"And Then It Was Over" by Yousef Allouzi
The sun shone brightly through the second-story window, and its warmth spilled over his face and hands. His desk shielded the lower half of his body from the heat, but he didn’t seem to notice. He sat in silence, staring out at the world below. He used to open the window, back when a computer and printer occupied the desk. Both sat in the bottom of his closet gathering a thick layer of dust. He remembered how he would smell the bread from the sandwich shop down the street. The flowers when they bloomed in spring. Rain, the earth, the smell of a barbecue somewhere in the neighborhood. Lance watched a cloud of tiny dust particles floating in the sunshine.
Most of the time, all he felt was pain. But on some mornings, when the medicine was just right, he could still sit with only slight discomfort and find himself thinking about what his life had once been like. He rubbed his hand across the top of the empty desk. He loved the feeling of heat and then cool that the areas of sunlight and then shade provided. The room was otherwise empty. He had rid himself of most of his possessions. His desk, however, was one thing he could never part with. He looked down at the bottom drawer and sat staring at its handle. He reached out to open it, but stopped once he touched metal. Then he slowly leaned back in his chair, until his hand fell from the handle down to his knee. He let his gaze move slowly from the drawer back up the desk to the window, pausing at the scratches and pen marks that he found. He had paid ten bucks for it at a garage sale. It was bulky and heavy. Now that he thought about it, it was because of the scratches and pen marks that he bought it. Scars were something that they both had in common.
From the perch of his window, Lance watched the trees move with the wind. He had fallen in love with Portland. He had Heather to thank, although he didn’t like to admit it. He had moved from Albuquerque because of her. Cars and kids scurried to work and school below him. A group of middle-aged women were jogging down the street, bundled in jackets and sweatshirts. White puffs of air seemingly froze behind them. He watched the small clouds slowly melt into the chilly morning. He recalled that he used to go for walks and before that runs.
Lance knew the daily rituals of the neighborhood. School bus at seven-thirty. The usual five kids were waiting patiently at the corner, including the little fat kid who picked on the others. Today, the bus was late. Lance felt his stomach growl, but he was not hungry. He watched the children stand idly, as the fat kid threw rocks across the street. Eventually, some parents came and took a few of the kids. He noted that the fat kid’s parents did not come. Lance began to wonder about what might have happened to the bus. Finally, when it did arrive, it was not the usual yellow school district bus he was accustomed to seeing. Instead, he watched a poorly painted flat-white bus pull up awkwardly beside the curb. Mechanical problems, he resumed his assessment, but before he could fully develop his thoughts, he was suddenly jarred by a vague memory. A white bus from his youth.
***
“Its 6 a.m.” His mother’s hand shook him from sleep. “Get up. You are going to church,” she said. He quietly dressed, half asleep, and stumbled from the back of the trailer into the kitchen. Instant oatmeal was in the cupboard, Lance heard his mother say. He ate in silence. “Now brush your teeth,” she ordered. “The bus will be here soon.” He got up and went to the bathroom, his tired footsteps echoing down the small, dark panel hallway. As he brushed his teeth, Rusty came into the bathroom behind him, slicking back his thin brown hair and smoking a cigarette. He stood in his underwear, now staring at Lance in the mirror through bloodshot eyes. “You woke me up,” Rusty said coldly as smoke poured from his mouth. Lance froze, staring back at Rusty’s twisted nose in the bathroom mirror. “You look like a hippie,” Rusty said. He took the hairbrush off the counter and began to run it forcefully through Lance’s hair. “I just want some sleep, is that too much to ask?” Rusty said calmly, the cigarette now bouncing up and down in response to his moving lips. Lance remained still despite the toothpaste dripping onto his shirt. He felt the force of the brush increasing on his scalp. “Why can’t you be quiet?” Rusty continued, just above a whisper. Lance remained silent. “Your nappy-ass hair just won’t stay where I put it.” Rusty’s Southern accent came on angrily. The tension suddenly broke, and Rusty slapped Lance on the back of the head with the hard plastic brush. It made Lance’s vision spin, and he felt a strong pain in the back of his head. Lance tried to reach back and place his hand over his head, but before he could Rusty slapped him again. Then he forcefully threw the hairbrush onto the counter. Rusty watched as it crashed onto the floor. Rusty balled his fist and Lance cowered. “Get the fuck outta here and learn to be quiet,” Rusty said through clenched teeth. Lance ran outside to wait for the white church van. With tears in his eyes, he heard the door lock behind him.
