Whiskey for the Heart, Oil for the Canvas

A drunken farmer attempts to connect with his disappointment of a son.

No smell was quite like the smell of fresh manure to Tom Berkley. Once he surfaced on his white family porch, the smell of his whiskey stained breath washed away with the natural aroma of animal manure. He was a tall man; brute, the way his old man had been built; hard working, like his old man had taught him to be; confident, though his shoulders hungover from the weight of his daily work. His father’s shoulders, for as long as he lived, had never done that. Berkley hummed a tune with a low growl, a butcher knife in his calloused left hand, a sack of cornmeal in his right, and stumbled over to the red and chipped chicken coop.

The small wooden coop was full of chicks and hens. As he entered, they scattered to the corners, voices frantic with fear, but slight anticipation. Setting the shining tool on a small shelf next to the door, Berkley dumped the cornmeal into a nearby case. The fear immediately diminished as the birds flocked over to the pile to pluck out their daily feed. “Yeh little greedy-gut toads,” He mumbled. Looking over the assortment of poultry, he spotted an old bird looking straight back at him, ignoring the cornmeal presentation wholley. “What do you want?” The chicken cropped it’s head back and clucked, stepping back and forth with it’s tiny raptor-like feet.

The chicken wore Berkley’s fist as a turtleneck as he exited the coop, getting ready to prepare his family’s dinner for the night. It flipped like a land-bound bass in his hands, screeching and squealing a mess. Berkley chuckled to himself, and shook his head. It was a great big chicken, alright, and Trixie was sure to be pleased with his pick. That would prevent any unnecessary noise from occuring during dinner. After Berkley had slaughtered the poultry, he trudged back into his little home to treat it before supper. “Lookin at me with no respect,” he mumbled.

The screen door shot open with the push of his massive, dirt stained hands. The indoor handle found its way into a perfectly wedged hole in the floral patterned wall; formed by each and every famous-open-door-slam that Berkley made his entrances with.

“Sarah is still sleeping, dear.” A delicate voice rang from the kitchen. Trixie popped her petite head around the corner, an oven mitt grasping onto the corner tightly. She often got dizzy from the scorched summer days, and open windows didn’t help to keep her balance. Somehow, her inky black hair was still twisted perfectly into thick and blossoming curls. “You got the chicken?”

Berkley held up the carcass. “Michael?” He began. “Where’s Michael?” Trixie pursed her lips, walking towards her husband to retrieve the dead bird.

“Your son is still in his room.”

“He was supposed’te water the merchandise,” Berkley grumbled.

“Well, you know- he did say he was feelin’ under the weather, darlin’.” Trixie wiped a spot of dirt from her husbands face, her hand hesitating at first.

“He’s a man now. He should be learnin’ to tend to this farm just like I did.” With his comment, Berkley stumbled over to the stairs, and began to climb.

“I’ll just grab you a beer, then, hun.”

It was not simple to ascend the stairs, any longer. Berkley’s legs would shake, and the rickety banister was the difference between falling and standing on his own two feet. His mudded brown boots left faded yellow stains on the cream carpet right next to the ones that he had made frequently, the many days before. In the distance, the radio sounded from the kitchen.

“This is not for the purpose of expanding the war into Cambodia but for the purpose of ending the war in Vietnam and winning the just peace we desire.” The words flew into Berkley’s ear and out the other like cigar smoke entered and left his lungs.

His son did not remind him of himself as a lad. Michael was smaller, his hair was left shaggy, and his tone was higher than what Berkley had hoped for. He stood with the same stance that boys did in the market place near the fruits; their lanky legs and arms clumsily expressing the daft and simplistic stories they had to tell. There might have been hope for his son, if Michael had not slipped into an aura of delicacy that he often saw in his young daughter, his flower, Sarah.

Berkley approached his son’s door, opening it with his infamous aggression. The wind of the door tickled the whiskers that arose from his cheeks, his skin underneath was beat red with annoyance.

“Michael Berkley if I have to tell ya one more goddamn time… what’re you doing?”

Michael looked horrified. White canvas sat on the wooden old floor, the young man’s hands littered with colors. Upon the canvas, ocean waves danced against a sandy yellow shore, an orange sunset licking the horizon.

“Dad,” Michael started, “Dad, I didn’t know you’d-”

“What the hell is that?” Berkley stuck a jagged finger towards the art that sat on the farmhouse floor.

“It’s-”

“What the hell is that?”

“I’m trying to tell you!” Michael snapped back at his father. He had grown old enough to show aggression against his father. It was only this quality that made Berkley feel a slight pride for his son. In this moment, it only brewed anger.

Silence sat still and honest;  a priest looming during confession. Berkley shut the door behind him, and sat on the edge of his twenty-year-old son’s desk: A model crafted by Henry Berkley, his old man.

“It’s a painting, Dad.” Michael ran his young hands through his hair, “I thought I’d learn to paint for now because-” he halted, unable to finish his sentence.

“Because you’re a pansy?” Berkley shot back. “My own son- a pansy. Threw half of my goddamn life into raising a pansy. Who corrupted ya? That Oliver paster boy from your pansy-filled school?”

“No, Dad, I just- I always wanted to learn how.”

“Bullshit. You never said that before, never mentioned it.”

“Not to you, no.”

Berkley was unsure of how to respond to his son. The qualities he had been concerned about- his son’s obvious delicacy, his light and skimpy appearance, the way he’d treat his sister Sarah with nurture- it dug Berkley’s pit of disappointment deeper. It made his worries valid.

“I wanted to take on the farm, but now-”

“Shut your mouth, boy. Shut it right now,” Berkley shot out. “Painting. My son, a painter. A god damn painter.” Michael could smell the whiskey in his father’s voice from across the room. The air was infested with the smell, the taste of the room turning to stale alcohol.

