Paradise

Last month I wrote this little short story, entitle "Paradise," for the Writer's Digest "Your Story" competition (contest #27). The prompt was simple: Start your story with: "I never would have purchased this house if I'd known that..." End it with: "That's why tomorrow I'm setting it on fire."

Anyway, I've decided to post it here against the odds its been published in this months' WD. I hope you enjoy it!

I never would have purchased this house if I'd known that hidden within its timbers and deep inside its concrete foundation, my father still lived there. In these young days of the summer, I finally gathered my life into a brown, hard-shell suitcase and went looking for that cottage by Lake Fisher. “Paradise,” the name of the cottage, hung above the doorway just as in the gold-tinted memories of my youth. I paced the broad, hardwood floors, only half-listening to the realtor describing to me the places I already knew. The stone fireplace and the oak table. The creaky, but sturdy, dock, leading to the murky edge of the petite lake.

“I can pay in cash,” I said, surprised I wasn't smiling as I had pictured it. That evening, I pulled into a dusty gas station and made a bespectacled old man grin when I asked, “What do I need to go fishing?”

My lure made a light plop sound amid the symphony of bug and bird songs. And as the lake gently licked the shore, I was not surprised that I was not smiling; I was surprised that a tear was sliding down my cheek.

That first night in the house, I laid silently in the master bed for only ten minutes before I changed to the guest room. Dropping onto the familiar mattress, I breathed slow, gentle air, listening carefully for the creaks and pops of the house settling.

“It's just turning in its bed,” he had said to me as I stood in the doorway, clutching my blanket. “Paradise is probably wondering why you woke it.”

Whenever his smile or laugh would spread wide his white-bearded face, I could not help but reciprocate the emotion, like a snake charmed by a chuckle.

The next morning, I saw him cracking eggs over the skillet and my lungs melted with a sudden blend of excitement and disbelief, but he left when I blinked. And in the evening, I heard him lazily playing the harmonica on the dock, but he quit playing when I ran out to look for him. And in the night, I heard him ease the door open to check if I had fallen asleep. I turned to tell him goodnight and to see him smile, but he had already left when I rolled over.

On the morning of the third day, I gently touched my dry and throbbing eyelids and began to swear, but – for just a moment – reflexively thought he would get upset. Again I expected to laugh, but instead I began to heave and gasp for air and my legs unhinged, lowering me to the bathroom tile. While on that cold, black and white floor, I had the one dream I remember from the last four days: him, laying misshapen and feeble on a pure white bed. With a tired laugh, he broke my endurance and drew me into the most miserable laugh of my life. When I awoke, I could still feel his rough hospital gown pressed to my cheek, and I was choking on my tears again.

That's why tonight I poured my clothes into the back seat of my car, blending the dirty with the clean. That's why I returned dad's brown, hard-shell suitcase under his bed. That's why I left each token of this sacred vacation cottage in its original and beautiful place. That's why I spilled three cans of gasoline on the floor.

That's why tomorrow I'm setting it on fire.