Several months ago I decided to start writing short stories and submitting them to various contests. This was an attempt at not only improving my writing but also conditioning myself to the cycle of write-revise-write-revise before submitting something for publication. The intent was to mirror the process for writing on a deadline.
Many years ago I wrote scripts for live broadcast television news. I was fairly decent at the job, and for the most part, I enjoyed it. Writing material for live television for four shows a day will quickly teach you how to swat away the distractions and get the job done. But much of local television news is revising original copy to fit television formatting. In other words, I was taking someone else’s work, confirming the details, and then condensing and adapting that material for a visual audience. It taught me a lot, but it’s not what I wanted to write long-term.
Fast forward to “long-term.” When I began submitting stories, I followed what I thought was a decent routine. Write the story, revise the story, send the story out for feedback, revise the story again, and then submit. That works-ish. What works better is when you send the story out to people who are not afraid to rip apart your story and point out all of the flaws in said story.
And that’s where we are now. The piece below is the first one I wrote for publication on this new…exercise in self-discipline, let’s say. It’s been revised many times, and I’m proud to publish it here. It’s come a long way, and truthfully, it could still have a ways to go. But of all the books on writing and publishing I’ve read, none of them have discussed how you know when a story is ready for publication. So with little guidance and much humility, this is Waiting for Time.
When Alfie drove home after the first day of summer school, he arrived to see his father pacing the living room. The look on his face, with scrunched eyebrows and slightly pursed lips, was one Alfie knew well. His dad was a consummate scientist who studied the melding of subatomic particles and what happens when outside forces upend their momentum. And any time he started turning over a mystery in his head, he slumped into the same posture trying to solve it. But this was a strange sight. It was only lunchtime, and Alfie was accustomed to his father spending more time at the lab than at home.
“Dad? Why are you home right now?” The question hung in the air of the dusty room that was once his mother’s favorite place to read. When she wasn’t at work, she would sit with a paperback, legs crossed in their olive chair big enough for two, and read under the warm light of the same floor lamp she’d had since childhood.
“We need to talk,” his father stated. Talking was not something his father did well, at least when it came to discussing emotions. Alfie didn’t always feel like his dad cared for him. He was the kid with mostly female friends who spent more time with his head in a book than outside with his hands in the dirt. But Alfie was different, the kind of different that most fathers don’t accept by default. And at every turn, at every parent event in which only his mother attended, Alfie looked for his father.
“The police called me at work today. They’ve reopened your mother’s case,” he said.
Alfie twitched, his eyes blinking almost uncontrollably until he caught himself. He had lost his mother a few months ago, and neither he nor his father had begun processing the loss. Ever since Alfie started the eleventh grade last year, he’d take his car and drive the freeway at night to loud indie music, his way of dealing with the realities of a teenage outcast. But what he did once before to feel the freedom afforded by a new license, he did now to drown out the screams in his head that never seemed to stop.
“But I thought they closed it? They already told us her car skidded off the road.” His voice cracked. Looking at his father’s face, he knew there was more.
“It was kind of strange. The detective asked about your mother’s phone records from February. He mentioned they were waiting for the hospital to release their call logs and asked if we’d provide ours.” Alfie stared at him, his face ghostly with panic, and then watched as his father began to slowly walk up to him. What his father was about to do would come as a surprise to Alfie. But his dad stood there, waiting, as if his looming decision involved life or death.
And then it happened.
While looking down, staring at his feet, Alfie suddenly felt a hand touch his shoulder. It was an embrace of sorts, and one he hadn’t felt since his father welcomed him home with a one-armed hug from his first day of kindergarten.
Alfie just stood there like a warped tinman, motionless, with his arms hanging by his sides.
The thoughts running through his head transformed into fear. It had been months of sleepless nights, the loneliness and torment relentlessly gnawing at him but eventually subsiding as the weeks turned into months. He shivered, the anxiety finding its way back to him like dust surfacing on an old bookshelf.
