See John write

The late afternoon sun burned through the thin mountain air and made Stephen Jacobs’ head uncomfortably hot underneath his dark blue baseball cap. He reached over the side of the canoe and splashed a little of the cool water of Mirror Lake onto his face and neck.

Stephen’s twelve-year-old son, Ethan, was half asleep in the bow of the boat. He tipped his baseball cap up and through heavy eyelids looked at his dad. “Was that a fish?”

“No,” Stephen smiled. “I was just splashing some water to cool down.” He reached down and flicked a little water onto his boy.

“Hey!” Ethan grumbled in mock protest, pulling his baseball cap back down.

Stephen gave a small chuckle at how the high country weather acted like a tranquilizer for his usually high-energy boy. Stephen had brought his family to the mountains for one last family trip before the school year started up again. In the high Uintah mountains of northeastern Utah, the extremes of Fall were already apparent. The nights could easily dip near freezing temperatures. Then the afternoons would see the thin air heat rapidly and reach nearly seventy degrees.

You can’t plan a day this good, Stephen thought.

The sky was almost unnaturally blue. A couple of wispy white cirrus clouds were making their way across the horizon. The pinion pines that line the edges of Mirror Lake stretch toward the heavens as if trying to give credit for creating such a picturesque and peaceful place.

Stephen reeled in his empty fishing line and cast out toward the lakeshore. The fishing had been slow, but Stephen knew the reasons that had brought him a hundred miles from home had little to do with fish.

His mind drifted back to a conversation with his wife, Samantha. It was late on a Sunday night shortly after last school year had ended.

“I can’t believe Ethan is going to be in Junior High,” Samantha offered with a nonchalance that Stephen knew meant it was anything but a casual statement.

“Yeah. He is really growing up,” Stephen responded.

“Do you think he’s really ready for junior high?”

“Sure he is,” Stephen answered with as much reassurance as he could muster. “He’s always been a good student and never really had a problem.”

“I know. It’s just that it’s . . . well, you remember what junior high was like. Kids can be so mean to each other.”

Stephen laughed a little. “Yeah. I remember Jimmy Davis. … He helped out in the cafeteria so he could get free school lunch. One day some kid in his math class ticked him off. So he snuck a whole pot of spaghetti out the back of the kitchen and somehow he got the kid’s locker open. He scooped it into the pockets of the kid’s jacket and into his gym shoes. Oh and then he put the meatballs in the kid’s jockstrap in his gym bag.” Stephen couldn’t hide his sly grin.

“You’re not helping, Steve,” Samantha said as she poked him in the ribs.

“What? Do you want me to tell you that Ethan is never going to be teased, never going to have a single hard day in junior high?”

“Well, I was hoping.”

“Sam, listen to me.” Stephen grew serious. “Ethan is a good kid. He has good friends and our junior high is a good school. We’ve done all we can do to help Ethan succeed. Now he has to keep growing up—and junior high is a part of that.”

Stephen knew that only part of the issue was sending their oldest of three off to the scary world of junior high. Samantha had always been one who liked her comfort zone. Not that she hated change, but there was always a fear that when things change they wouldn’t be as good as they had been.

“You’re right,” Samantha finally said after a long pause. “It’s this feeling like we’re leaving . . . like we’re crossing some line that we can never turn back.”

“Yeah, but some lines are definitely worth crossing. Like when Sarah finally got out of diapers. That was a great day.”

Samantha broke into a wide grin. She truly loved Stephen’s sense of humor and how he could always get her to smile when she was feeling worried.

The sudden tug on Ethan’s pole brought Stephen back to the present. Ethan felt it too and immediately snapped out of his afternoon nap. Stephen was thrilled to see the intense smile on his boy’s face. He watched as Ethan worked the line exactly as he’d been taught. A good sized brown trout broke the surface of the water, thrashing to get free of the line. Father and son spontaneously let out a “Wahoo!” in unison. Stephen grabbed the net and nodded encouragement to his son. As the fish neared the side of the canoe, Stephen leaned over to scoop it up.

“Careful not to tip us over,” dad gently reminded son.

“How big do you think?” Ethan asked eagerly.

“I’d say at least a twelve incher.”

Ethan’s face beamed. “That’s the biggest one so far.”

“Sounds like a fish story to me,” Stephen joked as he patted his son on the shoulder.

The father and son team paddled their canoe smoothly toward the southeast tip of the little mountain lake. They were camped in the National Forest Service campground. Stephen remembered being a little surprised when he discovered there were still sites available. His checking had been the end result of his late Sunday conversation with Samantha. She wanted to plan a trip—a real “memory making” trip. They had discussed several options, but in the end decided it should be someplace completely new. Stephen had been to Mirror Lake once when he was a young man. Samantha jumped at the suggestion and description of the picturesque lake.

The canoe slid gently onto the shore. Ethan stood up to step out of the bow. “Be careful, don’t get your boots wet.” Stephen cautioned.

Ethan turned around, hands on hips. “Duh, Dad.”

