His Flotsam Prison

Mary Ellen could hear the wheezing and grinding and squelching of the joints of her father’s house long before she saw its sagging shape above the October morning mist. She pulled her aging minivan onto the shoulder of the gravel road, hopped out, and jogged to catch up with the house. When she was little, there would have been no way for Mary Ellen to have caught up. It was the fastest whalehouse in the Riparian. Now, a teacher and mother of three was able to grab onto the porch without sweating.

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She swung herself up to the front door, bracing her legs the way she used to against the swinging and lurching of the house. The floorboards were pockmarked and sagging and made an upsetting wet noise if Mary Ellen put too much weight on any one plank. They sang like a choir of worms in the mud while the house stumbled in a sick and unfamiliar manner, causing Mary Ellen to struggle to keep her footing. She grabbed onto one of the posts and reached up to the doorbell. She couldn’t hear it through the door over the house’s low moaning. When her father did not appear, she pressed it again, and then again. She knocked on the door, and nearly hopped off the porch when she heard a loud clack from behind the chipped paint of the ancient door.

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The hinges screamed in tritone as the door cracked open, and a stooped man whose face was almost entirely consumed by what looked like the remains of a well-aged skunk opened the door. Sagging eyes shined behind the salt-and-pepper beard and below a battered, dirty captain’s hat. He wore a torn-up coat missing a sleeve and bearing an old brass nameplate reading CAPTAIN CARTER. His eyes lit up and his potato-ish nose and dinnerplate ears smiled when he looked at her face. 

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“Mary Ellen! Oh my love, do come in, I hope you haven’t been waiting too long out there,” he said between coughs. “Where’s your sister?”

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“Hello dad. It’s nice to see you. Jeanie doesn’t live in-state anymore, remember?” Mary Ellen responded. She stepped in through the doorway and into the foyer. Behind her, the door slammed closed wetly and Captain Carter swore.

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“Pardon me, Ell, that language’s no fit for the presence of a lady.”

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“Don’t worry about it, I’ve become something of a pottymouth myself lately. And you can’t tell me Mom wasn’t way more colorful.”

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“Your mother could out-swear a sailor, aye.” He turned around. “Ah, it’s so nice to see you, Ell. You kids don’t visit your old man enough.” He embraced his daughter, then leaned out and patted her shoulders firmly. “You’ve grown so tall, lass! No longer my wee silver minnow, ey?”

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“I haven’t grown, you’ve just shrunk, y’old fart,” Mary Ellen said, smiling.

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“And yet I remain tough as this house’s bones I have.”

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Mary Ellen opened her mouth to speak, but before she could say anything, her father took her by the coat sleeve to the living room and sat her down on one of the couches. The floor sagged slightly.

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“Would you like anything, love? Coffee? Tea? Lemonade?”

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“I don’t need anything, thank you, Dad. You can just sit down.”

 

“Nonsense. I’ll get you some water. Just a jiffy.” He hobbled away, pausing at the entryway to the room to push some of the sagging, reddish wall back into place, muttering to himself. 

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Mary Ellen sighed and looked around the old room while her fingers tapped out complicated piano melodies on her thighs absentmindedly. She remembered how this room used to look: the ribs arching up to the bones in the ceiling, from which hung a fancy brass chandelier. The bright red curve of the walls, covered on the lower third by bluish scales and dark wood. The roaring fireplace, and the chairs gathered around it.

 

Now, the walls were a sickly dun, the brass chandelier missing three of its seven bulbs. The floor was uneven, chipped and brittle. The scales had not grown back where they had worn away, the wood only haphazardly replaced. One of the entryways leading to a hallway was held up by timbers as if it were an old-timey mineshaft. A glob of the ceiling of one of the halls fell to the floor with a splat as she was looking at it. The fireplace was cold, an electric heater sitting in the ash pit and turned on its lowest setting. The yellowing mantle, chipped and worn as it was, however, was kept immaculately clean. In the dips of its joints sat a brightly polished metal pipe, a captain’s hat, and a leather-bound journal, all free from dust. Above the items hung a color photograph portrait of a man and a woman, both very tall. 

