I paused for a moment as I walked to his front door. The fear hit me, as it always did, like one of his more emphatic slaps. Only this time, it was stronger, more insistent, and it twisted in my chest as I gasped and tried to relieve the sympathetic pain.
Despite the darkness, I took the time to survey the house. It had always fascinated me, and through my mind's eye, I saw the good-old-fashioned cedar siding, the two-by-six lumber of the stairs, and the reconstructed window frames. I knew, too, that there were old-fashioned cedar shakes on the roof rather than conventional asphalt shingles.
His house wasn't made of wood, any more than the man himself worked with wood. The home – no, the house – and the man were wood. The word itself; its solid, substantial sound reverberating in the ear. The material; a weapon, a tool, a medium. And the product; complex beyond what was visible, and reliable while it lasted.
But there was the flaw. There was the reason mankind resorted to tools and weapons of stone and steel. Wood was fragile. A few years of decomposition, and it was forgotten like it never existed. Sure, you could varnish it, polish it, make it look like new. But soon after the maintenance ended, so did its life.
And wood couldn't take care of itself. So I stepped up onto the porch, softly turning the shiny knob that glinted in the dark like a wink to future generations, and walked inside.
I knew better than to call out. Taking a brief detour to the kitchen, I started a pot of coffee brewing and snagged a couple bottles of water. Slowly, I made my way toward the stairs. I wouldn't step on the creaks to announce my presence, as I used to when I tried to annoy him into coming upstairs. Instead, I moved smoothly and silently to the basement door. The faint scraping that greeted my ears told me that he was most definitely perturbed by something. When he wasn't – that is, when he was working on the boat simply because he was bored and/or at ease – he used moderate, light strokes. When he was angry, they became heavier and longer, his shoulders and back enduring most of the impact of his temper.
Tonight, well, tonight he was different. It sounded as if – and my eyes confirmed it as I descended the stairs – he was fastidiously checking each swipe with a slow, inquisitive pass of his calloused hand. I knew immediately that this was not a good sign. He had never needed to touch the wood to know if it was smooth; he knew that through his confidence in the motion and pressure he used. Uncertainty was as foreign to the man here as it was in the field.
I sat down softly about the middle of the stairs, unable to go down just yet. It was one thing to plan on walking up to him when he was in Boss-mode, or even Gibbs-mode (which was friendlier and less commanding), but I had never, ever, ever seen him act the way he was now. I suspected it was comparable to the way I myself behaved when I was reminded of times long past, and I wondered what it could be that had made him so pensive tonight.
Finally, I decided that I really shouldn't put it off any longer. While I had been fairly certain he had heard me come in, I wasn't so sure any more. On top of that, I really didn't want to be asked 'how long have you been sitting there?' The fact was, I didn't know.
Gibbs had been steadfastly ignoring the silent presence on his basement steps for nearly half an hour. Maybe, if he concentrated hard enough, had another sip (bottle) of bourbon, he could get his head on straight again. There was no way in – he jumped as a paper airplane sailed past his ear. No. This was not real. His mind was playing tricks on him. He looked over to where it had landed, seeing the brief message scrawled across the wings. 'I'll be back soon.'
I closed my eyes, counting slowly. At the sixty-second mark, I rose silently from the step and left him in peace, only the water bottles and the scent of fresh-brewed coffee to remind him I'd ever been there. And one small paper airplane, currently sinking in a jar of paint thinner.