Mason

SO SORRY for my absence writing these. I’ve had a bit of a dry spell creatively where the TBU is concerned, so hopefully you enjoy this latest addition to the TBU. It is gut wrenching, and it’s highly suggested to read the very first story here.

“Dammit, Tyler, how many times do I have to tell you? Lighters aren’t toys.”

Mason yanked the Zippo from his son’s hand. For a moment, Tyler didn’t react—just stared at the empty space where the lighter had been, his fingers twitching like they could still feel the heat that wasn’t there.

Mason didn’t notice.  He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed heavily.

“You can’t be playing with this, especially here in the garage” he gestured to the box of oily rags.  Mason liked to work on his car.  His father was a mechanic and brought Mason up to believe if a man couldn’t fix something, then he had failed as a man.  If his son can’t fix what’s broken, then he also failed as a father.

Mason was very much starting to feel like a failure.

“I'm not playing,” Tyler said. “I just wanted to see how it works.”  He looked down at his feet.

Mason softened.  “It’s not wrong to be a little curious, Tyler.  I just need you to be aware of where you are.”

“I’m sorry, Dad.  I won’t do it again”.  

Mason smiled a little. He knew his son meant well.  He also knew it would happen again.  

I should probably move those rags somewhere else he thought.  But that was a project for tomorrow.  He gestured to the door that led from the garage to the house.

“How about lunch?”

Tyler nodded his head vigorously in agreement and the two went off to the kitchen to see what they could forage.

Cheese and wonder bread hit the hot pan.  The butter foamed up along the sides of the commodity bread like rabid hordes taking down the walls of Troy.  He gave it a flip. 

 It was burnt.  

Mason swore to himself.  He always got the pan too hot.

“You burned it again.”

Mason looked over his shoulder. Tyler was sitting at the kitchen table, grinning.

“I did not burn it.”

“It’s black.”

“It’s…Cajun.”

Tyler laughed. It was a strange laugh, somewhere between a hiccup and a squeak, and once he got going it usually took him a while to stop.

“Shut up.”

“You burned it!”

“Keep it up and you’re getting the burnt one.”

That only made Tyler laugh harder.

Mason tried not to smile as he turned back toward the stove. He failed at that too.

They sat at the table, mostly in silence.  Tyler was munching contentedly away at his totally not burnt grilled cheese, feet dangling from the chair to and fro.  Mason cleared his throat.

“Christmas is coming up, have you figured out what to ask Santa for this year?”

Tyler stopped chewing.  His eyes looked deep in thought.

This was apparently a serious question.

“I dunno.”

“You don’t know?”

Tyler shook his head.

“When I was your age, I had my Christmas list figured out by Halloween.”

“What’d you ask for?”

“Oh, important stuff. G.I. Joes. Nintendo games. BB gun.”

Tyler's eyes widened. “Grandpa let you have a BB gun?”

“No. Santa said I’d shoot my eye out.”

Tyler let out that hiccup-squeak again.

Mason took another bite of his sandwich and immediately regretted it. The Cajun had spread farther than anticipated.

“I think I want a GameCube.”

“A GameCube?”

“Yeah.”

“You already have a PlayStation.”

“It’s different.”

“It's a box that plays video games.”

“No, Dad.” Tyler lowered his sandwich and stared at him with the exhausted patience only a child could muster for an exceptionally stupid adult. “GameCube has Mario.”

“Oh. Well, MARIO. Why didn't you say so?”

“Dad!”  His voice sounded strained but he knew there was affection layered there, too.  Somewhere.

“What?”

“Mario’s the coolest!  He’d let me play with a lighter...”

“Wow, guilt tripping Santa.  That’s a new one.”

Tyler laughed again.

Mason smiled and took another bite of burnt grilled cheese.

Even a week out from Christmas, the malls were swamped with people.  He pushed and shoved his way past store after store trying to find the only thing his son had asked for.  

Sold out.

Everywhere.

He had tried Radio Shack first. Nothing. Toys “R” Us had laughed at him over the phone. The guy at Target had told him they might get another shipment before Christmas, which Mason understood to mean good luck, asshole.

Now he stood outside another store staring at an empty space on the shelf beneath a little purple GAMECUBE placard.

