Coming Home
Roquefort went out to the tree, to check on the stove, burning hickory smoked chips; He would do this every thanksgiving, thawing out his feet on the floor mat inside the Wisconsin home. His wife was busy putting up the tree, as she did every year, Thanksgiving just being the excuse she needed to start the Christmas season, while Roquefort sat with his gun and sipping whiskey, watching the Detroit Lions and there come-from-behind victory over the Minnesota Vikings, and even though his favorite team was losing, he was aided by the Makers Mark in his glass, the burn it delivered down through his esophagus, and the smell wafting in from the stove outdoors.
After the game there were still a few hours before his son and daughter would return home from their city lives in Chicago. He was proud of them in the way that fathers often are, but he felt the slight pangs of disappointment on this chilly day, he felt empty as his Gortex jacket scraped past the lone branch in the yard. He hadn't seen this branch, as he worked his way across the property towards the slight hill where he could see their cars come in, and he took out his flask and tugged on the rusty container, coughing a little bit as the sour mash slithered down his throat and hit the top of his stomach in a way he hadn’t anticipated.
His daughter Cindy had married the wrong man. He knew it at the wedding seeing the big smile on the car-salesmen suit Gary wore. He didn’t like the way he shook hands or wore his tie, and his business was dubious. He told lies for a living, selling enough real estate to have a penthouse in uptown Chicago. So he was a provider sure, but a true man would never have let his daughter marry such a shyster.
He looked out towards the old highway, which lay empty, not snaked with incoming travelers from the city. He was waiting for the headlights of his son’s Blazer. He was proud of Tim. Here was a man who not only put his god given talents to work for him, but also managed to be a successful sports reporter at the Chicago Sun Times. He always encouraged his son to write in the boys room on the south side of the house. Pendants from the Twins late 1970’s Season hung on the wall, drooping slightly from the rusty nail, and he realized how long ago it was that they propped the boy up, still in diapers in the crib, as they stared at him in awe, stepping back to here his giggle as his first Minnesota Twins cap was placed on his still-bald head.
It had started there, the dream that one day he could put his love of sports into a thinking-man’s profession, to do what Roquefort always dreamed of – Getting cozy at the bar in Chicago with the other newspaper men, curtly discussing the Cubs victory-- this was what he wanted, the life of the real men, men Roquefort’s father never could be with his drinking and wasted rustic life.
He looked down at his leg, the appendage he dragged around ever since he returned for the war, then looked down further this time, below the hill, and felt his plastic kneecap give as he tripped on the stone, watched expectantly as the whiskey flew out in front of him, his knee giving out, as he yelled out to a sky that insulated the scream, not allowing it to be heard as the high beams of his son’s blazer snaked its way through the main artery, rounded the last bough of land, not able to see his father lying there, reaching for his flask, seeing the lights in his peripheries as he stared up at the lone branch in his field of vision, as the last leaf of fall drifted down and caressed his forehead, and closed his eyes so the coroner wouldn’t have to.
After the game there were still a few hours before his son and daughter would return home from their city lives in Chicago. He was proud of them in the way that fathers often are, but he felt the slight pangs of disappointment on this chilly day, he felt empty as his Gortex jacket scraped past the lone branch in the yard. He hadn't seen this branch, as he worked his way across the property towards the slight hill where he could see their cars come in, and he took out his flask and tugged on the rusty container, coughing a little bit as the sour mash slithered down his throat and hit the top of his stomach in a way he hadn’t anticipated.
His daughter Cindy had married the wrong man. He knew it at the wedding seeing the big smile on the car-salesmen suit Gary wore. He didn’t like the way he shook hands or wore his tie, and his business was dubious. He told lies for a living, selling enough real estate to have a penthouse in uptown Chicago. So he was a provider sure, but a true man would never have let his daughter marry such a shyster.
He looked out towards the old highway, which lay empty, not snaked with incoming travelers from the city. He was waiting for the headlights of his son’s Blazer. He was proud of Tim. Here was a man who not only put his god given talents to work for him, but also managed to be a successful sports reporter at the Chicago Sun Times. He always encouraged his son to write in the boys room on the south side of the house. Pendants from the Twins late 1970’s Season hung on the wall, drooping slightly from the rusty nail, and he realized how long ago it was that they propped the boy up, still in diapers in the crib, as they stared at him in awe, stepping back to here his giggle as his first Minnesota Twins cap was placed on his still-bald head.
It had started there, the dream that one day he could put his love of sports into a thinking-man’s profession, to do what Roquefort always dreamed of – Getting cozy at the bar in Chicago with the other newspaper men, curtly discussing the Cubs victory-- this was what he wanted, the life of the real men, men Roquefort’s father never could be with his drinking and wasted rustic life.
He looked down at his leg, the appendage he dragged around ever since he returned for the war, then looked down further this time, below the hill, and felt his plastic kneecap give as he tripped on the stone, watched expectantly as the whiskey flew out in front of him, his knee giving out, as he yelled out to a sky that insulated the scream, not allowing it to be heard as the high beams of his son’s blazer snaked its way through the main artery, rounded the last bough of land, not able to see his father lying there, reaching for his flask, seeing the lights in his peripheries as he stared up at the lone branch in his field of vision, as the last leaf of fall drifted down and caressed his forehead, and closed his eyes so the coroner wouldn’t have to.
posted by Kronski | 9:53 AM
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