“Dad, I’m leaving-”

“You’re absolutely right you are. Can’t have a pansy living in this home.”

Another fall of silence possessed the two men. Michael stood up, wiping his hands on his tattered jeans, leaving a trail of yellow and orange down his thighs. “Mom didn’t tell you that I was leaving, did she?”

“I wasn’t aware that yer mother,” he emphasized the word in hopes that his wife would hear, “knew about this nonsense and didn’t tell the head of this family, the man who’s makin a livin for y'all.” Berkley bellowed. Michael stood there in awe of his drunken father, his hands tightly gripping the brush in his hand. The wood creased the inside of his palms, feeling more like the impact of an axe to a log than a paintbrush to delicate young flesh. “This is the last time I’ll be speaking to you, son.”

“Well, I doubt that because-”

“No, I really don’t doubt that.”

“You know,” Michael started. “It’s not even worth it. You’ll wake up tomorrow and this conversation would have never happened. You never listen, and you’re always way beyond drunk to understand.”

At this, Tom Berkley wound his hand around, slapping his son to the ground. His hand stung like it would during his younger years, when the baseball would make impact with his wooden bat, flying further than he had ever seen another student send it. Adolescence was a great time. Hitting his son-  whom was now crumbled on the floor of his room, wincing at the pain that Berkley had inflicted on him- reminded Berkley so of those years.

He left Michael on the wooden floor of the room, slamming the door shut behind him. Dinner was served to Berkley quietly that night, and the large poultry he had picked was too much for Trixie, Sarah, and himself. It didn’t take long to switch from red meat, to dark liquor.

Michael left on a bus the next day, the bus driver greeting him with deep shouts of intensity. The bus full of young men rode away, leaving a cloud of dirt behind to sweep over the farm. The young men tried to take in the scent of American soil, of fresh manure, and prayed to God the Father.

Trixie sat on a muddled white rocking chair, crying softly as she watched her son drive away. His return was uncertain, and she had recited her Hail Marys until the words began to sound strange, until the words felt as though they were becoming her.

Brentley had woken up early that morning to finish tending to the crops early. A cigar was in hand as he headed back to his small and now, lovely home.  

“Nixon doesn’t know when they’ll be back,” Trixie said quietly. “Thought you’d want to watch him go off.”

“Sure hope they won’t be back.” Brentley laughed. “Pansy camps should be permanent.” Trixie shot her head to her husband so fast and pain filled her expression.

“Pansy camp? Tom, you think your son is going to a conversion camp?”

“Well, yeah. He was talking about-”

“He told me he told you.” Trixie said. “I wanted him to tell you, but he wouldn’t.” She was sobbing now. “Oh God, Tom. Oh, God.” Her hands covered her tearing blue eyes, the leaking crystals that left the rose blush on her cheeks tampered with and inconsistent. “Michael’s going to Vietnam, Tom. He was drafted a couple weeks ago.”

Tom Brentley fell into silence. He did not speak until the sun arose the next morning. He did not enter his son’s room again until three months later.

Michael Brentley returned home just a three months later in a casket. Two young men presented Tom Brentley with the American flag, and Trixie Brentley with a bouquet of red roses. Their eyes told stories that Tom knew he could never understand, and he watched them as the turned away with grief and hung their heads towards their chests. Tom’s gut craved the taste of a warm, dark whiskey, but he found strength, pushed down his temptations and stumbled into his home and up the stairs towards his son’s room.

Opening the door quietly, a small creak accompanied the sight of an unfinished canvas that lay with a layer of dust over the top. For a moment, Tom only stood in the doorway. The room smelt like his son; warm must that could only be noticed if you sniffed the shaggy surface of his scalp. With the scent now so prominent, now so easy to reach, it seemed like torture to Tom.

The best smell in the world no longer seemed to be the fresh scent of manure outside. It was here, in this room; this nostalgic aroma that he wished he could bottle up and keep with him until his dying day. The best smell in the world, the smell of his son, would fade with time, slip through his fingers, and leave him with nothing but the memory of his young boy.

He felt old. He knew his shoulders were slumping the way his old man would have hated. He kept them there, and thought of Michael. Michael, the boy that preferred to paint than to work in the farm like a man. It seemed okay, now. If Michael had painted more, the house might have looked prettier. Tom would have enjoyed looking at them when the weather was too rainy outside, on winter days when there wasn’t any work to do. Tom considered all of this as his tired gaze took in his son’s room.

After a couple minutes of hesitation, Tom found his way to the canvas on the floor, bending over to take a look at what his son never got to finish. The waves looked calm, the sun just peering over the edge of the horizon. It made the plants and shells, the objects hidden in the sand, silhouetted with a black shadow. The painting was beautiful, but no, it was not finished.

Tom’s hand found the brush that lay beside the canvas, and applied a dab of black paint to a palette which sat on the floor above a towel. It was still full of unused paint that had dried there, but Tom applied the black directly over the forgotten colors. He had never painted before. His father would have shunned him, and still, his insides felt slightly queasy from the juvenile, feminine seeming activity. It was not easy to put this feeling aside, but he did just so, and made his addition to the glowing orange ocean.

After finishing the painting, Tom lit a cigar, and laid across his son’s bed. The smoke would rid the room of the young man’s smell, the only thing that made his existence seem consistent. As comforting as it felt, Tom needed the distraction to be gone. Otherwise, he’d stay in the room for days, waiting for everything to fade.

Tom Brentley brought the painting downstairs just hours later, hanging it just over the dining room table. An orange sunset glowed, as the beach dimmed with shadowed beauty. A black silhouette of a soldier stood just before the waves; a grenade in one hand, and a paintbrush in the other.