He Came to Boston
Ronnie: I’m making my own arrows.
Jeff: Can I bring my slingshot?
Jeff: What about lighter fluid?
Charlie: You’re a Scout, not an arsonist.
Jeff: What if I want to be?
Consider me shocked. Jeff would be the first of my proteges to wind up in jail. The texts continued flying as they prepared themselves for the camping trip. Laurel had taken them from involved to enthusiastic. Thanks to her demonstrations, four out of my five shots had hit the bullseye.
I let out a deep sigh. Other than the weatherman on the living room television, the house remained silent. My fingers danced around the neck of the beer bottle, debating if I wanted another. My phone continued to vibrate as the gremlins fired off text after text.
All day, I expected a catastrophe. I helped load the hay bales into Seamus’s truck.
When I mentioned helping Mum fix up the house, he offered a hand if I needed it.
No intrusion. No pushing. He didn’t follow it up with questions about my stay or offer gossip about the town.
I had replayed every interaction since I returned, wondering if this was the same Firefly I had left decades ago.
Matt: What if I have to pee in the middle of the night?
I eyed the text message. Matt sent it separately from the gremlin’s group chat. His anxiety had turned to worry. Where Ronnie and Jeff would run into danger without a care in the world, Matt needed assurance.
Charlie: You grab a lantern and go not too far from the camp.
Matt: What about animals?
Charlie: Most of them are asleep, too.
Matt: Are you sure?
Charlie: You can wake me up, and I’ll go with you.
He struggled, but at least he kept the lines of communication open. It meant that part of him wanted to be involved.
“What are you smiling about?”
I didn’t realize I had a grin on my face. Mum hobbled into the kitchen, filling her teakettle with water. After she placed it on the stove, she sat in the chair across the table.
“It seems you’ve made some new friends.”
“I’m not sure I’d call a trio of trouble-makers friends.”
She leaned back, lips pursed. It meant I was about to get some insightful words. Pops always joked he could tell when she was about to rock his world. First the lips, then the folded hands. It was when she leaned forward and locked eyes that I could feel her preparing a wallop.
“Seamus?” She raised an eyebrow. “Bobby and Laurel?”
The walls came slamming down. “Who talked?”
“Walter.” I should have guessed. He and his platonic life mate had watched us the entire day. “He said you’re really getting through to those kids.”
“And?” Her head cocked to the side, confused by the question. “What other insights did he offer?”
“Charles.” Her tone softened. “Why are you so afraid to connect with people?”
It stung that she didn’t understand my reservations. She and Pops had spent many nights assuring me that everything would be okay. Had she forgotten? Forgiven? It was better than thinking she never understood the way Firefly tormented me, leaving me no option but to leave.
“I can’t forgive this town—these people—for what they did to me. Everybody else might have moved on, but—”
I stopped when she shook her head. “Not forgotten… never forgotten.” She reached across the table, beckoning for my hand. I surrendered, and she clutched my fingers. “They were mean. Downright cruel. You survived the best you could. You ran, and we let you go.”
I hadn’t given them notice. A month after graduation, I discovered a friend lived in Boston and offered me a room.
It turned into an apprenticeship. I announced it as if it were no big deal.
There were tearful goodbyes, but not once did Mum or Pops beg me to stay.
They had been brave… for me. Remembering her face that night, my chest tightened, and my throat closed.
I wanted to whisper, “I’m sorry,” but the words caught in my throat.
I ran and never looked back. They were part of the past I tried to outrun, and in the process, I shattered the relationship with the two people who always stood in my corner.
I did what I needed to survive, but after Pops passed, regret set in.
“You did what you had to do.”
I couldn’t tell if her words were for her or for me. Her eyes held a mix of sorrow and longing. I returned out of obligation, counting down the days until I left. Was I the only one still holding a grudge? Did I wield the anger like armor, trying to keep people from getting close?
“If only Pops could see you now.”
“I wish—” I let go of her hand, leaning back in my chair. I wiped the tears with the back of my hand. “I wish he could have gotten to know me.”
“He knew you.” Her words didn’t have room for doubt. In the spiritual sense, sure, he could watch over me now. There were a thousand stories I could have shared with him. Instead, the photos on the mantle were all of a child who didn’t exist anymore.
Mum got up and, without a word, walked into the living room. I turned in my chair to watch her through the doorway as she pulled one of her scrapbooks off the shelf. Her boot thumped as she returned, dropping the book in front of me.
Covered in bright red fabric, the window in the center had a photo of the three of us.
I recalled the trip to Cadillac Mountain.
A summer vacation affair, all three of us stood in front of Thunder Hole, a natural formation that caused the waves to shoot into the air.
With them, the smile on my face had been genuine.
Firefly Valley was nothing more than a dot on the map. They were home.
She moved to the stove as the teakettle whistled.
Along the bottom of the scrapbook, cutout letters spelled my name. Charles. I cracked open the cover, prepared for a trip down memory lane. Had this been one of Mum’s scrapbooking projects she worked on with the other ladies? I expected a makeshift baby book.
As I saw the first photo, my heart pushed into my throat.
Instead of a birth certificate, the first page had a photo from the shop’s social media. It was the announcement of me joining my first shop as an apprentice. Beneath it, the article with my name highlighted.
I turned the page to see a photograph of the first tattoo convention I joined as a guest artist. There were a dozen photos pulled from online, showing me inking attendees.
As I continued flipping, I found every article about me and the shop.
Even the post they made about me leaving, wishing me well when we opened our own.
“You made this?”
“Your father did.” She chuckled. “He’s the reason I started scrapbooking. He’d make us drive all the way to Bangor to stop by the craft store.”
I stared in disbelief. Not at the scrapbooking, that didn’t shock me. He had a creative soul and found interesting ways to express himself. While I lived my life, he had been silently watching, documenting every accomplishment. For all those years, they hid in the background, cheering me on.
“We’re not techies. Tyler had to help us. He has a Finsta, whatever that is. Whenever your father returned one of his western novels, Tyler would have a stack of papers for him. I think it’s the only reason he read so much.”
She poured the water as if it were no big deal. Dropping in her teabags, she thumped her way over, kissing me on the top of my head.
“You grew up to be a wonderful man.” She squeezed my shoulder. “We’ve always been proud of you.” She made her way back to the living room, just in time to catch the nightly news feature story.
Left alone, I stared at a photo of Sammy, Malcom, and me in our underwear. Debuting the shop, we had strutted around showing off our ink. Everybody boldly flexed, making us look like a trio of fools. Tucked in the spine of the book, a photo hung loose, yet to be glued to the page.
Pulling it free, I gasped. “Pops.” They had been observers, documenting my accomplishments.
Unlike the others, this was an original photo of Pops taking a selfie in front of our shop.
He had come to Boston, only a few feet from the front door.
I wanted to ask him why he didn’t come inside.
With only a few strides, the end of our story could have been different.
I slid the photo into my breast pocket, wanting this one for myself.
“There’s extra water in the kettle,” Mum called from the living room.
I got up and poured myself a cup of hot water, grabbing two tea bags and dipping them inside.
I could have spent the night poring over the pages, getting lost in memories and what-ifs.
Instead, I headed to the living room to share a spot on the couch with Mum.
As much as I wanted, I couldn’t change the past.
The present, though, here I could start mending old wounds.