Tears began to well up in the caretaker’s eyes, and Lance felt the urge to comfort him. He reached across the table and touched the thin skin of John’s hand. The old man didn’t acknowledge the contact.
“I thought your wife was a teacher? Didn’t she have a steady job?” Lance asked after a few moments. John pulled his hand away from Lance’s and drained the rest of his whiskey. He sat staring at the table’s surface for a long time before speaking again.
“I didn’t tell you before, but I had a son by that time too. His name was Henry. He was born late in our lives; the doctors told us early in our marriage that May couldn’t carry a child. We had quit hoping about the time she got pregnant. I was nearly forty-two by then, and May was forty. Henry was born with a disability; they never gave us a name for it. He didn’t learn to walk until he was three, and he was slow. He didn’t speak much, and when he did it was jumbled, indiscernible. May quit teaching when we realized that he would need someone home with him all the time, and money was tight, but we made due. We loved him with every ounce of our hearts.” The last word came out a hoarse whisper, and more tears flooded John’s eyes. He swallowed and poured another healthy draft of whiskey into the glass before him. He drank, then set the cup down with a clack that echoed in the quiet house. Lance watched him, a feeling of apprehension building in his stomach.
“He was twelve when he died. I had come home from working fourteen hours outside, and I was beat. My body ached and I could barely keep my head up. Henry met me in the driveway. Even though he was twelve, he still liked to be carried. I remember picking him up, and him cuddling against me. ‘Da,’ he used to call me—couldn’t say dad. I can still feel his cheek pressed against my neck. His body was warmer than the sun.
“May needed a few things in town. I told her I’d be fine, and would just take it easy inside while she was gone, let Henry watch some TV.” John paused to finish his drink and dropped his head until Lance could only see the crown of his gray hair.
“I was so sore that day. I got out the aspirin—it was sugarcoated. I thought I put it away in the cabinet, but I must’ve left it on the counter. I sat down in the chair in the living room and turned on the TV for Henry. Found an old cartoon for him to watch. I remember him sitting on the floor near my feet, rocking back and forth to the song the characters were singing. The next thing I heard was May screaming.”
Lance swallowed, his stomach churning the whiskey like water off a paddle wheel. John breathed shallowly, not looking at him. Lance waited. The bottles of booze hid away in John’s bedroom finally making sense.
“She found him in the kitchen, the empty bottle of aspirin nearby. He loved candy. Loved it, and he didn’t know any better.” John raised his head, and Lance saw the rough rivulets of tears finding their way through the wrinkled skin of the man’s face like water running through the desert. “The doctor said he just fell asleep, said he didn’t feel any pain, but I sometimes wonder at night when I can’t sleep or haven’t drank enough if that’s true. I wonder if he was scared as everything faded around him. I wonder if he called for me.”
Lance felt his own tears sliding freely down his cheeks, tickling like the beats of invisible moth wings. John opened his mouth and then closed it, and Lance wondered if he would be sick again, on the table this time instead of the floor.
John’s voice finally found its way out of his chest and into the air. “I wonder if he’ll forgive me when I see him again.” His face folded, grief twisting it. The house’s silence pressed upon them, as if it were holding its breath. Waiting for something.