Calluses     

 

The moonlight came in through my curtain-less windows and spilled onto my bed. I hated curtains. It scared me to hide the outside from sight, to cover the potential dangers lurking outside my walls. Something had woken me but I didn’t know what. Then I heard it, a low moan from the living room. I slipped out of my bed, gingerly stepped over my toys and crept into the living room.

My Father sat alone in the gloom of the room. The furniture had taken on monstrous shapes in the murkiness of the moonlight. I tried to see my Father clearly, but the shadows obscured his features, washing them out in a hazy half-light. He was all cheekbones and hollows. I could see that he was trembling. Quiet quivers erupted over his body. He was holding himself tightly around his middle. I wanted to reach out to him, to comfort him, but I was an unwanted voyeur. He coughed and sputtered a few tears as I sat silent in the darkness.

           I didn’t know exactly why he was crying. I knew in an abstract way that it had something to do with his job, but for all of my ten years on the planet, I couldn’t really understand the stress he endured as a paramedic. Father told terrible stories of blood and gore, so I understood that it was, as he always said, “a messy business”. Father was a strong man. Mother called him “callous”. He laughed at my mistakes and joked about the misfortunes of others. He was not sentimental or emotional ever. Yet, here he was sobbing alone.

          My shuffling must have made some noise, because he turned and saw me.

          “What the hell are you doing?” His voice boomed, no trace of his weeping in the sounds. I stood and walked toward him. I reached out to touch him, but he shrugged my hand off. His hand was heavy on my arm. I could feel the calluses like polished wood: warm, smooth and firm.

          “Uh, I heard something and came downstairs to see what it was.” My own voice sounded weak and quiet.

          “Well God damn it, boy. It’s way past your bed-time. Go back to sleep.” He turned away from me again, his hand wiping away the tears. “Get going Josh. Morning will be here soon.”

          “Why were you crying?” The question came out before I had a chance to stifle it.

          “Never mind that. It’s not important.” His voice was quieter. “I had a rough day at work today, that’s all. Don’t tell your Mother please. I don’t want to upset her.”

          This moment was our secret. I had seen him vulnerable and emotional. I nodded and went back to my room. I lay there in my bed awake until the sound of the Starling’s morning song came in through my window.

 

          I learned what had happened at dinner the next night over spaghetti and green beans. The whole family was at the table, which only happened on the nights Father was home. It probably was a Monday; we were using the green checkered tablecloths. My brother had to go back to the bathroom to wash up twice. No longer was Father full of emotion; instead he was back to his usual self; bitter and cynical.

          “Had another kid die yesterday” he said with a mouthful of noodles. “He was hanging out the window of a car on Barbur when a semi hit him. Squished the poor kid into hamburger” he took another bite. “It took us nearly an hour to find his fingers.”

          “Oh, that’s terrible” mother said, staring first at my brother and I, and then at the fork full of noodles she was holding.

          “Yeah, the stupid bitch let her kid hang out the window. Now he’s a smear on the asphalt” he took another bite. “They should require a license for parenting.”

          “How old was he?” My brother asked.

          “Ten. The boy was ten. He should have known better than to stick his arm out of the window.”

          “I’d never do that.” My brother said.

          “Must have been hard.” I said, looking down at my plate.

          “Ah, it’s alright I guess, evolution kills the stupid and the weak.”