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I wasn't surprised to see Dad get out a beer and make himself a thick roast beef sandwich; at 350 lb. that was just his way of coping. He asked me if I was hungry, which I wasn't, but I took the beer he slid across the table. Neither one of us was crying or even especially sad; I think we were both just relieved that it was over, both speechless. I drank another beer, watching Dad finish off a huge bowl of vanilla ice cream drenched in chocolate syrup. He let out an enormous belch, went to the living room, lit up a cigar and started watching a football game. Normally I'd leave him alone at that point, but this time I really needed his company, so I sat down next to him. He put his arm across my shoulders, something he'd done occasionally and briefly before, but this time he didn't take it away, and after a few minutes he drew me close beside him. I hadn't felt Dad's body since I was little, and the heat and bulk of it was soothing. He kissed me on the top of my head. When I looked up. He is sitting in front of the television when she enters the living room. His shirt is unbuttoned, the tie loosened. He looks rumpled and boyish and tired. She feels a fist clench around her heart, feels love squeezing her until it seems she will burst, like an overripe lemon. She stifles the urge to ruffle his hair. He does not like that. He does not like being touched, unless he asks for it. The television is turned on. Loud. Somewhere in the house, distant bangs can still be heard. He doesn’t look away from the screen. ‘Where’s the boy?’ The boy. His son. Their son. She doesn’t look at him. ‘In his room.’ He nods, goes back to watching the show. She presses her lips together. She must not say anything, she knows. She must not anger him. He is tired. She goes, instead, into the kitchen. He follows her after a moment, eying with distaste the cigarette she holds between two fingers. The red light glows, flickers as she stubs it out. ‘You’re always sucking on one of those things.’ She.
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