Their friends—all older—had been excited. RV life was a different breed, they said. Why, buying their own RVs had been one of the best decisions they had ever made for themselves. A hotel on wheels! Sure, you had to find a place to park for the night—avoid Walmarts if you could—but there were so many places made for RVs. Hell, there were thousands upon thousands of retirees who’d done the same and hadn’t regretted it.
Yes, it would be grand, except the RV was an ugly thing: old, with dented siding and rust around the wheel wells. White, with a fat dirt-brown line down the sides. Not one of the overpriced RVs that looked and traveled like a bus. No, this one was more akin to a camper slapped onto an old truck. But its worst sin was a set of hideous brown-and-pink knitted blinds that hung in the small bedroom. Don was not a fan of those blinds.
Small wonders, the RV ran, belching out thick black exhaust from the tailpipe. Registered, passed inspection (barely), and guzzled gas like it was an endless pit. But Rodney was charmed by it, saying he thought they could get on the road, taking in sights and people they’d never had the time to see before. Don had never really considered himself an RV person, but he could picture it in his mind: long summer days with nothing but the open road, the sun setting in the distance, making the sky pink and red and orange. An audiobook on the radio, one he’d always meant to get to, but hadn’t had the time.
He often thought about that: time. How interminable it could be, and then in a blink of an eye, years have gone by.
Oh, the places they’d gone: To Montana and water so clear, the deep lakebeds looked within arm’s reach. To Arizona, standing before the Grand Canyon, the rock burnt red, the air sizzling hot. To the Appalachian Trail, hiking a good eight miles before calling it quits. To Wyoming, the Grand Tetons rising in all their majesty. To Utah, the petrified forest, rocks in impossible hues. To Tennessee and the Great Smoky Mountains, trying to reach the top of Mount Le Conte.
Years of travel, years of doing what needed to be done. And now, at last, the trip they’d been putting off because that made the distancereal, something they’d long avoided. They had no other choice.
Don was seventy-two years old.
It took them longer than expected to pack up the RV. An entire lifetime of trinkets and memories to leave behind, all contained within the walls of a home Don had thought would be their last. Thirty-odd years ago, they’d seen it for the first time, their Realtor chattering away about the curb appeal, the original wood floors,the updated bathrooms. They’d thought on it for a few days—seen some other houses, too—but kept coming back to it. The wood siding, the brick base. The apple tree in the backyard. The trees surrounding them, the nearest neighbor half a mile away. Eventually, it was theirs, and they’d made a home out of it, filled with friends and hope and fights and tears and laughter.
Rodney and Don stood in front of the house, hands clasped between them.A lovely man, Don thought to himself, even as he shivered and wiped a stray tear from his cheek. This was harder than he’d thought it’d be. He wondered how many other people were doing the same thing they were, right at this very moment. Saying goodbye to their homes for one last adventure before it was all over.
“It’s not all bad,” Rodney said abruptly, in that way he did when his emotions were too big.
“It isn’t?”
“No.”
“How do you figure?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But we still have the chance to…” He trailed off.
Don knew what he was trying to say, even if he couldn’t finish. “To apologize. To be there for him.”
Rodney didn’t look at him. “Yeah. Yes. That.”
Friends came to see them off on a drizzly spring day. Tears were shed. They told each other that it wasn’t goodbye, it wasn’t the end, but rather, it was so long, see you later, alligator. These were lies, of course; though they didn’t say as much, everyone knew this would be the last time they’d be together like this.
Tina and her husband, Craig, brought them muffins in a plasticcontainer. She said they were lemon poppyseed. They looked half-baked, gritty.
Jim—their elderly neighbor who often complained about everything to anyone who would listen—told them they were foolish. Going on the road was a death sentence. Dumbasses, he called them, before waving and going back to his house.
Ernest and June, an attractive couple in their midfifties, stopped by shortly before they left. June was crying quietly, a tissue balled up in her hands. She spoke only briefly, saying, “Tell him… tell him we said hello. And goodbye.” And then she buried her face in her hands.
“You sure about this?” Ernest asked Rodney. “Heard some crazy things are going on out there. I know how important this is, but…”
“We’re sure,” Rodney said simply.
But Ernest wasn’t finished. “Two older men on the road. You need to be careful, Rodney. There are people out there who will try and take advantage of you.”
Rodney snorted. “I’d like to see them try.”
They hugged and made promises that they could not keep. Standing side by side on the walkway leading up to their house, they watched as their friends and neighbors returned to their homes.
Eventually, Rodney said, “We’re wasting time.”
“Yes,” Don whispered.
They sat in the RV, staring at the house. Behind them, tucked neatly away on a shelf, the wooden box. Don waited for Rodney to start the RV. He didn’t.
Instead, his hands shook.
Don said, “When we first saw this house, I told myself, isn’t that nice? I could picture it, you know. Even then. Our life. Together. Here, in this place. It’d be a good life, I thought. For all of us. Christmases. Birthdays.”