“Can I help you find something, sir?”

Mason pointed at the empty shelf.

“One of those.”

The kid in the blue polo looked at the shelf and then back at Mason.

“GameCube?”

“No, the shelf. Yeah, the GameCube.”

The kid didn't laugh.

“We're sold out.”

“So I've heard.”

“We might get more Friday.”

“Christmas is Wednesday.”

“Yeah.”

Mason stared at him.

The kid stared back.

“Friday is after Wednesday.”

“Yeah.”

Mason closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose with his right hand.

“Okay. Thanks.”

“No problem.”

It was absolutely a problem.

He decided to take the long way back home.  Tyler had been through a lot since his mother’s passing.  This was their first Christmas together, just the two of them, and Mason wanted it to be extra magical.  Tyler was a good kid.  Maybe a little careless, but still he had a good heart.  He knew the death hit him hard, even if he didn’t always show it.  The least Mason could do was make this day special at least.

Mason loved this time of year.  He loved the way the chill of winter hit his cheeks.  The bite of the air.  He loved making hot cider and sharing it with Tyler after sharing a large, piping hot portion of his mother’s recipe cottage pie.  He even loved the way the snow clung to everything, the white making all things new.  It was a magical time of year for Mason where everything was brilliant and pure and where nothing hurt.

He wanted this for Tyler.  He didn’t want death to tinge his childhood when he grew up to be an adult and looked back at his childhood.  And then of course he will raise his own children, Mason’s future grandkids, to also love winter and its many promises.

He pulled into the driveway and cut the engine.  His head plopped onto the steering wheel in frustration.  

No GameCube.

He had driven halfway across town, fought through a sea of desperate parents, called every store he could think of and come home with absolutely nothing to show for it.

Some Santa Claus.

Mason grabbed his keys and climbed out of the truck.

Before he had even made it to the front door, it swung open.

“Dad!”

Tyler came bounding out onto the porch in his socks.

“Hey! Shoes!”

Tyler stopped at the edge of the porch and looked down as if only just becoming aware that feet required protection.

“Oops.”

“Get inside before you freeze your toes off.”

“Did you get it?”

Mason stopped.

“Get what?”

“My Christmas present.”

“What makes you think I was getting your Christmas present?”

Tyler gave him a look.

Mason stared back.

Neither spoke.

“Go inside.”

Tyler grinned and disappeared through the doorway.

The babysitter appeared behind him, coat already on and purse over her shoulder.

“How was he?”

“Fine. We watched a movie. He had some popcorn.”

“Homework?”

Tyler's head appeared around the corner.

“Traitor.”

She laughed.

“Homework too.”

“Thanks.”

Mason pulled out his wallet, counted out a few bills and handed them to her.

“Merry Christmas.”

“You too.”

She stepped past him and headed toward her car.  He heard the engine start and soon she was gone.

Mason shut the door.

“Okay,” he called into the house. “Where were we?”

No answer.

“Tyler?”

“In here.”

The voice came from the garage.

Mason closed his eyes.

Of course it did.

He found Tyler standing beside the workbench. The Zippo was in his hand again.

“Tyler.”

“I’m not lighting it!”

Mason held out his hand.

Tyler surrendered it.

“I just wanted to ask you something.”

“What?”

“Why do you have it?”

Mason looked down at the lighter.

For a moment he had forgotten how scratched it was. The silver finish had worn away along the edges, and a shallow dent ran across one corner where it had hit concrete decades ago.

“It was your grandpa’s.”

Tyler's expression changed immediately.  A look of reverence fell upon his cherubic face.

“Grandpa's?”

“Yeah.”

“Did he smoke?”

“For a while. Before you were born. Mom said he quit when they had me.”

Mason turned the lighter over in his palm.

“He carried this thing everywhere. Work. Fishing. Church, even though your grandma hated that.”

Tyler smiled.

“Does it still work?”

“No.”

“What's wrong with it?”

Mason flicked the wheel with his thumb.

Nothing sparked.

“Probably the flint. Maybe the wick. Haven't looked at it in years.”

Tyler stared at the lighter.

“Why don't you fix it?”

