Wild Reckless

“So, you’re…cleaning?” I ask, holding up a bag of trash tied and propped in the corner.

“Seems so,” she says, going back to scrubbing. “I’m getting rid of…things. Anything we don’t need, it’s in boxes in the garage.”

She didn’t say it, but I know she means she’s getting rid of my father, of his things. She’s being a little manic, and when I look around the house, I’m a little frightened by how much she’s done in the six or seven hours I’ve been gone.

“Okay, well…do you want to keep going? Or, I don’t know…can I help? I have a project to work on, but it’s not due for a while,” I say, setting my backpack on the counter and my project supplies down next to it. My mom feels lost, and I’m right there with her.

“There’s a lot of trash. There’s more on the side of the house. Maybe see what you can fit in the can?” she asks, already back to scrubbing the sink. I notice she’s thrown my father’s food away, the packets of tuna he likes all bagged up neatly—ready for the trash.

“I can handle trash,” I say, watching her wipe her brow with her sleeve, watching her pretend. I pick up the small bag of food and garbage and leave through the back door, ready to pretend right along with her.

I notice the bags stacked along the wall when I step outside, and I recognize my father’s dress shoes peaking out of the top of one of them.

“That’s a lot of nice stuff. Your mom throwing it all away?” Owen asks. I close my eyes, my back still to him.

“Guess so,” I respond.

“You should sell it,” he says, and I hear his steps moving away from me. I turn and notice he’s taking out a bag of trash too.

I drag our garbage and the first bag of my father’s things to our can, which is sitting right next to the Harpers’.

“You take out the trash,” I say, not sure why I’m surprised seeing him do such a simple thing. But I am. I’m amazed.

“Yep,” he says, flinging his bag into his container and closing the lid. I notice how empty it sounds, and I look over my shoulder at the dozen bags waiting for me.

“Hey,” I start, but stop instantly, biting my lip to give myself time to think. I almost asked him for a favor, and I don’t think I want to do that.

“If I can have those shoes, you can dump your crap in our trashcan,” he says, finishing my thought—almost.

“Really?” I’m flummoxed. He’s being nice. Or, I think he’s being nice. “And…the shoes?”

He gestures to the bags, to the one on top with my father’s dress shoes.

“Oh,” I say, feeling a little strange about the thought of Owen wearing my father’s shoes. “I…I guess?”

“It’s for my grandpa. He needs a new pair,” Owen says, somehow becoming a little more human with this revelation. He has a grandpa. I don’t know why that strikes me as strange, also.

“Sure, then. That’s fine,” I say, walking over to grab some of the bags. I pull the shoes out of the first and turn to hand them to Owen, surprised when he’s close to me. He’s so near me, and his eyes aren’t dark. They’re bright. He looks…happy. “Does your grandpa live close?”

I hand him the shoes, and for a few seconds, we’re both holding them. Owen is looking at the shoes. I’m looking at Owen’s hands and remembering how he stopped me from beating up the dashboard of his truck. I’m remembering how big his hands were—how they covered mine completely, how they were rough, yet warm and soft all the same.

“He lives in a nursing home, just on the other side of town. That was his truck,” he says, nodding over his shoulder.

I don’t know Owen’s grandfather, but I’m suddenly happy he’s getting my father’s shoes. I like Owen’s truck, and I rationalize that I probably would like his grandpa, too. Maybe a better man will wear those shoes.

“Here, let me help you get these in. I think we can fit them all in both cans,” he says, setting the shoes down and picking up three bags at once, lifting them easily and stuffing them in my already-overflowing can. He’s pushing with his arms, and I have a flash memory of how they looked when I watched him pull his shirt from his body early this morning.

“You missed school today,” I say, waiting to see how he responds. He doesn’t, much, only offering a shrug. “You miss a lot?”

“I get good grades. But I have to work, and sometimes I just can’t do both things at once,” he says, walking back to the side of my house for more bags. I lift one for every three he takes, and in two more trips, we have all traces of my father neatly stowed in the giant green trashcans by the curb.