1. Tomorrow Land
RUSLAN KIEFFER
There was truth in my hatred for whitened walls: I recognized it while I waited for my turn as Lance asked. I recognized something was beginning to reach me, a crawling ambiguity that crept its way into my eyes, mouth, throat and hands when the white paint seemed to smell again. I was seated on one of the nursing-home’s benches outside on the green field, yards and yards away from the actual building that stood tall and angelic. It was oddly too cold for it be October, and I wondered if the insides were as comfortable as Lance promised. My reunion with the smell of fresh paint was interrupted with Lance, a freckled, expressionless man who appeared out of the building in a tad rush to find me. He nodded me to follow him once our eyes met, which I did, only with nearly senseless hands from the cold.
Inside, I carried with me a tower of decisions that had been made a year prior, and I could not afford to let it topple over anymore. Two well-versed men sat waiting for me in one of the rooms where I handed them my consent for Lance’s guardianship over my mother’s aid. It was a lie that the smooth processing would bring me peace. Nevertheless, the only ounce of trust I had with my situation was Lance and his brooding way of handling things.
Working for Poulsen meant enhancing trust between the fellows before any other trivial matter. He taught us all else could be dealt with, but naught if trust was a faulty attribute between workers. Lance had forged all possible documents that could give away Mum’s identity: her achieving certificates, diplomas, address, charity contribution papers and legal papers. For the nursing facility I was Julian Dungen from Baltimore’s Seventh Boulevard, present to admit his mother Mary Dungen under Lance Kidman’s guardianship. The name ‘Kieffer’ had no significance.
As we sat across from the two managers who filled in our paperwork for the last time, Lance looked to me as if disciplining me: “Look polite.” He mouthed, and I understood I probably looked more disturbed than I really was. I softened my face to briefly talk with them again before Lance and I went to see Mum, possibly for the last time in a month.
Her name was Daisy. Mum lived up to the name despite the buckets of unruly hardships, despite the sickness that was nearing it’s conquer for her beauty. Her smile had always been bright. I hugged her as tight as I could and let Lance greet the only nurse who’d been talking to her. She reminded me that I was but a small life fast asleep in snow who only breathed because my mother was unwillingly dependent on me. I was a grown man capable of things my Mum wouldn’t want to know about, yet when she holds my face in her feeble hands, I find myself small again: so small that I begin to fantasize of a laborless life.
“Where will you go?” She asked me. I wasn’t sure how I looked to her, but it seemed she was worried because of it too.
“I won’t be long, Mum.” I hoped my rolling promise was true. “Don’t ever think that I’m leaving you for good.” Mum smiled, still upset no matter how much I affirmed her. “For every hour that I’m gone, just know that I’m only trying to come back home, okay?” I kiss her hands, praying to Gods that I never believed in, that my Mum be well without my watch. I trusted Lance with my life, but to make sure she was well by myself was the only sorting sense of comfort I could have. Now I was giving that away too, for the sake of a life I was determined to bring her.
“Lance will visit you often. If anything happens, don’t hide it from him. He will take care of everything. And don’t forget your name.” My words turn grim reluctantly: “No matter what happens, don’t say your name, ever.” I told Mum, who nodded and listened peacefully in her chair.
“What's your name, Mum?” I ask.
“Mary Dungen.” She responded, no longer smiling. I brushed off the welling tears that she refused to show before kissing her hands again to reminisce her scent, then we bid her farewell in the hands of the returning nurse.
Lance was a reserved man who spoke business, and didn’t necessarily start conversations in the sense of building trust with people. He learned to cherry-pick comrades the harsher way than most boys like me did. He patted my shoulder as we began to leave the building – it meant I should lean towards him and listen.
“The receptionist is looking for you. There’s a missing man with your surname, something Dungen. Talk to her before you go to avoid anything else.” He told me before lighting his cigar and offering me one. Nearing the front-desk, as if reflexive, the lady puts her phone on hold and stands from her desk to call out to me. She asked me if I knew a missing man named Hansel Dungen from Illinois. I politely denied knowing him and that I was from Baltimore. Her smile inflated as she apologized, then sunk to her chair.
“Please do not smoke inside the premises, sir.” She tells us before formally returning to her call.
I look at Lance, hoping that we would either drop the smokes or make a run outside to finish it, but there he was – inhaling and exhaling longer puffs as if he was mute.
-
Lance technically shoved me in his car, unsure of where I was going to go. As we drove past the city life, all else had lost its weight and presence. The rearview mirror was stuck on the green suitcases that were thrown over the backseats. They sat without significance as if I hadn’t committed a felony to get them. It was all Dad left for us, at least.
“You’re sure they won’t be suing you for breaking in?” He asked, smoking a third time.
“They won’t. You need cash to sue someone too.” I tell him, unable to look away from the mirror.
“I mean, you broke in – with a revolver – threatened them, stole the suitcases and left.” Lance picks advantage of my silence and continued: “And they have a restraining order against you.”
They were my half-family. As much as it disgusted me to acknowledge them as family, it was the rotten truth. They were thieves, if anything. “And you had the key to their house?” He asked again.
Ten years had passed since my family broke, since his mistress took our inheritance, our home and my mum’s peace.
Six years of Dad being missing ever since his ride to Illinois.
“My house. Of course I know how to duplicate the locks to my house.” Lance doesn’t say anything until after a small while. Now, we were smoking again – so much that I had to roll the windows down to breathe anything but the smoke.
“I cut your tickets for Illinois already, so make sure you have everything you need.” He told me while we waited for traffic to clear. My mind stayed back at the nursing home and my heart in Mum’s hands, but my misery could always wait.
“It wasn’t necessary, Lance. I would’ve managed.” I wouldn’t have been able to manage it. I would’ve reached Illinois on the day of the job, unprepared and shamelessly tired if he didn’t cut me a ticket.
“It’s eleven hours from here, what else are you smoking?” I say nothing. Lance knew when my silence meant gratitude. He was one of the first people who told me I didn’t do good with words at all. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think he used to be a plainly offensive jerk. But he was far from it now.
“I’m glad I have you.” I told him.
“I’m only glad I knew your father. He saved my life.” He tossed the barely finished cigar out the zooming window. I didn’t know whether the chill was from the October wind or the mention of my father. “Would you call him a good person?”
I chose not to respond. Instead, I asked what needed more attention than anything subjective: “What’s the plan?”
“It’s a week until Valle reaches Illinois. Until then, you have all the time to rest. Make the most of it. Don’t mess this up, and you might actually be able to move somewhere far from Baltimore.” He affirmed as we closed in to the airport at last and handed me the ticket: “I made prior arrangements, so they won’t be asking you any question. And they won’t open your suitcases.” He concluded as I mounted the suitcases on my hips and prepared to head inside. I figured it was a tad bit late to ask him my question, but I did anyway: “Do you know some place named Southport Ground?” Partly, after Mum, this was what mattered to me more than the job I was approaching. Lance didn’t respond, instead pocketed me a pack of cigarettes. Then there was a silent farewell as I nearly marched inside the airport – it seemed to me that I owned the airport from the constant looks. In truth I looked like a walking dirt-bag who had nothing to be proud of.
When I board the plane, once again hiking on other person’s luxury, the posh ambience makes me nauseous. I hoped I could give my mother presents on her birthdays, a proper cake and not a breadstick house. I hoped I could give her a beautiful candle to blow and wish on, instead of the dust of our home. I was a man of lumps, piercing myself with quests selflessly. I embrace for fate’s worse turn.
[EDITED]
