The Hedge by John Farquhar Young, very green tea

Archie steadies himself at the top of the ladder and carefully extends his arms until the blades of his long-handled shears close on another tuft of small branches at the top of his laurel hedge. For many years he has shaped, snipped and loved the high hedge which shields his house from the intruding gaze of passers-by. But in recent months he has come to accept that it also challenges him. As he grows old, as various aches remind him of his advancing frailty, it continues to flourish, sending out strong new branches which sometimes resist his pruning efforts. It will outlast me, he often thinks sadly, but it is a magnificent hedge. 

He thinks it possible that after he is gone, the new owners of his home would tear down his hedge. And sometimes, as now, he briefly allows himself to visualise the scene: the chain saw ripping into the branches, the skip filled with the torn and shattered remnants of his magnificent hedge.

A familiar voice breaks his reverie. “You dinnae look very safe up there.” 

Archie carefully adjusts his balance, turns and looks down to see Percy, a neighbour, scrutinising him from the pavement. “I’m coming down, Percy. Best to stand clear. If I fall, which you seem to think is possible, I don't want to fall on top of you.”

Percy watches him sweep the hedge cuttings littering the pavement into a pile then scoop them into an orange garden tub.  “Would you no’ be better with one of these electric power trimmer things? You know, these things that are always being advertised on the TV, the cutters with the long flexible arms. It might be a wee bit safer.” He pauses for an instant then nods as if to acknowledge the sagacity of this judgement.

Archie responds with a grunt. Safer! Don't take risks! Old people shouldn’t take risks! Yeah, yeah. But, taking risks - not stupid risks - is important. Risk-taking is part of the business of keeping going, of not giving up, of having the courage to face the challenges of life. "Percy, do you want to make yourself useful?” he says, curbing his irritation.

For an instant Percy’s face registers slight apprehension. Percy, he is aware, does not take kindly to the prospect of any unusual form of physical effort.

“It would save me a double trip if you could take the tub and the shears round the back of the house.  I’ll take the ladder.”

He positions the ladder beside the garden hut, stows away the shears, takes the tub which Percy has been clasping to his rotund abdomen and empties the contents into the Council’s generously proportioned household ‘Organic Waste’ wheelie bin. 

“Would you not be better getting the hedge cut down a bit? Make it easier to keep in order? Or maybe get one of these quickly erected scaffolds rather than using that ladder? A lot safer, I would think.”

Safe, safe, safe! For an instant he debates whether he should offer Percy a coffee? Not a bad chap really, old Percy, he reminds himself. A survivor - old Percy. Holding on, contentedly aging... committed to staying safe. Over the years the old folk in his corner of the neighbourhood have been dying off - gradually dying off or moving into residential care and then dying. New people move in. Middle aged people, he is always pleased to note. New middle-aged people getting old. Not frantic young folk, with their noise and commotion and their screaming, ill-disciplined children.

They sit together in his kitchen in silence for a while. Then Percy clears his throat and flicks his thumb towards the hedge just visible from the kitchen window.

“Would you not be better off getting a gardener to do some of your gardening work? As you know I’ve got a gardener - Babs. She’s a retired school teacher and she's ferociously energetic. Don't know where she gets the energy from. Makes you ill to look at her working.  Mind you, she's injured herself once or twice. Doesn't always take precautions like she should. I could ask her to call by and give you a quote. She could at least cut your hedge.”

“I'll think about it. I'll let you know.” He glances at the clock on the wall.

Percy takes this as a hint. “Well I'd best be going.” He grins. “Leave you to your hedge cutting or any other hazardous activity that happens to take your fancy.”

‘Hazardous activities’. Percy’s words come back to him in the course of the afternoon. Even walking can be hazardous. His knee is still recovering from a recent stumble in the nearby park. His attention shifts to other problematic areas of his body. His right shoulder is now aching slightly. Perhaps the hedge cutting is the cause? Possible, he thinks. 

He dislikes computers but prides himself on mastering the elementary aspects of their use.  He enters ‘hedge trimmers’ into the Google search box and focuses on items described as ‘cordless pole’ hedge trimmers. “Lethal looking things,” he murmurs as he imagines himself waving it above the hedge. Objections and problems float to the surface of his consciousness. How do you know if you've got all the cuttings off? You have to get the cuttings off otherwise they rot. And ...you have to climb the ladder to look. And... where do I store the thing? The option of easily assembled garden scaffolding is swiftly considered and dismissed along with Percy’s other suggestions.