Alfie had been accustomed to change in his life. It was how his mother, Evelyn, had raised him. She made a habit of preparing him for worst-case scenarios, regularly packing him a spare lunch for school in the event he couldn’t eat what the cafeteria served. She also carried a spare book, just in case he finished the one he was reading and forgot to bring a new one to start.
She had thought of everything and prepared him accordingly.
Except for what happened that random night in February – the wreck. Her abrupt departure from his life and this immediate rebound of emotions he’d tried so hard to bury. She had not prepared him then, or now, just months after her death.
—
Alfie’s father was set to leave the next day for a weekend retreat in Chicago. He had agreed back in January to go with a friend of his from college, Dr. Lawrence Dupont, who was also the principal at Alfie’s school. Dr. Dupont stemmed from the notable Dupont Family and was a mentor of sorts to Alfie, ensuring his years through high school were at least tolerable. He had asked Alfie’s father to attend the retreat with him after his wife had passed away last year from cancer. The grim irony for Alfie’s father was that he was no longer just attending out of moral support.
Before leaving, Alfie had asked his father about his return home, something his mother routinely communicated to him in minute detail anytime she’d leave. His father responded, now, similarly. He handed Alfie a note, a written schedule, attempting to mirror what his wife had done to make Alfie feel more secure in knowing that she’d return. This became a new sort of routine for them, his father attempting to step into a role left hollow by Alfie’s mother.
“I’ll be on the 5:07 p.m. train leaving Chicago on Monday. I should be home by 7:30,” he said.
Alfie sighed, looking for relief in his father’s statement, but sensing only a stinging reminder of his mother’s absence.
His mother was the reliable one, the one who wanted nothing more than a child to raise and a husband to provide. As a former waitress-turned-restaurant owner, she pulled her weight but kept her focus on Alfie. She was determined to provide stability to her son, despite some of the late hours she kept at the restaurant.
“Thanks dad, I’ll see you Monday night.” Alfie stood in the brightly lit kitchen, the one his mother had painted in seashell white as a reminder of the ocean and its changing waves, and watched him leave.
The quietness left a ringing in Alfie’s ears – the humming heard when the AC is turned off and thick insulation masks the noise outside.
Knowing he had three days of alone time felt both freeing and terrifying. But he only wanted one thing: to stay inside the walls of his home. The home where his mother had once lived. The home where he still found comfort in the familiar smells of her vibrant, floral perfume caked into the carpet.
—
Lamar and Alfie had been best friends since the fourth grade when they met in English class and were assigned as partners for a project. Lamar, the more social of the pair, volunteered to present their work to the class after noticing Alfie stumbling his way through various passages during a classroom reading session. He would barely make it through a paragraph before the teacher would interrupt and choose another student to read aloud. Maybe it was nerves or maybe he just wasn’t a good reader, but Alfie saw in Lamar a protector. He saw someone who would stand up for him, someone wanting to play hero when he needed saving.
The pair had somewhat of a falling out once everything had changed. Dr. Dupont had to split them apart one day after a heated debate nearly tumbled into a fight. Take a breath, he’d said. This isn’t worth it. But when Lamar arrived that night, having heard the hesitation in Alfie’s voice when he invited him over, he showed up with an apology and a bottle of wine taken from his mother’s stash.
The two sat on the back patio in the dark, the purple haze of the mosquito zapper illuminating only a shadow of the corner where it hung. It was then that Alfie noticed something new about his best friend. Lamar’s henley hugged the curvature of his arms, Alfie watching as he pulled the bottle of wine from his bag. His voice, smoother and just an octave deeper, nearly matched the pitch of the electric hum from the cage trapping bugs just above.
