Page 1 of Another Last Call
One
Caleb
Staledust.
Stagnant air.
The musty, untouched scent of a room after months of abandonment.
I used to love that scent. It was the smell of vacation, of opening the cabin door for the first time after a long winter.
It used to be the scent of promise. Of fishing and grilled hot dogs for lunch and bike ride adventures with the kids I was sure would be my lifelong friends. Kids I was bonded with, the siblings I’d never had, who were my entire world for two endless months a year before we forgot each other during the school days that made up the other ten months.
I hadn’t smelled that scent in a long time.
Too long.
Long enough that when I opened the door, it hit me like a wall. I had to stop and blink it away before stepping over the threshold and patting the wall for the closest light switch. My fingers found it easily and I flipped it, but nothing happened. Glancing up, I saw there was no light bulb in the socket.
Typical Dad.
I smiled despite forgetting about the light bulbs. Dad had a cabin in Marble Beach—sure, it was the ugliest, cheapest, most basic cabin in that line of luxury lake houses, but it was shrouded by trees and forest on all sides except the one that faced the lake—but when the end of summer came, he took all the light bulbs out of every fixture so he could avoid having to buy more until he absolutely had to. There had always been a two-pack of spares in his glove box for those occasional trips out to check on the property, but the rest of the bulbs came with us for that first trip to the cabin each year.
“Can I go ride my bike?” I’d always ask as soon as we turned into the gravel driveway just wide enough for our car to pass through.
“Not until the bulbs are in and the windows are open,” Dad would reply.
And I’d sigh, but that was the rule. As soon as he parked, I’d grab my backpack and the bag full of lightbulbs. Mom would start unpacking the car as I tailed Dad around the cabin, lugging the bag of bulbs while he lugged the stepladder. I’d pass him a bulb, he’d screw it, I’d throw open whatever windows were in that room, and then we’d move on to the next one.
“Now can I go ride my bike?” I’d ask as soon as we finished the last room.
“Sure,” Dad would say.
Then I’d wait, then sigh.
“Dad,” I’d say. “Can you get it off the bike rack?”
“Sure I can.”
Another pause, another dramatic childish sigh. “Dad.”
“Yes, Caleb?”
“Will youpleaseget my bike off the bike rack?”
“What?” he’d tease. “You can’t do it yourself yet?”
The first year I managed to do it myself, Dad had a strange look on his face. I didn’t think much of it at the time. Looking back, he might have been proud. But I think he was a little sad, too.
The smile faded as my heart tugged tighter in my chest.
Dad.
I tried to bury the thought of him as my eyes adjusted to the dark.
Late summer light filtered through the dirty windows. The cabin was dim, but I could see well enough. No lightbulbs this time, but the windows needed opening. Muscle memory kicked in, and I stepped further into the cabin.
A quick hop over the squeaky floorboard in the entranceway, particularly important to avoid when sneaking out the last few times I’d been at the cabin as a teenager. The patio door, which had to be pushed in before sliding it open. The furnace needed to be kicked twice on the left and once on the right if it gave out on a particularly cold night. It might have been ten years since I’d been at the cabin, but I still remembered every quirk about the place.