A bright autumn day. Archie's attention is attracted to irregularities along the top of the hedge. One or two bits that could be doing with snipping off, he judges. A few minutes work. Nothing more than that. Nothing demanding. He climbs the ladder easily. His legs seem strong, he is pleased to note. 

In the near distance he hears a woman shouting. A large dog suddenly appears beneath him, barking madly then jumping up against the ladder.

The ladder starts to tip to one side, slowly at first then arcing towards the ground. Then, lancing pain. Breathing - painful, so painful. The two-tone sound of an ambulance grows louder. Hands are on his body. Voices - professional, calm, reassuring. Questions about pain. He thinks he hears Percy’s voice. “I told him the ladder wasnae safe.” A jab in his arm. The pain retreats. A mask is placed over his face, and he feels himself lifted. As the doors of the ambulance shut he catches sight of his hedge. “My hedge. So green. What a magnificent hedge!” he murmurs.

About the author

 The author is an old chap, grappling with themes of limits, longings and finitude. Likes spooky stuff. Lives in St Andrews, Scotland, an ancient town with an ancient university, home of golf, home also - allegedly - of many ghosts. (He has not met any yet.) 

 

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In His Shadow by Shenelle Letourneau, green tea

Sarah clutches her mug in their silent apartment, steam brushing her chin as she glanced 

over at the  table, her notebook stale underneath a pile of Coffee-stained mail.

            Lucas enters the kitchen, gazing at his watch intently. He takes a breath with volume louder than the rusty furnace. “Why aren't you dressed yet?” asks Lucas.

            “I want to start writing again,” says Sarah.

            “What are you talking about? We’re late for my investiture ceremony, I need you to get dressed,” says Lucas.

            “Honey, I–I don’t want to go out tonight. I’ve been reminiscing –”

            “What do you mean you don’t want to go out? I need you to be there with me, otherwise I will look like a failure of a husband to the other professors.”

            Sarah places her mug of green tea on the table, the taste of which still lingers on her tongue, and stares at her notebook. “It’s been a really long time since I was able to have moments for myself, outside of your shadow. I need… no, I crave the ability to be me again, whatever that is now.”

            “I—I just—I have to sit down.” Lucas sits himself on the sofa and begins to tap his foot rapidly, “I don’t understand what you’re saying, Sarah, you act like I’m sucking your life away like a fucking vacuum cleaner!”

            “You are sucking my life away, I haven’t written a single idea down about what I want to do with my life since I’ve been supporting your career, just to keep a roof over our heads!” Sarah’s hands are damp now, trembling from internal sources fighting their way out.

            “My career supports our living expenses; it’s important and you’re not even supporting me. I need you to be here at my ceremony for appearances, otherwise my peers will think differently of me.”

            “See! This is what I’m talking about. You can’t even acknowledge my feelings right now; it’s about you. I feel like I’m living in Lucas’s world and there’s no room in there for me. I am only an extension of your success to show off.”

            Their cat, Darcy, walks into the room, stares at Sarah and does a long stretch. Darcy walks over to Sarah and rubs against her leg. She bends down and pets his soft fur.

            Lucas stands up quickly, lets out a sigh and then walks to the bedroom, in such a speed that a gust of wind can be seen on a nearby plant. A door slams.

            “Never mind him, Darcy boy, he’s just offended that I’m trying to get some self-respect around here, I hate when he talks to me this way. At least you love me, my handsome boy,” Sarah says to Darcy.

            Sarah moves her legs toward the bedroom, counting the tiles on the floor. She approaches the door to the bedroom and turns the handle to open the door. The door won’t open.

            “Babe, let me in so we can talk about this.”

            “No, Sarah, I don’t care what you have to say anymore. If you don’t want to support me then you should just leave. Women want a successful husband, and I shouldn’t feel guilty for my success.”

            Sarah slides her body down to the floor and leans back against the door. She sees herself in his shadow. “I just wanted someone to love me, I thought I was doing right by supporting your ambitions. I didn’t realize I would create this resentment between us. I think you’re right; maybe I’m not women enough for you anymore.”

            “Maybe you’re not.”

            “Maybe you’re right.”

About the author

  Shenelle is a student at Full Sail University pursuing her bachelor’s degree in media communications. She’s enjoyed video games and movies since childhood and has an appreciation for impactful trailers and storytelling.
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Deaf Aids by David Rudd, green tea

‘Dad, you’re going to have to … DAD?’

  ‘What Anna?’

   ‘You’re going to have to get some hearing aids, Dad.’

   ‘Earrings?’ Bernard scanned her face. ‘Yes, they’re very nice. New ones?’

