The Barn: Chapter Two

By John Casey and Doug Campbell
Keith arrived in his rental car. A two-hour drive from Boston Logan to Clarkstown, their boyhood hometown. John never left, never able (or unwilling?) to pull the trigger and pursue his dreams. Once their mother could no longer care for herself, he canceled his lease and moved in with her. His grandmother’s house was old, large, and majestic in that colonial New England way, with white wood clapboards, a high-pitched, dormered roof, and a grand brick chimney on either side. Their grandparents, endlessly investment-savvy, converted a little less than half of it so many years ago into two apartments shortly after purchasing the estate. The extra income covered the house payments early-on and more recently, for their mother’s care. After her mother died, April managed the apartments, but did not move in right away. Once it became too much of a burden to take care of two homes, she downsized and took up residence once again on the Conway Farm. Shortly thereafter, she began to succumb to dementia. Neither brother had married. A psychologist might have concluded it was because they were both afraid something terrible would happen. That tragedy ran in the family. And what better way to prevent that than to forego a family? Keith shut the car door as John strode up. They embraced strongly, each boyishly clapping the other on the back. “Such a great money maker, this house,” Keith quipped. “Are you sure you are not making more than me?” “Hahaha, I wish,” laughed John. “Both apartments have been empty for a while now. I’m thinking about lowering the rent to generate some interest.” He dropped the smile and feigned concern, looking at his watch. “For Pete’s sake, Keith, you are two hours late! Where the hell have you been?” “My flight was delayed. Sorry, I should have called to let you know. Great to see you bro. I’ve missed you.” “Good to see you too,” said John. “Glad you made it safe.” “Thanks. So how’s Mom?” John’s smile faded. “Not well. It’s good that you came. I’m not sure how much time she has left.” “When can we go see her?” asked Keith. “We’ll go first thing in the morning. She is most likely sleeping now, and she needs it.” Clarkstown was known for its farming. The Connecticut River snaked its way through the area, feeding the rich, black soil. The house stood on nearly a hundred acres, some of it wooded. Old stone walls marked the borders of the property and were high enough to keep cows that once grazed there from roaming off. Here and there one could find evidence this was once a thriving farm. In the distance, an ancient red and brown-rusted tractor with sun-bleached, dry-rotting tires stood out stubbornly. The white wooden fences Keith remembered were now gone, but the barn remained. John made them a quick dinner of sandwiches and salad, and they talked. A steady back-and-forth of nostalgic childhood stories. After a few drinks, the conversation turned to their father. There was very little to remember; he left when they were just toddlers. There were years when they would receive birthday cards, brown butcher block paper wrapped presents in the mail for Christmas. But by the time they were in their teens, the letters and gifts stopped. The last John had heard, he was somewhere in Nevada working as a bail bondsman. Keith changed the subject abruptly, telling John about some of his travels to Nigeria. He acted interested, but to John it felt forced. When the moment was right, he stood up, tossing his white cotton napkin on the table. “I want to show you something,” he said.

c) John Casey & Doug Campbell 2022 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED; Published with permission (PHiR Publishing, San Antonio, TX)