The Van
—
Will Musgrove
THE MOVERS WERE COMING THE NEXT DAY. I was cleaning out my desk, chucking spent days from last year’s word-of-the-day calendar. Guessed I’d kept them in case I couldn’t find a dictionary, in case I wanted to be certain of the past, though Kara would have probably called it clutter. I was throwing away time when I saw June 22nd’s word, foliage, and thought of the van.
Alone in my partially boxed-up office, I used it in a sentence: “The thick foliage atop the hill blocked my view.” I’d never been sure whether the van had driven into the ditch but always told myself it hadn’t. Reaching for another handful of words, I saw the van cresting over the hill like some four-door sun, coming at me head-on just as I was passing a slow motorist on the opposite side, saw the van swerving before disappearing behind pavement.
Why didn’t I go back just to be sure?
Kara walked in, inspecting my progress, and I was grateful to have something else to think about. We were moving in with my dad. Sevenish months ago, I’d gotten laid off from my accounting job. No one actually wants to be an accountant after having been an accountant. Adding things up to put others at ease, making sense of numbers. Understandably, Kara was worried, had taken on extra hours at her equally crappy job at the insurance office. “Maybe I’ll go back to school,” I’d said when she’d asked me what my plans were. But I couldn’t even finish packing up my office in time.
“Your dad better not complain about us taking up too much space,” she said, play-punching my shoulder, a thing she did when she already suspected the outcome.
How many people can fit in a van?
Foliage sat atop the other days in the trash. It grew a curtain between Kara and me. The van swerved again, heading straight for us. I needed to get out of there. Standing on our front deck, Kara asked where I was going, if I was upset about her comment, but I stayed quiet as I turned the key in the ignition, not wanting to possibly say the word of the day. Kara called me. Called me again. I planned to tell her about the van, about how I could be sure things would work out, after I knew for sure whether it’d crashed or not. I drove to the hill and parked. I stared at the foliage through my car window. No van, but it had been years.
Maybe there was never a van.
I knew that this was stupid, that I was just sticking my fingers in my ears and going, “La la la la la la la.” There had been a van. That I could be sure of. There was only one way to know what had happened to it. The speed limit was 55 miles per hour. I backed up to be able to build enough speed. I pressed the gas. 25, 35, 45… When I reached the top of the hill, I chickened out, jerked the steering wheel but only slightly.
What a coward.
It was dark when I got home, and all the lights were off. Both garage doors were down, so I couldn’t tell if Kara’s vehicle was still inside. Again, I knew there was only one way to know for sure, but I stayed seated, listening to my idling engine and wondering what tomorrow’s word of the day would bring. •
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Will Musgrove is a writer and journalist from Northwest Iowa. He received an MFA from Minnesota State University, Mankato. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Florida Review, Wigleaf, Southern Indiana Review, The Cincinnati Review, The Forge, Passages North, Tampa Review, and elsewhere.
Website | Twitter | Instagram
Alone in my partially boxed-up office, I used it in a sentence: “The thick foliage atop the hill blocked my view.” I’d never been sure whether the van had driven into the ditch but always told myself it hadn’t. Reaching for another handful of words, I saw the van cresting over the hill like some four-door sun, coming at me head-on just as I was passing a slow motorist on the opposite side, saw the van swerving before disappearing behind pavement.
Why didn’t I go back just to be sure?
Kara walked in, inspecting my progress, and I was grateful to have something else to think about. We were moving in with my dad. Sevenish months ago, I’d gotten laid off from my accounting job. No one actually wants to be an accountant after having been an accountant. Adding things up to put others at ease, making sense of numbers. Understandably, Kara was worried, had taken on extra hours at her equally crappy job at the insurance office. “Maybe I’ll go back to school,” I’d said when she’d asked me what my plans were. But I couldn’t even finish packing up my office in time.
“Your dad better not complain about us taking up too much space,” she said, play-punching my shoulder, a thing she did when she already suspected the outcome.
How many people can fit in a van?
Foliage sat atop the other days in the trash. It grew a curtain between Kara and me. The van swerved again, heading straight for us. I needed to get out of there. Standing on our front deck, Kara asked where I was going, if I was upset about her comment, but I stayed quiet as I turned the key in the ignition, not wanting to possibly say the word of the day. Kara called me. Called me again. I planned to tell her about the van, about how I could be sure things would work out, after I knew for sure whether it’d crashed or not. I drove to the hill and parked. I stared at the foliage through my car window. No van, but it had been years.
Maybe there was never a van.
I knew that this was stupid, that I was just sticking my fingers in my ears and going, “La la la la la la la.” There had been a van. That I could be sure of. There was only one way to know what had happened to it. The speed limit was 55 miles per hour. I backed up to be able to build enough speed. I pressed the gas. 25, 35, 45… When I reached the top of the hill, I chickened out, jerked the steering wheel but only slightly.
What a coward.
It was dark when I got home, and all the lights were off. Both garage doors were down, so I couldn’t tell if Kara’s vehicle was still inside. Again, I knew there was only one way to know for sure, but I stayed seated, listening to my idling engine and wondering what tomorrow’s word of the day would bring. •
Will Musgrove is a writer and journalist from Northwest Iowa. He received an MFA from Minnesota State University, Mankato. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Florida Review, Wigleaf, Southern Indiana Review, The Cincinnati Review, The Forge, Passages North, Tampa Review, and elsewhere.
Website | Twitter | Instagram