***
There were no longer any children on the street corner when Lance became aware again. He felt anger just below the skin. The air in the room felt hot and stale and smelled like disinfectant. The flood of memories from his childhood made it hard for him to breathe. He felt his chest rise and fall and Lance struggled to control his breathing and calm himself down. He felt his fists clench and his jaw set. He rocked slightly in the chair. “Breathe you fuck,” he said to himself repeatedly as the tide of emotion crashed through his body. “C’mon you pussy,” he thought, as his vision became blurry. He blinked repeatedly to wick away the tears. After a time, he felt the emotion recede as his clenched fists and heavy breathing slowly returned to normal. The memories, however, ran wild through his mind and Lance had no choice but to succumb.
***
The high school security guard grabbed him by his jacket and pulled him off the bloody heap he had been uncontrollably punching. He smiled violently as he was hauled to the principal’s office. Euphoria swept over his body. He felt an emptying out, like all that had been inside of him had been purged. He sat outside the principal’s office. “Lance Sellers,” the principal finally called from his desk. Lance got up and went inside. He sat down across from the principal, who did not look up from the paper he held in his hand. “This has become a recurring problem with you. Do you have an explanation?” Lance sat silent. The principal shook his head. “You’ve been warned too many times before,” he heard the principal say. “I’m suspending you from school for a week. We will reassess your fit for the school when you come back.” The principal was now looking at Lance directly. Lance sat staring back. He didn’t care about being suspended. He rarely even came to class. “Do you have anything you want to add?” Lance continued his silence. “Your mother is on her way to pick you up,” the principal finally said. Lance sat expressionless; he hadn’t been home in over a week. “You can wait outside my office.” The principal pointed through the door to the chair that Lance had previously occupied. Lance rose to his feet, walked out of the office, and sat.
He sat in silence inside the van, as his mother drove him home. “Rusty is waiting for you,” he thought she said. Lance felt like he was outside of his body. He watched his mom from this new perspective. She looked old and scared, her face more wrinkled than he remembered, her hands creased. She seemed as if she was rotting from the inside out. He thought that he should say something, but he couldn’t find the words. He struggled for sympathy. Instead, he found only indifference.
The inside of the house smelled familiar to Lance. It immediately made his skin crawl. He first saw Rusty in the kitchen, leaning on the oven, chewing loudly on a fried bologna sandwich. He stared at Lance intensely. Lance quickly looked away, choosing to stare at the bologna rinds, mustard bottle, and breadcrumbs on the counter. The exhaust fan above muted the still-sizzling cast-iron skillet on the stove. Lance began watching the small pieces of bologna popping and frying inside the pan. Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw the belt Rusty was holding. This particular belt was worse than the sticks, fists, and metal pipes he would sometimes use. Raised metal letters ran across it, R-U-S-T-Y. This was followed by raised metal eagle medallions, somehow attached, which ran on either side of his name around to the buckle. Lance was immediately struck with an overwhelming fear. He had been kept home from school for a week the last time Rusty had used it. Lance slowly backed away. As he turned to bolt for the door, he felt the belt slap across his back and a fire ignite across his skin. He reached out for the doorknob, but Rusty had already grabbed him by his shirt. He quickly pinned Lance against the door. “Tell me you’re sorry,” Rusty said calmly but forcefully. Lance remained silent. “I said tell me you’re sorry,” Rusty repeated, this time a bit louder. Again, Lance did not respond. “Goddamnit, you fucking piece of shit,” Rusty exploded. He punched Lance in the stomach. Lance thought he might throw up as he went down on one knee. Rusty followed with the belt, striking Lance repeatedly. “Tell me you are sorry!” Rusty screamed. He continued to strike Lance violently until the muscles in his arm ached. Then he kneeled down and leveled himself with Lance, who was now lying on his stomach on the floor. “Listen to me,” Rusty whispered. “I’m only going to say this one more time. Tell me you are sorry.” Lance remained defiant. Rusty put his knee on the back of Lance’s neck and then shifted his weight. Lance felt pressure in his head and a sharp pain in his neck. He cringed in silence. Not receiving a response, Rusty beared down with even more force. Lance began to feel that his neck would snap. “I’m sorry,” Lance finally whispered. “Say it where I can hear it!” Rusty boomed. “I’m sorry!” Lance screamed as tears flowed down across his nose and onto the floor. Rusty paused, then slowly began to smile. He stood up to relieve the pressure on Lance’s neck. He adjusted his shirt and used his hand to slick back his hair. “Yes, you are,” he finally said, as he wrapped the belt back through his pants loops.