   ‘You’re proving my point, Dad. Not earrings. HEARING AIDS!’

   ‘Deaf aids, you mean.’

   ‘No one calls them that nowadays. They help you hear. They don’t help you go deaf!’

   There had been many conversations like this of late, and Anna was losing patience, which is why she’d booked her dad a test at the local Specsavers.

   ‘Specsavers?’ he queried. ‘They do eye tests.’

   ‘They also do deaf- er, hearing tests, Dad.’

    ‘There should be special branches then. ‘Earsavers’. His hearty laugh filled the lounge.

   The deafer he gets, thought Anna, the louder his laugh. It was good, though, to see him in a jolly mood. So often, nowadays, she found him morose and depressed. Ever since Mum’s death, in fact.

   Bernard went ahead with the tests and was informed that, in the upper range of his hearing, he had substantial losses.

   ‘That explains why I never hear you anymore,’ he informed Anna. ‘That squeaky voice of yours.’

   She bit her tongue and forced a laugh.

  ‘Wearing hearing aids,’ the audiologist had told him, ‘should arrest that loss.’

   Two weeks later, Bernard had them fitted.

   As he’d told the audiologist, he’d imagined something like the old, leather-cased packs that used to hang round people’s necks with a wire running up to one ear. His own father had one. Deafness seemed to run in the family.

   The audiologist had explained the aids to him, showing Bernard how to insert the tiny batteries and clip the compartment shut, thus turning the devices on. They sat behind each ear from which a thin plastic stalk, ending in a small plastic flower, was inserted into his ear canal.

   The aids were certainly light and discreet, but they were also a bit small and fiddly for Bernard, such that he had to rely on Anna much of the time. He’d found it all too easy to comb them loose, especially as the only hair he had was round his ears, of which he was quite proud.

   Worst of all, he would forget to put them in or change the batteries. It was only when Anna stood in front of him, mouthing, pointing to her own ears, that he’d remember (though sometimes he’d just compliment her on her earrings). But when he was on his own at home, which was most of the time, he’d forget all about them. Anna was forever railing at him:

   ‘What about when someone rings you, or the doorbell sounds? What if the smoke alarm goes off?’

   When he did wear them, though, Bernard was impressed at the difference. He could hear birdsong again, leaves rustling, rain splashing. And, most important, as far as Anna was concerned, she no longer had to repeat herself.

   One day, though, things changed dramatically, as Bernard later told Anna. He’d been sitting in Mum’s armchair (which he’d taken to occupying– it made him feel closer to Suzie, he said), enjoying a cup of tea and a biscuit.

   ‘And when I took a bite of it – it was a digestive – I heard this voice in my ear. “Mind those crumbs,” it said. It was Suzie, your mum! That Scottish lilt. It was as though she were there, right beside me.’

   Anna decided not to engage with her dad’s claims. ‘Poor Mum,’ she said. They’d lost her to Hodgkin’s lymphoma less than a year ago. Anna had tried to do her best for her dad, but life just wasn’t the same for him. She knew that.

   ‘Didn’t you hear what I said, Anna?’ Bernard persisted. ‘Mum was speaking to me, through those deaf aids.’

   ‘Hearing aids, Dad!’

   ‘As she spoke,’ he blithely continued, ‘I was reaching for a sup of tea to wash down the crumbs. But one was tickling my throat and I began coughing, and I slopped my tea.’

   Anna smiled obligingly.

   ‘That’s when your mum spoke again. “Och,” she told me, “now you’re making a real mess, ya corrie fister!” – that’s a left-hander,’ he confided to Anna, as if she hadn’t heard it many times before. ‘“Remember,” your mum told me, “that’s my chair your bahookie’s in!”’

   That broke through Anna’s cynicism. She laughed liberatingly alongside her dad.

   ‘See, Anna,’ he continued, no doubt thinking he’d convinced her. ‘It was definitely Suzie! Broader than ever, she sounded, because, she said, she was with her old kin.’ He paused for a while, then chuckled again. ‘Then she said,’ Bernard raised his eyes to the ceiling, ‘she was looking forward to me joining them.’

   Anna had to admit, she hadn’t seen him so upbeat in ages – perhaps since Mum’s death. But she had to be realistic. ‘It’s a lovely idea, Dad,’ she said.

   ‘But it’s true. You do believe me, don’t you Anna?’

   She couldn’t meet his eye.

   ‘Here,’ he suddenly said, ‘You wear them. Try for yourself.’

   ‘Don’t take them out, Dad. It’s been hard enough getting you to wear them!’

