From Ashes
JONATHAN DANIELSON
Mom used to say the reason Dad and I fight so much is because we’re both so alike.
“You’reboth pigheaded,” she’d say, after Dad and I would finish screaming at each other over one thing or another. After that, she’d go mediate with him in their room and then come to me in my old room, my Kurt Warner poster from high school still on the door. “You need to get along,” she’d say, after I’d start repacking for Tucson, shoving shirts and underwear back in my bag even though I had just come up for the weekend. “Otherwise, one day you’re both going to say something you can never take back.”
It’s like every time I came home Dad and I would start fighting as soon as I walked through the door. Like this morning, when we were supposed to hike Camelback after breakfast and I did the dishes while he was getting dressed, but apparently I don’t know how to do dishes correctly. Apparently I do everything half-assed.
“The skillet’s supposed to get hand-washed,” Dad said after he put his mug in the dishwasher and saw the skillet on the bottom rack. He asked how long did I used to live there, and how long did I know that’s how the skillet was supposed to get washed, and I said “Dad, who gives a shit about the skillet today?” He just tossed the pan into the sink and told me to drive back to U of A and that he would go up Camelback himself.
“Fine,” I yelled, and I went to my old room and slammed the door, Kurt Warner fluttering from the force, and he went to his room and slammed the door. By the time we calmed down and left the house, it was mid-afternoon and we had to drive up and down 64th Street for twenty minutes just to find parking.
“Do you want me to carry that?” I asked, after we got out and Dad opened the back door and undid the seatbelt around the backpack, the old green JanSport from eighth grade that I had no idea they still had, Mom always keeping crap like that.
“No,” he said. The straps hadn’t been let out in the six years since I last wore it, and it rode ridiculously high on him. “I don’t want you to carry anything,” he said, and he adjusted the fit. He grabbed two water bottles from the floor boards and handed them to me. “Here,” he said.
“Just put them in the backpack,” I said, but with the deep breath he took I just did what I was told. “Fine,” I said, and I tried squeezing them into my pockets so it didn’t look like I was jazzer-sizing up the mountain with a bottle in each hand.
“They’ll fit,” I said. “There,” I said, and I held out my hands so he could see I was right. Two ladies in visors power-walked by, and after they passed we followed, the bulge on my thighs wobbling with each step until I took out the bottles, almost ripping my pockets as I did.
In silence, we headed up the sidewalk past the golf course, a line of people coming off the trail in the opposite direction, Snowbirds in Ohio State shirts and Chicago Cubs hats, everyone sweaty and tired-looking, smiling and laughing and having a good time. Dad and I passed the mansions to the trail, and we hiked up the stairs made of old train posts and then continued along after the stairs disappeared and the path became dirt. Dad was breathing heavy, and after a while he stepped off the path to stretch. He nodded for a water bottle, so I gave him one. He took a drink then stared out over the Valley, his yellow ASU shirt soaked with sweat, the shirt he made sure to wear when I was around, even though he never went to ASU. Even though he never made it past a semester at Scottsdale Community. He stretched his hips and took another sip.
I knew if Mom was around she would have told me I should have again offered to carry the backpack. That he’s almost sixty and why am I letting him do it? That he doesn’t get mad when I don’t do whatever it is I don’t even realize he wants me to do, it’s the not realizing part that pisses him off. That I can’t take initiative on my own. Or whatever.
“You want me to carry that?” I asked. He finished his drink and took another deep breath.
“No,” he said, and even though I could tell he was still tired, he screwed the lid on the bottle and tossed it to me. “I told you I don’t want you to carry anything,” he said, and headed up the trail.
“Fine.” he said. “Fine, I hate that word.”
He continued up and then I continued up, and we didn’t say anything as we went, not a word until two dudes in ASU shorts and tribal tattoos came running down the mountain. We moved aside to let them pass, and they said thanks, then Go Devils when they saw my blue Zona shorts. Dad didn’t look at me, but I could tell he was smiling. He took another deep breath, then asked if I was ready, like I was the one who needed more time.
