by JC Braswell
“Talked to her this morning.” Jackson sighed, once again looking down at the concrete. “She said she was going to bring him. Not sure why she wouldn’t. Might be running late, or maybe something came up”
“Something just came up. Heard that before.” Williams drummed his fingers along the steering wheel. ‘Something came up’ usually meant he wouldn’t see his younger son for another weekend or two. “Suppose I can’t blame her. Maybe you were right. Maybe I should’ve gotten you guys a cat earlier with all the demons I brought in the house with all the drinking and break—”
“Dad, stop it. You gotta stop doing that to yourself. We understand. We all understand.”
“Wish…wish I could believe that.”
“You gave us a good life. Better than most kids I know. At least you were there.”
“Yeah, with a bottle, one leg, and a shaking hand that couldn’t catch a baseball at times. You guys deserved better. Your mother deserved better.”
“It’ll get better one day. I promise. We’ll talk about it when we catch dinner, okay?” Jackson zipped up his windbreaker and scouted his route. “Now, want anything else? A bagel?”
“No, I’m ok. You get along now so we can make it back for the game.”
“Got it, pops. Don’t forget about me like that one time.”
“Promise.” Jackson bounded off to the shops. Hopefully, he’d go to Java Mountain. They always had the best Jamaican coffee.
Williams rested back in his chair, his mind still ringing with the decades-old gunfire. His attention wandered over to murmurs to his right where a young boy with the dusty blonde hair curling out from underneath his Baltimore Orioles baseball cap trailed his father. As the two marched along the pier, his father likely repeating the same safety instructions, Williams spotted a junior fishing pole secured on the boy’s shoulders.
He couldn’t help but smile. He wished he could show his son how to fish.
“One day,” he said. “One day.”
Williams twisted the captain’s chair to pilot position and grabbed the ignition. His fingers brushed the dog tags dangling from the boat’s keychain, each piece bearing the name of one of his brothers.
Another swath of fur brushed against his calf, drawing his attention down to his feline companion.
“Little con hổ.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
A fan of CS Lewis, John Locke, Adam Smith, and Hemingway, JC Braswell blends literary genres in an attempt to tell stories of humanity and redemption. He lives with his wife and daughter along the Chesapeake Bay in Maryland. You can learn more about his writing at www.jcbraswell.com
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