Although he hadn’t mentioned it on the long trip there, Peter Roberts was completely aware that it had been exactly seventeen years to the day since the auction. Loosely resting a chubby forearm on top of the steering wheel of the beaten Land Cruiser, he sighed as he passed by Bluestone Park.
“It’s definitely gotten smaller,” he chuckled to his restless family.
The rusting olive monkey bars, the blood-red flowers of the mature Royal Poincianas, the great fountain with the golden sculpted lion: they were all there, just as they were when he was a child. But on that day, the stream of water from the lion’s mouth had been reduced to a miserable trickle. As a child, he used to walk down to Bluestone on Sundays with his late father. It was just down the road from his old home.
“We’re getting close now,” he placated.
His wife sat in silence in the passenger’s seat, fiddling with her wedding ring.
*****
‘Open for final inspection.’
The sign cast an ugly black square on what was otherwise a well-kept lush, green lawn. A youthful Peter – who had just turned eighteen years old – sat in his vacant room as he surveyed the scores of people who came in and out of the front gate. Townspeople of all sorts had congregated at 16 Grace Street: families, young couples, the elderly. They had all heard the news.
After throwing all of his belongings in an unlabelled black box, Peter lumbered downstairs where his mother – dark rings visibly deepening under her eyes – was preparing lunch in the family kitchen for the last time. She had lost weight and suffered through eight different jobs since her husband passed a year ago.
“I’m sorry about all this, Petey. It’s happened so fast,” she said.
“It’s okay... why are...”
“What’s that, honey?”
“Nothing, forget about it.”
He devoured his sandwich and handpicked a toffee from his mother’s lolly jar, even though he wasn’t hungry. While sucking on the treat, he drifted towards the din of conversation in the front yard.
For the last time, Peter wandered about the place that had nurtured him. He ran his smooth, pudgy hands against the sandpaper-surface of the coarse bricks – all of which had been laid one by one, by his father. Peter always found comfort in the imperfections of the brickwork. Some were irregularly shaped, some were discoloured, and some were not completely symmetrical – like the assortment of toffees in his mothers lolly jar. But they had protected them, they were the protectors of the Roberts family. The bricks provided some structure to his turbulent life. Peter scanned the crowds of onlookers. He hoped that one day, these bricks would protect one of them in the same way.
In the middle of the front yard, a youthful Royal Poinciana stood, like a British Royal Guard. Her healthy red flowers emitted an aura in the yard the townspeople didn’t seem to notice. The green fern leaves danced in the intermittent southerly winds, as the rustling sounds whispered to him. Years ago, he collected one of the dark, elongated seed pods from Bluestone Park and placed them in a plastic cup under his desk. When his father died, he had planted one of those seeds in the front yard and watched it rise up from the dirt. Sometimes, he spent hours sitting next to the growing tree. Sometimes, he read out loud as if the Poinciana were listening. ‘The Catcher in the Rye’ and ‘Oliver Twist’ were his favourites. Peter caressed the feeble branches; she hadn’t fully matured yet. Again, Peter pleadingly inspected the crowd. Would the buyer water her, trim her, raise her? He vowed that someday, he would return to it.
“Petey!” His mother’s shrill call sailed across from the front gate. “It’s time for us to go.”
Peter didn’t watch as his mother, with trembling hands, conceded the house keys to the burly suited man from the bank. The price had been set.
On the car trip out of town, with the furniture-movers trailing behind, they passed Bluestone Park.
*****
The family Land Cruiser sputtered slowly into Grace Street. Peter struggled to slide the wheel through his sticky hands when straightening the car up. The street seemed much longer than he remembered.
When the mailbox with the number sixteen came into view, Peter’s children sat up. But the eagerness in their eyes was quickly replaced with confusion. The looming white, mid-century modern house that occupied the space did not reflect their father’s descriptions.
“Where are the bricks that Grandpa laid, Dad?”
Peter didn’t reply.
“Where is the tree you always talked about, Dad?”
Peter couldn’t reply.
As he fought back tears, it became clear to him: the buyers of the property at the foreclosure auction all those years ago could never have understood. The hope that had buoyed him up for seventeen long years perished that day, in the same place where his beloved Poinciana tree had been slain.
When Peter passed Bluestone Park that afternoon, he knew that it was for the very last time. He failed to notice the monkey bars or the Royal Poincianas – they were colourless. But he did notice something about the fountain.
The trickle of water from the sculpted lion’s mouth had ceased altogether.
