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Authors: Yves Beauchemin
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such anxiety that everything around him seemed suddenly to have started shaking. For a full second he thought of running, but it would have meant dropping Hachiko, and he didn’t even have the strength to do that.
“So, what’s new? You gonna speak to me or what?”
“Hello, Papa,” he finally managed to get out.
“Papa?”
The carpenter laughed. “You’re still calling me that? I thought you had a different papa these days.”
Charles went on staring at his father. Despite his fear, he couldn’t help noticing that a profound change had come over the man. Stooped shoulders, wizened body; he seemed to be going through a rough patch, at least in terms of his physical health. Even his clothing gave him away: the frayed collar of his shirt, his jeans worn so thin Charles could see the skin of one knee through the cloth. And his breath, warm and heavy, smelled of alcohol and rotten teeth.
“It’s your birthday today, ain’t it? What are you, fourteen?”
“Yes … Papa.”
“Well. Happy birthday!”
He offered Charles his hand, then brought it up to rub his chin, as though uncertain of what to say next. His eye fell on the box Charles was carrying.
“What you got in there?” he asked brusquely.
“A present.”
“You gonna show it to me?”
Charles lifted it out of its wrapping paper.
“Statue of a dog! Jeez, you still got dogs on the brain, eh?” Then, without a transition, he continued, “I been waiting here half the night. I wanted to see you, since it’s your birthday. I’m not as heartless as everyone seems to think I am,” he sniggered. “I knocked on the door at nine, but no one answered. So then I says to myself I’ll get a pizza at the corner restaurant – Roberto’s sold out, eh? – and who do I see go by the front window but Fernand and his wife and two kids, a real procession, like the Three Wise Men, eh, bearing their gifts. Were they all for you? I saw them go up to their house and I thought you’d be comin’ along pretty soon. But you took your goddamn sweet time about it …”
“What did you want to say to me?” Charles asked, trying to keep the meanness from his voice. And almost succeeding.
“Hey, you little shit, don’t talk to me in that tone of voice. I’m not your father any more, but … well, I am, in a way, you know, like it or not. That’s how nature works … at least that’s how I see it …”
He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, and Charles watched all the air seep out of him. Now would be a good time to run, he thought, but he stayed where he was, anchored in place by a vague feeling of pity.
“Anyway, all I wanted was to say happy birthday, kid,” the carpenter went on, as though suddenly remembering his son’s question. “No harm in that, is there?”
He started laughing through his teeth, all the time eyeing the boy in an agitated way. Charles couldn’t decipher the look, but he didn’t like it. It was the look of a drunk, or of someone on drugs. As he knew from experience, anything could come of it, at any moment.
“Course, you’re a man now, ain’t you, a good looker, too. You gettin’ it on with the girls yet? Okay, I went too far. Sorry, none of my beeswax. No, stay here,” he snapped when Charles seemed to be on the point of turning away. He put a heavy hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I … I got somethin’ for you. Nothing much …” With his other hand he reached into one of his pockets and, with much effort, took out a cracked leather wallet that had come partly unstitched. “Here,” he said, flipping the wallet open and handing Charles a worn five-dollar bill. “Take it. I’d give you more but that’s all I got left. Don’t spend it all in one place, as me old mom used to say. So, goodbye and good luck.”
He gave Charles a wink that twisted his face into a grimace and took off down the street, looking down at his feet, dragging his heels and swinging his arms heavily.
“Thanks, Papa,”
“So, what’s new? You gonna speak to me or what?”
“Hello, Papa,” he finally managed to get out.
“Papa?”
The carpenter laughed. “You’re still calling me that? I thought you had a different papa these days.”
Charles went on staring at his father. Despite his fear, he couldn’t help noticing that a profound change had come over the man. Stooped shoulders, wizened body; he seemed to be going through a rough patch, at least in terms of his physical health. Even his clothing gave him away: the frayed collar of his shirt, his jeans worn so thin Charles could see the skin of one knee through the cloth. And his breath, warm and heavy, smelled of alcohol and rotten teeth.
“It’s your birthday today, ain’t it? What are you, fourteen?”
“Yes … Papa.”
“Well. Happy birthday!”
He offered Charles his hand, then brought it up to rub his chin, as though uncertain of what to say next. His eye fell on the box Charles was carrying.
“What you got in there?” he asked brusquely.
“A present.”
“You gonna show it to me?”
Charles lifted it out of its wrapping paper.
“Statue of a dog! Jeez, you still got dogs on the brain, eh?” Then, without a transition, he continued, “I been waiting here half the night. I wanted to see you, since it’s your birthday. I’m not as heartless as everyone seems to think I am,” he sniggered. “I knocked on the door at nine, but no one answered. So then I says to myself I’ll get a pizza at the corner restaurant – Roberto’s sold out, eh? – and who do I see go by the front window but Fernand and his wife and two kids, a real procession, like the Three Wise Men, eh, bearing their gifts. Were they all for you? I saw them go up to their house and I thought you’d be comin’ along pretty soon. But you took your goddamn sweet time about it …”
“What did you want to say to me?” Charles asked, trying to keep the meanness from his voice. And almost succeeding.
“Hey, you little shit, don’t talk to me in that tone of voice. I’m not your father any more, but … well, I am, in a way, you know, like it or not. That’s how nature works … at least that’s how I see it …”
He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, and Charles watched all the air seep out of him. Now would be a good time to run, he thought, but he stayed where he was, anchored in place by a vague feeling of pity.
“Anyway, all I wanted was to say happy birthday, kid,” the carpenter went on, as though suddenly remembering his son’s question. “No harm in that, is there?”
He started laughing through his teeth, all the time eyeing the boy in an agitated way. Charles couldn’t decipher the look, but he didn’t like it. It was the look of a drunk, or of someone on drugs. As he knew from experience, anything could come of it, at any moment.
“Course, you’re a man now, ain’t you, a good looker, too. You gettin’ it on with the girls yet? Okay, I went too far. Sorry, none of my beeswax. No, stay here,” he snapped when Charles seemed to be on the point of turning away. He put a heavy hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I … I got somethin’ for you. Nothing much …” With his other hand he reached into one of his pockets and, with much effort, took out a cracked leather wallet that had come partly unstitched. “Here,” he said, flipping the wallet open and handing Charles a worn five-dollar bill. “Take it. I’d give you more but that’s all I got left. Don’t spend it all in one place, as me old mom used to say. So, goodbye and good luck.”
He gave Charles a wink that twisted his face into a grimace and took off down the street, looking down at his feet, dragging his heels and swinging his arms heavily.
“Thanks, Papa,”
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