As kids, Lamar would invite him to sleepovers. They would stay up late playing video games and talking. But right as Alfie would start to fall asleep, Lamar would suggest something new for them to do. He never wanted the night to end. Alfie would hug him goodbye the next morning, and Lamar would watch him take off on his bike. Throughout the years those small gestures graduated to grander ones and were hard for Alfie to ignore. It wasn’t that he didn’t feel the same; he just didn’t know what he felt. Something inside of him tonight, though, flustered him.
Alfie held out a cup he had grabbed from the cabinet and poured Lamar a heavy fill.
“I think my dad knows,” Alfie said. Taking a sip, he then gulped and looked at Lamar. Lamar stared back, considering how much Alfie’s father could possibly know. Neither had spoken to each other much since that night in February, so anything his father knew would be speculation at best. At least, that’s what Lamar thought.
“Do you think if we told him together it would help?” Lamar asked. Since the two of them were kids Lamar anticipated what Alfie needed before Alfie realized it. Which is why, in that moment, he understood what Alfie was implying.
“How do you do that? How do you know what I’m going to say before I get to say it?”
“I’ve known you since we were nine. You haven’t changed much,” Lamar joked.
Alfie laughed, and as he turned to look down, he noticed Lamar’s refined jawline as he turned toward the haze. “But nothing good can come from telling him now. What is telling him now going to change?” he asked.
Alfie looked up and took another gulp. He watched Lamar take a drink, a smirk on his face accentuating his cheek bones. Noticing the changes in Lamar stirred Alfie. He watched as the bulge in Lamar’s throat moved slightly up and then back down again after each swallow. What crossed his mind scared him, the feeling of whether his best friend actually meant something more to him.
Lamar broke eye contact and slid his hand across the chair toward Alfie, breaking his nervous gesture to take a drink at that moment. Alfie felt a bead of sweat develop on his forehead as his pulse quickened. He wanted to stand up and break the spell that seemed cast over the immediate moment, but he resisted.
Lamar gently grabbed Alfie’s hand, turned it over, and looked at his palm as if he were about to tell a fortune. Alfie’s smooth and oily skin reminded Lamar of when they were kids. They would play a game where they would shake each other’s hand and tighten their grips to see who’d cave first. Alfie didn’t give up easily, but Lamar always won. He never backed down from a challenge, despite who was on the other end. But it was the way Alfie persisted every time that kept Lamar’s attention.
This time Lamar took a more affectionate approach. He moved his thumb over the top as if to massage it. Looking back up at Alfie, Lamar said nothing. He sat there and waited for Alfie to make the first move.
In all of their time together Alfie had never once taken a risk. He was afraid of getting caught with a fake ID when he and Lamar wanted to buy their first bottle of wine. Alfie wouldn’t even speed on the freeway, believing a driving ticket would be the quickest way to the state penitentiary. Mostly, Lamar steered and Alfie just rode along. But sitting together now, knowing this was a step he couldn’t take back if it went south, Lamar made room for Alfie.
Alfie held Lamar’s hand in the dark, purple hue of the night. After what Alfie felt like was the longest silence of their friendship, he stated with a surprising level of confidence, “Okay.”
The mountains of guilt he had piled up – about the death of his mother; about his father without a wife – now seemed to dissipate, if only for a brief moment. The feeling of belonging, of home, that he received from Lamar provided a sort of shield from the screaming that still played out in his mind. But he blamed himself for even considering his own feelings.
He and Lamar promised each other, slightly drunk on wine, that they would talk to Alfie’s dad together. The conversation needed to be had, and Alfie’s dad needed to hear it from the both of them.
That night, Alfie and Lamar slept in the same bed together for the first time since their sleepovers as kids. The mixed emotions of what their relationship was, of what it might become, added to Alfie’s anxiety. Though he felt at ease cuddled up next to Lamar, he couldn’t escape the fleeting what-ifs that seemed to race through his mind. But closing his eyes, attempting to find rest in the blackness of the night, he found only a wariness the dark could trigger.
