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Antiques by ken paul Novak ...cont. I tried to deny it on the drive home but the Mercury Monarch in the driveway dispersed a lot of doubt. When I last saw him he was thirty-eight years old and I had to think about the math before fifty-five eventually came out. A seventeen-year-old corpse was sipping black coffee at my kitchen table just thirty minutes before my kids would get off the school bus. Liz was pressed into the corner of the Formica counter like a trapped animal, her eyes full of fear, her arms crossed. The man who said he was my father made a loud sipping sound and held his coffee with both hands. I stood behind the screen door that led to the kitchen. Eventually he raised his eyes over the mug and stared at me through the mesh. I opened the door slowly, sat my briefcase down next to the fridge and edged up to the table. Our eyes were fixed on each other the whole time. He kept his eyes steady, right above the mug’s brim. I sat down across from him and leaned forward into his eyes. I took a deep breath that was supposed to exhale with words like, who the hell are you? As I felt my lungs fill up, he whispered in a weak voice. “Eddy?” “Dad?” I responded like a sixteen-year-old. “Son.” I wanted to rip him apart for the years of torment when he lived with us and those when he deserted us. I wanted to tell him “I don’t know you, get out of my house, go to Hell.” I wanted revenge, justice, a confession. All I got was “son.” He sat the cup down, folded his hands in front of it and let his shoulders slouch so low I thought they would disappear under the table. He started slowly with a, “I suppose you want to know why I’m here” kind of beginning. My ears buzzed while he talked. It was like everything else was silent except his voice, and the absence of background noise was splitting my head with each of his drawn syllables. “Well, here you are,” I said. “Yeah. Here I am.” “What do you want?” “Eddy, I know I did the family wrong....” “You don’t have to say that again. Saying it doesn’t change it or even make it better. It sure as Hell doesn’t make me like you. I’ve got a good mind to ask you to finish your coffee, get out of my house and stay out of my life. You’ve done it pretty damn well for seventeen years, I think you can pick the habit back up.” He reached inside the pocket of his canvas coat and pulled out a gritty dollar bill. He slid the bill underneath the coffee mug and dragged himself to the screen door. Just then I heard the first white noise since I entered the kitchen. The brakes on the school bus whined and groaned and finally sighed in exhaustion. The kids weren’t laughing or screaming like I thought they should. It must have been the Mercury in the driveway. They stood outside the screen door. My father stood on the other side, blocking their way. He moved back inside the kitchen and smiled at them as they slithered around him. Their eyes in a slant at the linoleum, their elbows tucked in, their shoulders pinned together avoiding all contact with the stranger. “Well,” the stranger said, “Grandpa has to be going.” The kids’ heads turned on a swivel. My father eased the door shut. The next thing we heard was the Monarch’s ear-piercing fan belts chasing after the school bus’ groaning brakes. The kids looked at me. “Who was that, Dad?” Rita, the twelve-year-old, asked. I looked at Liz, still standing in the corner, with her head looking straight down. She gave me no signs what to say. I breathed in a staggered breath through my nose. “Some crazy old man,” I said. Liz came out of her corner and her eyes let the children know not to ask any more questions. |