Mason looked at him.

Then at the Zippo.

Then toward the workbench and the half-disassembled carburetor that had been occupying most of his free time for the better part of a month.

“I'll get around to it.”

“When?”

Mason slipped the lighter into his pocket.

“Tomorrow.”  He winked at Tyler.

Tyler nodded.

For him, that was answer enough.

Mason was stirred from sleep by the ringing of the phone on his night stand.  He reached over, annoyed that someone would call him so early.  He groped for the phone, eyes still closed trying to futilely cling to the quickly fading sleep.

“Hello” he croaked out groggily.

“Hello Mason!” The voice was way too chipper for this hour of morning, “we saw you put your name down yesterday for a GameCube?  Anyway, our next shipment came in much quicker than anticipated and we are reserving one for you.  We can only hold onto it for another hour though, the crowds are getting a bit much, you understand, this time of year and all.”

He shot up in bed.  All traces of sleep gone.  

“Yes, thank you!  Thank you so much!  You’re just up the road, I can be there in 10 minutes.  Thank you you don’t know what this means to me!” He hung up before the worker on the other end could utter a reply.  

His jeans were already on before his brain could even register that his body was moving.

He threw on yesterday’s shirt and nearly fell over trying to pull on his socks. He caught himself against the dresser and laughed quietly.

He had found one.

By some Christmas miracle, he had actually found one.

Mason grabbed his wallet and keys from the nightstand and hurried for the bedroom door. His hand was already on the knob when he stopped.

Tyler.

He glanced down the hallway toward his son’s room.

The door was cracked open. No light. No movement.

Mason checked the clock.

He could call the babysitter.

No. By the time she got dressed, drove over, and he explained everything, the store might give the damn thing to somebody else. Besides, it was ten minutes away. Ten there, five inside, ten back.

Twenty-five minutes.

Tyler would sleep through twenty-five minutes.

Twenty-five minutes was all that stood between a mediocre Christmas and one that will never be forgotten.

He walked quietly down the hall and pushed Tyler’s door open just enough to peek inside.

The boy was sprawled diagonally across the bed, one leg hanging out from beneath the blankets. His mouth was open slightly. Every few breaths came with a tiny whistle.

Mason smiled.

“Lazy bum,” he whispered to himself, a gentle smile forming on his lips.

Tyler stirred.

Mason froze.

The boy rolled onto his side, pulled the blanket closer and settled back into sleep.

Good.

He would never even know Mason had left.

Mason pulled the door almost closed again and crept downstairs.

He grabbed his coat from the hook beside the front door and shoved his arms through the sleeves. His hand brushed against something heavy in the pocket.

The Zippo.

He pulled it out.

For a second he had forgotten putting it there the night before.

Tomorrow.

Mason smiled to himself.

He set the lighter on the little table beside the door while he searched the other pocket for his truck keys.

Nothing.

“Where the hell…”

He patted his jeans.

There.

He pulled the keys from his pocket, opened the front door and stepped into the cold.

The Zippo remained on the table.

The truck protested the morning with several sluggish turns before finally roaring to life. Mason cranked the heat and rubbed his hands together while he waited for the windshield to clear.

He looked toward the house.

Still dark.

Plenty of time.

He backed out of the driveway and sped off into the morning light.

Upstairs, Tyler opened his eyes.

As predicted, another mad house. It seemed he wasn’t the only one to be roused from bed with the promise of Christmas joy.

He shouldered his way past presumably other desperate parents and found himself in line to claim his GameCube.

The line moved painfully slow.

Mason checked his watch.

Eight minutes.

He bounced impatiently on the balls of his feet.

The woman ahead of him was arguing with the cashier about something. A coupon, from the sound of it. Mason tried not to listen.

He checked his watch again.

Nine minutes.

The woman produced another coupon.

“Oh, come on,” Mason muttered.

She looked back at him.

Mason smiled.

“Merry Christmas.”

She turned around.

Ten minutes.

He looked toward the front windows. His truck was sitting right where he had left it. Beyond it, morning traffic crawled past the shopping center.

Ten minutes home.

Tyler was still asleep.

Probably.

The woman finally left, carrying enough bags to supply a small orphanage.

