Crime, Thrillers & Mystery / Father Why Haste Thou? (Analysis)
Chill night winds blew through the drafty house penetrating every small crack as an expeditionary force. Dark shadows played twisted games with street lamps in the dead hours of night. The house was a rather old structure built in the fifties retaining much of that era’s art deco styling’s within its shingle-sided exterior ruffling slightly in the wind from the second story to its foundation. A muffled light shone through a window at the rear of the house. Inside, surrounded by glorious achievements of yester-year safari’s and wars long since depicted as Homeric epics on film, sat an aging man. He wore a bath robe over a naked body. In his hand a tumbler of brandy quite complimenting a gentleman of taste and culture as he was. His gray hair thinned in fragile wisps on the top exposing scalp beneath it while a mane of un-tamable gray sprouted proudly around about his baldness.
Flashes of memories dead to all but him played out in a magnificent orchestra of Beethoven. Meeting his wife for the first time in France in the twilight end of World War II. His daughter Francisca as she lay swaddled in a blanket gasping her first lung full of life. His sons Dillinger and Fredrick as they trooped off to Vietnam. Dillinger’s somber memorial, the cry of his fallen sons love child held in trembling, sobbing arms of the mother. His grandchildren. Safari’s in Africa during his youth. Flying alongside RAF and American fighters as they weaved dangerously in and out of flack puffs exploding everywhere in the skies above Berlin. Moving to America. His fellowship at Stanford. Allegra, his wife born of Portuguese immigrants, taking her last raspy breaths of life’s fleeting fancy as she succumbed violently to the cancer in her body.
A life time and more swirled together in puddles of vibrant colors and chaotic sounds in his mind funneling ever faster; a raging torrent of time. He had in fact lived the fullest life any could ever hope for blessed with seeing grandchildren born and history written in exhilaration as his seasons on Earth stretched through them. He was not done, for that matter, by any stretch of the imagination. Most of his six grandchildren were in college with Juliette, the youngest granddaughter, moving to Norway with her rich husband Caleb who worked for an American scientific firm in said Nordic country. No, he had great-grandchildren yet to welcome into the world and accomplishments of his other grandchildren to admonish proudly. For a man of ninety years, Ashton remained fervently mobile and astonishingly young. Ashton was a man as proud of his British ancestry as he was of his adventures lent to him by youth’s impetuousness.
A creak broke Ashton from his thoughts blinking his eyes rapidly shedding the comfortable haze of nostalgia. A low flute played in the stillness of the room, a record Ashton forgot was playing, went about its tremelos vacant of the room or its occupant; it played to a time and audience as dead as the memorbilia spread throughout the parlor exonerating times and people dead for some fifty years.
He looked about the parlor, shadows loomed cast by the lamp on the nightstand beside him. The sound had come from his kitchen, the open doorway adjoining both area of the house smoothered in night and suddenly so very quiet.
Another creak. This one dragged out for several seconds, like the sort of creak one makes when trying to tip-toe down an old set of stairs without waking anyone above or below. A cold drafted sent chills down Ashton’s spine. He strained to hear for any indications of an intruder. Having lived in the house for years beyond memory, Ashton knew each aged protest of the foundation as it settled, he recognized each floor board as it contracted and groaned so horribly. This was not it, this was a sudden creak isolated to one area of the house. The adjoining doorway to the kitchen.
Someone was there.
Ashton rose from his chair slowly so as not to make a sound. He was not an exciteable man, he was, rather, a man grounded in the realistic believe that he had the ultimate right to protect himself and his property. He was on his feet half turned to open the nightstands single drawer when they came, in rapid succession, drawing closer. It was the sound of one purposeful foot connecting ahead of the other on an already rickety boarded floor. Slowly, silently, Ashton pulled the draw open praying the raw scrap of unfinished wood against unfinished wood did not reveal his intentions nor immediate actions. Since the late-nineties when rampant home invasions plagued even the quietest neighborhoods, Ashton had obtained an unregistered nine-millitmeter pistol. Allegra, before she died, had never approved of the weapon. She said nothing, trusting her husbands judgement in the matter and allowing him to feel as though he were protecting his own. Ashton thought sometimes Allegra hoped the weapon would offer a break in the war references is her husband had a new distraction.
Ashton set his tumbler down so that he could open the drawer the rest of the way.