—
When Alfie and Lamar woke up the next morning, Alfie knew how the day would unfold. They would sleep in long enough to where morning felt like the start of afternoon. Alfie would crack open a can of cream pop and sit on the patio soaking in the midday sun while Lamar made lunch. They’d walk to the neighborhood pool, sweat for a couple of hours, and then head home for dinner and a black-and-white movie. That felt like summer to them. The warm, drawn-out days free from responsibility, free from the claustrophobia of sadness.
As Alfie lay asleep in bed, he awoke from an unconscious arm falling against his back. Lamar had turned over. Alfie shifted his head and watched for a moment as Lamar slept. He looked at peace, with his eyes closed and face frozen in a dream. But Alfie was drained. The buzzing of a neighbor mowing the lawn told him the morning was already in full swing. It was nearly eleven a.m. before he rolled over and checked his phone.
When Alfie saw that his dad had messaged him, twice, a sinking feeling hit the pit of his stomach. He and his father did not text, much less carry on a conversation over the phone long enough to warrant two messages.
“Coming back early,” read the first text. “Let’s grab lunch,” read the second.
The train ride to Chicago was almost two hours, which meant either his dad was almost home or– before Alfie could even finish the thought, he heard the sound of a car door shut outside.
He jumped out of bed and ran to the window, tripping over his shoes lying in the middle of the room and startling Lamar.
When he saw his father walking toward the front door, Alfie grabbed his shorts lying on the ground and threw them on as he hit Lamar’s leg to make sure he was awake.
“Lamar, wake up, my dad’s home,” Alfie said. He was frustrated and nervous. His morning plans of sun and sweat were already axed and he had only just opened his eyes.
“Alfie, I’m home! Did you check your phone?” his dad yelled down the hallway, his voice echoing off the walls.
Alfie ran toward the stairs and then caught himself at the top, trying not to appear like he had just committed what his father would’ve considered a mortal sin.
Walking down the stairs, attempting to adjust himself, Alfie shouted, “Hey dad, I just saw your messages. Why are you home so early?” Alfie’s next thought was how to tell his dad about Lamar. He knew the longer he went without mentioning him upstairs, the more awkward it would be to explain. His dad knew Lamar, and he knew they spent a lot of nights together when they were younger, but that had stopped around the seventh grade when puberty kicked in and life had changed.
“Hey son–,” Alfie’s dad mumbled. He caught himself and scrunched his face in question. Noticing Alfie with his shorts on backward and missing a shirt, he hesitated and then asked, “I thought we’d grab some food. I wanted to talk to you. Do you have plans today?”
This was unlike his father. His dad wanting to talk was not normal, especially since he was supposed to be gone. Alfie became suspicious. He stood in the hallway, waiting for the questions to pile up as his father walked into the kitchen and noticed the empty wine bottle on the counter.
“Yeah dad, that sounds good. But there’s something you should know first,” Alfie mumbled.
“I don’t care if you drink on occasion Alfie. It could be worse. I was thinking we’d go to the diner. We haven’t been in a while. But it looks like you just woke up.”
“Sure dad, but that’s not what I wanted to tell you,” Alfie wanted to say. He was relieved his father didn’t care about the wine, but he didn’t have a chance to say that either. About halfway through his statement Alfie’s dad interrupted him and said, “Great, why don’t you go shower and then we can head over.”
“Dad, Lamar is upstairs.” Alfie blurting this out wasn't entirely out of character, but he had no other choice. His father stood there, one eyebrow raised, with a puzzled look on his face. He was trying to understand what Alfie had actually said. He was thinking back to the moment just before when he noticed him half-naked and flustered. He had heard the words, but now he was reading between the lines. He thought about the conversations he’d previously had with his wife. Just listen, she used to say. He’s trying to talk to you. Alfie would attempt to open up, but his dad would put up a wall every time. Listen to what he’s trying to tell you.
“Great son, he can come, too. Unless he already has plans?”
