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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