text: Daniel pulled the house key he had carried since he was 12 from his pocket, and jiggled it into the defiant doorknob. Why hadn’t Dad just replaced this old knob years ago? “Doorknob is fine! Helps keep burglars out.” Burglars aren’t using keys, Dad. The lock lost the battle, and Daniel stepped into the foyer. Motes of dust floated in the afternoon sun streaming through the half closed blinds, tiny apparitions in a house that had always haunted Daniel. He threw his keys instinctively on the buffet, scratched in the one area from years of this ritual. The floorboards creaked underfoot, an alarm that had betrayed him more times than he could count as a teenager. He stood silently in the entrance, momentarily overwhelmed with the task ahead. Daniel had tried for years to convince his father to start decluttering, maybe have a yard sale. “Your Mother spent a lifetime filling this house. I’m not giving the neighbors the satisfaction of rummaging through her life’s work.” It’s sewing patterns, Dad. Not the Sistine Chapel. It had been a month since his father had died, and Daniel had been putting off cleaning the house out, but he now had some prospective buyers, and he couldn’t ignore it any longer. He had decided on the drive over to start with his mother’s sewing room. It would be the easiest. Drag a trash can into the middle of the room, and toss the old patterns and scrap material into it. Daniel wasn’t surprised to find a thick layer of dust on everything; he doubted his father had entered the room since his mother died 8 years ago. The sewing machine was still in good shape. Perhaps his mother’s pride and joy would find a second life in the high school’s home economics department. The guest bedroom was next, and was deemed more difficult than the the sewing room by virtue of being his mother’s catch-all room. Unable or unwilling, she never threw something out that might be useful five years later. Daniel quickly sorted things into two piles: trash and donations. The local mission had better bring a U-Haul. From here on, Daniel knew it would be tricky. For decades, his mother had hidden money throughout the house. When his father drank, he spent. And he always drank. His mother wanted to be certain that the bills were paid and the pantry was full, so she stashed money everywhere. Unfortunately for Daniel, she never drew a treasure map before the Alzheimer’s arrived. He was certain there were thousands of dollars chipmunked around the house. He just didn’t know where. Which meant that, going forward, he had to be meticulous. He thumbed through every book, dug through each drawer, looked for envelopes taped underneath furniture, and ran his hand over every cabinet. He found almost $1,500 before deciding enough was enough. If someone shopping at the mission thrift store bought a lamp and discovered $100 somewhere inside it, good for them. He had saved his father’s room for last. Three days of sorting through the rest of the house while that bedroom door remained shut. Unable to put it off any longer, he took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and walked in. Daniel swore under his breath as he stopped to survey the room. What a mess. He went to the nightstand first. He had quietly held out hope that his grandfather’s watch was still here, that his father had not sold it or traded it for a bottle of liquor. His grandfather had brought it back from the war, and gave it to his son. It was rightfully Daniel’s now. The nightstand drawer was stuck, and as Daniel yanked it open, the mostly empty bottle of Wild Turkey sitting on top rocked, the smell of the bourbon wafting by him. Daniel was late. He had lost track of time at Tommy’s, and had sped home, running two stop signs as he went. He hoped against hope that his father was out somewhere, drunk and oblivious. His heart sank as he turned the corner and saw his truck sitting in the driveway. Let him be passed out already, Daniel prayed to no one in particular. The creak of the floorboard gave him away. It always did. His father was on him before he could get out of the foyer. Daniel was no slouch at 16, but his father was bigger, and was a mean drunk. Daniel grabbed the tottering bottle. His face was flush, the lump in his throat threatening to choke him. The watch was gone. Of course it was. Pushing himself up off the floor, Daniel crossed the room and walked into the bathroom. Maybe the watch was here. Rummaging through vanity drawers and the the cabinet underneath only confirmed what Daniel had known for three days: that watch had been gone for years. When was the last time he saw it? Not since he was a teenager. Having lost any motivation to continue, Daniel absentmindedly opened the medicine cabinet. Vicks VaporRub, an old safety razor, a rusty tin of bandaids, and a yellowed bottle of Old Spice. Daniel reached slowly for the cologne bottle, and gently pulled the gray stopper from the top. He turned the bottle over, and realized it was empty. He lifted the bottle to his nose. Daniel,dressed in his footie pajamas, was sitting on the floor in front of the television, a bowl of Frosted Flakes in his lap. Always the first one up on Saturday, he would have the cereal poured and the cartoons on at 7am sharp. These independent mornings left Daniel feeling much older than 7. Daniel usually devoted the commercial breaks to his bowl of cereal, but Christmas was around the corner, and each commercial was potentially something he needed to add to his Christmas list. But it was one commercial that caught his eye that morning. A family sitting around the Christmas tree, a fire crackling in the fireplace. A little boy carries a package to his father, who smiles and unwraps the gift. To everyone’s great delight, it’s Old Spice. The father scoops up his little boy and hugs him tightly. The boy turns to the camera and proclaims, “I love the smell of my daddy.” Daniel set the bowl of cereal down and ran to his room. Mom had been giving him some allowance for taking out the trash. How much did he have? $2.50. That should just about be enough. Later that day, Daniel and his mom drove down to Kimball’s Drug Store and bought the Old Spice. On Christmas morning, before his father could get a cup of coffee, Daniel was handing him the present, wrapped in the funny papers. His father acted thoroughly surprised, and marveled at the wrapping job and the bow. At Daniel’s bouncing urgency, he opened the gift and gasped. “Old Spice! Now that is a manly scent.” He opened the bottle, shook a bit onto his hands, rubbed them together, and slapped them onto his neck and cheeks. He looked down at his beaming son. “Want some?” Daniel nodded and held his hands out. Mimicking his father’s movements, he slapped his own face and neck, to his father’s great delight. His father picked him up into his arms and gave him a big squeeze. Daniel buried his face in his father’s neck and breathed in. It was the best smell in the world. Daniel leaned back against the vanity in the bathroom, the empty bottle rolling back and forth in his hands. Six months after that perfect Christmas, his father would lose his job at the factory. The drinking started and he was never the same. He was still in the house, but he lost his father that year. His father’s drinking had gone up another level after his mother’s death, an astounding feat Daniel had not thought possible. The increase had completely, irreparably hollowed the man out. He was a shell, and little more by the end. Old Spice and old men both seem to linger, long after they’re gone. Daniel was done. The mission could come in and take whatever was left. Setting the cologne bottle on the counter, Daniel walked out of the bathroom. Standing in his father’s room for the last time, he paused to take one last look around. He took a step toward the door, paused, and turned back to the bathroom. Daniel reached in, grabbing the empty Old Spice bottle off the counter. Smelling it again, he slid the bottle into his jacket pocket and walked out.