To Be, Rather Than To Seem

ii

The house got dismantled before he started calling it home.

The two Japanese futons they used as beds on the floor, rolled together to be a long bolster and wrapped in a stretch film, rested against the wall. The foldable wooden table and three chairs (camping furniture, as it happens) had their limbs snapped into themselves. The large storage trunk contained the paraphernalia that once scattered their tiny apartment, and a cardboard box stacked atop stored the rest of the odds and ends. The built-in wardrobe stood stripped of clothes, the two suitcases loaded.

For an eight-year-old, he had witnessed this scene three times in his lifetime. Naturally, he got used to the mobility and unpredictability. He understood things got uncomfortable when his parents got itchy feet. And it could be so much better somewhere else—that next city or that other state. It usually was, at least for some time.

He never had any place attachments, but there was something odd that day, somewhat amiss when pressing his face against the glass window and watching the street. Even though the summer was unfriendly in Georgia, the people were friendly. Someone always offered him a smile when he accompanied his parents to the grocery store. But the best thing was the food—that extraordinary peach cobbler ice cream from the truck around the community theater where his parents performed, that boiled peanuts they sometimes bought from the gas station, that cheap yet mouthwatering meat-and-three they had every night from the small diner down the street. It felt better here.

"Willy, do you want to come along?"

He turned around. His dad lingered by the open front door, holding a full trash bag in his one hand. During every big move, they got rid of the unwanted stuff—not-dear toys, unusable clothes, any books around given away to nearby libraries, and tableware—purging for easy movement.

He walked to him in confirmation. Together, they took the staircase, worn concrete steps, to the building's rear. He noticed his dad sneaking glances at him before he spoke, "That peach ice cream you love, how about we stop at the truck on our way? Would you like that, Willy?"

He smiled and gave the OK nod.

As they stepped out the back door, they spotted Aram, the fresh-faced janitor, squatting in front of his "little tiger" (a tortoiseshell cat that seemed to follow him everywhere). It was a miracle that any work got done with the cat always by his side. However, his parents formed an immediate liking for the blithesome Armenian who seemed ever happy with life in his janitorial outfit.

Upon seeing him, Aram gave a hearty wave. As it happens, he liked Aram, also.

"We're moving out." His dad said, throwing the trash bag into the dumpster.

"Oh, where to?" Aram stood, surprise unmistakable on his face.

"New Orleans. We secured a contract with a local theater company there."

"Vayy, that's good! Congratulations!" His brown eyes shone. He seemed as thrilled as if he was the one moving to New Orleans, grabbing his dad's hands and shaking. "My brother was in Lafayette for about two years, working with a sub-contractor friend to rebuild after the devastating storm. He says visiting New Orleans has a foreign feeling." He then turned to him, "Pass a good time, Will!"

Maybe his gloom radiated around him, palpable for his dad to sense its subtle signals and shift attention by laughing lightly. "Absolutely. Come on, Will," he ushered him to the building, hand on his shoulder when he stopped short of the door, "Aram, do you mind giving me a hand? To shift the stuff to my pickup?"