Fly Away Home

A Pigeon Grove Novel, Volume 0

Dave Cenker

Published by Dave Cenker, 2019.

This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

FLY AWAY HOME

First edition. July 17, 2019.

Copyright © 2019 Dave Cenker.

Written by Dave Cenker.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

Epilogue

Author’s Reflection

About the Author

Also by Dave Cenker

For all those wanderers in pursuit of their dream. Keep going.

Two roads diverged in a wood and I - I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference.

~ Robert Frost ~

1

I swirl the glass of white wine and watch tiny bits of cork travel in circles on the surface. It requires too much effort to dig out those fragmented pieces. It’s the lie I tell myself, even if my damaged heart welcomes the unorthodox companionship.

A person shouldn’t feel such anxiety when visiting her childhood home. I suppose I’m not like most thirty-eight-year-old women. I am alone. Raised by a single mother and born out of wedlock, I know nothing about my father. Fierce resistance met any inquiry into his whereabouts.

The physical bruises disappeared with time. It’s the deeper emotional scars that remain a mainstay in my life. Doctors insist the cause of my mother’s death was a heart attack. I suspect excessive alcohol consumption played a significant role in her demise. The liquor cabinet disguised as a side table was like Pandora’s box. Whenever I heard the latch close on that cupboard door, it triggered an impulsive response. I prepared for what would soon follow. Sometimes it was courtesy of a leather belt. If I was unlucky, it came from the backside of a right hand that should have stroked my cheek, not slapped it.

I’m sorry for your loss, Claire. Time will heal you. That’s the recurring message I heard from neighbors and guests after the funeral service. I wasn’t the least bit sorry, nor was time healing a single thing. I put on a plausible facade, but resentment overpowered my pretense of grieving. Ignoring the coldhearted thoughts seething inside me was impossible, but I need not pretend any longer.

It’s now only me, a glass of wine, and a houseful of belongings to empty. If only I could dispose of these painful and repressed memories with the same ease.

2

Why is it so hot in here? I suspect stress plays a role, alongside effects from the alcohol I shouldn’t be drinking. I’m hypocritical for partaking in libations at this moment, but I have no one here to chastise me.

As I stare at the ceiling, silence surrounds me. I push aside the despondent memories of voiceless pleas from years ago. Instead, I focus on a problem that’s fixable: a lack of airflow coming from the vent above me.

The overhead attic door in the hallway is easier to reach as a grown woman. My bedroom chair isn’t necessary. I am at ease climbing the stairs. Out of habit I conceal the creaks with each footstep. This was my shelter, a hiding place my mother never discovered because I used it with such discreet care. My destination today is the fuse box, to resolve one problem and hide from many others.

The red flashlight rests in the same spot. Turning it on, I watch a familiar stream of amber light spill from it. After I allow the dust particles floating before me to settle, my emotions do the same. I navigate the maze of boxes and furniture pieces with surprising ease. Swinging open the metal door, I trace my finger along the column of switches, each flipped to the left, save for one. Kicking the offending switch back in line with the others, I hear the air handler come to life outside.