“I’m fine,” I said. We didn’t say anything for another ten minutes.
I was still in high school the last time I hiked Camelback, the mountain unchanged except for all the traffic on Cholla, what with Echo trail closed so they could redo the parking lot. There were still the regulars running up and down for their daily workouts. The out-of-towners who thought it would be a fun excursion before Spring Training in the afternoon. The couples on Saturday morning dates. But because of all the extra hikers, Dad and I had to keep stepping off the path to let the out-of-towners come cautiously down. We had to keep moving over to let the regulars run by, Dad trying hard to catch his breath until I wondered if he could make it up all the way. His shirt was soaked, and the one time I asked if he was all right, he told me to quit asking. After a few minutes he pointed off the trail to a palo verde growing crooked off the mountain.
“How about sitting over there a minute,” he said, and headed that way. When we got there, he took off the backpack and wiped dirt off a boulder. He set the pack on the clean spot and sat beside it, and I handed him his water. Behind him were the big homes and golf courses between us and Mummy Mountain. The mansions and resorts. The fancy restaurants where Dad would take Mom for birthdays and anniversaries. Dad put his hand to his knee and sat up straight, his mouth open like he was trying to get a yawn which wouldn’t come.
“You know, here’s as good a place as any,” I said, pointing to the manicured desert landscapes.
“You can’t see the house from here,” he said, looking over his shoulder. His arms and neck were so red I couldn’t tell if it was the sun or heatstroke. I knew he wouldn’t agree to the spot, because it wasn’t until the top that we could see our part of town, past Arcadia park and Ingleside Middle School, where I once went and where Mom used to teach. “We’re going all the way,” he then said. “You’re not half-assing this too, no matter how hard you try.”
Down below, the parking lot for the Franciscan Rival Center was packed, with tents set up like they were having a fair. Along Lincoln, a photo radar van flashed as a car raced by.
“You know, this is bullshit,” I said, watching the car lurch to stop and then keep going. “You keep treating me like this, I’m just going to go back down and wait by the car.”
“Well, you couldn’t be bothered to drive up for the last six months, so why am I not surprised you’d do that?” Dad said, and he finally caught his breath. He took another sip, water dripping down his shirt.
“Well, maybe that’s why Mom planned our little outing for her birthday, and not six months ago, because then I’d have to make at least one more trip to see you.”
Dad stopped wiping off the water, and I knew I shouldn’t have said that.
“Real nice,” he said. “Real fucking nice. You know what?” he said, before I could think of something to undo what I just did. “Just don’t talk to me for the rest of the day,” he said, and even though he probably wanted to sit a little longer, he grabbed the backpack and headed toward the trail.
For twenty more minutes lizards hurried under rocks as our feet crunched over the path and we didn’t say a word. At the place where the trail closed-in and was steeper than before we stepped aside to the let two couples in Cal shirts and Giants hats come gingerly down.
“When we get home, your mother wanted me to give you some stuff,” Dad said, one of the guys nodding thanks as he slid by.
“What stuff?” The two women held hands and inched down and their guys laughed as their girlfriends or wives or whatever freaked out about falling.
“Just some stuff. We’ll talk about it at dinner,” he said, and started heading up when it was clear.
“I won’t be here for dinner.”
“What do you mean you won’t be here for dinner?” he said, stopping.
“I mean I’m heading back to Tucson after this. I got class on Monday.”
Two lean bodied regulars appeared at the top. They stepped aside to give us the right-of-way, but you could tell they wanted us to hurry.
“Today’s only Saturday,” Dad said, and when I didn’t say anything he adjusted the straps on his shoulders. “Fine,” he said.
For the next hour the sun came down and our legs got heavy and we sweated and stopped every few yards for Dad to finish his water bottle and then mine. When we got to the top, it was packed, and I had no idea how we were going to do this with so many people around.
