. jack

[jack kearney]

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      Sylly

[jack kearney]

fall 2024 “I’m O-K,” he insisted to his office mates, phone screen held clammy against his ear. It’s Monday, office morale champing at the bit for a shortened week. The time of year when productivity slows and everyone knows but nobody draws attention to, instead sharing plans of holidays and gifts and office festivities. There’s a potluck on the calendar tomorrow, weeks of pestering emails and sign-up lists in preparation, all under the unsaid agreement that nobody would actually be working otherwise. It’s his second year with the company but all he can hear is his mother over the phone, delivering the news that Grandpa Johnny had died. Swimming through the concern of his coworkers finding him catatonic in his office, making the call to Sylvia that plans had changed. Hardly trusting her to shift their itinerary as he sat in the stale air of his car for an hour before his commute home, going through the mechanisms, shifting his flights, entertaining a new timeline, before tumbling through their apartment door and immediately moving to pack his bags. This was supposed to be fun: food, football, talks, celebration. Meanwhile their patriarch had fallen. Just like that he’s on a plane to Montana, days earlier than expected for Thanksgiving. Suddenly all their plans are upturned, idyllic days stolen by the emergency planning of a funeral. A shovel handle in his grasp, shadow thrown over the grave. Standing back, tears gathering in his eyes at the feel of dirt leaving the spade, reading his own namesake on the headstone. Johnathan James Kearney, permanently engraved in stone, a plot reserved for decades where Jack’s great-grandparents also rested. They were supposed to do this, plan their own death—Jack’s gaze dips toward Sylvia’s, unsure of her opinion on burial versus cremation a year into their relationship. God forbid something happen, did they know each other’s wishes? “I’m fine,” he assured his mother in the kitchen, busying himself peeling and chopping and basting. Thanksgiving a few days later feels like a cruel joke, the family gathering as if it had not just lost its leader. Jack absorbed any task that came near, committing his time so that it would not otherwise be unspent or available to think, convincing everyone else that he was unscathed. Whiskey ditches bolstered his usually jovial spirit, diving into conversations with those passing the kitchen, encouraging Sylvia to play hostess. The minefield of politics and relationship updates that awaited them at any moment, explaining away how they lived in lascivious, dangerous California to people who had never left the state. Football games drone on all day in the background as people filter through the house. Old friends, neighbors, people like family paying their respects and appearing with gifts—food, always food to comfort—that crowded tables and brought grandma to tears. An obituary online, local news coverage writing mournful articles. Jack could center his consciousness in the middle of the kitchen but watched his body move around the house, like found overhead footage he wasn’t privy to. There but not quite present, watching it all play out without the impact. It's only later in the Airbnb that he can think about it. But he doesn’t want to, nursing the edges of sobriety away, watching weather happen outside their fancy glass walls like a glorified tourist. Having to buy proper shoes and borrow jackets for this winter, so used to heated pools and cushy gyms, wondering who this house really used to belong to before it was converted into a seasonal rental. His focus drips into the snow outside, trying to pinpoint when he lost the connection home. Did grandpa have his life planned out year for year? Did he ever worry about 401K contributions or ad revenue or social media comments? “I’m alright,” he breathes, nodding against the crook of Sylvia’s neck once he’s come down. More selfish this time for his own pleasure as she took him into her arms and between her thighs, still buried in the only other home he knew. Running on autopilot, seeking solace in their intimacy, stilled beneath the sheets. Finding reprieve in the little sounds she made, his name breathed against his ear, hands and legs keeping him anchored to Earth. In this apartment she loved and he recently invaded, calling their own, an amalgamation of tastes and offerings. His heart quakes in his ears, the first confrontation of his mortality. Skipping past the holiday and the flight back, returning to LAX, like he’s rented out his body to someone more culpable. Suddenly thinking more extremely—daring himself to apply for that job, go beyond this industry. Surprise this beautiful woman he looks up at, bathed in the moon of December leaking through their windows. So painfully cognizant of this existence and precious time, hovering off to her side, feeling their mess pool. “I think we should have a baby,” he murmurs against her ear, thumbing along the tiny swell of her tummy that he assured to love, wishing to get started on the kind of life that his grandfather had enjoyed.