The Return

​Paul’s confusion was dissipating, and intense anger was taking its place, as he stood in his bedroom on the family farm for the first time in thirty-two years. The five cardboard boxes stacked in the closet held his vinyl records he purchased years after he left for the city, books from his undergraduate years, he thought he had given away. Paul pulled a manuscript he recognized from his graduate class, “Reform, Revolt, and Revolution in the Maclure Collection.” The 72-page paper analysed four-hundred pamphlets produced during the French Revolution. All these items were taken from his house in Saskatoon, and the farm was on the Alder Ridge Road between High Prairie and Valley View in the south Peace River region. The trip was over nine hundred kilometres.
“What is that?” asked Jennifer, Paul’s wife. She had changed from her black skirt, white blouse, and jacket she wore in court to more comfortable jeans and blue shirt. She wouldn’t be recognised as a lawyer as they travelled through the small towns on their way back home. Paul liked her petit elegant appearance regardless of what she wore.

“Don’t you recognise this?” he asked as he held up the manuscript for her. She had helped him complete some of the translations from French.
“What’s that doing here?” she asked.
“Greg must have driven to Saskatoon and taken these things,” said Paul. Greg was Paul’s adoptive father.
Jennifer opened another box and pulled out Civil Law, Family Law, and Contracts and felt a surge of anger. She opened the front covers and saw her contact information she placed there in hopes that if the books were left somewhere a helpful person would return them. “I had to buy second copies of these when they went missing. I blamed myself for leaving them in the classrooms.”
 
After Paul graduated his Master of Arts degree, he had several short-term contracts. Jennifer graduated Law and they moved to Edmonton for her to pursue her articles. Paul worked for the Heritage Foundation writing articles for an on-line encyclopedia, but that position came to an end when the funding was exhausted. Paul was happy to drive Jennifer to locations around the province to attend court. They had been to Peace River several times before they decided to make the short trip off Highway 49 up Alder Ridge Road to the farm. It was the first time he had returned to the farm.
Paul appeared to love the farm work and hikes in the forests, but always planned to leave. His adoptive father made it clear that there was no other path for him except to stay on the farm and take care of his two brothers who couldn’t exert themselves, as they had heart conditions. Paul learned the value of keeping his plans to himself. When Jonas died of a heart attack in his teens, Paul absolutely knew he would slip away to a new life.
It had been eight years since David phoned Paul to let him know his father had passed away. He had cancer in his leg and in surgery they found he had been wounded during one of the last battles in Germany of World War II. He was thirteen at the time. The vein healed attach to an artery. It was repaired, but later it ruptured, and he died.
David inherited everything and Paul was declared by his adoptive father to not be a member of the family in his Will.
 
The corrals were collapsing and empty. Paul was struck by the silence; there was no lowing, and bellowing. There was a gentle breeze, and the air had an earth smell with sage. The steel granaries were gone, as was the old equipment.
Paul was expecting to find David living in the farmhouse. The door was unlocked, and Jennifer and Paul entered calling for David.
“David must not be living here,” said Paul. “The dishes are clean and put away.”
“There’s dust on everything,” said Jennifer. “Maybe we should just go.”
“We can get out as soon as I look around,” said Paul.
The front room had the same sofa and coffee table Paul remembered. There were magazines piled up and the old television with vacuum tubes instead of transistors and microchips stood on its short legs in the corner.
Paul turned and walked with a brisk pace to the stairway. He didn’t want to stay in the house any longer than he had to. David may have sold the place, and they were trespassing. He looked in David’s room and the bed wasn’t made. His 4-H trophies for fed calf, and cow calf were on display. The drawers were half opened and everything had the same dust as everywhere else.
In a moment, Paul led Jennifer into the master bedroom. There was a damp musky smell. It was the most disordered room of them all: the bed had the sheets and covers in a pile. Half full bottles of vodka and rye were littered on the bed, on the floor and on the night tables.
 
As Paul looked around his bedroom, he remembered the last day on the farm. His mother was coming and going, working in Hinton where she still had their first house built by her brothers and father. He was doing well in school because the school had given Paul a series of attitude tests, ignoring his mother’s demand. She didn’t want Paul’s abilities to be compared to Jonas or David.
Paul had finished the chores, feeding the cattle checking the fences, as David complained about chest pains like he always did and went into the house. Paul was typing a report for the next day when his father entered.
“Are you on strike?” his father asked. “Your place is outside working.”
“The chores are done,” said Paul. “This report is due tomorrow.”
“You’re done with school, like David,” said his father. “You don’t need to learn anymore.”
“I have to get this done to continue in High School,” said Paul.
“You’ve gone completely crazy,” said his father raising his voice. “You’re going to school tomorrow and get your things and coming home to take care of your brother, or you get the hell out of here.”
“Okay,” said Paul.
Paul was approached by his mother when her husband had left the farm for the day.
“Get all of your things,” she said. “We’re moving back to the house in Hinton today.”
 
