Scott Cheshire - High as the Horses' Bridles

I wrapped my waist with the towel and walked back downstairs with the photo album under my arm. Litter grit stuck to my wet feet on every last step, and I saw my duffel bag was now with the garbage bags by the front door. I couldn’t remember if I’d drunkenly left it there, or maybe Dad thought it wasn’t worth keeping. I put the album on a step, opened my bag, and took out some undershorts. Towel around my waist, I tried pulling on the shorts but a large fly was buzzing around my face like a live wire. My foot got caught in the crotch of the shorts. I lost my balance, reached for the banister—

“What are you doing?”

My towel fell to the floor.

He was standing there, now wearing sandals and wide Bermuda shorts, which made his legs look storklike.

I pulled on my shorts. “Lost my balance.”

He went back for the kitchen, shaking his head.

I was suddenly very annoyed, and everything I’d been thinking boiled over and out of me.

“Why are there dirty plates beside the door? And why is there a sponge”—I saw a sponge—“a disgusting sponge, is it milk? It looks like milk. Why is there a wet, milky sponge on the floor?” I put on pants as quickly as possible, socks and a T-shirt; where were my shoes? I cursed the fact that I hadn’t brought sandals. Even he had sandals. I rubbed at my wet head and hair as I entered the kitchen, blinded by my hands, knocking against a wall. “You have nothing to say about this? The trash in this house? I mean, we haven’t even talked about the trash in this house.” I kept rubbing at my head. “It smells like a garbage strike in here.” The headache was back, my bones were sore, and all the worry I’d been feeling was mixing with my frustration at his refusal or maybe his inability to see the desperate state he was in. I was overflowing with anger and confusion and a terrible sense of helplessness, more than anything else, when I think about it, which masked itself as more anger and confusion.

I looked up — nobody there.

I pulled the window shade and it snapped up like a waking eyelid. The sunlight surprised me. I raised my arms against it and pulled the shade back down.

“There’s a dead mouse on your windowsill. Just so you know.”

I flipped the light switch. The bulb buzzed, it flickered. I crossed the kitchen and looked at the shield hanging on the wall. Nothing special, far as I could see.

I said, “And you have good water pressure!”

“I installed that shower!”

“So you can hear me.” I walked to the dining room, draped my towel on the back of a chair. “Do you have any aspirin? I’m starving. And it’s pretty ridiculous that we’re sitting around like there’s nothing wrong. I’m supposed to be doing something! You know I am.”

He was sitting at the computer. Lights out, drapes pulled shut, a bluish glow was painting him the colors of aquarium water. The light in the room lessened from dim and dimmer to dark, from kitchen, to dining room, then to living room. He was typing, one finger at a time.

“Dad.”

My bedsheet was balled up under the sofa. I dove to my knees and snatched it, snapped it, shaking it wide and white. Crumbs dropped like sand on the coffee table. I folded it, neatly, and set it on the back of the sofa. A cat tried to sit and make it its bed, but I smacked at its fat crispy bottom.

“Dad. Please.”

“What?”

“The house — look at me. This place is making you sick. I’m not kidding.”

“Don’t be mean to the cats. How was your shower?”

“Why?” I was going through my pockets; where were my cigarettes?

“They’re on the dining table. You can smoke inside, you know.”

“Oh, can I?” I came back lighting a cigarette, and from the side of my mouth, I said, “Because I don’t want to make a mess and dirty up your beautiful home.”

He looked up. “I don’t remember you being this funny.” He clapped his hands together. “I found it!”

I sat beside him in the marine light, the screen framed by yellow-going-green sticky notes.

“Read it,” he said.

“What?”

“They have it.” He pointed at what looked like an auction website. “Read it.”

I read out loud, “ The Apocryphal Scripture .” The word “apocryphal” was vaguely familiar.

“ Of the Old Testament. By R. Charles.” He beamed bluish in the light. “First edition, 1913.”

“You’re buying this.”

“I’m trying. It’s inscribed!”

This struck me as strange, from a man who refused to own an answering machine. But it also made sense that he’d be attracted to the book.

“I haven’t done this yet,” he said. “How do you do it? I order mostly groceries so far.”

I tapped the ash on the rug, and I didn’t give one shit about doing it. He looked at the white ash on the dark floor, and then at me. He gave me a cheeky smile, like he very much approved.

He said, “I haven’t done this yet on the computer. You make an offer, I think.”

“You’ve been looking for this book.”

“Junior, the computer is a miracle. Look inside and find what you need. And don’t worry, I know what else is in there, too.”

“You’ve read this book?”

“I showed you.” He pointed back to the dining room. “The big one on the table.”

“You have it already.” I was confused.

“But this is from 1913, the real deal first one. Inscribed! By Charles’s own hand! Mine’s brand-new; I ordered from a college bookstore.”

“Since when does my father collect books? Or anything. Wine bottles, toothbrushes.”

“This is scripture! God’s Word, older than most of the Bible, bet you never knew.” He looked at me. “If I could crawl inside and find this book and bring it back, I would.”

Sarah had talked to me about this, and I had no idea at the time what she was talking about. I don’t think she did, either. She was reporting whole sentences he’d said, telling me that he told her during one of his recent phone calls that he was no longer interested in “endings,” only in “the first things,” “beginnings.” What first things? He said he was reading about Gnosticism, and Judaism, and he was intrigued, because what’s a first thing if not Judaism, right? He wanted to know if she would help him facilitate some kind of understanding if not a full conversion to Judaism because he was sure she knew someone on the inside.

I stood up, and said: “No more. Enough! This house isn’t good for you. It’s bad for me, and I’m only here two days. We’re going on a trip, a quick trip. And I’m gonna call up a doctor. I can’t take this sitting around anymore.” I was moving in small circles, not going anywhere. “What if you have symptoms and you don’t even know? What if you’re sick, if you have something? God forbid, but look at you! This is ridiculous. And I’m supposed to be taking care of you.”

“I’m going the way of all flesh.” He fell back down to the sofa.

I said, “This isn’t normal.”

“Physician, heal thyself!” He was very proud of this line.

I put out the cigarette on my shoe and threw it on the table.

He took the cigarette butt from the table and tossed it across the room. He grinned at me. “Hah!”

“What?”

“Let go, Junior!” He tried standing again. I helped him. “Just let go!”

“I need to make a call.”

He was laughing. “You think I’m nuts. It’s perfect, really, perfect!”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about Revelation!”

“I can’t do this.”

“If anyone can talk Revelation, it’s my boy.”

He was standing there, swaying as if a crosswind were blowing through the room. I thought he’d fall any second now. And I’m not sure if I said it to hurt him, or really just to get his attention, like slapping somebody in the wild throes of a breakdown. Either way, I just said it: “I was a kid. I made that shit up. And you know it.”