Alfie stood there, legs of marble, unable to move. Who, he asked himself, was this man standing in front of him? He spaced out and fought the urge to ask him if he was sure. He wondered whether his father was just agreeing to keep the peace or if this was a new leaf he was turning. But he knew better than to press.
“Alfie, did you hear me? Why are you just staring at me? Go jump in the shower, and tell Lamar to get ready. I’ll be out in the garage when you two are done.”
—
Evelyn’s Diner sat alone against the highway outside of town, a staple in this section of the state ever since it opened nearly twenty years ago. The menu lacked creativity, but the homey, welcoming feel inside more than made up for what was missing in flavor. Thick, cream curtains hung above the windows, partially blocking the midday sun, and darkened shiplap plastered the walls. It smelled of fresh waffles and sausage grease. And it’s where Alfie spent most of his weekends as a child, watching his mother care for her guests while he read his book in a corner booth.
Alfie walked in and paused in front of the door. The interior hadn’t changed since his mother made her mark, he thought. He felt a gentle touch on his shoulder. It was Lamar, reminding him that he wasn’t alone.
Now, as Lamar, Alfie, and his father found their way to the same corner spot essentially dedicated to Alfie, he looked around for his mother. He nor his father had been back since she had died, but she was still there. He found her in the bells that rang as customers entered; in the countertop lamps that cast a warm glow throughout the room; and most apparent, in the photograph of her smiling that hung at an angle near the entrance.
Lamar and Alfie plopped down next to each other across from Alfie’s dad in the worn corner booth in which Alfie was accustomed. As the three of them sat together waiting for the first one to break the silence, Alfie listened to the clanking of ceramic plates collected by the busboys, filling the air with a familiarity of a different time. A time when the sound of stacking dishes meant his mother was just around the corner. A time when his mother was still around.
“Dad, there’s something Lamar and I need to tell you,” Alfie said.
Staring at his father now, he could see a look in his eyes that asked a thousand questions.
“Son, you don’t need to explain. I know about you and Lamar. I just wanted to talk about–”
Lamar cut him off. Alfie had sensed that Lamar was about to interrupt his dad, which is why he squeezed his leg under the table. He was nervous about what he would say, about the inability to turn back once the admissions began.
“I caused the accident,” Lamar interjected.
Alfie loosened his grip and glared at Lamar. What are you doing? He could see the response in Lamar’s eyes. Just let me be the bad guy.
“What? What are you talking about?” Alfie’s father asked.
“Lamar, don’t do this,” Alfie mumbled under his breath. But he had lost. He knew that once Lamar had set his mind to something, there was no convincing him otherwise. Lamar was about to speak his version of the truth, and Alfie could only sit and listen to how the tragedy would unfold.
“I was driving. I killed her. The roads were slick, and when she drove around the corner, I don’t know…I guess, I guess I was just driving too fast.” The waitress interrupted what was gearing up to be some sort of a confession and set down their drinks.
Stop, Alfie insisted, staring a hole through the side of Lamar’s face. But Lamar didn’t move. He kept his eyes on Alfie’s father. The two remained locked in eye contact, continuing a conversation in which only they could participate.
Alfie looked down at the closed menus no one had opened and then looked back up at the waitress. “We just need some time here,” he said. Hesitating at first, the waitress simply smiled and left the three of them alone. Alfie’s father remained silent.
Alfie grabbed his coffee to burn some time, but he scorched his tongue instead. The heat of the moment evaporated the tears he felt starting to build. Then he heard Lamar continue.
“I slammed on the brakes, but she did, too. She jerked the wheel. I didn’t know what to do. I called for help, but it wasn’t enough. I didn’t know it was–” Lamar stopped himself and dropped his gaze. The shame overwhelmed him. Alfie watched as Lamar seemingly replayed that entire night out on the table in front of him. Then Alfie peeled a glance up at the stone-faced version of his father who sat in front of him.
“I wanted to say something, but I…I couldn’t figure out how,” Lamar said, barely audible to either Alfie or his father..