“Sorry. I know, you’re right. You’re not five anymore.”

Stephen watched as Ethan stepped onto shore and then as if to prove his adolescent strength, he grabbed the bow of the boat and slid it another three feet up the shore.“Impressive,” Stephen complimented.

Ethan played along and flexed his muscles in over dramatic fashion. Father and son laughed together as they secured the canoe on the shore and headed back to camp to show off their fish to the family.

~~~~~

Vince Spackman lived in a tiny bottom floor apartment on the west side of Salt Lake City. The bottom floor of the three-story building was a half basement style where you have to step down four steps to reach the front door. The few windows were obscured from most direct sunlight by scraggy shrubs. And any light that did reach the windows was shut out by Vince’s tightly drawn blinds.

It was Tuesday afternoon. Vince had been expected at work three and a half hours earlier. He had made no call to work. He hadn’t so much as switched on a single light switch.

Vince sat silently in the dark of his small living room. He sat on the gray couch, where he had sat all night. He had slept very little over the last few weeks. Every time he closed his eyes, his mind would flood with a thousand worries at once. Some were very rational—like knowing that any day his boss would certainly fire him. Some were not.

His thoughts were a constant swirl of almost incoherent voices. It had become easier to keep his eyes open. Mindless television and the sound of neighbors through the walls helped to pass the evening hours. But the silence of the early morning hours was torturous. Any clock that ticked in any audible degree had long ago been smashed into silence.

Only a few years earlier during long sleepless nights, Vince used to talk to himself. He tried the “reprogramming” language that therapists had offered as help. Most often these attempts degraded quickly into combative arguments. Poison would start pouring out of his mouth. Things that Vince had never spoken were suddenly at the tip of his tongue. What he really thought of his boss. All the ways his parents had ruined his life. How his perfect brother was the world’s biggest hypocrite.

Without even realizing, Vince’s voice would raise into an emotional scream. The police had visited his apartment late at night more than once. It would always turn out the same. Vince would convince them he had simply fallen asleep with the TV on and they would tell him he had to keep it down.

But Vince didn’t argue with himself anymore. The darkness now overwhelmed him. The will to fight it had given way to surrender—even embracing the dark. The anger and hatred had lost their edge. Getting out of bed could be overwhelming. It had only been two days ago that Vince found himself wondering if he should just wet the bed rather than go through the effort of walking to the bathroom.

Occasionally there would be more lucid moments—moments when he knew he needed help. Moments when he would force himself out the door. He had even paid his parents a visit last week.

“Vince?” His mom stood at the door in obvious disbelief.

“Yeah, Mom, I need a place to crash for a while.”

“Oh … did something happen with your apartment?”

Vince knew what she was thinking. “No. Mom. I didn’t say I needed to move in.”

“Well, that’s not what I thought.”

“Can’t a son visit his childhood home? Or am I not welcome here anymore?”

She hadn’t seen Vince in almost a year. His hair was longer now, down to his shoulders. It hung over his face and covered his dark brown eyes. A scraggy goatee hid almost any hint of a facial expression.

“Vince,” his mother tried to sound as compassionate as she could, “you know you are always welcome.”

Mr. Spackman was still at work and wouldn’t be home for an hour yet. Mrs. Spackman made her way to the kitchen and immediately began trying to turn dinner for two into dinner for three. As she went into the basement to retrieve a can of soup, Vince slipped from the living room down the hall into his parent’s bedroom.

Silently he opened his dad’s closet. On the top shelf in the farthest corner sat a dusty, black shoebox. Vince carefully slid the box off the shelf. It was as Vince had hoped. He knew the 357 revolver was always in the box, but lying next to it were two boxes of shells. He slipped the ammunition into the pockets of his baggy jeans.

He picked up the gun and felt the weight of it in his hand. His thumb instinctively reached up and cocked the hammer.

How stupid is dad? he thought as he raised the gun and spun the cylinder to make sure it wasn’t loaded.

Just load it right now.

Vince shook his head violently. He groaned and gritted his teeth.

Oughta put a bullet in her head too. You know she deserves it.

Vince put the gun to his temple and pulled the trigger. The hammer harmlessly clicked down on the empty chamber. He shook his head violently once more and slid the revolver into the waist of his pants. He pulled his shirt down to cover the bulge. Then carefully he replaced the shoebox.

As he came down the hall, he could hear his mom was in the kitchen again. He stepped into the bathroom, closed the door, and flushed the toilet. Then opened the door and returned to the living room. As he sat down on the couch, the revolver dug into his stomach. It was painfully uncomfortable. But Vince didn’t move. There was something oddly comforting about pain that could find its way through the numbness.

Fifteen minutes later, Mrs. Spackman stepped from the kitchen to the living room. She built up the courage to attempt a conversation, but the room was empty. She looked out the front window and saw Vince’s Honda pulling out of the driveway.

In the darkness of Vince’s apartment, the revolver and one shell sat on the coffee table. Vince’s eyes were bloodshot and glazed. He stared at the table and scratched his goatee.