That night, Lance left his mother’s house for good. He had scraped together enough money to buy a bus ticket to Albuquerque, where an aunt he liked lived. He wondered if his mother and Lance would even notice he was gone. On the bus, Lance tried not to move too much. If he leaned the wrong way, he felt pain across his back and neck. A deep anger welled up inside of him. He felt ashamed and insecure. As he sat awkwardly, looking at his own reflection in the window, he resolved to never allow himself to feel this way again.
***
Lance once again found himself staring at the bottom drawer of his desk. He pushed aside his thoughts and glanced over at the alarm clock beside his bed. Eleven-thirty. The day was moving faster than usual. He imagined himself throwing the alarm clock out the window and then smashing it with a hammer. He had spent his whole damn life chained to a clock. Irritated, he turned his attention back toward the window. The sandwich shop on the corner was already packed. A stream of businesspeople darted about almost robotically. They rushed in and rushed out. Some ordered and ate at the tables by the big bay window. But even these radicals did so with purpose and speed. There was little time for talk. Lance struggled to see in detail. His vision had deteriorated significantly. He was able to make out two college-aged kids walking hand in hand. They struck a contrast from the robots in suits and skirts ordering sandwiches. They walked without a stated purpose. They seemed not to notice that they were not as important. They sat at the tables by the big bay window. They talked. They laughed. They stayed for over an hour. Lance hoped that they would somehow escape their fate. That they could keep laughing and talking forever. Lance had never learned how to talk.
A sudden knock on the door broke him from his thoughts. He didn’t get up to open it, as the sound of the key turning in the lock told him that his son, Michael, had finally come. “You’re early,” Lance barked. Michael smiled. “I know. Good to see you, too.” He paused. “Where’s your nurse?” Lance rolled his eyes. “No nurses. No volunteers. None of that shit.” He lightly waved his index finger back and forth. Michael shook his head and then shrugged his shoulders. “Okay, Dad.” Every day for the past few years, since Lance had first been diagnosed with cancer, Michael had taken care of his father. He brought him groceries when he needed them, took him to the doctor, stayed at the hospital when it got too bad, and had suffered through the rounds of chemotherapy and overall significant decline in his father’s health. The doctor had originally told Lance that he had only two months to live. Yet here he was, three years later, still fighting. Michael held a bottle of twenty-one-year-old Glenlivet Archive Scotch, a Cuban cigar, and a sealed envelope. “I brought everything you asked for.” “I didn’t ask for an envelope,” Lance sniped. “It’s from Mom,” Michael followed. “She wants to try and patch things up. She sent this for you.” Lance tried not to look surprised. “Put the Scotch on the table,” he said softly. “Keep the cigar, and grab the cutter. I think we’re going to go for a walk.” Michael looked skeptical. “Are you sure you’re up for it? What about this letter from mom?” Lance didn’t respond. Michael understood that his father had already made up his mind. He couldn’t help but chuckle at his father’s stubbornness. He put the letter on the table as tears welled up in his eyes. He fought hard to keep them from running down his face. He felt just like a child again. He still wanted to be tough and strong like his father. “The wife and kids didn’t want to come?” Lance interrupted. “Looks like it’s just you and me, Dad.”
Michael carefully helped his father into a heavy jacket. He gently placed gloves on his father’s hands and a beanie on his head. “Help me out of this chair,” Lance said gently. It pained Michael to feel his father so fragile, as he slowly pulled him up. He remembered how strong his father had been in his youth. He had been all but bedridden for nearly six months. Michael helped his father through the door. The next challenge was the stairs. For reasons that were not entirely clear, Lance had demanded to live on the second floor. No doctor, nurse, or family member could convince him otherwise. Even when he became confined to the room, he refused to be moved. Michael supposed it had something to do with his father’s love for the window but a lot more to do with his pride. Michael suggested carrying his father down to the bottom. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you,” Lance said. “To carry your old man down the stairs.” Lance smiled at the thought. “Maybe I could just ride on your shoulders.” They both laughed. The more they laughed the funnier it became. Suddenly, Lance’s laugh became wheezing and coughing, wheezing and coughing some more. “Dad,” Michael said, alarmed. “I’m okay, son.” Michael smiled. “You know,” he said as he carefully lifted his father, “I think I will carry you.” This time, Lance didn’t object.
At the bottom of the steps, Michael gently set his father on the ground. He could tell he was in pain. Lance did his best to conceal it. He knew how to deal with it. It had been a part of his life for as long as he could remember. Slowly, step by step, they walked together from the staircase enclosure to the sidewalk. “The bench at the end of the block,” Lance wheezed. “Let’s sit there awhile.” Michael knew it was pointless to argue.
