A Sun Barely Risen, a Sun Nearly Set
Then lights. Blessed lights. Fiction by Ross McMeekin
Washington State, 1984
“Heart attack,” gasped Howie’s father through the handset of the rotary telephone, the old man breathy, wheezy, as if clutching for air. “I’m having…”
Then the earthquake hit, like a train over a metal bridge, like a rockfall down a mountain slope. Howie fell to the floor of the time-worn rental cabin, the spiral phone cord stretching near its limit. The impressionistic painting of two twined buttercups shook askew on the wall while books and knickknacks and framed photographs rattled to the edges of chests and shelves and cabinets then tumbled mishmash to the carpet. Howie shoved the receiver against his ear, the ground still shaking.
“Dad?!”
The connection cut. No dial tone. Lamps and overhead lights flickered and went dark. The scent of black ash from the chimney filled the room, the floor feeling like an airplane in turbulence. A crack, then another—a tree branch crashed onto the roof but didn’t break through the ceiling. Across the room, Howie’s wife Laura squatted in the doorway leading to the hall, arms spread wide, hands pressed into the doorframe for balance.
His safety was not Howie’s first thought, nor was Laura’s safety, or his father’s—his mind was splash-painted with an image of his one-year-old son Anthony, who was hour-and-a-half away in Brinmaw, staying with Howie’s parents while he and Laura took an overnight trip to a small mountain village in the Mishitoq Gap where they’d planned to spend two days trying to salvage their marriage.
The front bay windowpane shattered—sharp jewels of glass fell on the saffron-shaded couch. From outside, the warm amber glow of the morning sun shone, peaceful and oblivious to any catastrophe.
“Dad?!” Howie yelled from the floor. “Dad!”
~~~
Howie and Laura felt comfortable leaving Anthony with his grandparents because Howie’s father was healthy. His heart was a glowing example of what regular exercise and a life without smoking or drinking could achieve. Dwayne, your ticker is fifty rather than sixty-five, the doctor had said. The only concern was whether his savings would last so long a life. But Howie’s mother June suffered from dementia and could do little else but play solitaire while smacking her lips and rocking back and forth, staring at nothing, stuck in her mind—time traveling, as Dwayne would say. He would laugh about her ways, and his amusement shone in everything but his eyes, which were unable to hide his sadness, though it was clear he tried his best.
Dwayne would often remark that June would’ve loved taking care of little Anthony, but she was in no shape to care for anyone, not even herself. She dressed in a combination of old unmatched sweatpants and sweaters and would sometimes wear those same clothes for over a week. Sober, she wouldn’t let Dwayne touch her, so he would sometimes get her a little tipsy on Gallo wine so he could comb her hair and clip her nails and try to make her somewhat presentable. They only left the house together to walk the trail along the fence squaring their property. Howie would drive two hours to visit them once a week, on Saturdays, to stay with June for a few hours so Dwayne could enjoy a morning away from their isolated existence and go to town to shop for groceries and other necessities after meeting with old friends at the VFW for breakfast.
If Dwayne was incapacitated or dead from the heart attack or earthquake, young Anthony was in June’s care alone. Anthony, who was still in diapers. Anthony, who couldn’t feed himself. Anthony, who’d just learned to walk.
~~~
The quake-cracked asphalt road through the pass was blocked. Traffic slowed, and Howie pulled the car to a stop—thirty or so cars were already waiting in front of them where the road rounded the corner, beyond which they couldn’t see on account of the stand of lodgepole pines, tight and uniform like the teeth of a comb. He and Laura burst from the car and ran ahead to find an old pine laying across the road, trunk nearly as thick as a trash can, its wreck smelling of sharp sap. A light snow had begun accumulating on its bark and branches. A lineup of cars idled on the other side of it, just as stuck as they were.
Howie and Laura paced back and forth in front of the tree, swearing, sweating, panicky. More drivers left their cars and joined them. At Howie’s urging, they tried to push and pull the tree, but it was no good. Laura wept. Howie cursed and yelled. They began running down the line of cars, knocking on windshields. “Chainsaw? Do you have a chainsaw? Please say you have a fucking chainsaw!”
~~~
Howie and Laura yelled at each other at least once a week, feeling guilty at how that might scar young Anthony, but unable to stop themselves. They fought about garden-variety issues—the inconsiderate words, the un-mowed lawn, the garbage filled to overflowing—but Anthony was still colicky, and neither of them slept, and with no rest, these small things grew in proportion and weight, just like their baby son. Middle age is like the midday summer sun, Dwayne once said. It's relentless, and if you’re not careful, it will burn you. They felt they needed this vacation, if only for Anthony’s sake. He didn’t deserve a childhood with parents arguing outside his bedroom. Maybe it would be better if they made a full split, but first, they wanted to try to mend.
