then oddly enough, an early eighties, Olds 88 parked perpendicular to the others, at the bottom of the drive. All these squeezed into a driveway for two.
Though the last of my grails stood there before me, just at me reach, my wheels never stopped. I had waited for this moment for years and I was scared. I was worried someone else would answer the door only to shoo me away. I imagined his last wife?s family hoarding him away in the dark of the old house; hovering over their inheritance as he nears his eightieth birthday. I was afraid he might be there; the grandfather I had not seen in forty years. The man who had abused my mother and her family for so long; I never touched the breaks.
I drove around the block and parked on the side of the street. I at least wanted the opportunity to get a picture of his house. I decided I?d steal a snapshot before I was run off, so I retrieved my camera from its bag and continued around the block to finish my quest.
I pulled around the corner again, this time from the other direction and snapped my two shots before I came to a stop. At the least, another nondescript photo for the family tree. Something to prove to my grandson, just how close I had gotten. I killed the engine, returned the camera to its pouch and braced myself for yet another ending with an unknown consequence.
I had no idea who this man would be, the man whose name I bear. I imagined him as short and slummed. As shriveled as his liver must be from the many pints over. He had not spoken to any of my family in close to twenty years. I didn?t know if he?d happily greet me with open arms or shout me down, pointing me the direction of Hell.
As the car door slammed shut behind me, I made my way across the street and through the grass, as the cars blocked all concrete pathways. Arriving at the door, I took a deep breath, and aimed for the tiny doorbell.
I heard nothing. For at least two minutes I stood there as my stomach sunk farther and farther from its perch. The cars may all be broken down, I thought. He?s not here. I then knocked on the screen door. The ancient aluminum shook and rattled as my knuckles rapped and tapped. Then, as if slowly emanating from the darkness of my mind, I heard light foot steps arrive at the door. The knob shook as the clatter of an old, worn out, lock, sprang from the inside.
My heart raced. Who?s going to greet me ? or not ? from the other side? Had I come all this way only to be crushed once again? My heart dashed to the dirt only to be picked up as before? It seemed forever for the wooden door to finish its swing. I stood there as composed as possible, for I knew, once again, one way or another, my life would change forever.
To be continued...
Bryan
Have You Seen My Mother