What Comes Next

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MY FATHER PASSES. I am sinking in some gelatinous substance. “What do you plan to do with your freedom?” he asks. What can I do? Up to my chin in the stuff. “You can choose to stand or fall, Christopher, huh?” But I’m falling, for God’s sake. A tooth wriggles loose. It’s a fact. Can’t you see that I’m falling? “It’s your choice, son.” His voice barely a whisper, fading. “What have I taught you? You must make your own choice.”

I’ve stopped leaving the house except for food and sometimes — when the strain gets too great — for air. Where is there to go? Too much violence in the street. Sex, bombing, suffocation, rape. Too much madness. I have what I need — books, a chess set, slide rule, TV, a bathroom, a mirror, windows, a phone. Nothing. I need nothing. It is a final equity. I bargain with God. A nothing for a nothing. You keep out of my way, I’ll keep out of yours. It is a fair and clean exchange. Still there are times I feel cheated. My mother used to say, “Christopher, you’re a boy with so much to give to others.” The fact is, I feel like a thief.

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