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Authors: John Brandon
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see that heâd turned out a lot more like his father than his uncle. Reggie liked to work and didnât care to impress anyone except the people closest to him. When heâd died heâd been driving an old Dodge truck his father had handed down to him.
Reggie turned away from the piano with the intention of leaving the main hall and almost walked into a bureau, broad and hunched-looking, close enough to the piano that when Reggie backed up a step they seemed like a set. He knew this bureau. It didnât tower like it had when he was a kid, but he recognized it. It was his fatherâs. And here it was. His parents had new furniture now, but the bureau squatting mutely in Reggieâs space had been his fatherâs years ago. As a kid, Reggie used to sneak into his parentsâ bedroom and creak the bureau drawers open and pore over the contents. There were boxes in the bureau and boxes inside those boxes. Jewelry that probably wasnât worth much but that Reggie could think of as pirate treasure. Photos of relatives Reggie had never met. Car titles and birth certificates in baroque script. Tie pins and cigar cutters.
Reggie had stolen a buffalo nickel. He had no idea why he hadnât simply asked for it, but instead heâd filched the old coin and taken it back his room and after that heâd never again picked through the bureau. The nickel had been old when Reggie had taken it and it was older now.Reggie had no idea where his father had gotten the nickel or what meaning it held. His father, if heâd noticed it missing, had never said anything about it. Of course heâd noticed it missing. Reggie, as heâd grown older, had often wanted to confess, to clear his conscience and have a laugh about it, but he never had. Now it was too late. He wondered if, when his parents were finally ready to sift through his possessions, theyâd find the nickel in the old fire engine bank.
Next was a program from a chorus recital Reggie had performed in, perched in the pianoâs music holder, which to that point had sat empty. Reggie didnât touch the program or even look closely. He knew it by the yellow-winged birds on the cover. The program marked the first experience Reggieâd had with a girl. His memory was a plaything, he gathered. Heâd known his afterlife was a plaything, but apparently his history on earth was too. Kimmy Susteran. Sheâd never spoken to Reggie before that day on the bus when she took his hand firmly in hers and guided it up under her white polo shirt. Reggie wasnât going to indulge in this recollection. Someone wanted him to indulge, so he was refusing. He wanted to think about what he wanted to think about. He wanted to think about nothing and wait in peace for whatever he was waiting for.
THE WOLF
The wolf had begun his rounds early in order to see the humans gather outside the clinic building. He wanted to witness their arrival, and so he had crossed over from Golden to the outskirts of Albuquerque with the shadows still strong. This was an excellent way to get shot, but getting shot seemed a far-off fear, too obvious a fear. He padded past the old market and bellied under one of the trucks on the adjacent lot and saw as the first humans found their places under the weak, lofty lights. One at a time or in clutches they entered the quiet and hunkered in it, intensifying it. The wolf didnât know what heâd wanted to learn, beating the humans to this spot. Soon enough he was waiting again, like last time. The cars appeared in a slow flurry and then everything was still. The wolf couldhear confused lizards scuttling around outside the perimeter of the human presence, wondering what was going on. The wolf could hear a noise the moon was making.
The wolf did not enjoy these meetings. He did not enjoy watching the humans stifle their sneezes to preserve the quiet. They were young and old, these humans, men and women. None of them would laugh
Reggie turned away from the piano with the intention of leaving the main hall and almost walked into a bureau, broad and hunched-looking, close enough to the piano that when Reggie backed up a step they seemed like a set. He knew this bureau. It didnât tower like it had when he was a kid, but he recognized it. It was his fatherâs. And here it was. His parents had new furniture now, but the bureau squatting mutely in Reggieâs space had been his fatherâs years ago. As a kid, Reggie used to sneak into his parentsâ bedroom and creak the bureau drawers open and pore over the contents. There were boxes in the bureau and boxes inside those boxes. Jewelry that probably wasnât worth much but that Reggie could think of as pirate treasure. Photos of relatives Reggie had never met. Car titles and birth certificates in baroque script. Tie pins and cigar cutters.
Reggie had stolen a buffalo nickel. He had no idea why he hadnât simply asked for it, but instead heâd filched the old coin and taken it back his room and after that heâd never again picked through the bureau. The nickel had been old when Reggie had taken it and it was older now.Reggie had no idea where his father had gotten the nickel or what meaning it held. His father, if heâd noticed it missing, had never said anything about it. Of course heâd noticed it missing. Reggie, as heâd grown older, had often wanted to confess, to clear his conscience and have a laugh about it, but he never had. Now it was too late. He wondered if, when his parents were finally ready to sift through his possessions, theyâd find the nickel in the old fire engine bank.
Next was a program from a chorus recital Reggie had performed in, perched in the pianoâs music holder, which to that point had sat empty. Reggie didnât touch the program or even look closely. He knew it by the yellow-winged birds on the cover. The program marked the first experience Reggieâd had with a girl. His memory was a plaything, he gathered. Heâd known his afterlife was a plaything, but apparently his history on earth was too. Kimmy Susteran. Sheâd never spoken to Reggie before that day on the bus when she took his hand firmly in hers and guided it up under her white polo shirt. Reggie wasnât going to indulge in this recollection. Someone wanted him to indulge, so he was refusing. He wanted to think about what he wanted to think about. He wanted to think about nothing and wait in peace for whatever he was waiting for.
THE WOLF
The wolf had begun his rounds early in order to see the humans gather outside the clinic building. He wanted to witness their arrival, and so he had crossed over from Golden to the outskirts of Albuquerque with the shadows still strong. This was an excellent way to get shot, but getting shot seemed a far-off fear, too obvious a fear. He padded past the old market and bellied under one of the trucks on the adjacent lot and saw as the first humans found their places under the weak, lofty lights. One at a time or in clutches they entered the quiet and hunkered in it, intensifying it. The wolf didnât know what heâd wanted to learn, beating the humans to this spot. Soon enough he was waiting again, like last time. The cars appeared in a slow flurry and then everything was still. The wolf couldhear confused lizards scuttling around outside the perimeter of the human presence, wondering what was going on. The wolf could hear a noise the moon was making.
The wolf did not enjoy these meetings. He did not enjoy watching the humans stifle their sneezes to preserve the quiet. They were young and old, these humans, men and women. None of them would laugh
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