A man sits not to ponder but to purge himself of things long remembered, and hope, perhaps, to sit another day with nothing on his mind but the game on TV.

November is outside.  What traffic the playground in the apartment complex held has left long ago.  A week of ice rain drove it out of young minds and mothers.  The cars line up in rows facing a walk that links one parking lot to the next but keeps the rectangular clumps of the duplexes apart.

He gets up at the commercial.  Only a handful of chips are left in the bag on the counter.  From a cupboard with little else he pulls down a coffee cup and pours the remainder down to the jagged crumbs within.  A phone at the table rings.  He moves despite the noise.  Once the rings subside he is again at the plush chair before the flickering image bent a little at one corner.  The console unit is old.

Throughout the game the phone shakes.  The man remains where he is.  It's not that the game is at all close.  Army pulled to an early lead, and by the third quarter a field goal is all Navy could muster.  Though lights reflect against the player's helmets you can tell the game continues in similar weather.  The whole world is a rainy cloud.  As Navy fumbles at one last, gasping drive, the old man curses and rises.  Much too quickly his hands land on his knees.  Because of his back he stays that way, craning to catch a stream of the game's highlights and the announcer's threat that the golf game next is worth watching.  'At least it will be warmer,' he mumbles and takes a few steps.

Since he is back in the kitchen and nearby, he finds the receiver in his hand.  He hadn't noticed it ringing.

"Dad," a voice asks on the other line.  "Are you there?  It's Kris."

"Yeah, Kris.  How are you doing?  The kids all right, and Thomas?"

"We're fine," the woman responds out of breath.  "All of us, we're okay but. . . ."  A taper of silence remains unburnt.  "Dad, there's no other way to - Mom's dead.  A car crash.  Aunt Lina's okay.  Broken hip.  The truck driver ran the light on the other side.  They say she didn't suffer."

The man looks to the other room.  He goes as far as the cord on the heavy unit will let him.  Cacti surround a fairway where a man takes a short club and walks to where the sand on the course is bleached a color so foreign from the desert all around.

"Yeah," he says, "God that's bad."

"Tony was down there with her.  The RV was getting undercoating.  He took it hard.  Blames himself, says he should've been driving.  They're bringing her to Syracuse for burial.  Sure you're okay, Dad?   I know it's been years, still. . . ."

"Yeah, let's see.  Since little Christopher was born.  At the hospital, and then at your place afterwards."

"Is Kay okay?  Last time we talked her hip was bad."

"She's fine.  Moved actually.  Her eldest boy lives in Cleveland.  They needed a nanny.  She decided it was best."

"Then it's not okay.  Who do you see, Dad?  Where are your friends?"

"There's Jack Curtis.  Some of the high school guys get together to hunt every opening day."  Suddenly he stops.  "You want me to set up the wake?"

"No, Tony's done it.  His brother's coming in from Utica."

"Stay here then.  You and Bob can take the bedroom.  The kids will have to use sleeping bags.  The couch is okay for me."

"We couldn't do that, Dad.  Besides, you said last time the kids gave you heartburn.  I know you were kind of kidding - you didn't mean it.  We're okay.  Bob can use the trip for business.  There's a Package Express office in Victor, outside Rochester.  They haven't been audited in awhile."

"Be good to see you guys.  Karen coming?"

"For the day only.  God, you know her.  I miss you, Dad.  We all do.  Christopher remembers the medals on your dresser.  He can't even say Vietnam too well, but he just loves playing army."  A roll of static takes the phone, crashes, and quits.  "Dad, I don't want you too sad about this.  You guys were great parents.  You can't take that time away.  Mom was wrong to let that all pass, but she needed too.  People grow.  Think of it - when you guys married you were barely out of high school.  Who can do that and say they know themselves.  I love you, okay.  Maybe we can go to Green Lakes for an afternoon.  We'll take a walk, won't that be great.  Oh, Dad.  Why does it always take the hard times to bring family together?  Bob sends his love.  Oh, I've got to go.  It's my job to call all the old friends.  Do you know Matt Teal lost his wife last month?  They say it comes in threes.  I hate to think another one's coming.  Love you, Dad.  Hang in there.  We'll see you next Saturday.  Don't worry about picking us up.  We're renting a van.  You have to see our bunch now.  We need a big truck for all of them.  Okay, Dad.  Bye.  Love you."

The receiver clicks in the cradle of the plastic machine.  The man goes to the fridge and opens it up.  He grabs an oblong shaped object and the remainder of the quart of milk.  At the counter he unwinds the plastic wrap to reveal a half of a salami sandwich on rye bread.  He rinses the coffee cup quickly under the faucet, and without drying it, he turns the milk cartoon over.  The milk lunges out in one fast clump and fills just under a quarter of the vessel.

While he eats he leans over the rug between him and the TV.  Only after he finishes chewing and wiping his mouth does he recline in the comfy recliner and take the stick shift under the right armrest to return the chair's back a few notches.  He crumbles the spoiled paper napkin into a ball and sets it on an end table covered with dust and crumbs.

The sun on screen doesn't feel right to him.  He steps through the channels methodically.  Whenever a ball is to be seen - tennis, soccer, basketball, football - it doesn't matter, he stopsd and waits for the score.  The dim sky outside his window begins to remove even the gray from the clouds and leaves the outside as dark as inside the apartment.  Only one thing changes - he clickes on the lamp within arm's reach beside him.

During a hockey game the phone starts up again.  He avoids looking at it but can't help hitting the buttons on the remote harder.  When it finally quiets, he moves quickly from the chair.  He catches the receiver and pulls it from the cradle.  It falls with a thud on the plastic table top.  Again the man's hands are at his knees.  This time it takes more than a few minutes for the pain to subside.

The man walks to the sink and turns on the cold faucet.  He leaves a wrinkled hand under the spigot and cups it.  Pulling his face close he sucks at the water and repeats the motion several times.  Then he stands and walks slowly back to the TV.  Dropping into the lounger, he changes his mind about hockey and finds college basketball about to start.  It is Syracuse University versus Duke at home in the Carrier Dome.

Author Bio

Richard A. Webster is an art historian who teaches humanities at the renowned Internation High School in New York City.  He resides on the board of The Hall Farm center for Arts and Education in Townsend, Vermont and is published in Magaera.  A third novel, Greenbough: A Complicity, is currently being considered for representation by McIntosh and Otis.