Alfie wanted to speak. He wanted to say something to rescue Lamar from this deep ocean of a half-truth he just spoke. But, looking at his father, no words came to mind. The bells announcing another customer startled him. He wanted to say it wasn’t Lamar’s fault. He wanted to tell his father the full truth, but he couldn’t move. The realization of what Lamar just said seemed to paralyze them both. He was waiting for his dad to make the first move when his mind suddenly raced back to the scene.
Alfie had been in the car with Lamar that night, complaining to him about class that day, when they suddenly saw a sharp curve and slammed on the brakes. But as his car attempted to stop, it instead slid, crossing over into the opposing lane. Alfie remembered seeing a car’s headlights blind them both, the other car’s brights still on high as they crossed in front of them, sliding off the road and into a ditch. When their car finally came to a stop, all they could see through the back windshield was a vehicle’s tail lights and the car slumped against a tree. Alfie and Lamar looked at each other, contemplating whether to jump out and help. They compromised and decided to call for help as they drove away.
Alfie had dialed the nearby hospital, reporting that a car had flipped over the side of the road. He changed his mind about calling the cops, because he knew the call could be traced back to him. But phoning for help wasn’t enough. The adrenaline and stress that raced through them both only fueled their panic.
“We have to go back,” Lamar had yelled. He had never raised his voice to Alfie, but if there were ever a time, he felt it was now. “We can’t just leave them there.” The worry in his voice betrayed the innocence he felt about them causing the crash.
Then Alfie saw it.
In the bottom-right corner of the back windshield that faced almost straight up and down into the air was a single image stuck to the glass. A three-person stick figure outlined in white showing a father, a mother, and one child. All of them holding hands with half-drawn smiles on their faces. A happy family of three.
Alfie had tried to open the door, but it was locked. He pulled again and again on the handle but the door had won. Not thinking but acting, he had started rolling down the window to crawl out of it, still secured by his seatbelt, when Lamar grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him back into the car. “What are you doing?” Lamar yelled again.
Alfie said nothing. Instead, he let out a wail, the kind reserved only for the gruesome death of a loved one. Lamar felt Alfie’s agony in the deepest part of his stomach, briefly blacking out to what they had just caused. A sudden chill across his body shocked him back to reality. As he had rolled up the window, Alfie glued his face to the glass and started beating his palms against it. He wanted out. He wanted to see his mother. But Lamar, ever the steadfast protector, stayed firm. He wanted to insulate Alfie from what had just happened. He was scared, and he wanted them to stay out of jail.
That night they went back to Lamar’s house. Alfie had told his father he was staying the night with Lamar and would be home after school the next day. They were falling back into their sleepover routine from childhood. As they lay in bed, they tried to forget what had just happened – a nightmare, Alfie told himself. A nightmare concocted from a lack of sleep. After all, their car hadn’t been hit or damaged in any way. But the screaming, the yelp he imagined coming from his mother as she realized what was about to happen; the wail that he had made when he realized what they had caused – he couldn’t turn them off in his head. He couldn’t get rid of them. It was like his mind had tuned into the loud static of a bad television channel.
The two of them stayed like that until morning, restless and drained of emotion.
Now, at the diner opened by his mother, sat his father, re-living the grief he had tried so hard to move past. Maybe, it had occurred to Alfie’s father, that’s why the police had called – the account to which the authorities had asked him for access. He guessed, now, they weren’t asking for his wife’s call history but his son’s records. Which is when he realized – Alfie must have been in the car.
His initial thought was to storm out of the restaurant and head straight to the police station. He wanted Lamar in jail and out of his son’s life. But he knew that could spiral. He didn’t want his son in jail, too. He knew that if the police had started asking more questions they would start piecing together the story of a hit-and-run instead of turning over the facts of a tragic accident.
