William Walter
Father
William Walter
Enter a cold room lit only by a lamp whose soft light forms dancing shadows across mahogany-paneled walls . Smell the thick odor of liquor and cigarettes , wood and leather . Hear pattering leaves on a window pane . The quiet breathing of two — one calm , the other hoarse . Wind . See fog hovering outside beneath street lights , staring into the room with a dull hostility . A wavering satin curtain and a cockroach crawling on the sill . Plants in cracked pots . A squat desk covered with wrinkled papers . One family photo and a half-empty handle of cheap bourbon .
See two men . One sits at attention across from the desk , his back pressed against a leather-bound armchair , his left arm draped over its oak handle and the other in his lap . His is the softer breathing . Goose bumps crowd his gingerly haired limbs . Three dark moles dot his ear .
The other man sits slouched over the desk , his head down . A cigarette smolders in a glass tray beside him , its ashes stacking neatly , its smoke drifting circuitously about his head . Streaks of grey thread his hair . He ’ s heavy . He stretches out his arms and runs large hands across the desk , feeling its dents and scratches . He does this for a minute , sits up and speaks .
We ’ ve sat here , staring at each other for years . The furniture has changed , but our positions haven ’ t . Years ago it was that rough wooden stool your grandfather made and mother insisted we put in here , and now it ’ s that that armchair you ’ re in . Whatever your seat , you ’ ve always sat with raised eyebrows and that cowlick of yours . Your eyes make me uncomfortable . They always have .
I know what you ’ re thinking about . You can ’ t say it , but I know . It ’ s on my mind , too — how this started . Your dog ’ s death . What was his name ? Henry . That ’ s it .
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