 

The man had a well-kept, glossy brown beard, a hard face, and harder hands. Yet the left hand, holding that of the woman, looked almost like it had melted into hers. The woman was taller by only

a couple inches, with a bright red shock of curly hair topped with a hat. Her eyes were a piercing green. They stood on the middeck of the house, built around the blowhole. One of the house’s legs loomed in the background above the polished railing of the deck. The photograph was framed in an expensive, ornate frame carved with waves that morphed into leaves and back into water again. At the bottom was a plaque that read “CPTS. JOHNNY AND ALEXA CARTER”. Mary Ellen remembered when that photo was taken. She remembered her father huffing over the cost of the photographer and the print and the frame. She remembered how little he cared about that when her mother expressed her utter joy at seeing it hung up. 

 

A loud, thumping crash followed by a string of swears issued from the direction of the kitchen, and Mary Ellen lept from her seat. “Are you ok?” she called. “Dad? Are you—--?”

 

“Don’t worry about me, Ell,” Johnny shouted back. “These old bones have seen worse.”

 

“Dad, you’re getting too—--”

 

“I’m fine, Mary Ellen. I’ll be out in a moment.”

 

He came back a minute or two later, carrying cups and a pitcher of lemonade on a printed plastic tray that was so scuffed up that you could only see the faintest hint of the picture that had been on it, a little boy and an old woman walking in the woods. He set the tray down on the coffee table.

 

“Sit yourself back down, love. Have some lemonade. Just made it.”

 

Mary Ellen hesitated, but sat down. She took a glass and let Johnny pour her. She did not drink it.

Johnny drank enough for both of them as they caught up. Mary Ellen told him about her children’s new school, about her ex-husband, about her job. They talked about old times. Every few minutes, there would be a crash somewhere in the house. Captain Carter would get up, motion Mary Ellen to stay where she was, and go fix it. Each time he took a little bit longer to get up, and sat a little bit heavier when he got back. The whole time, Mary Ellen was waiting to get to the real topic.

 

“Listen, dad,” she said slowly, upon one of his returns. “I know you love this house, but—--”

Something collapsed in another room with a wet thump, and Johnny stood up slowly and with much audible protest from his joints. 

 

“One moment, love,” he said as he hobbled towards the direction of the noise.

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Mary Ellen sighed heavily. She had not drank any more lemonade. She tapped her fingers anxiously against her glass, and traced the fading floral pattern of the old couch with her eyes. Johnny returned and fell into his chair with a sigh.

 

“What was it you wanted?” he asked. He wiped his brow with a handkerchief while his chest rose and fell quickly. There was a soft whistling noise whenever he exhaled, like someone pumping bellows through a broken whistle. Mary Ellen took a deep breath.

 

And before she could say anything, a piece of the wall fell and landed right by the couch. Johnny began to heave himself out of his chair, but Mary Ellen put her hand out to stop him.

 

“No, dad,” she said. Johnny stared at her in disbelief.

 

“No? Heavens, girl, what do you mean no?”

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“Don’t fix it.”

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“Don’t fix it! Well I!” Johnny sputtered. 

 

“Dad, just listen to me. It can wait. There’s been something I want to talk to you about first.”

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Johnny harrumphed and sat back in the chair, his frown accentuated by his unkempt beard. He waved his hand for Mary Ellen to continue. She set her lemonade down, and turned to face her father head on.

 

“I know you love this house,” she began. Her eyes passed over every detail of her father’s face. Up close and so still, the man looked ancient, like an old, shattered cliff face. “But…” Mary Ellen had to pause. She looked up at the portrait of her parents above the fireplace, and then back down to her father. “I know you feel like you owe mom to keep it running, but. But look around you, dad.” She gestured vaguely to the room. “You can’t keep going like this. Jeanie and I are worried about you.”

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Johnny waved his hand dismissively. “Pah! I’m fine. I’ve been with this old house since she was born. I kept her going for decades. Kept her fed. Kept her washed. Kept the fires up. I’m fine, Ell.”

 

“You had mom, then. You’re just one man. And you’re not fine. When’s the last time you were able to wash yourself? When’s the last time you had new clothes? Look at you, dad! You can barely breathe, and the house is still actively falling apart.”

 

“So Alexa isn’t here to help me. I can run the thing myself. I get a little dirty doing it, but it keeps me in shape. Keeps me sharp. I can’t get lazy.”

 

“It’s not being lazy to not work yourself to death, dad. The house isn’t intended to be run alone, and you’re not intended to upkeep a house alone. It’s going to kill you.”

 

“So my joints protest. So I can’t lift as much as I used to or move as fast. The house still needs to be maintained. Besides, what would you have me do?”

