Moving’s a real bitch.
Jack Merrick wiped the sweat from his forehead with his loose shirttail-already sodden in the June heat-hoisted the box from the back of the mid-sized U-haul van onto his shoulder, and began his umpteenth trip up the driveway, into the garage, and from there into the kitchen.
The movers had already taken care of the heavy stuff-refrigerator, washer and dryer, living room furniture, beds, bureaus, dressers, that sort of thing. Most of the rest of the larger pieces had been sold off, anyway, in a massive yard sale just before they left Oregon-the, the boat, the trailer, and the motorcycle. Jack figured that it would be cheaper to buy new things than to move a truckload of this and that, most of which was junk anyway.
That left just the single van, which he had driven to California, accompanied by his younger son Clark, while Ariel and Mark followed in the Saturn. Most of what was in the van was the personal shit that accumulates, even though they had only lived in Oregon for three years, and in two cities during that time. Dishes, pots and pans, clothes, the kids’ toys-Jack had wanted to sell the bicycles but Mark and Clark had raised hell at the suggestion and, good father that he was, he had given in-a few books, Ariel’s sewing supplies, and on and on.
All neatly packed in cardboard boxes.
That now he had to lug into the new house.
Ariel tried to help, but her hip was still too sore to bear much more than her own weight, so she was puttering around inside, putting this away here and that away there, emptying boxes in the kitchen and bathrooms.
Mark was making himself useful enough, Jack thought, bringing in some of the smaller boxes and breaking down the empties and stacking them in a corner of the garage. They cost enough, and the family might need them again. Who knew?
Clark was probably sitting on his bed in his room. The cast was due to come off sometime next week, and the kid was pretty good at swinging himself along on the crutches, but he wasn’t worth crap as a worker. Even when he didn’t have a broken leg. Lazy shit. Eleven was old enough to pull his weight-Jack knew that from his own experiences as a kid. A broken leg wouldn’t have been much of an excuse for him back then. The old man would have made him tuck stuff under his arms and swing away, or balance boxes on his head. Clark was lucky to have him as a father, rather than Grandpa Merrick.
“Hey! Watch it!”
“Sorry, Dad.” Mark peeped around the corner of the box he was carrying. It was big enough and awkward enough that the kid couldn’t see over it or around it, so he was following the line of the driveway. Came this close to bumping Jack. That wouldn’t do.
“Well, be more careful next time.”
“Okay.”
Jack dropped his burden to the sidewalk and swiped at his forehead again. He watched his son struggle his way into the house, heard him yelling at Ariel, “Mom, where does this go?” Jack couldn’t hear Ariel’s response. She was pretty soft spoke, rarely raised her voice above a whisper. Made for a quiet home, something Jack valued.
He shouldered the box again and made his way into the shade of the garage-it must be ten degrees cooler in there-and then into the house. The air conditioner was running full blast but the place didn’t feel any cooler than the garage. The AC unit sticking up on the roof like a blister was as old as the house itself, nearly twenty years old, Slick Maxwell had said on the final walkthrough yesterday. Maybe they’d have to replace it. Maybe not. Who knew?
Jack continued through the house, down the hallway, around the corner, and on to the back bedroom, his room. His sanctum sanctorum. The place where he would go when the kids got to be too much, when Ariel got on his nerves and he started to lose it.
The room wasn’t large enough to be a proper den, but it would hold a couple of streamlined leather armchairs, his flat screen, his antique liquor cabinet, and the few personal items he carried with him wherever they moved. Mostly mementos from college, a couple of trophies, a football signed by the team the year they went to state and he was voted MVP for the playoff game, that kind of thing. What he needed to make him feel like the man he was…or at least used to be.
He dropped the box and fell into one of the armchairs. He threw his head back against the cool leather and closed his eyes. He’d worked up quite a sweat. It was pleasant to sit back and take a well-earned rest.
“Jack?” Ariel’s voice barely carried the length of the hallway but it was enough to interrupt his short breathing space. “Jack, where did you put the box with the curtains for the living room?”
“How the hell should I know,” he grumbled to himself. “It probably looks just like all the rest.” But he pushed himself out of the chair and headed down the dark hallway. Might as well get this over with. “Coming,” he yelled. “Get me a cold one from the fridge, will ya?”
Yeah, moving sure was a bitch.