“Next!”

Mason practically leapt to the counter.

“GameCube. Mason. You called me.”

The cashier blinked.

“You called me,” Mason repeated. “Well, somebody called me. Said you were holding a GameCube.”

“Oh! Yeah.”

The kid disappeared into the back.

Mason checked his watch.

Eleven minutes.

“Come on.”

Twelve.

“What the hell is he doing back there?”

Thirteen.

The door behind the counter swung open.

The kid emerged carrying a purple box.

Mason smiled.

There it was.

The Holy Grail.

The Ark of the Covenant.

The Nintendo GameCube.

“You have no idea how happy I am to see you.”

The cashier looked at him.

“Thanks?”

“Not you.”

Mason pointed at the box.

“Oh.”

The kid set it on the counter.

“You need any games?”

Mason stopped.

Games!

Of course the damn thing needed games.

“What do you have with Mario?”

“Mario?”

“Yes. Apparently he's very important.”

The kid nodded with the solemnity of a physician delivering a diagnosis.

“Super Mario Sunshine.”

“Give me that.”

“Memory card?”

Mason stared at him.

“A what?”

“You need a memory card if you want to save your games.”

“Sure. Fine. Whatever it needs.”

“Extra controller?”

“Does it need one?”

“Not unless somebody else wants to play.”

Mason pictured Tyler sitting cross-legged on the living room floor.

Dad, come play.

“Yeah,” he said. “Give me one of those too.”

The kid started ringing everything up.

Mason checked his watch.

Sixteen minutes.

Still fine.

He'd be home before Tyler woke up.

Back at the house, Tyler came downstairs rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“Dad?”

Silence.

“Dad?”

He checked the kitchen.

Empty.

The smell of yesterday’s grilled cheese still lingered faintly in the air.

“Dad?”

Nothing.

Tyler walked toward the front window and looked outside.

The truck was gone.

He frowned.

Then something on the little table beside the door caught his eye.

Silver.

Tyler stopped.

The Zippo.

He looked toward the stairs.

Then toward the garage.

Then back at the lighter.

Tomorrow.

Tyler smiled.

Tomorrow finally came.

Mason checked his watch. He was anxious to get back, such that he didn’t even hear what the total was. He just shakily took out his wallet and threw a card at the cashier. The boy gave him a side eye, sighed thinking better of saying anything presumably, and swiped the card.

“Sign here.”

Mason scribbled something vaguely resembling his name. When the kid asked if he wanted the receipt, Mason nodded, snatched it along with the bags, and started toward the exit before the cashier had even finished wishing him a merry Christmas.

Seventeen minutes. He was fine.

Back at the house, Tyler picked up the Zippo and turned it over in his hands, examining every scratch and dent as if they might offer some clue. Grandpa had carried this lighter. His dad had carried it too. Now Tyler held it.

He flicked the wheel. Nothing. He tried again with the same result.

“Probably the flint,” he whispered.

That was what Dad had said.

Tyler headed for the garage. The room was cold enough that he could see the faintest puff of his breath when he stepped inside. He flicked on the light and walked over to the workbench where Dad’s carburetor was still sitting half taken apart. Tools were scattered around it in an order that looked like chaos to Tyler but apparently made perfect sense to his father.

He climbed onto the stool and tried the lighter again. Still nothing.

Broken.

Tyler looked toward the door leading back into the house. Dad had said he would fix it today, but what if Tyler fixed it first?

He smiled at the thought. That would surprise him.

Mason threw the bags onto the passenger seat and climbed into the truck. Nineteen minutes. Still plenty of time. He turned the key.

The engine turned over and over without catching.

Mason’s smile disappeared. “Oh, don’t you fucking dare.”

He tried again. The engine coughed but refused to start.

“Come on.”

Another turn of the key. Nothing.

Mason slapped the steering wheel. “You have got to be kidding me.”

Back in the garage, Tyler had figured out how to open the bottom of the lighter. A tiny spring came out first, and he barely managed to catch it before it rolled off the workbench.

“Whoa.”

He held it close to his face, then peered into the opening it had come from. Something else was inside. Tyler turned the lighter upside down and tapped it against his palm until a tiny black piece fell out.