Alfie’s father stood up from the booth they were all sitting in and dropped a ten dollar bill on the table to cover the drinks they had barely touched. Glancing around his wife’s restaurant reminded him of everything he had lost. With a stern tone, facing Lamar, he said, “Don’t ever show your face again at my house.”
The bells chimed again when his father pushed open the door and walked out.
Alfie stayed seated in the booth with Lamar, staring into a void no one else could see. Beneath the table he reached for Lamar’s leg and caught his knee, resting his hand there for the familiar comfort of someone who had never left his side. The two of them sat like that, watching the cars outside drive by. Alfie had expected this response from his father. He knew he was hurting, too. But so was Alfie, only he was also carrying a carload of guilt from what he had yet to tell his father. He had been in the car that night, he wanted to say. And not only had he been in the car with Lamar, but he, not Lamar, was the one driving. He was the one who accidentally jerked the wheel too quickly; he was the one who caused the wreck. He, not Lamar, killed his mother.
—
At summer school, he barely made it through the second iteration of his failed course. Dr. Dupont had helped steer him in the right direction after the crash, and Alfie found in him an adult in whom he could confide; someone who, when needed, he could turn to without judgment. And that’s why Alfie told him. He needed to come clean, and Dr. Dupont, he hoped, would understand.
Two generations ago, the Dupont Family started a private hospital in town to fill a void in the community. It was the same hospital that received the call from Alfie that night about the crash. When asked by police to share their confidential phone records from the call that night, they declined. The warrant by police for the family’s phone records applied only to Alfie’s mother. Alfie was still a minor, and without written consent from his father, the police had no way of placing Alfie at the scene.
But all of the guilt ate away at Alfie. For the next year after that day in the diner, Alfie had started spending more time with Lamar. The time Alfie did spend at home was usually during the late afternoon before his father had come home from work. He saw his father sparingly, sharing only the occasional meal together to let him know he was still alive.
During a dinner toward the end of the school year, Alfie brought up the topic of his graduation, about walking across the stage at the end of this painful journey, about finally closing this chapter. It was an attempt at not only making conversation but making progress in this area that seemed impossible to broach.
“So are you planning to come? To the ceremony, I mean,” Alfie asked.
The question floated in the thick air that hung between the two of them. Though they had their ups and downs, Alfie was still the boy who looked for his father in the shadows of his life.
His father mumbled something that didn’t register.
Alfie couldn’t make out what he said, but he dropped the topic and finished his meal. He didn’t want to push his father, not on this.
He grabbed his bag and thanked him for the meal. Though he wasn’t trying to punish his father, he couldn’t bring Lamar around anymore, and he couldn’t work up the nerve to tell his father the entire truth. This purgatory he’d placed himself in was the best he could do for now. The sleepless nights, the constant screams – all of it had started to fade. He and his dad weren’t in a great spot, but by every measure, they’d made progress. Monthly dinners had turned weekly, and Alfie had occasionally started sleeping in his own bed again. It wasn’t much, but it was something, he thought.
When graduation day arrived, Alfie crossed the stage as one of the last students to receive a diploma. He looked out into the crowd in search of his mother. She would have been proud, he thought. Knowing he wouldn’t see her in the audience of mostly floating heads brought a swelling to his eyes that he couldn’t hold back. After hearing his name called and walking across the stage, he stopped to embrace Dr. Dupont. With a knowing look on his face, he handed Alfie his diploma and congratulated him.
As he started walking toward the stairwell that would take him off the stage, Alfie noticed someone across the top line of the bleachers in the upper section, just above the spotlights shining down on him in his navy gown and gold graduation cap. As the applause deafened the hall, his friends cheering him on for making it through to the finish line, he saw him. Sitting alone in a part of the gymnasium occupied by no one else, was his father.
Alfie glanced at him, making eye contact for just the brief moment allotted.
He then looked down and stepped off the stage. Turning to look toward the upper bleachers where his father sat, half a smile broke across Alfie’s face. Maybe, he thought, they both just needed time.