   ‘But don’t you want to speak to her? I’m sure she’d love to hear your voice.’

   ‘They’re hearing aids, Dad, not speaking aids!’

   She bent down to kiss him before leaving.

   Anna struggled to hold on to the fact that her dad was now happier than he’d been in ages. He no longer needed prompting about wearing his aids or replacing the batteries. In other ways, though, his demeanour worried her. She’d often find him chattering to himself, oblivious of her presence, as though in a delirium.

   It wasn’t long before other problems arose. From earlier struggles persuading him to wear the aids, her dad now refused to remove them – even at night. He said that’s when she – Suzie – most frequently came to him, speaking about the old days amongst the clan McTavish. Bernard had all the old photo albums out, scattered over the floor, and he delighted in pointing out different individuals and locations to Anna. Most worryingly, he frequently spoke about joining them.

   ‘They’re all up there,’ he’d say, ‘with a place saved for me.’

   And then came the day he complained his hearing aids no longer worked. When she saw them, Anna immediately knew why. He’d worn them in the shower, though he’d been repeatedly warned against this. The aids were replaced several times before it was decided it was a waste of time.

   Bernard finally accepted this, but begged Anna to let him wear his ‘death aids’ when he died. She was sure that’s what he’d called them, though he was confusing many of his words nowadays. For his sake, she approached the funeral director. Cremation was certainly not an option as all electronic devices (pacemakers, etc.) had to be removed, but her dad had never wanted this anyway. He wanted to be buried, alongside Suzie, and the funeral director was happy with this as long as there were no batteries in the devices.

   Bernard was overjoyed.

   ‘Why?’ she asked him, knowing she’d regret it.

   ‘The death aids will help me find her,’ he’d said, that verbal slip present again.

 

   It was the start of a speedy dementia, and carers were soon visiting several times a day. As they supervised his showers, though, he was allowed to wear his hearing aids again, which delighted him, and made talking to him slightly easier.

   Then, one morning, his carers arrived to discover him in his kitchen, complaining of a burning throat. They discovered that he’d swallowed two of the small, circular, hearing-aid batteries. He’d obviously confused them with his regular pills, which were the same size. The carers were apologetic but, although they supervised his medication, they couldn’t guard against him putting other things in his mouth, much like a toddler.

   Fortunately, Bernard had been discovered in time, and A & E had removed the batteries before permanent damage had been done. However, it was a turning point in his decline. He was no longer safe to live alone.

   A care home was found, which he took to surprisingly well. As long as he had his ‘death aids’, as he persisted in calling them, he seemed content. The staff said he wandered around much of the day, chatting away to himself. However, being predominantly young things, frequently sporting their own ear buds, they didn’t find this behaviour that strange.

   Bernard was only there a few months. All too soon, Anna found herself standing by her dad’s graveside. She was pleasantly surprised to see how many had come to his funeral. He’d been a popular man, she realised. Not only were there old friends and work colleagues, but also some of Suzie’s Scottish relatives, who’d travelled down specially.

   Anna spent much of the time at the reception on the question of him being buried with his hearing aids, ‘Or,’ as she related, ‘“death aids”, which is what he called them!’

   They were amused. ‘Does he think he’ll be able to hear us?’ one of the Scottish clan asked.

   ‘No,’ said Anna. ‘But he’s hoping to hear from someone else.’  

   ‘Perhaps,’ said a man in a kilt, ‘they really are “death aids”!’

   As was the case at many funerals, the laughter was therapeutic.

   But Anna suddenly had a thought that arrested her amusement. She pictured herself in her dotage, needing hearing aids for the deafness that seemed to run in the family. But it wasn’t the disability that worried her. It was the thought of putting them on and hearing her dad’s voice crackling in her head.

   ‘At last, Anna. Now do you believe me? Welcome to the clan!’

About the author  

 

Dr David Rudd is an emeritus professor who, after 40 years, turned from academic prose to creative writing. He has published some sixty stories, several appearing in ‘CaféLit’. A collection of his short stories, Blood Will Out, and Other Strange Tales was published in 2024 (available Amazon and elsewhere). 

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Baggage Claim by Patrick G. Roland, a green tea with honey

 I pinched the tiny green bow between my fingers. My favorite color. I wondered if favorite colors were inherited.

“Can you hold my dog?”

I turned and looked into blue, tear-glossed eyes—the kind that warned of a breakdown in progress. I looked back at the security line and took another step forward. She followed in sync. Her dark blue dress was wrinkled and stickered tightly to her body. The sound of static popped with each step. A softball of dark hair and tangled tendrils sat on the top of her head. My flight didn’t depart for three more hours. I assumed hers was about to pull away from the gate.

