whiskey was empty now. He set his glass down and left the office en route to the cellar for another bottle. As he passed Alex’s closed door, he stopped.
Damn, can that kid cry. Is this how twenty-year olds grieve ?
Walter banged on the door. “Alex, what’s going on?”
The weeping continued, unimpeded. Walter tried the door handle. It opened. He stepped in and stared at his son, curled up on the bed.
“You gonna be okay?” he asked, not expecting an answer. At least not one he’d like.
Alex nodded and made a feeble attempt to wipe his eyes.
“Look, get yourself together and come to my office. I’m going downstairs. I’ll meet you back there in a few minutes. We can talk.”
Alex buried his face in his hands.
“Did you hear me?”
He moaned acknowledgment.
“I’ll meet you in my office in five minutes.” Walter walked away, leaving his son’s door wide open.
He got to the basement, grabbed the bottle of whiskey and headed back upstairs. On the way by Alex’s bedroom door, he took a peek in. The unmade bed was empty.
He walked over to the mini bar in his office and stopped. Alex sat on the antique couch, scowling.
“What’s going on with you?” Walter asked, amused that his son could show so much anger. “One minute you’re bawling like a baby and now you look pissed off.”
“It’s all your fault!” Alex shouted.
Walter set the bottle down on the bar’s shiny surface and scanned his son’s face.
“You might want to watch what you say here. Your mother had diabetes. She was very sick. She had saved her needles and chose today to take them all at once. That had nothing to do with me. Are we clear?”
Alex didn’t respond. He just sat there and glared at Walter.
“I said , are we clear?”
“Yeah, I’m clear all right. You killed her.”
“Okay, that’s it. Call a friend, go to a hotel, but I want you the fuck out of my house right the fuck now!” Walter was conscious of his anger. He was aware of it on a cellular level. It was unfamiliar, but it was welcomed. It made him feel powerful, in control.
Alex got up from the couch and bumped Walter’s shoulder as he passed him.
“Watch yourself, young man. I may be in my sixties, but I can fuck around like the best of them.”
His son’s footsteps pounded down the stairs, then the front door opened and shut with a slam. By the time he poured a glass of whiskey and took his first shot, tires screeched outside and then the sound of metal crunched together.
He left the office and headed downstairs in a run. Too many people had pissed him off. His wife died today. His son was blaming him. And now one of his son’s friends thinks he can show off and squeal his tires all over the fucking place.
He opened the front door and jumped out onto his porch ready to scream at the offending driver.
He blinked and staggered, the whiskey already working on him. Two vehicles had hit each other. A black SUV had T-boned a smaller Nissan. A man was caught between the two vehicles.
Walter leaned on the doorframe for support. People across the street talked on cell phones. Probably calling for help, but it was too late. The guy was dead. His waist disappeared below the grill of the SUV. A running shoe lay about five feet back under the SUV, still attached to a leg.
Poor guy. Wrong place at the wrong time.
“People die every day,” Walter mumbled to himself. He turned around and headed for the stairs. Someone behind him yelled. Someone else cried.
Why the hell does everyone have to be so fucking loud?
Halfway up the stairs, he teetered, the whiskey taking effect on his balance.
“Walter,” someone said behind him. “Ahh, I think you better come and look at this.”
He gripped the railing beside him as he looked down at Crawford, his neighbor from two doors up.
Why the hell is my front door always left
Damn, can that kid cry. Is this how twenty-year olds grieve ?
Walter banged on the door. “Alex, what’s going on?”
The weeping continued, unimpeded. Walter tried the door handle. It opened. He stepped in and stared at his son, curled up on the bed.
“You gonna be okay?” he asked, not expecting an answer. At least not one he’d like.
Alex nodded and made a feeble attempt to wipe his eyes.
“Look, get yourself together and come to my office. I’m going downstairs. I’ll meet you back there in a few minutes. We can talk.”
Alex buried his face in his hands.
“Did you hear me?”
He moaned acknowledgment.
“I’ll meet you in my office in five minutes.” Walter walked away, leaving his son’s door wide open.
He got to the basement, grabbed the bottle of whiskey and headed back upstairs. On the way by Alex’s bedroom door, he took a peek in. The unmade bed was empty.
He walked over to the mini bar in his office and stopped. Alex sat on the antique couch, scowling.
“What’s going on with you?” Walter asked, amused that his son could show so much anger. “One minute you’re bawling like a baby and now you look pissed off.”
“It’s all your fault!” Alex shouted.
Walter set the bottle down on the bar’s shiny surface and scanned his son’s face.
“You might want to watch what you say here. Your mother had diabetes. She was very sick. She had saved her needles and chose today to take them all at once. That had nothing to do with me. Are we clear?”
Alex didn’t respond. He just sat there and glared at Walter.
“I said , are we clear?”
“Yeah, I’m clear all right. You killed her.”
“Okay, that’s it. Call a friend, go to a hotel, but I want you the fuck out of my house right the fuck now!” Walter was conscious of his anger. He was aware of it on a cellular level. It was unfamiliar, but it was welcomed. It made him feel powerful, in control.
Alex got up from the couch and bumped Walter’s shoulder as he passed him.
“Watch yourself, young man. I may be in my sixties, but I can fuck around like the best of them.”
His son’s footsteps pounded down the stairs, then the front door opened and shut with a slam. By the time he poured a glass of whiskey and took his first shot, tires screeched outside and then the sound of metal crunched together.
He left the office and headed downstairs in a run. Too many people had pissed him off. His wife died today. His son was blaming him. And now one of his son’s friends thinks he can show off and squeal his tires all over the fucking place.
He opened the front door and jumped out onto his porch ready to scream at the offending driver.
He blinked and staggered, the whiskey already working on him. Two vehicles had hit each other. A black SUV had T-boned a smaller Nissan. A man was caught between the two vehicles.
Walter leaned on the doorframe for support. People across the street talked on cell phones. Probably calling for help, but it was too late. The guy was dead. His waist disappeared below the grill of the SUV. A running shoe lay about five feet back under the SUV, still attached to a leg.
Poor guy. Wrong place at the wrong time.
“People die every day,” Walter mumbled to himself. He turned around and headed for the stairs. Someone behind him yelled. Someone else cried.
Why the hell does everyone have to be so fucking loud?
Halfway up the stairs, he teetered, the whiskey taking effect on his balance.
“Walter,” someone said behind him. “Ahh, I think you better come and look at this.”
He gripped the railing beside him as he looked down at Crawford, his neighbor from two doors up.
Why the hell is my front door always left
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