“Damn.”
He looked down into the empty drawer, shadow half concealing the rear portion of the drawer offering just enough light to shine on where it should have been laying passively. And it was gone. Ashton had not once touched the weapon in five years just after cleaning it and setting the weapon down on the rough oak drawer bottom. From time to time he would open the drawer and peek in at the silver instrument. Where had it gone?
Ashton prayed one of his great-grandchildren had not found the thing mistaking it for a toy or one of Grampa Ashton’s old, antique items that no longer worked. How horrible that would be.
“Sit.”
Something cold slipped between his ribs, an icicle blade wielded by a personage of pure, twisting evil. The voice lashed out through the darkness, flatly demanding the action without a sense of personality. His body wrenched around on its own, painfully twisting accord. Ashton’s face grimaced in pain as he caught himself by one arm of his chair before the spasm could break his back. That was quite the start and now Ashton had two answers wrapped into one rather convenient one: an invader held his gun. Lamp light glistened on the familiar silver casing and the black pistol grip melted into the intruders own collectively black attire so cliché yet suiting a man intent upon ill.
Regaining composing though a sharp stabbing pain prevented him from standing fully erect, Ashton stared more closely at his assailant. The figure stood less than five foot eight, perhaps a decent five foot seven, carried himself with a great menacing air and a compact build speaking of speed
“It all looks so different for some reason, what did you do? What did you add? It’s so exciting…even as I am to be a man, everything I see shimmers in magic.”
What had the thief just said? Those words! They rang familiar in Ashton’s ears, except, they were originally uttered over thirty years ago by somebody….who?
“What did you say?” Ashton felt an uninvited lump grow in his throat but the man would not answer. The man was changed somehow as though he were not himself anymore; rather someone else entirely.
“You don’t remember me?” The man turned his head slowly towards Ashton. The light hollowed dark illusions of empty sockets, “How sad after all this time. You wanted to see me and then…now….you don’t? Why? I thought you…no, maybe not.”
The man shagged his body slumping shoulders forward. To Ashton the intruder seemed sad. Did he know this criminal perhaps from some long age past? Or was this person a childhood friend of his grand children’s? Ashton simply could not place the voice, the figure, the demeanor nor the rapid change of personality.
“Who are you, sir?” Ashton inquired in a gentle pressing manner, “What is you name?”
The man held his breath lifting his shoulders up a bit blinking stupidly back at Ashton.
“It’s me father, it’s me! Dillinger.
Ashton choked. His eyes frothed with liquid stung suddenly by memories not awakened in so long, so forgettably long. The grief, the turmoil and the loss washed Ashton in a veracious wave of pain. Hot tears pelted his weathered cheeks, staying there a moment to stain the tanned skin before cascading down onto the front of his robe.
“I lived here with you and mother and Francisca and Fredrick,” The impostor said in a mysterious voice, “I played here amongst your treasures. Remember? I called it ‘Papa’s Magical Kingdom.’ I never lost that feeling father and I never told you that.”
“Why?” Ashton sobbed uncontrollably, “Why are you doing this?”
“The Army gave me this for you and CiCi. Look father, see how proud I am to be a military man just like you?”
Ashton, who had fallen into his bony hands, lifted his head and through the tears saw only the glimmer of a medal the impostor must have taken from his son’s memorial. Ashton had not even noticed.
Oh son! Ashton screamed in his mind, I have forgotten so soon as I promised I would not. I am sorry my boy, I did not even notice.
This wretched beast must have rifled through Ashton’s personal journals he kept in the bureau in the upstairs bedroom. His privacy, his life, was violated. Raped by the soulless, incredulous, insanity of a creature now tormenting Ashton. He felt mocked and betrayed by the memories of his dead son.
He had taken Dillinger’s medal! He was pretending to be Dillinger!
“You don’t even recognize me father,” the impostor kept repeating this over and over indulging himself with rage growing greater each time the words were uttered. The false-Dillinger began pacing erratically back and forth just outside of the lamps penetrating light.
“You don’t remember me?!” The impostor screamed, “I thought you would! I thought you loved me! I thought you wanted to see me! After everything!”
“Stop-stop-stop-stop-stop,” Ashton pleaded spitting a little as his body shook and the tears, oh bitter tears of disgrace, saturated his linens.