“Um, sorry.” I said, “I’m in a bit of a hurry.” I took a larger step backward.

She quickly closed the gap with a long series of pops. “Just for a minute,” she said. “I can’t hold it any longer.”

She shoved the speckled Yorkie into my folded arms and zipped and crackled out of line, bobby pins falling from her hair, tapping the linoleum as she walked away. I tried to track her path toward the restroom or a check-in counter, but she disappeared into a flock of travelers blinking at their phones and swiveling their heads like pigeons unsure which way to fly. All of them appeared carefree. Not one of them had a dog. A burden.

I did.

I looked down at the Yorkie staring up at me with eager eyes, waiting for an answer. I touched its cold nose, rubbed its fluffy ear, felt its belly warm against my arm. I looked back for the dark blue dress, listened carefully for her static.

“Next!” a TSA agent shouted.

I scanned the line behind me for sideways glances, for a hidden camera crew with a bushel of mylar balloons to emerge from behind the potted palm trees, congratulating me for my strangerly kindness. When no eyes or balloons returned my frantic gaze, I turned back to the agent.

“Hey, you’re next!” said a stern voice behind me. I turned to see a middle-aged woman with bright red hair staring at me and down at the Yorkie.

I stepped up to the TSA agent. “This isn’t my dog,” I said.

“Take your baggage to the right,” the agent replied, flatly, “but you’ll need to hold it during the scan.”

I looked once more for the dark blue dress. Still no crackle. Not even a pop. Sweat trickled down my back. I squeezed the Yorkie’s belly slightly, feeling for a bulge or the outline of a handgun. Another agent waved me into the scanner. The Yorkie and I both closed our eyes, waiting for a siren or a stern voice.

“Sir, move ahead,” said a kind voice.

I scooped up my backpack from the security scanner and waited. And waited. The Yorkie licked my arm. It was calming. I took a deep breath and pushed it out slowly. The dog’s collar had no tags. Just a stranger. Like me. Thirty minutes passed. Then two hours. No dark blue dress. No crackle. Just passing feet and the occasional eye roll.

“Flight 94 now boarding at Gate 20,” a voice over the intercom announced.

I was leaving something behind too. Mine hadn’t barked or wagged its tail.
It had cried black mascara tears. Begged me to stay. Told me to stop being so selfish. To be happy with our new life, with our future. To stop searching for an easy way out.

But I wasn’t ready. I could barely take care of myself, let alone someone else. How could I allow something to trust me when all I ever do is run? Disappoint. That’s what I’d be to that child. More disappointment. They both deserved better.

I stood and started walking toward my gate. Yorkie in hand. I considered panicking. Setting it down and running away. But instead, I scratched behind the dog’s ears and realized I wasn’t angry or panicked. Not yet. Not even afraid. I felt a quiet I hadn’t in years. The kind of quiet I hoped Flight 94 and ten states of distance could create.

A woman approached me from behind and hissed, “Is that even your dog?” She had bright red hair that looked like little sparks against her white blouse.

“It’s—uh—I’m watching it for someone.” Why didn’t I just hand over the dog?

“Sure you are.” She crossed her arms and marched toward a counter lined with people who all looked upset about something.

My palms started sweating again. I should’ve called security hours ago. Walked away from the dog. But I held it tightly. Walked with a stranger’s baggage warming my arms. Thought of her lightened load. How easy it was for her to abandon something. I started to hate her. Hate me. The Yorkie never looked back. Always at me. Like it had known all along.

“Excuse me sir, is that your dog?” asked a police officer, his hand resting on the heel of something shiny and black on his belt.

I waited for the fear, the anger, the panic. I started to close my eyes, leaned over to drop the dog, leave it behind. Then I noticed the green bow drooping from behind its ear. “I, um, yes,” I responded.

“Man, she’s cute,” he said. “I used to have one just like her. Can I give her a pat?”

“Sure,” I responded, meeting his dark brown eyes.

He scratched the Yorkie’s head, behind the green bow. “Take good care of her,” he said with a grin. Then he tipped his hat and walked across the terminal in the other direction.

I still didn’t know if I’d be a good father. But I knew I couldn’t keep leaving the things that needed me. I cradled the Yorkie, rocked her gently, and turned away from the gate.

About the author

  

Patrick G. Roland is a writer and educator living with cystic fibrosis. He enjoys exploring other people’s attics and basements, where most of his writing ideas are created and sometimes lost. He lives near Pittsburgh. 

