Chapter 6: Joe

It was funny; he had driven by the barn dozens of times since he had been back home and not once had he remembered that kiss, but for some reason that morning he had. Joe reminisced about his first step into becoming a young man.

It had been an awkward moment for them both. He was so nervous. He remembered looking into her blue eyes and how she shied away as if she too was unsure of what to do. He remembered leaning in and kissing her softly and sweetly, and as she pulled away, she didn't speak-ªshe just stood up and stared at him. She mustered a nervous smile and turned and ran away. Joe couldn't help but laugh as he remembered the distress he felt when he watched her run across the field toward her home.

He sat there for a moment longer, looking toward the Thompson farm where his young love had lived. He never did understand why she ran away. He looked back up to the barn once more as he shifted the truck into gear and eased off the clutch. He stepped on the gas, causing the truck to lurch forward, and continue to bump across the field for a few more minutes. When he finally made it back to the road, he stepped on the gas, causing the wheels to spin as they dug into the dirt below. Joe looked to the mirror; a cloud of dust rose up behind him, and when the truck started to climb the hill that led toward the house, he heard the engine begin to strain. He shifted down in gear, finding more power, and stepped on the gas. The truck lumbered along for a moment, and as he crested the top of the hill, his childhood home came into view.

The large old house looked beautiful in the distance, almost majestic. A large spire stood at the edge of the front porch rising above the trees, giving the place a castle-like feel. It seemed the old place had been there forever. His parents had moved into it many years before yet weren't the first owners and probably not the last. It had been Joe's home for as long as he could remember, and his parents had managed to keep it through wars and sickness, even the Great Depression.

When Joe got closer to the house, he could make out a light in the kitchen window. He knew his father would be there as he was each morning, but unlike other mornings, Joe dreaded going in. He and his father had argued the night before, but it wasn't just last night that had bothered him; they both had been rather abrasive the past few weeks, and last night it seemed that everything had come to a head.

Joe pulled the truck up in front of the house and switched off the engine. He looked at the door to the house and laid his arms over the steering wheel. He rested his head on his arm and took a deep breath as he tried to relieve the tension in his chest. Since returning home from the war, Joe had gotten pretty good at avoiding stressful situations. During the war, he had been shaken to his core in what he was told was "combat stress." Joe wasn't sure what the hell to call the lingering pain and distress he felt, but he knew he didn't like confrontation anymore.

After a moment of contemplation, he glanced back up to the door to the kitchen and leaned back from the steering wheel. He took a deep breath, working up the nerve to go inside, and reached for the door, swinging it open. Joe walked up onto the large wraparound porch and headed toward the door. When he walked inside, he found his father sitting at the table drinking his morning cup of coffee. His father looked over to him as he walked in; a slight smile came to his face as he too had anticipated Joe's return.

"Morning, son," he said.

Joe didn't say a word. He only walked across the kitchen to the cupboard. He pulled a blue ceramic cup from the shelf and reached for the coffee pot on the stovetop. Joe quickly filled his cup, causing some coffee to splash over the edge. He reached for a washcloth on the counter and briskly swiped it over his mess. Joe walked over to the sink, tossed the rag down and stood staring out the window, not even attempting to turn and look at his father. He pulled the cup to his lips and loudly sipped the hot drink. Joe tried to forget about the night before, but as he stood there, the tension in his chest grew. Joe sighed loudly again. He reached his hand up to his neck and kneaded his tense muscles. Behind him, he heard the clatter of a chair as it slid across the wooden floor. He glanced over his shoulder to see his father walking up. As he took up a spot next to Joe, neither of them said a word. They only stared out the window toward the horizon.

Silence filled the air and, as the tension built, his father's raspy voice broke the silence.

"Did you tell her good morning for me too?"

Joe, never breaking his gaze from the horizon, took another sip of his coffee. He dropped his hand from his neck.

"I'll tell her for you tomorrow, Henry."

Joe's father had never understood why his wife sat outside waiting on the sunrise each morning and now he understood even less, as Joe had taken up her morning ritual. It didn't bother Joe that he asked, but he wished that his father had paid a little closer attention to his mother when she was still around. They stood there looking out the window, sipping their coffee for some time, until his father finally worked up the nerve to speak to him again.

"So, it's Henry now, and I assume you're still mad about last night, Joooooseph?"

Joe turned from the window and leaned on the counter. He bit his lip as he mulled his thoughts. He reached up, rubbing the stubble on his face and then looked out the corner of his eye toward his father.

"You know, Dad, I know you worry about me, and I know you think I spend too much time alone, but I am ok being alone."

He turned so he was looking directly at his father.

"I'm not broken, so stop trying to fix me."

Henry looked in his son's eyes. He tried to find some piece of who he used to be, but all that remained was a distant shell of his son. He looked away from Joe and back to the window.

"Joe, you spend all your time out on that damn hillside or alone in your darkroom. You act more like your mother each day."

Joe growled.

"Oh, that's such a dreadful thing, isn't it, Dad? We can't remember mom at all, can we?"

Henry's voice began to drop, "Son, you sneak out early each morning, looking to that damn sunrise for answers to whatever the hell it is you're trying to find,"

Joe shook his head in disbelief.

"Sneaking, huh? You know, Dad, you never did understand Mom. You never even tried. You were always too damn busy. You could get up early for this farm, but not for her, could you?"

Henry's gaze dropped to the floor,

"Go ahead, Joe; get mad at me for the past. Hell, I'll take the yelling, any damn emotion is something. You never really talk anymore anyway, it's like I'm not even around. We live in the same damn house and the only thing we do is yell at each other."

Henry cleared his throat again.

"You have got to get on with your life." He reached his hands out toward Joe, almost as if he was pleading with him.

"You can't hang on to the past anymore; you need to get out, see what life has to offer, stop hiding out here with this old man and those damn sunrises."

Joe turned back to the sink and in one movement threw his cup into the sink, shattering it. He leaned on the counter with both hands and hung his head. Henry looked over to him, placing his hand on his shoulder.

"Son, it's time to move on, you have to let go of whatever happened to you in that damn war. I can't even begin to imagine what you went through over there, but you have to remember you made it home, just deal with the past or forget it, but it's time to move on. You know you want to. Hell, I want you to, and you know your mother would want it."

Henry hoped his words might have brought some sense of calm to his son, but as he looked to him all he could see was pain. Joe wanted to say something that would make him understand, he wanted to tell him why he stayed alone. All he truly wanted was the anger and pain that consumed him gone. He looked into his father's eyes and, as Joe's eyes welled up with tears, he dropped his gaze to the floor. Joe stepped away from the sink and brushed by his father as he went into the living room. He found his camera bag in the chair near the stairs and quickly scooped it up. He walked over by the door, grabbed a folder from the table and went back into the kitchen. Joe stopped in the doorway and turned toward his father.

"I can move on, but don't ever tell me to forget them again."

Henry looked at him, puzzled by his response, but Joe didn't give him the opportunity to talk. He just turned and walked out the door.