Cory's in Goal by Chris Hampton
The Letter
Autumn in New Orleans. The humid heat of summer had backed off now, leaving morning temperatures around 65 degrees Fahrenheit. The cooler weather had enticed the boy outside to work on a project. At twelve years old, he was fascinated with tree houses and decided to build his own in a large oak in the backyard. His mother read at their small kitchen table next to a large window, with a view of the backyard.
The boy heard the front doorbell ring. Someone visiting on a Sunday morning? He glanced down from his perch. He'd been trying to brace a six-foot 2x4 piece of lumber from one branch to another with some rope, as support for the flooring he planned to install between three waist-thick branches that angled out from the massive trunk. The work was awkward and difficult.
The faint sound of the doorbell was a welcomed distraction. Hardly anyone visited, his mother preferring a solitary sanctuary when she wasn't working. Which, to the boy's thinking, she did too much of anyway.
He watched her rise from the kitchen table and disappear to the front of the house. It wasn't long before she returned, a letter open and clenched in her right hand. The envelope dangled precariously underneath the letter. His mother slumped in the chair, and the envelope fell to the floor, unnoticed by her. Something was wrong. The boy quickly climbed down from the tree and walked across the lawn to the sliding glass doors. He felt a sense of dread.
"Mom?" he said, sliding the door open. "What's wrong?"
His mother jumped at the boy's voice, her long black hair whipping around as she turned to face him. The loose braid of hair, trailing down her back, had come undone. Silky hair framed her face. In her dark eyes, there was pain. The boy stood at the threshold, not crossing into the house.
"Your grandfather," she choked out. "Has died."
"Died?" the boy questioned.
"Yes."
Silence.
"The lab he worked in," she continued. "It says here there was an explosion."
The boy did not know what to say.
"This letter. From the company." She picked up the envelope off the floor. Her hand shook. The boy saw an official looking symbol at the top of the page. He was not sure if she was rereading the letter or just staring at it.
"Your grandfather worked in the lab, and it caught fire. He was trapped inside."
This time she cried freely, her face contorted in grief. The boy's eyes burned. He cried too. More at his mother's grief than his own.
"Can we go see him?" It was all he could think to say.
After a few moments, his mother regained her composure.
"The fire was hot. They say, because of the chemicals, it was intense. Nothing was left of his body."
She got up from the chair, leaving the letter on the table. "He's gone." She walked past the boy and out through the sliding glass doors.
Under the tree house was a wooden bench. The twisted root legs supported a sun-bleached seat of cut cypress. The seat wasn't flat, but rather grooved out in a smooth contour for comfort. Beautiful and graceful, the bench stood out in vivid relief against the green backdrop of the further woods.
His mother made her way there and sat down, her petite body almost swallowed by the bench. The boy knew she was looking into the woods. Her jet-black hair, hanging down her back, shook slightly at its end. She's still crying, he thought. The woods, not ten feet away, were thick with a wildness held at bay by the manicured yard. Her hair stopped shaking and rested, a shiny raven-blackness across the light blue of her robe.
The scene burned into the boy's mind. In a moment, the world had shifted, and their peaceful routine was disrupted. Everything he looked at seemed more striking in color and sharper in detail. The clean-cut grass of the fresh-mowed yard, swept like a green carpet past his mother, and up to the border of the overgrown woods beyond.
His mother sat, on the bench, straddling the two worlds: the world of clear borders and clean lines, and the random, exploding growth and color of the wildness beyond.
He retreated inside the house. His mother needed space. His tree house could wait.
The next day, the boy's mother attempted to get more details about the accident. But details were not easy to find. The company refused to return her phone calls, and the only family contact was with her uncle, the brother of her father. She did not really know the man, only met him once when she was seven. But she knew the brothers had been close, had stayed in touch over the years. Her uncle said he knew only what the authorities had told him -- his brother had died in a fire at the lab.
Autumn in New Orleans. The humid heat of summer had backed off now, leaving morning temperatures around 65 degrees Fahrenheit. The cooler weather had enticed the boy outside to work on a project. At twelve years old, he was fascinated with tree houses and decided to build his own in a large oak in the backyard. His mother read at their small kitchen table next to a large window, with a view of the backyard.
The boy heard the front doorbell ring. Someone visiting on a Sunday morning? He glanced down from his perch. He'd been trying to brace a six-foot 2x4 piece of lumber from one branch to another with some rope, as support for the flooring he planned to install between three waist-thick branches that angled out from the massive trunk. The work was awkward and difficult.
The faint sound of the doorbell was a welcomed distraction. Hardly anyone visited, his mother preferring a solitary sanctuary when she wasn't working. Which, to the boy's thinking, she did too much of anyway.
He watched her rise from the kitchen table and disappear to the front of the house. It wasn't long before she returned, a letter open and clenched in her right hand. The envelope dangled precariously underneath the letter. His mother slumped in the chair, and the envelope fell to the floor, unnoticed by her. Something was wrong. The boy quickly climbed down from the tree and walked across the lawn to the sliding glass doors. He felt a sense of dread.
"Mom?" he said, sliding the door open. "What's wrong?"
His mother jumped at the boy's voice, her long black hair whipping around as she turned to face him. The loose braid of hair, trailing down her back, had come undone. Silky hair framed her face. In her dark eyes, there was pain. The boy stood at the threshold, not crossing into the house.
"Your grandfather," she choked out. "Has died."
"Died?" the boy questioned.
"Yes."
Silence.
"The lab he worked in," she continued. "It says here there was an explosion."
The boy did not know what to say.
"This letter. From the company." She picked up the envelope off the floor. Her hand shook. The boy saw an official looking symbol at the top of the page. He was not sure if she was rereading the letter or just staring at it.
"Your grandfather worked in the lab, and it caught fire. He was trapped inside."
This time she cried freely, her face contorted in grief. The boy's eyes burned. He cried too. More at his mother's grief than his own.
"Can we go see him?" It was all he could think to say.
After a few moments, his mother regained her composure.
"The fire was hot. They say, because of the chemicals, it was intense. Nothing was left of his body."
She got up from the chair, leaving the letter on the table. "He's gone." She walked past the boy and out through the sliding glass doors.
Under the tree house was a wooden bench. The twisted root legs supported a sun-bleached seat of cut cypress. The seat wasn't flat, but rather grooved out in a smooth contour for comfort. Beautiful and graceful, the bench stood out in vivid relief against the green backdrop of the further woods.
His mother made her way there and sat down, her petite body almost swallowed by the bench. The boy knew she was looking into the woods. Her jet-black hair, hanging down her back, shook slightly at its end. She's still crying, he thought. The woods, not ten feet away, were thick with a wildness held at bay by the manicured yard. Her hair stopped shaking and rested, a shiny raven-blackness across the light blue of her robe.
The scene burned into the boy's mind. In a moment, the world had shifted, and their peaceful routine was disrupted. Everything he looked at seemed more striking in color and sharper in detail. The clean-cut grass of the fresh-mowed yard, swept like a green carpet past his mother, and up to the border of the overgrown woods beyond.
His mother sat, on the bench, straddling the two worlds: the world of clear borders and clean lines, and the random, exploding growth and color of the wildness beyond.
He retreated inside the house. His mother needed space. His tree house could wait.
The next day, the boy's mother attempted to get more details about the accident. But details were not easy to find. The company refused to return her phone calls, and the only family contact was with her uncle, the brother of her father. She did not really know the man, only met him once when she was seven. But she knew the brothers had been close, had stayed in touch over the years. Her uncle said he knew only what the authorities had told him -- his brother had died in a fire at the lab.