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The Story of a Man by Barry Garelick, green tea

Daniel’s father was Robert but everyone called him Bob. Daniel had heard many stories from his father as he was growing up; some about World War Two, some about fleeing the pogroms in Russia, some about growing up poor in Brooklyn. When he was fourteen, Daniel’s grandfather died, and then there followed stories about his grandfather, told by the many friends and relatives who populated their house for the first week or so after the funeral. From the stories he heard, his grandfather had been a saint apparently, and though Daniel knew him to be friendly, he didn’t really know his grandfather that well. He felt he had missed out on something.

A few days after the funeral, Daniel was presented with one more story; unlike the others, this one had no words. ‘Come on in the bedroom; I want to show you something,’ Bob said and emptied onto his bed the contents of a blue woolen bag on which the Star of David was sewn. A variety of objects lay on the bed: A well-worn sepia photograph of Daniel’s grandparents with Bob and his sister, a Hebrew prayer book, his grandfather’s identification and other papers from Russia, a yarmulke, and a prayer shawl.

The two of them looked at the objects in silence. Daniel knew his father was waiting for him to say something. The expectation annoyed him, and though he knew better, he was surprised to hear himself say: ‘It’s just a bunch of papers and things. So what?’ He immediately regretted his disrespect.

Bob glared at Daniel and said ‘It’s the story of a man!’ and walked out of the room. Nothing further was ever said about the event, though Daniel thought about it as he grew older, often wondering why his father did not show more anger than he did.

Bob had a bad temper at times, particularly when he was drinking, though he had not been drinking that day. Bob’s drinking was sporadic, which he used as evidence that he wasn’t an alcoholic when the subject would occasionally be raised. ‘If I were an alcoholic I’d be drinking all the time. But I don’t have to drink and I can control it,’ he would say to Daniel’s mother who, though skeptical, went along with the theory. When he was drinking, Daniel tried to avoid him as best one could in their small house.

Over the years, Daniel learned to disappear within himself as necessary to avoid confrontations with Bob; for the most part he was successful in this. Some were unavoidable, however, such as his decision to not go into Bob’s art business. In the early seventies after graduating from college, he moved out from Detroit to San Francisco. ‘You do not have my blessing!’ Bob had said, but as was typical of him, accepted Daniel’s decision and told the world how proud he was of Daniel when he became a reporter for a newspaper there.

His parents would visit Daniel occasionally. Sometimes it was just Bob, when he would stop in San Francisco on his way to and back from Japan on art-buying trips for his gallery. On one particular solo visit, Bob had returned from what was to be his last visit to Japan. Daniel was to meet him in the hotel where he always stayed, a few blocks from Union Square. ‘The hotel brings me luck,’ he would often say.  He called Daniel in the mid-afternoon when he arrived from the airport. ‘We’ll have dinner and talk; I want to know what my wonderful son is doing.’

 

Daniel stood before the door of his room, and took a deep breath. He would have liked to walk away, but knew he couldn’t – or wouldn’t. He knocked on the door; a muffled ‘Yeah, I’m coming,’ could be heard. When the door opened Bob spread out his arms and hugged Daniel. ‘My beautiful son,’ he said.

‘Come in, come in; here, sit over here, let’s talk, it’s so good to see you.’ He motioned to a chair by the small table by the window where a bottle of almost empty Cutty Sark sat like a still life. Bob sat down in a chair next to the table. ‘So tell me what you are up to.’

It was a simple question. With anyone else Daniel could have answered by talking about how he had just interviewed people at the Salvation Army Officer Training Centre for an article he was writing for the San Francisco Examiner where he worked as a reporter. But that would have been asking for trouble given Bob’s disdain for religion and his belief that if there were a god, then he wouldn’t have let six million Jews die in concentration camps. ‘We’re born alone and we die alone,’ he had told Daniel over the years. ‘No one is going to look after you.’

But instead Daniel answered as neutrally as he could ‘I’m doing all right.’ Daniel had learned to navigate his father’s drunken states. He had learned to stay away from topics that would provoke him into anger– which were many. He sometimes wondered if there was a time when his father didn’t drink so much and what had triggered it, or if in fact there was a trigger at all. As he had done for many years, he disappeared into himself, and became a muse.

            ‘Are you lonely, Daniel?’

            ‘No, I’m not lonely.’

‘You have friends?’

‘I have some.’

‘Good. It’s good to have friends.’ Bob filled his empty glass and looked at it.

