nothing more than an attempt at catharsis. My emotions bubbled to the surface, raw and stabbing, and I smothered them back down. As we exited the church, I expected to feel better, but I did not. Instead, the dark cloud of depression returned before we left the parking lot.
When we got home, Pop sat in my leather recliner and clicked on our tube television to watch his Alma Mater. It did not take long to discover they were taking another beating, just like last week. In spite of the predictable outcome, my pop watched the game like a cat following a laser pointer. He threw up his arms at the right moments and sat back in perplexity when his team gave up a score.
My wife was in the kitchen turning on the stove.
“Are you hungry?” she asked.
I did not respond. Instead, I walked past her to the cupboard, where I retrieved the Cheerios. My wife sighed and shook her head as I grabbed the chocolate milk and poured myself a bowl.
I ate alone to the sounds of pads crunching on the television and a frying pan hissing on the stove. The noises grew until they were overwhelming, piercing through my ears and down my throat to suffocate me. I ate hurriedly between gasps for breath.
“Whatta ya say we get an early supper?” pop asked. “My treat!”
I slurped the chocolate milk in my bowl and hurried to the kitchen to leave my bowl in the sink. My wife startled when I brushed past her.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“Out,” I said as I slammed the door.
The park was my only reprieve away from work. Not much had changed. The ducks were the same as Sam and I had left them. Daffney still ran the show. Her ducklings were bigger now. I likened their age in duck years to Sam’s before he died. Part of me wanted to see them grow up to be successful ducks that adopted their mother’s assertiveness but added grace. Another part of me wanted a dog to tear them all to shreds, just like cancer tore my life to shreds. Those thoughts made me hurt worse, though, and I regretted them. I even apologized to Daffney for them.
Not long after feeding Daffney some breadcrumbs to get her through the day, my weariness got the better of me, and I fell asleep. I dreamed of a time Sam and I spent together at the park, but it was before he was too weak to do anything but watch the ducks. Sam was healthy, I could tell because he had a full head of his blonde hair and we were playing in the field by the children’s play set. I was throwing him a small ball, and he would attempt to catch it. When the ball slipped through his fingers, he would toddle after it and retrieve it. Then, Sam would run the ball over to me, and just as I reached for it, he would snatch it back and run away, laughing and smiling. I basked in that smile. It infused every fiber of my being with light. It uplifted my soul. It was my heaven.
Even though I was asleep, my consciousness was aware that this heaven was only temporary. In seconds, this dream would end, and his face would blur that much more in my mind’s eye. I would forget his scent. The feeling of running my fingers through his silky hair. His smile. I always loved his smile. In seconds, the joy would be snatched from my heart, and the darkness would encroach that much more to fill the void of my vacated happiness. Still, I would treasure my seconds, my time, all that was afforded me.
I chased after Sam to steal back the ball, but a tug on my sleeve jarred my dream out of sequence. Sam was suddenly standing right beside me. He looked up into my eyes and tugged my sleeve, but the tug did not come from Sam. It came from another world - the real world of sight, sound, and touch. My dream was ending. In desperation, I clung to Sam. He laughed like he would still be there when I awoke. I hugged him. Held him. Would not let him go. Another tug. Harder. I felt a tear on my eye as Sam looked up at me. Confused, he said, “Daddy. Don’t cry.”
A police officer was tugging on my sleeve to wake me. It was considerably darker at the park than when I had fallen asleep. I checked the horizon and saw the sun hovering just above it. I must have slept through the whole day.
“You can’t sleep here,” the officer said. “Move it along.”
I rose from my spot on my bench and wobbled to my car.
At work, my cave was cold and welcoming. I wore my jacket as I continued my reading of Inferno. The inner ring of the seventh circle frightened me. I did not consider myself violent, but Dante placed the “blasphemers” with the violent in the seventh circle. My previous night’s anger recoiled into fear. I did not ever speak against God and only had thoughts of anger or disbelief towards Him. It was not that I reviled Him; it was that I questioned His very existence. That could not be the same, and it could not be so bad. He should not put me in Hell for that. It was unjust. Then again, so was a child’s death.
