THE QUIET
FICTION BY ROBERT CRAIG
The dog jumps off the bed and Roy looks at his phone: it's 5:39am. He looks towards the window. There's just a hint of daylight. The hush before the dawn. He stretches in bed, under the covers, the warmth of sleep. The space he keeps. The dog waits, looking back at Roy, tail wagging.
The bedroom is chilly. His bare feet on the cold floor startles him. He quickly finds his underwear and a T-shirt and follows the dog down the hall. Down the stairs. The click clack of nails on the old wood floor.
At the bottom of the stairs, in the dark, Roy steps on a dog toy. A loud squeak and he jumps. Fuck.
In the kitchen, he turns on a light. He checks the wood stove. Cold to the touch. He let it go out last night. He hasn't turned on the furnace yet this season. The afternoons have been warm and the wood stove does enough to take the chill out of the downstairs in the evenings. He sees the sink full of dishes, pots and pans from last night's dinner. Empty wine bottles.
He opens the backdoor for the dog and the cold hits him hard. It was a hard frost overnight. He steps back and the dog goes out. Pisses on the old fence. Roy waits and watches. The dog starts to sniff and smell. Slowly searching. Roy yells for him to get inside. The dog looks back at Roy, then continues on, wandering where his nose leads. Roy yells again and reluctantly the dog listens. A slow saunter back to obedience.
A few more lights turned on. Roy hears the dog go up the stairs and back to bed. Roy preps the coffee maker. Looks at the dirty dishes. The kitchen is a small disaster. He's constantly surprised how much of a mess the man can make.
He tosses on an old jacket and slips his feet into boots by the back door. Outside he sees his breath in the cold. In the faint light he crosses the backyard. He hurries. The shuffle of leaves underfoot. He notices the truck windows covered with frost. Above him the sky lightens. A sliver of moon slowly descending is the only one watching him. His only witness. The air is so still.
At the woodpile, Roy loads his arms full of firewood.
Inside he starts a fire in the wood stove: he lights the scraps of kindling with the propane torch. Wood smoke briefly fills the kitchen. The smell of smoldering wood catching fire. He tosses on a few short split logs then shuts the heavy stove door. Adjusts the damper. And listens. He hears the hiss and crack evolve into a gentle roar. He stands next to the stove in his underwear, waiting for the heat to rise. He feels the warmth on his legs, his thighs.
The house is silent.
There is not a single sound, except for the wood stove. Nothing but this stillness. And he suddenly realizes the quiet doesn't affect him like it did. After the accident. When he was here all alone and there was no one coming home. No laughter or arguments or his mother nagging his father. The sound of father's work boots as he walked. The opening and closing of doors and kitchen cabinets. The constant dull drone of the kitchen TV.
He's surprised to find himself in this place in time: content and okay with just his own noise. How long has it been that this quiet house hasn't lead to tears? All the fears of being alone. House empty. When did it start and when did it end? And he's a little overwhelmed with being okay and what it might mean. But he hasn't forgotten what he lost.
He looks at the clock on the microwave oven and decides to head back to bed.
He kicks the dog toy out of his way. Climbs the old cold stairs.
In the bedroom he stops and looks at the two of them. There's that smell of sleep and dog. The dog has stolen his spot, stretched out on Roy's side of the bed. His head on Roy's pillow. Bruce is sprawled out, a tangle of limbs and blankets. Both of them sound asleep. The quiet hangs in the air until the dog stretches and moans.
Roy shakes his head and grabs his jeans and socks. Gets dressed. Heads downstairs. With a click, he flicks the coffee maker on. Starts the dirty dishes.