In the farmhouse bedroom Paul looked at the collection of vinyl records, Men in Arms, April Wine, Bob Dylan, Finlandia, and Dvorak’s New World Symphony. His undergraduate textbooks: Stagecraft, Palmer, and Colton: World History, and The Northwest Mounted Police.
“Let’s load it all up,” said Paul. Feeling the tension break. He had achieved what he wanted, and Greg was gone. Maybe Greg’s spirit was watching. The thought made Paul smile.
“They’re ours, and I’m glad to get them back even if they are out of date,” replied Jennifer. The creased skin on her forehead dissipating. They didn’t care if someone else owned the house. They were taking back what was theirs. The disorder of the place suggested that if it was owned by anyone else, they didn’t care enough to check things.
Paul picked up a box and Jennifer walked ahead to open the door for him. They opened the truck of their car and lowered the first box in.
“This is like I am finishing my moving out,” said Paul.
“This is funny,” said Jennifer. “If anyone came along and asked what we were doing we could say we are just picking up our things. We can point out our names and address in the books, your name on the university paper.”
Paul laughed as they headed back into the house. All the boxes were loaded, and Paul followed Jennifer back into the house.
“Let’s see what else they have of yours,” said Jennifer.
They walked into the kitchen and Paul opened the refrigerator. There was jar of pickles and a bottle of champing: Martini. Paul grinned as he held the bottle, and said, “Not only is this bubbly, it’s the sweet kind. Greg drank hard liquor and hated sweet wine.”
“That’s why it is here,” said Jennifer.
Paul pulled the foil off the top and unwound the wire cage. There was a pop as the cork flew across the kitchen. “Let’s celebrate getting our things back and finishing my move off the farm.”
Jennifer hurried over to the cupboard and found two mismatched glasses. She opened a drawer and found a small set of tea towels. She wiped the glasses clean, and Paul poured the champagne.
Paul lifted his glass and said, “To the end of an era.”
Their glasses clinked together. The liquid tasted sweeter than he expected.
Jennifer smiled as she drank her wine. “This taste better than I ever remembered.” She walked to the cupboards with a light step opening them and looking at the mismatched dishes. She stopped when she saw the gold trimmed China.
“What are these antiques?”
“They were Hollyhock dishes from Sovereign Potters in Canada. They are China from the 1930s and mom got them from Lowe Farm in Manitoba. I was the only one that was never allowed to touch them.”
“What?”
“If Julie, Kate, or Jonas took a cup or saucer, they were told to wash them up and return them. If I touched them, my mother would rush over and grab my hand and as if I had taken the absolute forbidden treasure.”
“That decides it,” said Jennifer as she took another drink. “These obviously have a special meaning for you and we’re taking them.”
“You are right,” said Paul. He wished that his father and mother were there as spirits and watching. “I saw a few boxes in the garage on the way in. I’ll get them.”
They loaded the China into three boxes and loaded them onto the back seat of the car. They left the empty bottle and two classes on the kitchen table. In a moment they walked out of the door and left it unlocked. Paul felt free and light as he pulled out of the farmyard for the last time.

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Peter Conrad’s work was a runner up in the My Dream Writing Contest 2024 and appeared in Wingless Dreamer Publisher's 2024 anthology "Summer Fireflies 2". His work has been accepted by LOFT Books, Issue VI and The Cost of Our Baggage anthology. His work appears in Bare Hill Review, the Quillkeepers, Active Muse, Impulse, Folklore, Western People, Half and One, and the Prairie Journal. Peter Conrad had two short stories broadcast on CBC radio.
He published articles and lectures in Art History for the Art Institute Online. He has the nonfiction titles Training for Victory and Training Aces as well as creative nonfiction title Canadian Wartime Prison Escapes published. Peter graduated from the University of Saskatchewan with his Bachelor of Education and a MA.
 Peter lives in Calgary with his wife.

  Image by Brice Cooper / Unsplash