 

“Dad. You need to leave the house.”

 

Johnny stared at Mary Ellen in disbelief, like the language Mary Ellen spoke wasn’t American English. “What?” he said.

 

“You need to leave the house. Retire. Come live with me or Jeanie. We’ll take care of you.”

As Mary Ellen spoke, Johnny’s confusion turned into anger. He shook his head more vigorously with each word.

 

“No,” he said at last, and rose from his chair quicker than Mary Ellen thought he could. “No, no, no. No. I can’t leave this house. Alexa and I poured so much work into this house. We were the fastest whalehouse east of the Mississippi. We delivered cargo during the war! We went all around the country! Ell, I’ve spent sixty God damn years of my life with this house. And you’re saying I should throw it all away? And Alexa! Alexa had been here just as long as I had, worked twice as hard, before she died! I will not sully your mother’s good name and let the thing she worked so hard for die like that.” 

 

“So you’ll throw away yourself?” retorted Mary Ellen, standing up too. “You’ll work yourself to death, to save a dying house? Mom loved you, dad. She loved you more than she loved the damn house. If you want to honor her memory, honor it by taking care of yourself.”

 

“I have a duty,” Johnny responded. His ears were bright red. “I have a duty to maintain this house, come hell or high water.”

 

“And what of your duty to your family? Do you care about the house more than you care about us?” Mary Ellen realized she was crying now.

 

Johnny opened his mouth, then closed it, and grunted. He started for the piece of wall that had fallen down. Mary Ellen watched him silently. He stopped, looking down at it. He seemed even smaller now. Brittle. Johnny took off his hat, revealing a barren scalp, and turned around. Tears were leaving small rivers on his dirty cheeks. He looked up at the photograph of himself and his late wife, then to his daughter, and shook his head.

 

“I’m sorry, love. I can’t accept your help. I have to do this,” he said.

 

“No, dad, you don’t. And you can accept my help. Come on. You’ve spent thirteen years alone in this house. Come home, dad.”

 

Johnny shook his head. “This is my home… Tthis has always been my home…” he whispered.

 

“Dad, this stopped being your home the day mom died.”

 

At that, Johnny burst into tears. He collapsed to the floor, coughing heavily between sobs. Mary Ellen rushed to him, supporting him by his back and shoulders. She ushered him to the couch, keeping him upright. 

 

“Alright,” he said after several minutes. “Alright. Let’s go home, love.”

 

Mary Ellen and Johnny gathered up the few belongings he had from around the house. They had to dodge bits and pieces dissociating from the walls, and more than once Mary Ellen had to remind Johnny to not try to fix them. It pained her to see how hurt he was by what she presumed was his first time truly seeing the state of the house. Back in the living room, Johnny gathered the pieces from the mantle while Mary Ellen took down the photograph.

 

“Do you have everything?” she asked in the foyer, hand on the doorhandle.

 

Johnny looked around, at the nearly shapeless staircases flanking the room, at the fallen chandelier in the corner. The lopsided or fully collapsed doors. He took a deep breath, and placed his old, battered captain’s hat on the floor in the middle of the foyer. Then he took out his wife’s hat, and placed it next to his. He gave them both a salute, then turned back to Mary Ellen, tried to speak, then simply nodded.

 

The house had slowed down to such a degree that they were able to simply walk off the front porch. Johnny sat in the grass while Mary Ellen jogged back to her car and pulled it up. They loaded everything inside, and then Mary Ellen steered them back to the direction of paved streets.

 

“One moment, Ell,” Johnny said as they drove away. “We need to stop somewhere first.”

 

He guided her down roads so remote that Mary Ellen wasn’t sure they were legal. More than a few times, Johnny simply didn’t answer her questions about it. Eventually they got to the top of a hill overlooking the coast and valley. Johnny got out of the car, and Mary Ellen followed. In the distance, they could see the whalehouse’s great gray form lumbering, staggering drunkenly. They sat on a rock and watched as it walked towards the ocean and its legs buckled beneath it on the sand. Mary Ellen watched her dad, the former Captain Johnny Carter, cry.

 

“What now?” he asked. He was shivering underneath his tattered clothes.

 

“Well. You have grandkids. Would you like to finally meet them?”

 

Johnny nodded. “Yes, yes I think I would.”

 

“Then what?”

 

Johnny only shrugged. “I don’t know. Probably drink. That’s what your mother would have wanted.”