Satch & Dad

“He hit me with a wrench once, ya know.”

“Who did? Your dad?”

[deep sigh w/chuckle] “Yeah.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he just doesn’t like me much.”

Satch sat across from his best friend, Paul,  and ate his burger.

The bell on the front door rang as the only other guests left the diner.

Paul stood and locked the door behind them.

“Hey bud, why don’t you just come stay with me tonight.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Just don’t want you to be in the line of fire over there.”

“Ah. I’ll be fine. He’s not that bad. He’ll probably be asleep when I get home. It’s been a long day.”

“Ok, well the offer stands. Just show up if you need to.”

Satch stood at the back door.

“Thanks, man. And thanks for the grub. I’ll call ya tomorrow or something.”

On the walk home, Satch tried his best to not think—to not worry—to not remember.

Sadness he could handle—it was the memories that he couldn’t—the good ones were especially painful.

As he turned down Hunt Drive, the street lamps came on and guided him to his front porch.

He tried the knob. Dammit. Locked.

He tried the door in the kitchen. Locked.

Luckily, the window in his bedroom was open.

 So he climbed on through, like he had done every Friday and Saturday night (and sometimes Sunday morning)since he started high school.

He emptied his pockets onto his dresser.

A couple bucks. Some loose change. His pocket knife.

He held on to the small folded piece of paper with his mother’s name and picture, and the Lord’s Prayer.

And that date. That goddamned date.

Less than a week ago, he could hear her making breakfast. The clang of the pots and the rushing of the water had been replaced, NOW, by silence. The smell of biscuits and bacon was ushered out by the overwhelming smell of something canned and an unfiltered cigarette.

Dad.

He could see the dull yellow light from above the sink.

The kitchen had never looked so empty.

Well, empty except for dad.

“Hey, dad…How are..”

“How the hell did you get in here? I never even heard you come in.”

“my window. I keep it open. It gets hot, ya know.”

“Mmm…..”

A heavy, hard silence sat between them. Satch aware of it. Jim not so much.

Moments passed and Jim lit another cigarette and sipped an open, sweaty can.

Stillness. Emptiness.

[Clears throat] “It was a good service.”

“mmm… yah.”

“I think Mom would have…”

[Jim, clearly agitated] “Look, kid. We don’t have to do this. I’ll leave ya alone if you give me the same.”

“Oh…ummm…sure. Yeah.”

Satch pushed his chair back to the table.

He went to make a sandwich.

“Do you want…”

“What? Oh no.”

Rather than dirty a dish and leave a mess in the sink, he put his sandwich on a napkin and began to walk out of the room.

“Do you know where she…”

Jim’s voice softly broke with emotion.

Satch turned his head.

“I’m sorry?”

[taking a deep breath]

“Do you know where she keeps the ice trays?”

He doesn’t know where the ice trays are? Did he seriously never do anything around here? Just work and yell.

“Yeah, Dad.” Satch said as he reached into the bottom cupboard.

“oh thanks.” Visibly emotional now, Jim went to the sink and filled the trays.

His son stepped into the hallway toward his room.

“I made her a stool ya know?!”

What the hell was he talking about.

“What?”

“I said I made her a stool. I don’t know why she didn’t use it. She could have put the ice trays up somewhere where a man could find them. She just needed to use the stool to reach it.”

Yeah, take one more swing at the dead woman. There ya go. Good job.

You can’t bend at the waist?

What an empty protest.

They both knew damn well she kept that stool in the living room to prop her feet up at night. They hurt so bad. She’d hobble around the house after work every night and even on the weekends when she wouldn’t work. Her feet were just so damn beat up.

“I just don’t know why she couldn’t….she could have made her life…ya know…”

Satch squinted in confusion as he walked back to the kitchen.

“She just…”

“Dad…”

“I could have made her another stool is all. She deserved it.”