As they walked arm in arm, Lance closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The cold air filled his lungs. He could smell the fresh bread from down the street. “This is what I’ve missed,” he said. Carefully, they made their way to the bench. Lance looked up at his window, now facing down on him. He realized what a narrow view he had from his room. He felt the rush of the wind of the passing cars. A woman with too much perfume dashed hurriedly by. He took in the sights, sounds, and smells as if he had never experienced them before. After a few minutes of wheezing had passed, he turned to Michael. “I want my cigar.” Michael fished the cigar from his jacket pocket and the cutter as well. “Seeing that letter you brought from your mother got me to thinking,” Lance started, as Michael clipped the cigar end for his father, “that you and I haven’t really talked all that much.” Michael understood but played coy. “What do you mean?” “I mean I haven’t ever been all that open with you,” Lance uncomfortably went on. “I guess what I’m trying to say is that there is something you should know about your mother and me.” Michael hesitated for a moment but decided to keep quiet. “Your mother . . . .” Lance paused. “Heather is a good person, Michael. You should try to work things out with her. Life is a funny thing. Sometimes things happen that you don’t intend.” “But I don’t know that she does,” Michael interrupted. Lance held the cigar in his lips while Michael struck the lighter in his cupped hands. Lance bent down and placed the cigar over the flame as large puffs of smoke now poured out of his mouth. He coughed deeply. “I’m not the best talker, son. I know that.” Lance paused and drew another large drag off the cigar. “But I think you should know how everything happened. It’s probably something I should have told you a long time ago.”
***
Heather moved with a grace Lance had never seen before. He liked how her hair was straight and simple. She was beautiful without makeup. For once in his life, things were easy and carefree. She loved to hear him talk about a variety of topics, and he liked how she stuck to routines and challenged something inside of him. She understood something familiar about him, although they never would talk about it. He took the job in Oregon because she had urged him for a fresh start. The lumber mill outside of Portland didn’t pay much, but he managed to save for a year straight. He bought the ring with all he had.
The Oregon Zoo was not very busy in April and looking at the lions, monkeys, and giraffes felt surreal. Every minute or two, he would feel inside his pocket to make sure the ring was still there. When they finally got to the penguin section, he pulled her close and kissed her gently. She returned his embrace. “I love penguins,” he said, “because they mate for life.” She smiled. “You know that because I told you that.” “No,” he said, brushing this obvious truth aside and dropping to one knee. “I know that because I want you to be my penguin. Will you marry me?” Streams of tears ran down her face, as she pulled him up from his knee. “Yes,” she whispered. As they kissed again, the crowd of people that had gathered around them began to clap.
***
Michael looked over at his father. Lance was slowly puffing on his cigar, plumes of smoke rising into the air. He was deep in thought. He was back with Heather. “So what happened?” Michael finally found the courage to say. “Why did you guys split up?” Lance did not respond. He just kept at the cigar. Michael noticed that the gentle nature of his father had vanished. This, Michael was sure, was why his father had never remarried. In fact, he had never seen his father date anyone for as long as he could remember. Michael thought he had pushed too far. “I’m sorry I asked, Dad,” he said in a low tone. Lance blinked but did not move. Then, he looked over at Michael and tried to form some words. “Let’s get you home,” Michael interjected. He stood up to help his father, but Lance began to speak, slow and distant at first.
***
The Christmas lights Lance had put up cast a wonderful glow off the snow on the ground. More glided down thick and quiet. He stopped in front of the house. He had never seen it from this angle before, and he almost determined that it wasn’t his. The lighted “Merry Christmas” sign he had hung reassured him that he was home. He loved this time of year. Walking toward his front door he could hear “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree” playing in the neighbor’s house, and he was overcome by a strange nostalgia from his youth. He had managed to get off early from the lumber mill and was anxious to get home to Heather and Michael. The smell of the pines that surrounded the cul-de-sac hung dense in the air. The snow crunched under his feet, and the bitter cold stung his ears and nose. Snow, falling even harder now, almost drowned the red from the dozen roses he clutched. Reaching the door, he was surprised to find it unlocked. From the foyer, he could see that all the furniture was missing from the living room. He stood puzzled, then walked quickly into their bedroom. He turned on the light and saw the portion of the closet where the door was still open, the bright white paint the only thing inside. Lance found that every room in the house was the same. Only his clothes and a note folded in half on the kitchen counter remained. The top of it read, “Lance.” Overwhelmed and confused, he collapsed in the middle of his now-empty living room and tried to gather his thoughts.