“I got to take this off,” Dad said, and he pulled off the backpack. He pinched his shoulder blades together.
“I told you I would carry it,” I said. I put my fists on my hips and looked for a clear spot, but hikers were everywhere. They took selfies with the Valley behind them, the Superstitions to the east, Downtown to the southwest, the Cardinals stadium a tiny bump on the western horizon. Others read books they brought with them. Others stood with their arms out wide and heads back, letting the wind blow by.
“I don’t know where we’re supposed to do this,” I said. I knew this was going to happen. I knew we should’ve left right after breakfast, before everyone was awake, and I knew today was not the day to give a shit about a skillet.
“Over here,” Dad said, and he motioned to the side of the mountain that faced our home. There, two college girls sunbathed against a boulder, and a middle-aged woman stretched her calf. She smiled at us, then pulled back the tip of her foot.
“Not here,” I whispered, but Dad squatted and set the backpack on his knee.
“We’re all right,” he said, unzipping the zipper.
“You know this is illegal,” I whispered, but apparently not quietly enough. The middle-aged woman tilted her head slightly, to watch us from behind her sunglasses. The sunbathers tucked their chins into their chests to lift their heads off the ground.
Through tight lips, I smiled at the middle-aged woman, who looked away. The sunbathers whispered to each other.
“Do it fast,” I said, but when I turned to see if Dad was ready, he was still looking in the backpack, his hands on either side of its canvas body. “Dad?” I said, but he didn’t respond, and because he was squatting and looking down, I couldn’t tell he was crying until I squatted next to him.
“Maybe we should go back and do it by that tree,” he said, and he wiped his cheek with his burnt and sweaty hand. “Maybe you can come back next week and we can do it then. We’ll come earlier so it’s not so crowded.” The wind picked up and dust blew around us. “Maybe when all the Snowbirds go home we can--”
“There are too many people,” he said without trying to keep his voice down. The woman stood and wiped her hands along the back of her pants and went to the other side of the mountain. The college girls just kept whispering.
“Dad,” I said, and I tried reaching for the backpack.
“No,” he said, pulling it away. He blinked hard, squeezing out tears.
“But this is where we’re supposed to be do it,” I said, reaching for it again and this time touching the soaked strap. “Because we can see the house from here.” He didn’t pull away when I took it from him.
It was heavier than I expected, and I stepped away to get as close to the edge of the mountain as possible. I kneeled down and set the bag on the ground. I pulled back the flaps and inside was another bag, a clear plastic one. A few hikers came looking for a place to rest but just kept going. I pulled back the plastic bag, and inside that bag was a box, and on that box was a label with our last name.
I tried to pull the box from the plastic but couldn’t, my arms were rubbery and boneless. With my collar I wiped my eyes, which stung from my soaked shirt. I tried again to take out the box but couldn’t, it was too heavy, and then Dad reached over and peeled back the plastic and we freed it together. I hadn’t realized he was beside me, that he had come over and squatted next to me, and I held the box and he took off the lid and inside that box was another plastic bag with a metal clasp around it. He undid the clasp and I set down the box and we took the new bag and unwrapped it and let its contents out over the mountain, the gray dust mixing with the wind, taking it into itself until the bag was empty. Dad’s knees must have hurt from all the squatting, because he lowered one into the dirt and then the other, and he sat back on his heels.
“I miss her,” I said, and I wiped my eyes and felt the earth rub over my cheeks.
My knees also hurt, so I put one to the ground and then the other, just like him. The wind blew more, and the dust blanketed us until the air finally settled. Until all was still. We stayed like that for a while, and we didn’t say anything. For once, we had nothing to say.
BIO: Previously, Jonathan Danielson served as an Editorial Intern for Flatmancrooked and Kimberley Cameron & Associates Literary Agency and an Assistant Editor for Nouvella. Currently, he teaches English and writing at Scottsdale Community College, and is also an Assistant Fiction Editor for Able Muse.