~~~
By the time the road crew finally cleared the tree, just past midnight, they were bundled up and freezing in their ‘82 Nissan Sentra, lost in thought. They turned off the ignition when they realized the gas was running low. Howie’s parent’s home in Brinmaw was on five acres of land, accessible only by a dirt road. Please, God, send a neighbor to check on them. They imagined little Anthony opening the front door and toddling around the property in bare feet, or even just home alone, with no guidance. Danger in so many forms.
They slowly descended the mountain pass in traffic, like mourners following a hearse, and while they did this, their minds rushed like the spillwater over the Danforth Dam to rack and boil in the pool below, where more possibilities churned, the worst being that all three might have perished in the earthquake together.
~~~
At four, they finally made it through the pass, but the orange gas can light on the dashboard had been glowing for miles. Howie had to piss so badly it hurt, but he was afraid to pull over with all the cars behind them—would anyone let them back into the line? Would the car start again with so little gas? In the end it was too much, so he unbuttoned his jeans and pissed on the floor of the Sentra while still driving. The smell of urine. Laura said nothing, with blankets wrapped around her parka, leaning over, head in her hands, quick breaths making her back rise and fall.
Then lights. Blessed lights. Up ahead. Klackamah, a town as tiny as a city park. A bright yellow clam on a tall electric sign cast light over the steel-rimmed pump terminals. A Shell gas station.
“Finally,” Howie said.
~~~
At five, they skidded down a snow-covered dirt road and then slid to a stop at Dwayne and June’s place. They left the car doors swung wide behind them as they raced to the two-story farmhouse. No lights could be seen inside. Dwayne’s flatbed truck was still parked in front, as it had been when they left.
Laura made it to the door first. It was locked. She pounded on it. “Dwayne! Dwayne!” and then, “June!”
Howie rushed up, jammed his key into the lock, and swung open the door over the kitchen linoleum. “Dad?!” he yelled. “Mom! Where are you?!”
A gasp came from near the kitchen table—it was nearly impossible to see anything with the power out and only the slate-dim light meandering through the windows, a full dawn still half-an-hour away.
“Dad!” Howie hustled over and found his father curled up on the floor.
“Anthony…” he gasped. “Don’t worry...about me…I’ll be fine…find Anthony.”
Then they heard, from somewhere in the house, a high, scratchy voice, singing.
My baby buttercup…
“Mom?!” yelled Howie. They crossed a living room littered with unseen chattels, then on to the den where chairs were on their sides and shards of lamps and water glasses crunched beneath their shoes. Nothing. Nothing was there but the voice. Sweet and yellow and bright…They stumbled over furniture, clawing their way toward the hallway and the bottom landing. They rushed up the banister and, from the top, saw a glow from below a closed door at the end of the hallway.
Buttercup, buttercup, I love you…
They ran to the end of the hallway, burst through the bedroom door, and stopped. June stood before them, swaying back and forth, light pouring from her face. She was dressed in clothes she hadn’t worn in years: blue slacks, blue tennis shoes with white soles, a white collared shirt half-covered by a yellow apron. In the corner of the room stood a bassinet, inside of which rested a plush golden retriever stuffed animal, Anthony’s favorite. On the bed were clean cloth diapers folded neatly and set atop one another. Everything was in its place—it was as if the earthquake had never happened. June, face glowing, hummed in her scratchy voice. June, whose teeth had gone gray in the corners and whose face had liver spots and whose white hair lay as thin and wispy as young Anthony’s. And then Anthony, cradled in June’s arms, soft light pouring from his face as well. He wore a starch-white onesie, blue pants to match her own, and little white socks. He giggled and kicked his legs. His eyes were open and glinting, rapt, staring at his grandmother.
“Mom…” Howie said.
“You’re just in time,” June said, voice as brittle as an old clay pot. “It’s almost dawn, and this sweet boy hasn’t slept all night. He just wants to play and play and play. Don’t you.” She touched her nose to his. “Don’t you.”
Laura grabbed Howie’s hand and twined her fingers into his. For a moment, their minds were quiet, for the first time in nearly a day, maybe a year, maybe years. It was something to see, June and Anthony’s faces, their light not the glare of midday but the soft kind of morning and eve, a light not unlike the honey hue of chins when buttercups are held close, a light not unlike a sun barely risen held in the arms of a sun nearly set.
Ross McMeekin is the author of the upcoming novel, Pepperleaf, out in 2026 from Thirty West Publishing House, as well as a story collection, Below the Falls (Thirty West, 2024), and a novel, The Hummingbirds (Skyhorse, 2018). His short fiction has appeared in publications such as Virginia Quarterly Review, X-R-A-Y, Vol.1 Brooklyn, and Shenandoah. He lives in Lake Forest Park, WA. More can be found at www.rossmcmeekin.com and on Instagram at @rossmcmeekinwriter.
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