“I am sorry father, so very sorry,” The impostor gently eased back the weapons hammer and trained the barrel straight at Ashton, “So very sorry.”
Two thundering explosions resounded in the air, the pungent stench of gun-powder permeated the impostors nostrils.
Ashton froze, face planted in his palms, as time neglected him in its turning. Ruby patches gushed at Ashton’s chest. He fell forward slowly. Darkness, cold and numb, grasped him in mid fall barring the teeth of pain from inflicting its bite upon Ashton; one last grace for a gentleman of culture.
The impostor lowered his pistol slowly mumbling apologies as he stared at the crumpled form of Ashton as it lay twisted on the floor.
The room began to swim in his vision, breathing air became impossible; he clutched his chest. It felt heavy, like the air were molten iron. Wheezing, he fell to the ground dropping the pistol with a thud.
“Where…am….I..?” he tried to shout with no success. His face, now beat red, poured hot sweat.
He was in a room that he had never seen before, the various oddities seemed to taunt and laugh at him just like the circus clowns. Giant tusks that seemed to roar loudly in the horrible pain of their owners death, paintings on the wall shrieked, the walls themselves shrank on him. His eyes rolled about aimlessly in his head and he saw the body. Air. He needed air. He could not breath, light became prickly dark dots and he felt so light-headed. Air! He needed air.
What’s my name, he thought as he gasped for air unsuccessfully, Where am I? What happened to the…the…
Breath, he needed to focus on staying conscience and he had to slowly inhale. Slowly exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Air became easier to breath. Inhale. Exhale.
His mind became more lucid and his thoughts were solidifying in his mind, colors were returning to his vision.
Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.
Peterson. Inhale. Exhale.
James Lindon. Inhale. Full-time city employee.
Exhale.
Inhale.
He was twenty-three years old
Exhale.
And he didn’t know why he was here.
Exhale. Inhale-exhale-inhale-exhale.
Slowly, he needed to breath slower.
In-hale.
James stood up and took a measured look around him. He had to leave, the kitchen was in his mind. But why? James turned around and stumbled through the dark. He saw two red cans sitting by the refrigerator. Gas! There were two gas cans left-
-where he could grab them easily right after killing the old man. Getting them into the house would be difficult, he had to creep stealthily inside the house with two five-gallon cans of gas. And then he would just turn around, grab the gas cans-
-but James didn’t know why, but he walked into the living-room guided by a sudden explosion of unknown, mysteriously proactive purpose drawing him closer inside. He was careful to stay out of the light. James set down both gas cans unscrewing the cap off one. He hefted the sloshing can to the back of the room. The tusks were the first to be generously drenched in gas; they scared him. Before he knew it, James was done. Standing in the center of the room with a box of matches. Something felt right about where he stood. The room seemed to wrap itself around him drudging up memories that James could not place. But it seemed right, sliding the match box open, delicately selecting a single match, striking it against the box and freeing the waving, blinking flame onto the ground. No body could have done this with such love and grace, nobody but James could ever feel such tenderness to do this. He freed this man tonight and allowed him to face the horrific death of a beloved son.
I’m not dead.
James watched the match twitch about the carpet for a few minutes. He was concerned his symbolic gesture might suffocate and then, just as the orange flame shrunk to a hazy blue, the gasoline and the flame embraced in sweet surrender. In a whoosh tiny fingers of fire reached out and began to alleviate the burdensome past this kind, hurt, elderly gentleman had buried himself in. Denial allowed this man to shut himself off from a free range of emotions, blocked his ability to experience each uniquely delicate emotion. James smiled as the flame climbed the tusks and raced to the ceiling. James left through the back garden door, the gateway allowing closer, humming Free Bird.
Each night for he sat in his car watching. He found a column written about the old man, Mr. Ashton Weltch, receiving a lifetime achievement award from the National English Professors Fellowship on a dirty newspaper crumpled up on the sidewalk. It was then he realized the honor Fate handed to him on a silver platter. He also realized how sad it must be to receive one’s life on a plaque, that ones life could be summed up in thirty words or less for forty cents a word. With a little research he discovered the tragedy in this man’s life. A son, only twenty-three like himself, dead from the enemies blazing muffle. A dead wife, having seen not a day past sixty. He saw a life unfulfilled, a life of transference and a life of denial.