Although he hadn’t mentioned it on the long trip there, Peter Roberts was completely aware that it had been exactly seventeen years to the day since the auction. Loosely resting a chubby right forearm on top of the steering wheel of the beaten Land Cruiser, he sighed as he passed by Bluestone Park.
“It’s definitely gotten smaller,” he chuckled to his restless family.
The rusting olive monkey bars, the blood-red flowers of the mature Royal Poincianas, the great fountain with the golden sculpted lion: they were all there, just as they were when he was a child. But on that day, the stream of water from the lion’s mouth had been reduced to a miserable trickle. As a child, he used to walk down to Bluestone on Sundays with his late father. It was just down the road from his old home.
“We’re getting close now,” he placated.
His wife sat in silence in the passenger’s seat, fiddling with her wedding ring.
*****
‘Open for final inspection.’
The sign cast an ugly black square on what was otherwise a well-kept lush, green lawn. A youthful Peter – who had just turned eighteen years old – sat in his vacant room as he surveyed the scores of people who came in and out of the front gate. Townspeople of all sorts had congregated at 16 Grace Street: families, young couples, the elderly. They had all heard the news.
After throwing all of his belongings in an unlabelled black box, Peter lumbered downstairs where his mother – dark rings visibly deepening under her eyes – was preparing lunch in the family kitchen for the last time. She had lost weight and suffered through eight different jobs since her husband passed a year ago.
“I’m sorry about all this, Petey. It’s happened so fast,” she said.
“It’s okay... why are...”
“What’s that, honey?”
“Nothing, forget about it.”
He devoured his sandwich and handpicked a toffee from his mother’s lolly jar, even though he wasn’t hungry. While sucking on the treat, he drifted towards the din of conversation in the front yard.
For the last time, Peter wandered about the place that had nurtured him. He ran his smooth, pudgy hands against the sandpaper-surface of the coarse bricks – all of which had been laid one by one, by his father. Peter always found comfort in the imperfections of the brickwork. Some were irregularly shaped, some were discoloured, and some were not completely symmetrical – like the assortment of toffees in his mothers lolly jar. But they had protected them, they were the protectors of the Roberts family. The bricks provided some structure to his turbulent life. Peter scanned the crowds of onlookers. He hoped that one day, these bricks would protect one of them in the same way.
In the middle of the front yard, a youthful Royal Poinciana stood, like a British Royal Guard. Her healthy red flowers emitted an aura in the yard the townspeople didn’t seem to notice. The green fern leaves danced in the intermittent southerly winds, as the rustling sounds whispered to him. Years ago, he collected one of the dark, elongated seed pods from Bluestone Park and placed them in a plastic cup under his desk. When his father died, he had planted one of those seeds in the front yard and watched it rise up from the dirt. Sometimes, he spent hours sitting next to the growing tree. Sometimes, he read out loud as if the Poinciana were listening. ‘The Catcher in the Rye’ and ‘Oliver Twist’ were his favourites. Peter caressed the feeble branches; she hadn’t fully matured yet. Again, Peter pleadingly inspected the crowd. Would the buyer water her, trim her, raise her? He vowed that someday, he would return to it.
“Petey!” His mother’s shrill call sailed across from the front gate. “It’s time for us to go.”
Peter didn’t watch as his mother, with trembling hands, conceded the house keys to the burly suited man from the bank. The price had been set.
On the car trip out of town, with the furniture-movers trailing behind, they passed Bluestone Park.
*****
The family Land Cruiser sputtered slowly into Grace Street. Peter struggled to slide the wheel through his sticky hands when straightening the car up. The street seemed much longer than he remembered.
When the mailbox with the number sixteen came into view, Peter’s children sat up. But the eagerness in their eyes was quickly replaced with confusion. The looming white, mid-century modern house that occupied the space did not reflect their father’s descriptions.
“Where are the bricks that Grandpa laid, Dad?”
Peter didn’t reply.
“Where is the tree you always talked about, Dad?”
Peter couldn’t reply.
As he fought back tears, it became clear to him: the buyers of the property at the foreclosure auction all those years ago could never have understood. The hope that had buoyed him up for seventeen long years perished that day, in the same place where his beloved Poinciana tree had been slain.
When Peter passed Bluestone Park that afternoon, he knew that it was for the very last time. He failed to notice the monkey bars or the Royal Poincianas – they were colourless. But he did notice something about the fountain.
The trickle of water from the sculpted lion’s mouth had ceased altogether.