In fact, Daniel had very few friends and was, in fact, lonely. But Daniel’s social life wasn’t a subject he wanted to get into. Thankfully, there were no more questions about that. Instead Bob talked about his trip to Tokyo, how exciting the city was, how big it was, how Daniel would love it. ‘It’s better than New York!’

New York! The mere mention of the city where Bob grew up led him to recount how he could have been in charge of an art gallery there, but he turned it down. ‘Too much back stabbing. There were others who wanted the job, and they were ruthless. So I was better off staying in Detroit, in my own gallery.’ He looked at Daniel. ‘Your life would have been a lot different if we had moved there.’ It probably would have, Daniel thought. He was twelve when the possibility of a move came up. He didn’t really know whether he would have been better off, or how his life would have been different. It was an alternate pathway he didn’t dwell on.

Tokyo! He talked about how nice the people were, but it’s become westernized ad the businessmen are like businessmen everywhere. ‘You can’t trust anyone. Everyone wants something from you no matter what country you’re in. It’s becoming commercial like every place in the world; no matter where you go it’s starting to look the same, he said, the same restaurant chains, clothing styles, hair styles, music. Everyone looks so young,’ he said. He talked about a restaurant he went to called The Volga. ‘An imitation Russian café’ he said, and not only an imitation, but around the corner from Tokyo Tower which is an imitation of the Eiffel Tower of Paris. He hated the café, with its balalaika orchestra of all Japanese musicians. ‘Terrible! And they all looked sad and bored and utterly lifeless,’ he said with a sigh.

The art was expensive there, he said; the art business is dominated by people who don’t give a shit about art, he went on. They’ve priced themselves out of the market, he said; it wasn’t like this when he first went a few years ago. ‘This is my last time to Japan,’ he said and took another gulp of scotch. He then told Daniel what he had been telling him for years: he was getting old. And bitter. ‘The art world is big business now. I had one of the first galleries in Detroit. Now I’m just some small guy with an art gallery that no one will remember. What the hell have I accomplished in life?’ he asked.

            As was his habit, Daniel tried to buoy his father’s sagging spirits. ‘You’re not that old; you’re only fifty-nine. You’re probably doing better than you think.’  He knew he was being patronizing but Bob found such advice coming from a twenty-three year old endearing; so much so, that he laughed out loud and exclaimed ‘Oh Daniel, you’re so beautiful.’  The moment of humor and adoration passed quickly, however, and Bob was back to his drunken reverie.

‘You’ve always been naïve, Daniel. I’m some immigrant with a high school education who worked his way into the art business. I know what people are thinking in their pitiful condescending ways. The big shots, the elites, the intellectuals. They look at me like I’m some know-nothing. They talk in their special ways; they weigh their words, they don’t say fully what they mean, but people who are part of that group know what’s being said. As if I can’t read between the lines. Status seekers; they buy art to impress and act like they know so much about it. Believe me, what I’ve forgotten about art, they’re still learning.’ He paused and looked at Daniel. ‘You’re not saying very much. So what do you think about what I just said? What do you think about your father? I’m talking to you man-to-man; as an adult. I want to know what you think.’

Daniel knew the moment would come. So he would tell him what he thought. ‘You’re just feeling sorry for yourself. Do you think Grandpa felt sorry for himself?’ The ‘feeling sorry’ comment he learned from hearing his mother say it through the years with fairly good results. The part about his grandfather was his alone.

‘My father was a simple shoemaker,’ Bob said, angrily. ‘He was part of the old world. Yes, he knew how to survive, and he got us out of Russia. But as far as how the world worked or what I was doing, he knew nothing. He wanted me to take a job in the post office when I got out of the Navy; a good-paying government job. The Navy gave me my citizenship papers when I was discharged; I was illegal up to then. Grandpa thought that was great, and all I needed was a steady good-paying job. I had other ideas.’

Fathers and sons are destined to be at odds, Daniel thought. Bob stood up and looked out the window. It had been late afternoon when Daniel had come in, but now the sun had set and the city was now a mix of lights from houses and apartment houses on hills, and in the proliferation of new high-rise office buildings downtown.

‘That was one good thing about the Navy. And the war. I became a citizen. I was part of the world. It was every immigrant boy’s dream to be a part of the world. In the war everyone was equal. It didn’t matter what your background was on the battlefield. All that mattered was surviving. We would joke with each other. They’d say ‘There's a bullet out there with your name on it, Bob. That's how we talked. We joked about death; to keep from being scared. We were all scared; we just didn’t talk about that.’

Bob sat down again, and rubbed his forehead. He closed his eyes, and Daniel thought he was going to sleep but when he opened them again, he looked at Daniel, as if seeing him for the first time.