The flint.

Or what was left of it.

Tyler grinned.

Dad was right.

He started digging through the drawers of the workbench while, miles away, Mason tried the ignition again. This time the truck roared to life.

“Yes!”

Mason threw it into reverse. Twenty-one minutes. Still fine. Still plenty of time.

Tyler found the little plastic tube buried beneath a handful of screws, washers, and things he couldn’t identify.

ZIPPO FLINTS.

His smile widened. Dad was going to lose his mind.

He carefully dropped a new flint into the tube, replaced the spring and tightened everything back together the way he remembered finding it. At least, he thought that was how he’d found it.

Tyler held the lighter out in front of him and flicked the wheel.

Nothing.

He frowned and tried again. Still nothing.

“Come on.”

He flicked it a third time.

A spark.

Tyler’s eyes widened.

He did it.

That familiar hiccup-squeak escaped him as he flicked the wheel again. This time a flame appeared, small and steady, blue at the bottom and orange at the tip.

Tyler stared at it.

He had fixed Grandpa’s lighter.

He had actually fixed it.

“Dad’s gonna freak.”

He laughed again.

“What’s that smell?”

Mason pulled out of the parking lot with a smile plastered across his face. The GameCube sat on the passenger seat beside him, safely buried beneath a couple of bags so Tyler wouldn’t see it if he happened to be looking out the window when Mason pulled up.

Twenty-two minutes.

Not bad.

He turned up the radio and settled back into his seat. He had done it. Against all odds, Mason had managed to find the one thing his son wanted for Christmas. Not only that, but Mario, whatever the hell a memory card was, and a second controller.

The second controller made him smile.

He pictured Tyler sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, controller in hand, explaining with increasing frustration all the things Mason was doing wrong.

No, Dad! You have to jump on him!

Mason chuckled.

“It's a box that plays video games.”

Tyler was going to lose his mind.

For the first time in months, Mason felt like he had gotten something right.

He stopped at a red light and glanced at the bags beside him. Maybe he'd wrap the controller separately. Put it under the tree with his own name on it.

To Dad. From Santa.

That ought to get an eye roll out of him.

The light turned green.

Mason accelerated through the intersection.

Somewhere behind him, a siren began to wail.

He glanced in the rearview mirror. A fire engine was coming up fast, lights flashing against the gray morning.

“Shit.”

Mason pulled over and watched it roar past.

A second engine followed.

Then an ambulance.

“Somebody's having a hell of a morning.”

He pulled back onto the road.

Twenty-six minutes.

A few minutes late. No big deal. Tyler was probably still asleep anyway.  He loved to sleep in.

Mason drove another block, whistling to himself, too giddy over his recent acquisition.  He couldn’t wait for Christmas morning.

Then he saw the smoke.

“Oh no…”

It was like something out of his worse nightmares.  Huge flames engulfed the house that once he called home.  Two fire trucks were already at the scene, firemen hurriedly rushing to and fro with long anaconda-like hoses ready to douse the flames.  The neighbors were milling about observing the horror scene before them.

Mason slammed on the brakes.

The truck came to a stop halfway into the street. Someone behind him leaned on their horn, but he barely heard it.

“Tyler.”

He threw the truck into park and was out before the engine had stopped running.

“TYLER!”

Mason ran.

One of the firefighters saw him coming and stepped into his path.

“Sir, you need to stay back.”

“My son is in there.”

“Sir—”

“My son is in there!”

Mason tried to push past him. The firefighter grabbed him around the chest and pulled him back.

“Let go of me! TYLER!”

“Sir, listen to me. We have people inside.”

“He's eight years old! He's in there! His name is Tyler!”

Another firefighter came over to help restrain him. Mason fought both of them, kicking at the pavement, trying to wrench himself free.

“TYLER!”

The garage disappeared behind a wall of black smoke.

“My son is in there! Let me fucking go!”

“What's his name?”

“Tyler! Tyler! He's eight! He was upstairs! He was sleeping upstairs!”

The firefighter shouted something into the radio clipped to his shoulder.

Mason stopped fighting just long enough to hear it.

Child inside.

The words didn't make sense.

Tyler wasn't a child inside.

