Anyway, we stood there for a few minutes, father and son. Ithought maybe he even had a few of my own features, you know. A long nose,black hair. He was too young for the beard.
And then we went outside for the first time. And for the lasttime.
* * *
That was yesterday, and I have to tell you with no exaggeration,it was the best afternoon of my life. We strolled down Main Street with not acare in the world, like father and son. He held my hand. We smiled a lot.
He had this joke he like to tell. He’d look up at me and say,‘Hey, Sam, what’s brown and sticky?”
I’d say, “I don’t know, Denny, what’s brown and sticky?”
He’d hold up a twig and say, “A stick!” Man, he loved that joke.
We stopped at a pizza joint and he pretended to eat just to humorme, and also because I suppose it would be weird for us to be there and forDenny to just sit there. He said that he could eat, if he wanted, just that hewas never hungry.
Honestly, most of the time that I’ve spent here I’ve kept tomyself, so I didn’t exactly have any friends and certainly no family. We did,coincidentally, run into Laura, one of the clerks down at the hardware storewhere I used to go to pick up seed or tools.
“Hey, Sam,” she said. “Haven’t seen you around much lately!”
“Been busy, Laura,” I said. “Denny, say hi to Laura.”
She looked down surprised, like she hadn’t seen him. “Oh, mygoodness, aren’t you adorable!”
“Afternoon ma’am,” Denny said.
“And so polite! Who is this, Sam?”
And with pride, I proclaimed, “Denny is my son!”
* * *
We stopped at a local park, one of those pocket deals with a slideand swing. Denny loved that.
“I haven’t been to a park in a long time, Sam,” he said.
Poor kid, more like a hundred years. At one point, on the way downa slide, Denny’s hood slipped off and a big blotch of red sparkled for a secondin the midday sun, but I managed to get his hood back up before anyone couldsee.
Later in the afternoon, we had made our way clear to the otherside of town, near the arena, when Denny became quiet.
“What’s wrong, buddy?” I asked.
“Sam,” he said, his eyes begin to tear up. “I’d like to show youwhere I live.”
I didn’t know what he meant. “You live with me, Denny.”
“No, I mean where I live permanently, over there, in the Valley.”
The air suddenly crackled with the familiar electric air as Irealized what he was talking about.
“Denny, do you mean Valley Cemetery? Is that where you wereburied?”
He nodded.
“I – why go there?”
The kid shrugged and I could see him begin to shimmer, like he wasgoing to fade away.
“OK, OK, Denny,” I said. “no problem, just stay with me. We’ll go. Canyou show me?”
My son once again took me by my hand, and together we walkedthrough the gates of the city’s oldest cemetery, one of those garden-variety places, all woods and green paths. I’d never been therebefore but Denny knew exactly where we were going.
We reached my son’s grave just as dust had begun to settle on thecity, casting long shadows against the gravestones. And there he was.
Denny’s tombstone was tiny, bright white, only about a foot high.He pulled down his hood and stepped up to the rock, ran his fingers against thestone.
There were no other stones around his. It read: Dennis Smith,sweet boy, 1830-1835
I blinked. “Wait ... I thought you died in 1900.”
“I did,” he said, his back still to me. “And dozens of timesbefore and dozens of times after. So many times.”
He sighed and pulled off his cap. He was still the little boy Iknew, but suddenly I saw a depth of age and soul in his eyes that I can’tbelieve I missed before.
“And now again today, Sam. Doomed to repeat the cycle.”
I wasn’t sure what he meant, but I damn well knew it was bad. ButI had nothing, no leverage. No friends. No job. “Wait, Denny, I don’tunderstand. You’re my son.”
“My friend, Sam,” Denny said, “of all the dads I’ve had, of allthe friends, you were pure. You really love me, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I whispered. I fell to my knees.
Denny reached out and brushed my cheek with his fingers. They werewarm. “I have to go, Sam, I’m sorry you were caught up in this, I do wish youthe best.” He smiled and was gone.
***
Well, I suppose you know the rest. I ran home, literally ran, myheart pounding. But when I got to the front stoop of our home, there you were,with him. I’m sorry I caused such a ruckus, I know you and the other policewere only doing your jobs. And I imagine finding a little boy on the frontporch of my home with his head bashed in was jarring.
It doesn’t surprise me that you found one of my shovels in theback shed covered in blood. And I think everybody in this room knows that theblood will match that little boy down in the morgue.
And you can unlock these cuffs, I mean where do I have to go? Ilost a son today and he wasn’t even my son. He wasn’t even real. He was Denny.And he was my ghost.
One Way Dead End by Ogmios
East Boston Relief Station
Paul R. McNamee
Ifsomeone stabbed Henry Alvarez in the upper groin with an ice pick, the painmight have matched what he was feeling. He groaned and hissed air through histeeth. Dealing with the discomfort was always difficult, trying to handle thepain while driving a car was worse. Navigating the rainy evening streets ofBoston made the drive a complete cluster-fuck.
“Calculatingroute.” The female voice stated from the GPS unit.
“Youdamn well better!” Henry had missed his turn. Not hard to do, even with a GPS.His business partners had joked about the grid of streets in Boston.
