Albatross, A Short Story
The sun had just begun to climb on the western valley of Eureka, California. It bathed the small ranch in a dazzling maroon shade. The stars had just begun to fade as the deep red hue overtook them, and all the forest glowed burgundy signaling to both the predator and the prey — the night was over. All the world paused to gape at the glorious display. It was at this time every morning when Tom departed from the one-bedroom cabin he had lived in for two years and start his daily routine.
Tom was middle-aged, and his chestnut tinted hair was just beginning to gray. His eyes were dark and mysterious, indicative of a man who’s seen too much and loved too little. He sported a short stubble due to his long-standing quarrel with shaving. His clothes were wrinkled and smelled of cheap whiskey. He was a man of few words and his face seemed to be arranged in a perpetual scowl, which forbade the possibility of any lasting connection with the few people he kept in contact with.
The one-bedroom cabin was constructed at the turn of the century by an Irish immigrant whom Tom had never met or knew much about. Tom had purchased the property from the bank, which repossessed it after the immigrant’s death in 1922. It was old, filthy and bore the scars of another man’s sin. For whatever reason, Tom felt like he belonged there, and he did.
He kicked a rock as he strolled across the well-traveled trail, the small stone weaved through the underbrush and found its place underneath Tom’s favorite oak tree. This tree marked the spot where Tom’s daily routine would solemnly begin. Self-loathing and pity joined him there. He allowed the grief to overtake him, and there were no people around to mock him. The tears dripped down his swollen cheeks, as his knees buckled, his arm reached towards the base of the tree for support. Tom knelt by the oak for a long time, then he gathered himself together and started back towards the cabin.
It was mid-September, and the early effects of autumn were just beginning to appear. The trees were starting to appear gaunt after they shed their natural coat of brown and sandy colored leaves. The forest floor was filled with evidence of change. Tom’s garden was no exception. Tom was a farmer out of necessity, not by choice. He loathed farming, and would often neglect his budding garden, which resulted in overripe tomatoes, and a nauseous excuse for supper. Tom had learned to cook during his perilous days as a bachelor with no worries except the bill for the local tavern. His cooking skills were on par with his skills as a farmer. It was not great, but he could survive.
Survival was Tom’s preferred of method living since the world crippled his mind and tore at the cruel instrument he paradoxically called his heart. He survived, and it was the most brutal punishment any man could ever receive. An ever-present albatross metaphorically draped over his neck. The accommodating relief of death would be too forgiving. No, his sin deserved to be imprinted in the back of his head every single day. If there was a God, Tom would resent him for not more harshly rebuking his iniquity.
It hadn’t always been that way. There was a time when Tom could gaze at the depravity of life and locate a positive attitude. That version of him was gone, it died with Rose and little Patricia. It was callously murdered, and he was its chief suspect. Tom didn’t like to think about that,
though. He’d rather focus on his new life. He was not unaware of the facts; he just ignored their implications.
A shrill sound jolted Tom out of his trance. He checked his watch instinctively; it was near 9:30. The sound was still ringing in his ears as he picked himself up from where he had been sitting. Broken glass lined the living room floor; the window adjacent to his kerosene light was shattered. A slim branch protruded through the exposed frame. The distinctive sound of heavy rain drifted into the small cabin. It was far too late for Tom to investigate further, so he haphazardly stepped over the glass and made his way to the bedroom. Within a few moments, Tom was asleep, and the storm had passed on to a neighboring county. Sleep brought peace: a luxury Tom had learned to cherish in his years since that dreadful day. Nonetheless, not even sleeping could save him from the quagmire of his soul.
Rose was as beautiful as ever. Her eyes were a soothing bronze, and they could still make his knees weak. Her golden hair flowed down to her waist, and it sparkled like the sun. She stood on the porch of their new home and gestured him down from his horse. Her voice shook as it left her trembling lips “I went into town today to see the Doctor,” Tom was perplexed by her expression “What’s wrong?” he asked worriedly. She could barely contain her excitement “You’re going to be a father, Tom!” His heart raced, and his entire face felt flushed “Is it a boy or girl?” He asked promptly, “They’re not sure yet, but I want to go pick up some things — we’ve got a room to decorate.” Rose answered with a sly smile.
