The Trouble with Bliss

by Douglas Light

Morris sleeps nude that night. Sore and beaten and bruised, he removes his shoes, strips his clothing, and curls up in bed.

  He no longer feels a need to be ready. He has nothing to be ready for.

  Since his mother’s death, he’s been preparing, waiting for something.

  None of it matters. His planning didn’t matter. The last days have shown him that.

  He wakes to the gray light of the coming dawn, feeling like he’s been rolled through a thresher. The cut on his face has closed. So has his left eye. It’s swollen shut.

  Five-thirty a.m., Tuesday. He hears his father rattle about the kitchen, making his pot of coffee, three scoops of grinds per cup. The smell sifts through the apartment like a gas leak, faint at first, then overwhelming.

  Rising from bed, Morris puts on some pants, and heads to the kitchen.

  Seymour looks at his son but says nothing about the eye.

  “Morning, Daddy,” Morris say.

  “Today’s my birthday,” Seymour says. “Turn fifty-eight.”

  “That’s right,” he says, having completely forgotten. “Happy birthday.” He’d wanted to get a gift, had gone to Norman’s Sound and Vision on Friday for an album of Greek folk music, but he’d been sidetracked.

  Stefani.

  Seymour sips his coffee. “You were asking about your mother the other day,” Seymour says, then is silent.

  Morris looks to his father. Seymour keeps his focus cast down, won’t meet Morris. “Yeah,” Morris says. “I was.”

  Seymour nods, and exits the kitchen. He returns with a worn bundle of manila envelopes tied with twine. “I was your age now when she died,” he says. He hands him the bundle. “Don’t think you’ve ever seen this stuff.”

  Morris takes it.

  “Mostly pictures and letters and things,” Seymour says, kneading his hands together like he’s washing them. “Things of your mother’s I kept,” he says, sounding tired. “Thought you might like ’em.”

  “Thanks,” Morris says, sincerely appreciative. It’s a rare gesture on his father’s part. Morris unties the twine, pulls out a photo of his mother, one similar to the photo on his dresser. He studies it a moment. “Who took this picture?” he asks.

  Seymour looks at the photo, looks at his son. His eyes are bright, gleaming, like they’ve been freshly shellacked. “I’m sorry you didn’t have any other family,” he says. “No grandparents or nothing.”

  The statement catches Morris off guard. “What do you mean?”

  Seymour clears his throat, wipes his mouth. “You remember on your sixth birthday, your mom asked you what you wanted to be when you grew up?”

  Morris shakes his head. “I remember having chocolate cake.”

  “You had chocolate cake every birthday.”

  “That’s probably why I hate it now,” Morris says. “What did I say?” he asks. “What did I want to be when I grew up?”

  Seymour looks to his son, looks to his one good eye. “A stranger,” he says.

  A silence laps the room.

  “I said that?”

  Seymour nods, then says, “Your Aunt Christina, your mom’s sister, took that picture.”

  “Oh,” Morris says. He knew his mother had a sister, knew he had an aunt, but he was aware of her like one is aware of air; it’s there, but not often acknowledged.

  Seymour puts on a jacket, readying for work. “You’ve been living here now how long?” he asks Morris.

  “All my life,” Morris says, studying the photo. “Thirty-five years.” How he saw traces of Stefani, he can’t imagine. What he sees are traces of himself.

  “Know what I want for my birthday?” Seymour asks, opening the front door to leave.

  He looks up from the photo, looks to his father. “What?” His father never asked for gifts. “What do you want?”

  Seymour stands at the threshold, at the cusp of their home. “I want you to find your own place,” he tells his son. “I want you out of the house and on your own.”

  Chapter 38