Christopher Kugler lives in Central Pennsylvania.  Writing is his passion but he does other stuff too.  Check out his blog at www.klockworkkugler.com.

The Shelter (February 20, 2009. Issue 15.)

He sits next to me, growing more agitated with every passing car. I watch him, my father, as I drive us home. I watch him check his watch, again and again. I watch him wipe sweat from his brow. I hear him struggle to breathe.

The doctor, today at my father’s appointment, tells me he doesn’t have long. The doctor, with my father sitting in the waiting room, anxiously watching the seconds tick off his watch, tells me I should be happy. He tells me I should be happy it’s coming peacefully, that it’s coming quietly. That’s what the doctor tells me.

My father, without looking at me, still staring at the on coming traffic, asks me to turn on the radio. To check the news, he tells me. But I ignore him. It would only make things worse.

Sometimes I think he fights it, the paranoia, as if his mind is hanging on by some thread to reality. But it never lasts. Never.

The doctor, just as we were walking out the door, asked me about his nightmares. “Does he still have them?” he asked.

“Every night,” I tell him. Every night, I think to myself.

#

My father, his screams startle me awake. I rush into his room and find him panicked and scared, wrestling his sheets. “This is it,” he hollers as I flick on the light. “They’ve done it! They’ve finally done it! The war! The war has started!”

“There is no war,” I tell him as I sit down next to him on the bed.

“Son,” he says looking at his watch, the watch he always wears, “there’s no time to waste. We have twenty minutes before their missiles strike. Get your brother. We have to get down to the shelter.”

“Dad,” I say, rolling my eyes. “We go through this every night. When is it going to stop?” I take a deep breath, calming myself.

“You had a nightmare,” I tell him. “There is no war. There are no missiles.”

“Mickey,” he says to me, a name only he still calls me. “There is no time to argue. Get your brother. We have to get down to the shelter.”

“Dad,” I say to him, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes. “Lay back down. Go back to sleep.”

“Mickey,” he starts, in a tone of voice that would have scared me as a child, but I stop him with a raised finger.

“Dad,” I say, gently pushing him back into bed. “Listen to me. There is no war. There is nothing to be afraid of. We are perfectly safe”

My father, now confused, now scared, looks at me, then past me. He searches the room. He searches for him. “Where is he?” he asks. “Where is your brother?”

But I ignore him. I ignore the question. It would only make things worse. Instead, I watch him lay his head down. I watch him close his eyes. I watch him toss and turn.

“The shelter,” he says under his breath. “We have to get to the shelter.”

The shelter, I think to myself.

#

The next day, after work, I pull up to the house. The house I grew up in. We haven’t lived here in decades. The current tenant, she steps out through the screen door onto the porch and greets me. “Hello Mister Monroe,” she says to me, her two children watching me from behind her. “Is there a problem?”

“No problem,” I tell her, smiling. “Just here for a few of my father’s things.”

Alongside the house, I open the storm doors and step down into the basement. In the far corner, hidden behind the tenant’s belongings, I see it. The shelter. Nothing more than a ten by twelve enclosure that he, my father, built himself, laying cinder block upon cinder block at night, while we, my brother and I, slept soundly upstairs.

I slide a few boxes out of the way. I dig out my keys. I unlock the padlock and push open the door. Reaching for a drawstring, I turn on the light. The shelter, like a forgotten time capsule, is just as I remembered it, just as we had left it.

To my left, stacks of dry goods, long expired, tower over me. To my right, dust covered blankets, supplies, and Civil Defense manuals occupy a metal shelving unit. In the corner, a single cot and a homemade bunk bed, complete with pillows and blankets, lay perpendicular to each other.

My father, he built this, mortaring every joint and sealing every gap, on the nights he couldn’t sleep. He built this on the nights he was too afraid, on the nights he was too terrified, that he wouldn’t be able to protect us, the only things he cared about, from the insanity of the world.

I sit down in my father’s cot. Tacked up along the wall are a dozen photographs, a dozen forgotten memories. The pictures are of my brother and I, still just children. Some are school photographs; others holiday snap shots. Glancing over them, I look back through time.

My eyes settle on one photograph in particular, a picture of all three of us, one of few that exist. It was taken after a basketball game. My brother, just a few years younger and a few inches shorter than me, loved to play. My brother, in the picture, still holds the game ball in his hands.

My father, in the picture, beams with pride. He kneels between us, one arm around each of us, smiling from ear to ear. He loved to watch us play, never missing a game. Win or lose, those games meant the world to him.

My father, I think to myself, was so happy.

Looking back at my brother, I study his features. I remember how much he looked like my father, even then. I look him over and I realize how long it’s been since I’ve seen him, my little brother, even in a photograph. I realize, at that moment, just how long it’s been. I realize just how long he’s been gone.

My brother, I think to myself, he was so young.

#

That night, in the middle of the night, I’m startled awake. My father, he’s screaming. Again. He’s shouting and screaming. The nightmare. Again. I flick on the light as I enter the room. He’s sitting upright, his feet dangling off the side of his bed.