Tyler was Tyler.

He slept diagonally across the bed. He hated burnt grilled cheese even though he always ate the whole thing. He thought Mario was the coolest person who had ever lived. He laughed like a broken squeaky toy.

He was not a child inside.

“Please,” Mason said.

The fight went out of him all at once.

“Please get my son.”

The firefighter looked at him.

“We're going to do everything we can.”

Everything we can.

Mason knew those words.

He had heard them before.

He looked at the house and suddenly he wasn't standing in the street anymore. He was sitting beneath fluorescent hospital lights with Tyler asleep against his chest while a doctor explained that there was nothing else they could do for his mother.

Everything we can.

“No.”

Mason pulled away from the firefighters.

“No, no, no.”

A window on the side of the house shattered outward. Someone in the crowd screamed. The firefighters shouted to one another as water hammered against the flames.

Mason stood helplessly in the street.

He had tools.

He had spent his whole life learning how things worked. Engines. Transmissions. Plumbing. Wiring. Drywall. If something broke, you found the problem, got your hands dirty and fixed it.

His father had taught him that.

There was always a way to fix something.

There had to be.

Mason looked desperately around as though the answer might be lying somewhere on the pavement.

Then the garage door buckled inward.

“Tyler!”

Two firefighters emerged through the smoke.

One was walking backward.

The other was carrying something between them.

Mason stopped breathing.

A stretcher appeared through the smoke.

Small.

Too small.

“No.”

The paramedics rushed forward.

Mason tried to follow, but someone caught him again.

“No.”

They wheeled the stretcher toward the ambulance.

There was a body on it.  He knew the shape through the bed sheet.

“No. No, that's not him.  Who is that?  TYLER!”

He couldn't see the face.

“That isn't him...”

The paramedics walked slowly, agonizingly slowly, back to the ambulance.  Why weren’t they rushing?

Mason knew those shoes.

“Tyler?”

Nobody answered him.

“Tyler!”

He tore free.

This time nobody stopped him.

Mason ran towards the stretcher. The paramedics saw his face, saw the determination etched in stone upon it, and backed away. Mason crept precariously towards the unmoving form. A tiny hand slipped free, and for a moment there was hope.

Tyler was reaching for me!

Yet the hope was dashed when something tumbled from the tiny, lifeless hand and onto the grass beneath; a small rectangular metal object.

Mason stared at it.

Silver.

Scratched along the edges.

A shallow dent across one corner.

The Zippo.

“No…”

He looked from the lighter to Tyler, then back toward what remained of the garage.

Tomorrow.

His knees gave out.

Mason hit the grass beside the stretcher and grabbed Tyler's hand. It was still warm.

“No, no, no. Buddy. Come on, please!  You can’t be dead…”

He squeezed the little hand between both of his.

“Tyler, wake up.”

Nothing.

“Come on, buddy. Dad's here.”

Nothing.

Mason pressed Tyler's hand against his forehead.

“I got it.”

His voice broke.

“I got the GameCube.”

Nothing.

“You were right. It has Mario.”

A sound came out of Mason that he didn't recognize.

“I got two controllers.”

The paramedics stood nearby. Nobody moved to pull him away.

“So we can play together.”

Mason waited.

Some impossible part of him expected the hiccup-squeak. Expected Tyler to sit up and tell him that Mario was cooler than whatever stupid game Mason liked. Expected those fingers to curl around his.

They didn't.

Mason bowed his head over his son's hand.

“I got two...”

Behind him, the house continued to burn.

The paramedics slid the stretcher into the ambulance and helped Mason into the back. Someone wrapped a towel around his shoulders, though he couldn't remember asking for one. He sat there staring at the house as the flames consumed what remained of it. Firefighters moved back and forth through the smoke, hoses snaking across the lawn and street. Mason watched them, but he didn't really see them.

Movement at the edge of his vision finally caught his attention. A man stood nearby.

He was tall and lanky, with milky white eyes like cataracts and skin that made Mason think he had spent far too much time in the sun. Mason couldn't remember seeing him approach. He couldn't remember much of anything anymore.

The man stepped closer and looked Mason up and down.

“Have you been out to the desert?”

.