sun dipping under clouds and coloring the sky with the yellows and reds of his innocence and the oranges and blues of his fading youth, selected the steaks with calm and effortless grace, laughing to himself at the bovine brevity and then at his own, until he was pleased enough with the selections to make his way home under prophetically colored sky.
The man of the house cooks the steaks, he thought, so that’s what he did. The mother marveled at his thorough approach while the meat seared and smoked and despite his age and local regulations she poured him a whisky over ice and took it outside to him, minding the step down, as she always did. He sipped and closed his eyes, and as they watered she wondered if it was the whisky or his own reasons, and figured it was probably both. He took another sip and did not spill a drop, it was all for him, the ants had grown tired of the drink by now anyway, so they went about their work below. He took the food inside and did not trip over the step. He did not spill.
They had not mentioned the father for days until she said out loud, not to anyone really, “He always burned the steaks anyway,” and they laughed out loud, then fell silent with forks and knives singing workman’s songs until their plates were empty and they were full.
Somewhere between good riddance and please come back, they watched TV with the volume at a normal level while the boy, tired of loud music for a change said “Isn’t this the one about the murderer who faked his own death?”
“No, that was a different program,” she said, “but both had murderers who faked their own deaths, it’s quite a common trick really, no wonder they keep doing it though, it usually works.”
He smiled, leaned back on the right side of the couch and let his body sink to a low slouch and began to appreciate her programs more than usual. The overhead lights were off and the yellow lamplight cast a quiet calm through the quiet room, empty except for them, so not really empty at all. The phone in the kitchen had not rang for a period of time which seemed longer and shorter than it was, the absence had created a new presence that required less, needed less, wanted less. The world before and the world after were not the same world at all. The boy and his mother knew this in ways they did not want to know, in the contentment of watching programs and drinking wine and buttering toast not too dark or too light, but perfect in all that it was, which was everything. When the phone finally did ring it took several moments for it to register, and since the murderer had just faked his own death and the show was not on commercial, they did not answer. On the other end, another long slow pull of a tired bottle spilling silently from the sides of his lips then caught in the rough stubble of his aging face as he leaned back on the right side of the bed and let his body sink to a low slouch before he closed his eyes and pretended everything was the same. Nothing was.
The morning sun went through the glass and fabric, warmed and faded little by little each day, barely noticeable until finally nothing’s the same. The boy, content in age and station, was folding the covers back and humming Beethoven’s 5th symphony in key and out of key.
The mother, downstairs in the kitchen where his voice loud and tumbling down the hall, a snowball gaining speed until melting away without explanation, fresh baked bread pulled from the oven and she would slice it just right, toast it just right, needing or requiring nothing but time and that’s all we have anyway so why rush, she thought. She did not rush. He came in and sat down his glass empty then filled the buttered toast not too dark and not too light. The mother’s hands were on the coffee pot, the first cup ready to be poured and the cup waiting patiently.
The tired keys at the motel were thrown on a tired desk at check out time. The man, head full of spirits dancing, the old tape deck and a new song, a piano number, he didn’t know the name but it made him feel happy and free so he drove home and walked in the front door with the smell of whisky and regret and sat down on a wooden chair warmed and faded by the sun and without words a cup of hot coffee was poured, perfectly blended and balanced and he knew everything was the same.
Everything was different.
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