(This short story was originally published in American Way, the inflight magazine for American Airlines)
They were huddled miserably in the car, a light gray sleet hissing against the windshield.
It was 5:30 a.m., and instead of feeling the exhilaration of the upcoming hunt, Hank felt defeated, deflated. His twelve year-old son Henry was hunched in the passenger seat as far away from Hank as he could possibly get. He was staring at himself in the side view mirror. He refused to get out of the car.
Hank cast about in his mind for what he should do. He realized with some surprise that his parenting skills were limited. He didn’t know how to make Henry get out of the car. He thought of force. He supposed he could “whack him upside the head” as his own father had been prone to do.
But, the truth was, he’d never whacked either of the kids. Had never even raised his voice at them. Now he feels that maybe he should have; maybe he’d been too soft on Henry all along. Lately Henry seemed to skulk around the house with his headphones on, spinning his yo-yo, listening to music by bands that Hank had never heard of. Foo Fighters, Third Eye Blind, Beastie Boys, Green Day.
Hank looked at Henry, whose hands were clenched, eyes blinking furiously behind his glasses. His entire body seemed to say I hate you. Hank remembered the solid weight of him as a baby, when he used to walk the floor with him in the middle of the night. The wobbly, bald head, the drool, and the smile that could make the darkness of the hour vanish.
Now this. Continue reading
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