***
Lance’s voice trailed off. Michael returned to the uncomfortable silence. After a long while, Lance finally spoke again: “I looked everywhere for you guys. I thought I was going crazy. A few weeks later, your mom called me out of the blue and asked me if I wanted to take care of you. I left that day for Albuquerque. I picked you up at your grandma’s house and that’s how we got to where we are today. I’m sorry I haven’t ever really explained it to you.” Lance took another puff on his cigar. “What happened between your mother and me, that was a long time ago. We were different people then. It took me a long time to realize that it wasn’t only her fault.” Lance turned and looked at Michael. “Don’t be like me. See if you can work it out with her.” Lance put the cigar out and noticed that his hand was shaking. Looking back at Michael, he nodded toward his window. “I’m ready to go home.”
They walked in silence back to the stairs. Carrying his father again, Michael thought about how his father would carry him when he was a child. Michael began to feel dizzy as he walked back through the door of the apartment, but was careful not to let his father scrape against the frame. As he carefully set his father back into his chair, he hesitated a moment, letting the warmth and smell of his father linger for a bit longer. He slowly wrapped his arms around him. He couldn’t remember the last time he had hugged his father. He felt a heavy pressure on his chest and when his father’s arms returned his embrace, the tears burst from inside of him. He held his father and cried. He cried for time. He cried for love. He cried for his father.
As the last bits of sunlight shone in through the window, Lance and Michael now sat quiet. When the first few stars became visible, Lance broke the calm. “Have a glass of Scotch with your old man.” Michael brought over the bottle of Glenlivet and two whisky glasses. He opened the bottle and poured two drinks. Lance lifted his glass in the air. “To life,” he pronounced. “To life,” Michael’s voice cracked. Lance took a sip and let the buttery single malt glide over his tongue. “I have so much I want to tell you, son,” Lance said quietly. “But I just don’t know how.” The moonlight now shone in through the window and illuminated the desk. The rest of the room remained black. Lance stared out of the window, and Michael could just see tears reflecting in the light as they ran down his cheeks. He took a long drink of his whisky to help calm his growing anxiety. Mustering his strength, Lance suddenly reached down and pulled open the bottom drawer of his desk. He stared for a moment at the bottle of Nembutal and then took it out of the drawer and set it beside the bottle of whisky. “Dad, please,” Michael whispered in a soft tone. “Don’t do it. Let’s keep fighting. I can’t be here without you.” Tears were streaming down his face. “Michael,” Lance began, “I’ve spent my whole life fighting. I’m tired. You were always meant to be here without me. My job was to get you here, to this point.” Michael began to argue with his father, but Lance did not hesitate. He opened the Nembutal and after taking a deep breath drank the entire bottle without pause. He immediately chased it with the remainder of his Scotch. “I love you, Michael,” Lance whispered, as Michael now sobbed uncontrollably. “Help me to lay down.”
Michael lay his father’s body in bed, then laid down beside him, as he had done when he was a child. Lance took his hand. “I asked you to come today because there was nobody in this world I would rather be with,” he whispered, eye to eye with Michael. “I’m sorry, I haven’t asked you a very easy thing.” Lance mustered a sleepy smile. “But I’m so proud of you son. I love you so much.” Michael watched his father’s eyes growing heavier with every blink. “I love you too, Dad. I’m so sorry.” Lance held his smile and locked eyes with his son. Michael could feel his father’s grip slowly becoming weaker and for the first time he understood what it meant to be alone in the world. Through teary eyes, Michael gently turned his father’s body so he could see out of his window. Lance tried to thank Michael, but struggled with the words. He looked out above the trees at the flickering lights in the night sky. Then he moved through the moonlight down past the bench, through the bus stop, and ever faster into the growing blackness that engulfed him.
Yousef Allouzi is an author and data analyst who grew up in Texarkana, AR, but currently lives in the Pacific Northwest. He holds a BS in Economics and Masters in Public Policy from Oregon State University. His work has appeared in Scintilla magazine and OpenDemocracy. You can follow him on Facebook and Twitter @j_allouzi where he talks policy, economics, literature, and sports.
“And Then It Was Over” is featured in Dear Writer, our anthology of frequently rejected fiction.
Always available on Bookshop, Indiebound, and Amazon.
Dear Writer: Stories That Just Weren’t a Good Fit at the Time collects ten stories that were each rejected at least ten times. Several were rejected many more than ten times, but they’re all very good stories. Edited by Alan Good and Jason Gong, Dear Writer features work from Sarah Evans, Yousef Allouzi, Karen Thrower, Jennifer Porter, Anna O’Brien, Sarah Yasin, Emad El-Din Aysha, Lituo Huang, Rosaleen Bertolino, and Ellen Ricks.