One last chance, to take me with him.
“But you still weren’t there,” he said.
I looked away from him, stared at the wall. I felt my hand rise and press down upon my lips. I didn’t speak.
“I did see you one more time, though,” he said. “After I left the house that day, I drove up to a place near my parents’ farm. I knew there was a cabin in the woods. You may remember it yourself. We all went up there one time.”
“I remember it,” I answered softly.
“I stayed there for over a month,” my father told me, “then I decided to head south.” He paused a moment, his eyes settling gently on my face. “On the way down, I drove by Somerset and took some flowers to the graves. I’d just finished putting some on Jamie’s grave when I saw you and Edna coming up the hill.” His voice seemed about to break as he continued. “I ran off into the woods. I could see you at the graves.” He fell silent for a time, then added, “I’ve lived alone since then. I never married. Never had more children.” He watched me, as if not sure he had the right to inquire into my life.
“How about you, Stevie?” he asked finally, tentatively.
“Yes, I got married,” I told him quietly.
He seemed pleased, though he didn’t smile. “Any kids?” he asked.
“A son.”
“Where’s your family now?”
I shrugged, but not indifferently.
“Gone,” I told him.
I saw a terrible bleakness come into his face, a father’s grief for the losses of his son. “Sorry,” was all he said.
Once again, we sat silently for a time, then walked out of the tavern together. It was very dark, and so my father guided me through the twisting, ebony streets, past the olives and the palms, through what was left of the labyrinth, until we reached the unlighted beach.
“Stevie?” my father began, then stopped, as if brought to a halt by the look he’d glimpsed upon my face.
I didn’t answer.
Far in the distance, through the immense stillness, I could see a ship in the darkness, sailing blindly, it seemed to me, toward its nightbound home.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
copyright © 1993 by Thomas H. Cook
cover design by Jason Gabbert
This edition published in 2011 by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media
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