On Returning Home

Returning Home

After seven-and-half-hours, all conversation had dried up. The freeway however, continued to pound out below us relentlessly, mile after mile.

Up-front my parents sat rigidly, eyes trained on the unreachable horizon ahead.

Thankfully, there was not much further to go.

I stared out at the heavy gray clouds, but they made me feel gloomy, as I reflected on the three weeks of hot sunshine, cold ice-creams and sparkling ocean that we had left behind early in the morning.

Our annual summer vacation was over. Time now for our normal lives to resume ' mechanical engineering and local government for my father, housework and community volunteering for my mother, the start of high school for me.

Mercifully, the green exit board appeared, signaling the final stage of our journey. Just five miles to home.

Wearily, my mother turned to my father and said, "Better call in at the store dear ' get some fresh milk, eggs, bread, that okay?

My father nodded his reluctant consent, while unobserved in the back I cringed at the idea.

After a few minutes, we pulled into the small parking lot of our local grocery store. My mother stepped out of the car and headed for the glass entranceway, leaving my father and I to sit and wait in the car.

She disappeared into the florescent maze of boxes and bottles. I fidgeted on the back seat. My father turned up the radio, listening intently to a panel group on talk-radio discussing the pros and cons of some or other threatened industrial action. My father alternately jeered and grunted noises of approval, depending on how each speaker's views fitted with his own. As an ambitious and long serving city councilman, my father considered national political matters as seriously as he did local ones.

My mother finally reappeared with some essential groceries to see us through the next day or two, while we resettled after the three-week break. Seeing her, my father popped the trunk and she stowed the shopping as best she could between the suitcases. "See anyone?, my father casually inquired after she was reseated.
"Not properly, she replied, struggling with the seat belt. "Just your old pal Bill Hobbs. He was at one of the other checkouts. I waved, called out, but he didn't catch me. Left before I was done ' thought you might have seen him come out?

"Bill? said my father, only half interested, most of his attention still on the radio debate. Absently he continued, "No - didn't see him. In fact, I haven't seen or heard from him in weeks. Must call him later tonight though ' annual fundraiser's coming up soon and I need his help with the raffle. His attention drifted back to the radio debate.

My father eased the car out of the parking lot and we made the final mile home to start the laborious task of emptying the suitcases and putting on loads of laundry.
We had been back at the house for barely an hour when the telephone rang. My mother answered it, but she very quickly called for my father. "It's Eileen, she said holding out the handset, anxiously. Eileen was the local secretary for my father's political party. "Sounds ever so upset, my mother continued. "Asked for you as a matter of urgency. Wonder what's wrong?

My father took the 'phone, "Eileen, it's Tom, he said. "My wife said you sounded upset. Whatever's the matter?

"Oh, Tom, she gasped. "I don't know how to tell you this, but it's Bill ' Bill Hobbs. He's dead, Tom. Hanged himself in his garage last night. They found his body early this morning.

©2005