There were Gordon’s grandfather’s waders, hanging by a nail. His old level with his initials, A.A., carved into one side, was hanging from a pegboard. Gordon’s father, Joe, had things in there, too. The barn used to be his, when he owned the house. There was a blue Maxwell House coffee can filled with nails, a toolbox and the new stuff: a memorial card with the Lord’s Prayer written on it, a eulogy from his funeral, and a little black book.
The cover said, “Standard Accident Insurance Company of Detroit” in gold letters, with an address for an office in Philadelphia, where my father-in-law lived after serving in the Marines in World War II. Inside was a calendar from 1945 and some miscellaneous information. Birthstones, distances between American cities, how to salute the flag, what to do if you are bitten by a snake or a mad dog, and a page called “useful information,” which includes a lot of math tips about circumference, area and diameter.
There were sums and multiplications he had calculated, and names. Lots of names of people he met during his 82 years. Old phone numbers, too, the kind that began with two letters. PI-5-9753 for someone named Bud. Guys from Massachusetts, Maryland, New Jersey, Ohio, South Carolina and New York. Harry, Henry, James and Willis. Charles, William and Francis. Probably all war buddies. I flipped through the thin, yellowed pages and read the distinctively male handwriting. Tight cursive letters, in pencil, were faded now and a little blurry from time, as though the pages had been touched too often.
I put down the book, walked out and went back to my chores, without my gloves.
That night, I talked with Gordon about my visit to the barn. He said having those things there made him feel better. “My dad had that book since 1940-something. I didn’t even know he had it. When he died, I took it,” he said.
I turned out the lights and stared into the darkness. I have plenty of things that belonged to my brother. His Jeep is sitting in our driveway. Boxes of his so-called archives are in storage. I’ve got his high school class ring, albums, some of his clothes, concert memorabilia and pictures.
And the things in the barn. It is nice to have those things, but as I lay there in the dark, I knew I had something more. Dreams. There, we are talking and spending time together again. I have dreamed of him routinely in the year and a half since he died. In one, I was in a house I didn’t recognize with our parents. We were busy doing work around the house, and my brother walked in. I kept telling him how busy we were and how there was always something that needed to be done. He was well, not paralyzed and partially blind, as he was before he died. He told me he wasn’t affected by things that affected us. Where he lived, things were always quiet and peaceful. “It’s like this,” he said, pulling me to his chest. He put his arm around my shoulder, and we were still. I listened to his heartbeat and it was peaceful, just like he said.
I started drifting off. Maybe I would dream about him again soon. Maybe tonight. It was a sanctuary for me and almost, almost the real thing.