His eyes cracked open a little after daybreak. It had a been a long night, and Tom wasn’t fond of dreaming. He sat up in bed and stared into the early morning sun for what felt like an hour. His head was still processing last night’s events. His mind was a mess of contradictions. Regardless of whether he wanted to or not, he had to get up. He pulled on his wrinkled jeans and buttoned his oversized shirt deliberately — he was still thinking about her. In a way, Rose still haunted him. Tom never allowed himself to stop loving her, even after her death. Soon, he started thinking about little Patricia as well. She would have been eight years old now. He brushed away the thought. He still could not believe they were gone. Two years had not presented enough evidence to prove that they were not coming back. Their absent echoes still surrounded him. The smoking gun of a man drunk on guiltiness.
There was a ringing starting in his head. His late-night boozing was beginning to catch up with him. Tom had not had a proper breakfast in a long time, but his stomach growled cheerfully in response to the thought. He went out to the chickens and scooped up a few fresh eggs. He had some venison from a hunting session earlier in the week — and so he began his least-favorite activity: cooking. The warm crackle of the venison in the pan reminded him of when he was a boy; his mother was always an excellent cook. She became the sole provider for their family after his father had passed away from a fatal case of typhoid fever. He had always resented his father for dying so young — he had escaped the madness and left them all to suffer. His mother would often muse how similar the two were; a comparison Tom found ill-suited for his lively state. He cracked two eggs and slid their remains into the sizzling pan. Within a few minutes, the venison and the eggs were lifted from their grease-laden bed and stacked on top of one another in a particularly messy fashion. He ate quickly, wiped his mouth, and was out the door within ten minutes. Today would be different — it had to be.
It was 1933, and the United States had been crippled by an economic downturn that targeted every aspect of American life. Tom struggled to find work, despite his skills as a salesman and woodworker. Rose never lost hope, though. Every night, as Tom hung his head in shame, Rose would remind him “Everything’s gonna be all right Tom. We’ve seen worse, and we’ll get through this — together.” Tom did not believe her. How could he? As the breadwinner of his family, it was difficult for him to imagine a life where his wife, Rose and their 6-year-old daughter, Patricia, could not rely on him. He would lie to them so that they could feel the hope they had all been robbed of, “things are finally looking up — Roosevelt’s worked out a deal and we’ll all be living in mansions in a few months. Just give it time.” He would repeat a variant of that same lie whenever he felt they — or himself — needed to hear it.
Tom was a principled man, but even moral men can be influenced. Hunger can be a powerful motivator; especially the hunger of your wife and child. It all began when he was contacted by Silas about a job in King City. It was small, easy money; just enough to keep the debt collectors off their backs. He was a natural, and his confident demeanor and large physique made him appear both trustworthy and powerful. Eventually, he stopped caring about the money, and the thrill of the job took over. He would spend entire months traveling northern California, swindling widows and young guns out of the last of their savings. He had grown accustomed to sneaking in after midnight and lying to protect his fellow deceivers. He suspected that Rose knew about his dealings with Silas, but she had neither the time nor the inclination to argue. She would casually remind him that, “there’s always another way,” but would leave it at that. He never listened.
How could he?
He swung the ax back over his shoulder and rested it there for a few moments. He wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead and eyed the dense forest ahead of him. Tom was not keen on exploring, but he had found himself in that forest many days — it was a cynical form of escapism. He recalled one afternoon, after he had finished shoeing his horse; that he felt drawn to the grove of trees opposite the cabin. The sun was still high in the sky, and he found it peaceful within the natural confines of leaves and branches. It soothed his mind in a way liquor never could. He was not a man of faith, but he felt that if there was a God, he had created a perfect spot and dropped it there for safe keeping. Tom found himself there on many days. All the guilt he carried was lifted off his shoulders as soon as he stepped inside that protective shade. A single raindrop took him out of his reflective trance. It was warm, and it streamed down his face and halted on the lower half of his shirt. Soon, two more raindrops replaced that one. Then, five more. The rhythmic sound of thunder echoed through the trees. Tom took the hint and headed back towards the cabin. Lightning danced across the sky and escorted him back to safety.
Life is often cruel to both the sinner and saint. It is immoral, excessive, and overly forceful in carving out various fates for those who live long enough. An old saying goes, “no man is born a cynic; he simply lives too long as an optimist.”
