Things Left for Tomorrow

The dishes piled high in the sink. The chores left undone, interrupted by the unexpected absence of life from the homeowners. The warm beer sitting on the Formica countertop. Jamie’s father liked German beer, the kind with the consonants bleeding into each other.  

He smiled and watched an imaginary him, eight years old, sipping juice through a straw and watching reruns of ‘The Dukes of Hazard.’ His father and mother sat behind him. His father’s arm slung carelessly over his mother’s shoulders. Bare knuckles resting on white skin. A kiss hanging in the air between them.

He’d promised them he would return before he graduated college. His mother’s voice a whisper over the spotty connection, guilt weighed like a frigid ocean on his conscience.

“You know your father is sorry,” she said.

“I don’t know that. He hasn’t said more than two words to me since I left.”

“It’s just hard for him, he wants to open up – I know he does. We just thought you would go to college in the area.”

“I’ll come home next summer, before I graduate.” He said.

Next summer had come. Brought with it a pocket of lazy warm experiences. A job at a local ice-cream store. His house filled with drunken collegiate parties. Streamers of time washed the urgency of his mother’s plea away. If he had know they would be murdered. . .victimized by a burglar.

He shuddered, the blood had stained the carpet. It had left a maroon blot on the Persian rug. His mother had bought it at the flea market when Jamie was eight. They’d kept it in the living room to avoid stains.

He picked up a picture of him and his father at the park. He remembered that day. A balloon had slipped from Jamie’s fingers and become entwined in the branches of a tree. His father watched with intent fascination as the balloon whipped against the bark without popping.

“It wants to come back to you,” he said, “hear it call – Jamie, Jamie.”

Jamie tilted his head to the wind. Maybe he did hear it. His father slipped his shirt over his head and stretched his back and legs, wincing slightly at a twinge. With a quick hop he grabbed onto a lower branch. Deftly, he snatched limb after limb. The balloon came within reach. He leaned out and the branch snapped. In two quick motions he grabbed the balloon and caught himself. He presented the balloon to Jamie with a flourish and a bow. His mother strolled up while he rolled his shirt down over his stomach. He winked at Jamie.

Jamie dropped the picture onto the floor. It landed next to the blood stain. his father stared up at him from the photograph. A smile creased the corners of his lips, touching his eyes and livening them with a sparkle. There were no lines, no blotches or scars on his skin at that time. Everything in the world was smooth then. A transient experience of a cloudless day, sunshine flickering against an opal lake, heaven caught in liquescent tidal drifts. He knew now that life was a god with a diseased hand that caresses our bleeding and hungry lips, our whimpering desires rise inside his unstable and jealous mind.

“Poppa,” he said and knelt on the rug. He could hear the gritty timbre of his father’s breath, whispering him goodnight as he lay in bed as a child, telling him to be a strong man “ a good man, someone I could be proud to know.”

 

Reviews

[Ignacious Lamont Crowle..]

Very dark in a "Huh?" kinda way. Very deep. Good job. What happens next?

[Dominique]

wow...pretty timely that my friend last night had told me the story her father's gradual misfortune and her attempt to appear strong in front of him when all she wanted to do was cry.

This is beautiful. Vivid.