Still Life Las Vegas by James Sie

Author:James Sie
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781466859265
Publisher: St. Martin's Press

WALTER

HOME

LATER

When I wake up, I can barely lift my head. Apparently, it’s been filled with concrete. Someone’s covered me with a sheet and given me a pillow. I’m still in my clothes, which smell like I’ve been dragged across the floor of a bar. Which could have happened, for all I can remember.

I’m holding something in my hand.

I bring my hand up to my face and uncurl three fingers to reveal a crumpled business card. Even in the gloom with bleary eyes I can read whose it is:

Chrystostom, it says in the middle, with a phone number on the bottom left corner.

Chrystostom.

The night’s events flash in my brain. Images both thrilling and cringe-worthy flicker in rapid succession, like one of those flip books of ladies dancing the hootchie-coo or a shark attacking a baby seal.

I’ve got his number.

“Back from the dead, Orpheus?”

Jesus Christ, my father is awake. I feel like I’ve been caught jacking off. I quickly palm Chrysto’s card and shove it in my pocket. I don’t remember the last time my father has woken up before me. It’s unsettling. With a mighty effort, I manage to sit up.

“What did you do last night?” my father asks mildly. He’s sitting at the kitchen table without the lights on. He’s still in his robe, but he’s awake, and aware. He’s even made himself tea. I’m not the only one back from the dead.

“You’re better,” I say, on the way to the refrigerator to find something to wash my mouth out with.

He nods slowly, thoughtfully. “Maybe. Maybe … I am.”

“That’s good.” I finish off the OJ, straight from the carton.

“Where’d you go yesterday?” my father asks again. He’s back on track. Again, a little freaky. Where’s that medicated fog when you need it?

“I told you,” I mumble into the fridge. “Staff meeting.”

“And then?”

“Um, we, there was a birthday and we, the staff, went out.”

“Where?” he asks quietly.

I’m deliberately vague, keeping my options open. “A place. I don’t remember.”

“Did you drink?”

“Nah,” I mumble quickly.

“Walter?” His voice is soft but expectant. The whole conversation’s been leading to this. I know what this is. This is what it’s like in a house where the father looks after the son, and the son does things that need looking after. I’ve seen this on TV. Here’s my cue. I hang my head and nod sadly, a model of exposed shame.

“Walter.” My father shovels as much grim disappointment into my name as it can hold. “You’ve got to be responsible.” I’m surprised he remembers the lines. “It’s okay to have a beer or something. Just let me know next time, okay, champ?”

I smile and nod, hoping we’re going to cut to commercial, but then a horrified look comes over his face. “Walt,” he says, panicked, “did someone drive?”

There’s my dad. Happy to see his son swilling alcohol, but terrified that he’ll step into an automobile. “No cars,” I say. That, at least, is true.

I see the fog rolling in, finally. “Good. Good…” My father stares off somewhere to the left of his tea mug, picking at the skin around his fingernails.

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