Tom’s dealings with Silas went sour in the summer of 1934. There was a disagreement over who deserved more of the credit — and therefore, more of the prize. Tom branded Silas, a “greedy old bastard,” while Silas remained uncharacteristically quiet. Rose would remind Tom that he had far more important matters to attend to, “leave it alone, Tom, no good will come from poking at a
hornet’s nest.” Tom knew she was right too; even if he would never admit it out loud. Still, he could not allow Silas to take what was rightfully his. It was about more than money. Silas was not deserving; he had no family, and it was foolish to let all of their hard work go to waste in saloons and cheap whore houses.
Tom never considered himself a thief. He was an opportunist who felt he was robbed of his “fair share.” Naturally, that was the line of reasoning he used when Rose confronted him about the matter. He was hungover, and it made perfect sense in his mind. “I didn’t steal anything. I just took what was ours. What’s he gonna do with all that money anyway?” He tried to reassure her, but his smooth-talking cadence came off as tired and artificial.
Tom always regretted going into town that afternoon. He heard the threats Silas would often shout at him during a drunken stupor, but he never took him at his word. Silas was a thief, glutton and infrequent church-goer — but, he was not a killer. Silas rode up on the farm that day expecting to see Tom in his shop. Silas had visited many times before, and he was well- accustomed to the sight of smoke rising out of the house directly ahead. He slowed his horse’s pace and looked out at the farm. He dismounted deliberately and found himself checking his surroundings. He had his Smith & Wesson peeking out of his leather holster. He had only used it once, and even then, he had never considered his true intentions. In his heart, he hoped that nobody was home. Still, Tom had to pay for betraying him, and if he could not take his life, he could at least hurt him. His life was over with every step he took; he almost felt the life draining out of his veins. Rose never saw him. She fell instantaneously, and the shock was painted over her face; crimson blood poured out of her side and brandished Silas with the label of a murderer. Tom heard the second and third gunshot and took off running towards the house. He was almost hysterical by the time he bounded up the stairs and flung open the door. Then, out of pure helplessness, he fell to his knees and found himself hunched over retching. He dragged himself over to Rose and began to rapidly check for a pulse. Nothing. She was gone. He bargained out loud for Patricia’s life as if she was standing in the room next to him and needed coaxing to come out. She never responded.
Silas’ newly stained Smith & Wesson sat in the middle of the room. It almost appeared to call out to him. The weapon derided Tom’s tardiness; he could never escape it no matter how far he ran.
Tom washed his face and started to prepare for bed. The incessant tapping of the rain outside was eerily calming. He paced back and forth to the soothing melody. It was welcoming to his now fragmented mind. He told himself he would clean up tomorrow, which was a promise intuitively knew he would break. He yawned twice and decided it was too late to brood any further. He stumbled over sleepily and collapsed onto the bed. Tom slept peacefully for the first time in months. There were no sleep terrors or crying fits to interrupt him. Suddenly, he was awakened by a sharp sound. It vibrated through his bones. He leaped out of bed and scanned the small cabin; taking notice of every single detail. It was all normal. There was no cause for alarm, as far he could tell. Then, he smelled it. It was smoke; deep, carbon-rich smoke. He rushed to the window and looked out towards the forest. His heart dropped in his chest; he felt every muscle in his body tense up. The forest was ablaze with a fiery red hue that effortlessly contrasted against the dark blue sky. All the memories came rushing back. Cynicism began to creep into his soul. Within a few moments, he had rushed out the door to look at the savagery for himself.
He felt the cruel thick flame of loss as it devoured the protected grove of trees he had become a caretaker of. He watched in horror as his place of grief was swallowed up by the unforgiving flames. The intensity quickened, and suddenly it ended. The entire world became eclipsed with shadows. He wanted to cry, and yet tears would not come. He wanted to scream, but his voice had been captured by the spectacle. His dark eyes surveyed the forest as his body seemed to drift aimlessly through the carnage. The remnants of the charred forest showed little — except a single surviving oak sapling. A dry smile slid across his wrinkled brow. He lowered his torso towards the blackened earth. His slender fingers wrapped around the burgeoning sprout. He allowed the seedling to slide gracefully into the palm of his hand. Joy overtook him. There was still hope, and that single fact made this blunder of irrational exuberance almost excusable. The miracle of audacious faith shot a ray of sunlight directly into the darkness. A large albatross flew overhead, signaling that it was time to get back up. Tom’s mind had never been clearer, and he saw the world in streaming color. He almost laughed at the pureness of the moment. Finally, he picked himself up from where he had been kneeling and started back towards the cabin. He would try again tomorrow.