            ‘I killed a man once,’ Bob said. ‘You didn’t know that, did you?’

            ‘When?’

            ‘During the war. On Iwo Jima.’ He scowled. ‘I killed many men who were far away and I didn’t see them die and it was easy to make myself forget what I was doing. But one time it was up close. The battle was almost over, and they put up the flag and took that photo that everyone knows. But there were still Japanese on the island. I was walking by myself and I saw a Japanese soldier coming towards me. He had his rifle pointed. I shot him. He fell and I ran over to him. I looked in the pockets of his flak jacket and pulled out a wallet that had photos of his wife and kids, and his identification. I took it with me. I don’t know why. I had it for years.’ He looked at Daniel.

            ‘I’m talking to you man to man,’ he said again. ‘I want you to know certain things about your old man.’ He ran his hand over his face. ‘I brought his wallet with me to Tokyo,’ he said.

            ‘Why?’

            ‘I wanted someone to get it back to the poor guy’s family. I figured the War Museum might help me. It’s in Tokyo – a part of Tokyo, like a suburb. Chiyoda City. I took a cab there. I said I wanted to go to Chiyoda City. The cabbie said ‘To the war museum?’ and I said yes, the War Museum. I felt like he was a ghost. He didn’t say anything the whole ride and when I got out and paid him, I said ‘Are you a ghost?’ and he said ‘Yes.’ ‘ Bob laughed and pointed at Daniel. ‘You think I’m crazy, don’t you?’

 ‘He may not have known English that well.’

‘Yeah, maybe,’ he said, suddenly somber.

‘Were you drinking?’

‘No. But I think there are ghosts. There are ghosts, Daniel. I’ve talked to others who were in the war. They tell me the same thing; there are ghosts. Sometimes I hear them in my dreams.’

Daniel heard laughter in the hallway. There were three or four people, Daniel guessed. They passed by the room; when they could no longer be heard, Bob continued. 

‘It’s a big museum. I went inside and spoke to a guard and said I wanted to speak to someone. I said I had some things from a soldier who died on Iwo Jima. He went and talked to someone who came out. Mr. Hayashi. He gave me his card and I gave him mine. That’s how they do it in Japan. I told him the story and showed him the wallet. I said I wanted to get this to the man’s family if that was possible. He thanked me and said they would try to locate his family and get it to them.’

‘He said he’s met many Americans through the years and he’s heard similar stories. They come here to confess, to apologize. He said that he can tell they are hurting. If I hadn’t killed that soldier, I would have been dead, he told me. War is horrible, he said and I said yes, it is. He asked what I did and I told him. He asked if I came here often to buy art. I said this would probably be the last time.’

            The sound of the cable car down below could be heard. Bob stood up and started to walk toward the window. For a brief second it looked like he was going to fall and Daniel stood up and came over to him.

            ‘Are you OK?’

            ‘I’m fine. I just stumbled a little.’  He pointed to the streets below. ‘Look at all those people. Everyone going somewhere.’  Daniel nodded. There were indeed many people, he thought. He longed to be with them.

‘I was going to take you to dinner. But I’m very tired. And I had too much to drink. I’m sorry I’m not much for conversation.’  Daniel thought this last remark funny but didn’t laugh.

Bob looked at Daniel as if he just remembered something. ‘Let’s get together for breakfast tomorrow. Down at the restaurant here. My flight leaves at noon, so there’s time. I want to hear what you’re up to. Do you have time? Seven o’clock?’

            ‘I have time.’

They hugged each other at the door; Daniel felt the familiar nap of stubble against his cheek. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ Daniel said.

‘It’s so good to see you, Daniel. Really good to see you.’

 It was not yet cold out; the fog had not rolled in as it usually did. Daniel decided to walk home. He knew Bob would not remember what was said that night, and would probably ask Daniel what he had talked about. Daniel would tell him as best he could. It felt as if there was an opportunity to talk about everything and anything, but he knew better.

Bob would probably ask Daniel once more if he were lonely, and he would say no. Maybe he should say yes, he thought and see what happens, though he knew he would not. Maybe he should ask Bob if he were lonely. He would probably say no. Daniel would always be a listener and his father would always be a mixture of things; things Daniel knew about him, and secrets he would never know. 

 

About the author

Barry Garelick has fiction published in Heimat, Cafe Lit, Ephemeras and Fiction on the Web. His non-fiction pieces have been published in Atlantic, and Education Next. He lives in Morro Bay, California with his wife. 

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