He followed him everywhere starting from the time the old man left at eleven o’clock AM to Wexler’s RX, then to the bank once every two weeks to cash his two pension checks. To the library on Thursday’s and Saturdays to read newspapers and check-out classic films and then back to the old man’s home. When the old man left for his doctor appointments, he would go into the old man’s home and read about himself in the old man’s journals. He would peruse the archives of ancient treasures. He loved the smell of antiquity but he could never be happy with how painful his memory must have burnt into his father’s mind. He knew his mission; he had to free his father from a prison of denial, of living in the past, of denying his pain.
James blinked feeling the cool texture of his medal, unconsciously rubbing its surface with fore-finger and thumb. He felt oddly distant overcome with the sensation of not being himself. He opened the car door and walked to the trunk. James was not aware of being parked in his apartment complex instead inserting the key into his trunk lock. He found the cardboard storage box he kept there and set the medal down gently onto a piece of soft felt. He had so many new achievements and memories of so many things.
You do good things for these people, a gentle voice caressed James in his head
I do it for my father, James replied stroking the edge of his storage box.
James, you free them all from so much pain and let them die in peaceful absolution.
Finally, after the beatings James’ father had dispensed on his son out of disappointment, James was becoming the man his father always wanted him to be.
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id suggest going through and looking for all the places where you could use a pause, for clarity, and put a comma there. sometimes the run-ons distract the reader from your main idea. couple of spelling/possession errors, too, but these are easily fixed. hand this off to someone who is grammatically skilled and youre golden.
as far as the story, well done, sir! i was thoroughly confused and when i finally figured it out (the story made it clear), i had to go back and reread. really lovely the way youve worked this all out. the introduction and description of characters, places, events, all done very well. and like i said, the twist at the end is unexpected and also well done.
will this be a novel? is this the first chapter? even if it’s not, maybe a little more explanation about the relationship, or lack thereof, between james and his father would explain a little more of why james goes after ashton. even if you dont make this addition, i think your story is sparse and well written the way that it is. very lovely work, nicely executed.
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I found it difficult to get into this piece, mainly because of the
way in which the sentences are constructed and the choice of words
used. There are some interesting twists at the end, but because
of the style, I felt I had to sift through paragraphs to extract
meaning. I would suggest to make this more readable that you cut
about 40% of the text. Adjectives especially denoting someone’s
state (which you kind of lump on, one after the other) would allow
the story more breathing room.
Take the first line, “Chill night winds blew through the drafty house penetrating every small crack as an expeditionary force.”
The house is obviously drafty if you state right before hand that the chill night
winds are blowing through it.
Also you want to put “like” instead of “as” next to expeditionary force.
I would edit a few of the sentences in the opening paragraph to make them more readable. Either try breaking them up, or use a comma.
I notice too you repeat words such as “stretch” and “stretched” on the second page.
Again, sentences like these make it difficult for me to get into your piece:
A creak broke Ashton from his thoughts blinking his eyes rapidly shedding the comfortable haze of nostalgia.
What about: A sudden noise jolted Ashton and he blinked his eyes rapidly, dispelling the comfortable haze of nostalgia.
Also the whole incident where old-man Ashton is remembering his life goes on for a little too long. I’d stick to just a couple of people from his life and frame his flashback around them.
I don’t mean to be too critical, I just want to help you bring out a story
that I feel is buried under a lot of verbiage.
This was a very good story. The plot was new. The story flowed well rising to a pinnacle and finishing with a twist. Mr. Weltch was a very well thought out character that could be any one’s grandfather. Someone most everyone can relate to and care about. You could almost feel like you lost a family member when he was killed. As for James as a character, you make the reader have both pity and rage at this man. A feat that is hard for many writers to achieve. Very Nice.
This was vivid. Very descriptive and evocative.
Needs some work on the punctuation and the spelling. While it may fit the tone of this piece to be written in short jagged spurts, terse sentences… you still need to have the punctuation correct. Any time the reader has to stop and say ‘huh?’ and reread a sentence, it takes the reader out of the story. Take the reader out too many times and he stays out.
example--built in the fifties retaining much of that era’s art deco styling’s with-—needs to have a comma after ‘fifties,’ and no apostrophe in ‘stylings.’
Also the shift in the point-of-view is distracting. The reader is so totally in the head of the old man- his feelings, his memories, his home… it is distracting when suddenly we are in the mind of James/Dillinger.
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