“This is it,” he shouts, his eyes searching the room, frantically. “The war! The war has started! They’ve finally done it!”

“Back to bed,” I tell him, stepping in front of him. “It’s just a nightmare.”

“No,” he barks, looking up at me, his lips trembling. “This is it, Mickey. We have to get to the shelter. You and your brother. We have to get down to the shelter.”

And for a moment, I think of the pictures, the photographs, in the shelter, tacked up next to his bunk bed. Before I can respond, before I can reassure him that there is no war, my father, he looks around the room, perplexed. “Where is he?” he asks. “Where is your brother?”

And for a moment, for a split second, I lose myself. Again. I lose myself in a lifetime of memories: of countless basketball games, of numerous holidays, of the phone call. The phone call that changed everything.

“Your brother,” he asks again, panicked, his breath short. “Where is he?”

But I’m speechless. I cannot answer.

I look at my father, so helpless, so old, but I think of the proud parent in the photograph, beaming with pride. I look at my father staring up at me, lost and confused. And scared. Scared because he can’t remember what happened to his son, my brother.

“Where is he?” he asks again.

But I ignore him. Instead of telling him about the accident, or the drunk driver, I tell him nothing. Instead of telling him about the phone call, or of him crying in the kitchen, blaming himself, I say nothing. It would only make things worse.

It would only make things worse, I tell myself.

#

At work the next day, I can barely stay awake. And then my phone rings. It’s the doctor, my father’s doctor. He’s called to tell me the results are in. He tells me he wants to talk to me, in person. I stop by his office on the way home. The cancer, he tells me, has spread. The cancer, he tells me, will kill him. I ask him how long. And he shrugs.

At dinner that night, in the kitchen, I sit across from him, my father, like I do every night. I watch him struggle to chew, struggle to swallow. I watch him glance at his watch. And glance again. I see the anxiety, the fear. I don’t tell him what the doctor told me.

It would only make things worse, I tell myself.

#

My father, he screams in the middle of the night. But I’m awake. I’ve been waiting. I’ve been lying in bed, thinking about this moment, dreading this moment. The nightmare.

I flick on the light. My father is sitting up, kicking at his sheets. “This is it,” he exclaims. “They’ve finally done it. The war! The war has started!”

I take a deep breath.

I’m about to tell him the same thing I tell him every night. But I stop. I look him over. And before I know it words are coming out of my mouth that surprise even myself:

“Yes,” I tell him. And his eyes snap on mine. “The war has started.”

“This is it?” my father asks sheepishly.

“Yes,” I say, nodding. “This is it.”

And with that my father throws off his covers and jumps out of bed. “We don’t have much time,” he tells me, glancing at his watch. “Twenty minutes tops. But there’s no need to panic. Stay calm. And listen to me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Get your brother,” he orders, sliding on his slippers. I hesitate a moment, just long enough for him to look at me, the uncertainty building already.

“He’s here,” I say. “We’re ready.”

“To the shelter,” he barks, grabbing my arm, his grip surprisingly strong.

He pulls me toward the door and we’re running, my father and I. Down the stairs, out the front door, to my car. My father, I haven’t seen him move like this in years. My father, he’s shouting out times and barking orders.

“Five minutes!” he exclaims.

We’re racing through traffic, running red lights, and I turn to him, my father. “Dad” I say and he turns to me, he lowers his watch and looks at me. “Dad,” I struggle to tell him. “The cancer. It’s spread…”

But he cuts me off with a raised finger. “There’s no time for that now,” he says.

“Ten minutes!” he shouts.

I pull up to the house. We’re out of the car, running across the lawn. I throw open the storm doors. We’re down in the basement. I’m unlocking the padlock.

“Fifteen minutes!” he shouts, standing over my shoulder.

I push open the door. We hurry inside. My father, with both hands, slams the door shut behind us. Leaning against the door, his knees buckling, his heart racing, my father, he closes his eyes.

“Did we make it?” he manages to ask.

“Yes,” I tell him, stepping up behind him, expecting him to collapse. “We did it, dad. We’re safe.”

My father, he smiles. “Safe,” he manages to say. “You and your brother, safe?”

“Yes, dad,” I say, taking his arm and leading him toward his cot. “Both of us. Here in the shelter. We’re safe. You did it.”

“Your brother,” he says, wincing in pain as I sit him down. “Where is he?”

I hesitate.

He looks at me.

“Here,” I say, reaching for the photograph. “Here he is.”

I hand him the photo as he lays back. His eyes focus on the image, on the picture of all three of us. His eyes brighten. His eyes swell. He smiles.

“My boys,” he says under his breath. “My boys.”

My father, he looks at me, happily. He looks back at the photo, proudly. He clutches it to his chest and closes his eyes. I watch him as he falls asleep.

And I smile. Because he sleeps peacefully. Because, in his mind, we are safe. His family is safe. And that’s all he ever wanted.

And I cry. Because he let’s go. His breathing slows. Then stops. And he’s gone.