Scott Cheshire - High as the Horses' Bridles

He stood, took the knife in his hand, and cut.

“What’s in the box?”

He smiled like, Wouldn’t you like to know, and handed me a buttered slice.

“You’re not eating?” I said.

“Hours before my time.” Knife still in hand, he walked to the box, bare feet hardly lifting from the floor.

“The old man keeps me in suspense. So when do you eat, exactly?”

“Ha!” He cut the tape and pulled back the flap. Styrofoam popcorn popped from the box. “I’m running low,” he said, and pulled from inside a ridiculously large pack of Post-it Notes. More popcorn packing fell across the table like champagne from a glass. “There’s more,” he said eagerly. He pulled out a pack of two toothbrushes. “I’m glad you’re here, Junior.” A three-pack of toothpaste, and a carton of dry cat food.

“Me, too.”

“Good.”

The coffee was burning its way into my belly, a slight spike in my bloodstream. I went all different directions inside. The coffeepot was empty.

“I need more.”

He pointed to a green Thermos by the sink.

“Good thing I don’t take milk.”

“Milk’s for babies.”

I pulled at the loaf of bread. Balled up a piece and put it in my mouth.

“Eat all you want,” he said.

He pulled two large loaves of bread from the box. He placed them on the counter, felt around inside the box, and pushed it aside. He pulled a chair from under the table, and there a second box lay, long and flat. He cut the clear tape seam and took from the box something wrapped in bubble wrap. Foam kernels on its surface; he wiped them away to the floor. He placed the object on the table and began to undo the bubbling, cutting it away with his knife. He took from the bubble wrap a thing, I don’t know what, and held it up for me to see.

“See?”

It looked like a shield. “Is it a shield?”

“It is.” He walked to the other end of the kitchen, by the back door, and held it to the wall. A small, decorative shield, an ornamental thing, not very elaborate. It couldn’t haven been very heavy. The day before, he’d struggled with the fridge.

“What’s it for?”

He ignored me and began feeling along the wall, all around the wooden cross, the plate painted with a Star of David. “Looking for a nail,” he said.

I put down the mug and started over, but he stopped me with his palm. “Drink your coffee. Leave me be. I’m fine.” He found one, pulled at the nail, and hung the shield from it. “Not the right kind, but she’ll do.”

I sipped my coffee. “The royal family crest?”

He wiped the surface clean.

He turned around and came closer, he was slow, but then he was standing right in front of me. Staring into my eyes. His face was so old. Too old-looking for his age.

“Do you believe in anything at all anymore?”

I rubbed my eyes, my temples.

He said, “Part of what makes people stop is because they think He’s invisible. Think we don’t know what He looks like. He’s not invisible.”

“It’s a bit early for me.…”

“Right there in black and white, and the world looks everywhere but smack in front of their faces!” He placed his hand on the left side of his chest. “It’s in our hearts! Telescopes looking over Mars and the moon. Microscopes looking in our blood…” He walked back to the table, across from me, and smiled like a man with a secret.

I said, “You know the heart is actually dead center in the middle of the chest.” I pressed my finger there. “And not to the left.”

“I know damn well where the heart is.”

A shower or a cold bath would be perfect.

“Because this is where it feels.” He prompted me to touch my own chest. “See?” He came closer again. “It feels like your heart’s right here.” He put his hand on my chest.

“Okay.”

“Now hold on to your coffee mug, because what I’m gonna say next.”

I couldn’t help but love him talking like this. This was Dad, this I recognized. Maybe he was feeling better?

“The Psalmist sayeth, Junior, and I say it thus. Psalm 84:11.” He turned and looked to the wall. “‘For your Lord God is a shield.’” He looked back at me. “In black and white.”

There wasn’t much sun coming through the windows, but enough, and it made my eyes pulse. I stepped back into the dark hall. “I’m listening. God is a shield. But I think actually the scripture says he’s a sun and a shield.”

He shuffled into the dining room, looking like he might fall over at any moment. “The Hebrews used leather,” he said, “and animal fat for shields. Painted red with blood.” He paused. “Who wants something like that in the kitchen?” He threw up his hands, like, What are you gonna do.

I coughed into my hand. The tip of my thumb itched. There was a small puncture, and it was sore. I shook my head.

He looked at the only bare wall in the dining room; no pictures, no shelves. It seemed naked. “Some were bronze, a circle. But this is no circle. You saw.” He sat down.

I needed more butter. “How are you feeling? You sleep okay?”

“I’m fine,” he said.

“I was thinking last night.”

“Good, sit.” He tapped the chair beside him. “Look at you. I almost forgot what you look like. How’s business? How many stores?”

I sat. “The stores are fine. Listen. I think we should see a doctor. Just to talk.”

It wasn’t quite a look of condescension, but his face definitely said, You don’t know what you’re talking about.

He said, “I saw your mother last night. And let’s just say she disagrees.”

“Ah! You dreamt of her, you mean.”

“Of course.” He looked at me sideways. “Sometimes I find her in the day.” He stood. “I try to keep moving, keep the blood flowing.…” He padded into the dining room, and I wondered from where he got his loincloth, what websites he happened onto looking for a “modern loincloth.”

“Dad.”

“Yup.”

“I need you to tell me.” I followed him to the couch.

“What?”

“Tell me you’re eating. I need you to tell me you’re eating.”

“Not hungry. Empty, fit as a fiddle.”

“I mean are you eating at all.”

He sat, pulled the lamp chain. “It’s complicated.”

“Talk.”

He showed me his hand. “Stay there. I’m fine, and you’re there.”

“Talk.”

He peered over the computer screen. “I promise I’m happy you’re here.”

“And I’m happy you’re happy.”

“We’re okay, you and I.”

“We are.”

He hid behind the screen. “I take bread and wine on Sundays.”

He showed me his hand again. “There are rules. And fasting is one of the rules.”

Things were clearly not better. He was not better. And I saw how silly I’d been thinking that we’d wake up and everything would be fine. A soft lip of light lined the edge of the curtains. He said, “Sometimes I find your mother in the day. I go to sleep and I find her.”

Ten o’clock in the morning, I was going through my things. Clearing some personal space for me around the sofa, trying not to get overly worried. What exactly should I do next about Dad? I decided on a shower. I would think in there. Plus Dad was in the bathroom again, the red light flaring from under the door. He said he’d been up since five.

I went to the second floor, and took each step up slowly.

Upstairs, the dark hallway was free of clutter and the four doors were closed and the long thick carpet runner lay on the slatted floor like a dead paisley tongue. No windows. The hall was dark and damp, and it smelled of soft wet wood, of mold, but there was also a welcome comfort in the stink.

The first door on the left led to the upstairs bathroom.