back but only in a fantasy way.
― Iris Murdoch
Returns are so overrated. I almost didn't come back for that reason.
The sun comes back every morning―the waves return to the shore―the rooks return to the woods and the hellion comes home.
It's a tired trope, a figure walking down a road, an ex-con wanting to start anew, but when you've been to hell, any road out will do.
This is how I see the west, with sun red above the escarpment and the road before me wet from a shower but now drying.
There'll be stars tonight and I'll return under the cover of darkness―seems appropriate, because that's how I went and never looked back until lately―had no reason to really, but now with my folks gone and the house mine, I'll claim my inheritance.
"A fresh start," Jake Dawson smiled, when I told him my plans.
I like Jake but he tends to write happy endings. "I don't stay with anything too long," I growl, "so I wouldn't get all misty-eyed."
"I see good things in you, Jonas. Just give it time."
That's Jake―always the coach, but the other hat he wears is parole officer―well, I've been done with that for some time―now he's just a friend, and I suppose, a mentor, though he'd deny even that.
I'll miss him, but it's time for me to try things on my own―what's the worst that can happen?
Yeah, I don't even want to go there.
The street lights are on by the time I arrive in Dundas and I'm hungry and beat from the road.
I want a burger, fries and a beer and I see a spot, a pub called The Thirsty Cactus. It looks friendly, a bit rough around the edges, but hell, that could describe me.
I'm tired and hungry and thirsty―it seems a soft place to land.
"You're new in town," Frizzy, the waitress says. (I don't know her name―I'm just going by her hair.)
"Are you staying or just passing through?"
"Don't know―that all depends."
She drops two cold drafts―I like this girl. She's got good instincts.
"I'm Isabel," she smiles.
"Jonas," I grunt, downing the first beer.
"Well, Jonas, where'd you learn to chug draft like that?"
"You don't want to know," I tell her and I mean it.
She nods and takes the hint. We're on a first name basis and it just might stay there, so why bother going further?
An hour later and I'm still here, staring out the window at Main Street, of course, and wondering how it will be when I go home tonight to the old house.
Alfred Rosenburg, the family lawyer, tells me everything's in order and he took the liberty of stocking the fridge.
Just like Alfred, I muse, always taking care of business―Dad's consigliere and trusted friend.
And I know he's got a dozen papers he's dying for me to sign―no pun intended, but everything passes and I don't give a damn.
"I'm leaving," Isabel says, "end of my shift, can you get along without me?"
"Do you want to come home with me?" I ask.
"I don't even know your last name."
"It's Asher," I say, and wait for her reaction.
She whistles softly, "Well, they said you were coming back. I guess that rumour was true."
"So, I guess you won't be coming home with me," I laugh.
"I didn't say I believe all the rumours about you. Yeah, I'll come with you―you shouldn't go home alone, It's just not right."
"What's your last name?" I ask.
"Stairs―Isabel Stairs. You sure you're alright to drive?"
I toss her my keys, "Home, Stairs," I deadpan.
"You better have a nice ride," she smirks.
"It's a Prius―a rental. Haven't bought anything yet."
"Well, you care about the environment―you can't be all bad."
"That's what my parole officer says."
She rolls her eyes and pulls me to my feet. "I'm not impressed."
I believe her. I don't think she is. Yep, I like her.