Suddenly, the doorknob jiggled and distracted me from my reading. I checked the horizon and saw no purple glow promising morning. In fact, it was only just past midnight. The sound could only mean one thing. Someone found my cave - my sanctuary where I was supposed to be invisible, to be safe. I put my book down and picked up the office Maglite.
The intruder ceased his attempt at opening the door and knocked. It surprised me, but I did not surrender my weapon. I snuck across the room, raised my foot-long metal flashlight overhead, and creaked open the door. There, in a black trench coat, stood my wife. My stomach sunk.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Can I come in?” she asked with a smirk on her face.
“No, I’m working.”
She tried to peek over my shoulder and see my upturned book, but I blocked her view like a large stone, so she looked me in the eye instead.
“I’ll let you raise the bridge when you need to,” she assured.
“We’re not supposed to have visitors; the boss drops by sometimes,” I lied.
“I’ll be discreet,” she promised.
I snorted in contempt and stared at her. She looked up at me, her eyes stern but soft. I shook my head and started pushing the door closed.
“Go home,” I said.
With a jolt of power, she shouldered the door open and sent me stumbling backwards. She turned, closed the door, and locked it.
“Get out!” I roared.
She steeled her face as she stood before me. Then, without a word, she dropped her trench coat to the floor. Underneath it, she wore black lingerie. I finally noticed that her makeup was heavier and her hair more textured than usual. My eyes groped down her body and landed on her black high heels. My heart stopped, and I looked up at her. She smiled.
In spite of everything – all my anguish, all my pain – I was still a man. My thoughts turned to Sam and how I should fight this because allowing myself to feel anything for anyone was stealing my heart away from my son. I knew I should fight this because I was angry with my wife. I resented her for trying to be normal. This was such a normal thing to do! I should not do it! But, I was a young man and red blood still flowed through my veins.
“Now,” she said, taking command. “I hope you don’t mind.”
She tapped one heel after another towards me. I backed up into the table where my book was waiting. A faint voice in my head told me to fight, but the heat in my face and the pounding of my heart overwhelmed it. She paused right in front of me, close enough I could feel her electricity. She touched my chest, and I melted against the table, weak in the knees and unable to fight. She stepped closer and straddled around me.
I thought she might say something. How it had been too long. How she missed me. Hell, I thought she might even talk dirty to me. But, she said nothing, just slid her fingers down my abdomen to the bottom of my shirt. She pulled it over my head and off. Then, she kissed me. Something other than love took over. A hunger inside me. My body needed those lips and needed those legs around me. Maybe my soul did, too, but I did not believe that.
It did not last long. I doubt my wife received much pleasure from it, but the look on her face indicated otherwise. She kissed me on the cheek and pulled away with something ak
in to pride in her eyes.
“Beats reading, huh?” she quipped.
I grunted. Now that it was over, I wanted her out. I felt like a john sitting on the bed in a motel room, dirty and disgraced.
“You shouldn’t have come,” I told her.
My wife raised an indignant eyebrow at me, and then snorted. She pulled up her panties, shaking her head and flaring her nostrils.
“So ridiculous,” she whispered, probably to herself.
She pulled on her heels and trench coat.
“I’ll see you at home,” my wife muttered.
She waited a moment for a response, and then gave up on it. My wife opened the door and whispered something under her breath before leaving. It may have been, “I love you,” but I doubted it.
I looked at the door after it shut, and then watched through my window as my wife walked to her car parked in the restricted area, entered it, and pulled away. A ship was waiting for the bridge to be raised, so I checked the surrounding area for traffic and initiated the raising of the bridge.
I opened my book and tried to read, but my brain was still hot with anger from my wife’s intrusion. Although we had seen little of each other and had not committed that act in months, she had no right to intrude. It was selfish. It was her putting herself above me. She did not care about my pain, about what I dealt with on a nightly basis, a minute-to-minute basis. All she cared