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Fortress FALLS (Lexington Avenue Express)

Fortress Falls (Lexington Avenue Express – Short Fiction)

A fortress of dandelion-down collapsed at the edge of my lifetime. I’d crafted it with my own hands but in an instant it was gone and now I sit quietly, leaning left as I circle and wait.

“How old was your son?”

The young priest seated beside me had asked this earlier, but perhaps he’d forgotten Kevin’s age or the previous question or both.

“Seven,” I repeated.

“And you do believe he’s … in a better place now,” he responded, his tone signaling affirmation rather than curiosity.

“I suppose,” I said, waiting for his next question, the one crafted to delicately address my present circumstances.

“Why do you think you’re here, Paul?” he asked, dashing my hopes for an approach a bit more creative.

“To serve the greater good,” I said, unable to resist the urge. The priest’s pale brow furrowed slightly and he stroked his close-cropped beard. He didn’t smile.

“Do you find humor in your … situation?” he asked following scholarly consideration.

“No,” I answered dispassionately, turning my head for a moment to contemplate the familiar meld of fall colors presented by the Irishman’s auburn beard and carefully crafted coiffure; the intricate layering nearly concealed his prominent bald-spot.

“Do you want to go home, Paul?” he asked.

I decided not to answer too quickly; the boundary separating my uncertainty and indifference being somewhat difficult to determine even under the best of circumstances … and these were not the best of circumstances.

“No,” I said after thoughtful pause, but the priest’s reaction would likely have been the same had I answered, ‘yes’.

“Cessna seven-seven Charlie Tango, this is Hampton Tower, if you copy, contact us on squawk one-one-five point seven, over.”

The priest and I ignored the radio transmission. He gazed out the window at the empty parking lot beyond the beach below us. As I watched him, I wondered if he was counting the yellow-framed parking spaces there as I had done. We’d been circling for two hours.

“Sixty-one seems a strange number,” I said.

“Sixty-one?”

“Sixty-one parking spaces,” I elaborated.

“Oh, yes, sixty-one,” he said and his eyebrows arched reflexively. “I suppose it is an odd number.”

Of course it’s an odd number you idiot! I wanted to scream but didn’t. I knew he wouldn’t laugh; he seemed to have lost his robust sense of humor.

“Yes, a strange number, indeed,” I repeated and an uncomfortable silence settled about us as the small airplane droned on, banking ever-left.

Leaning against the pilot-side door, I considered the various forms this sort of denial of the inevitable can take. For some it may be colorful wallpaper depicting ballerinas or baseball players, for others a collection of stuffed animals or tiny construction equipment. In my particular case, a backyard fort had served as physical aspect, a wooden bastion nailed solid, square against the crawl of time that had eventually devoured my son.

“Seven-seven Charlie Tango, this is Hampton Tower, if you copy, respond one-one-five point seven. You’ve got some rough weather approaching from the west, over.” The controller’s tone was more urgent now.

“Paul,” the priest began, “your son passed nearly four years ago. I’m sorry for your loss but I’m afraid I don’t understand your present behavior.”

“You mean the fort?” I asked, again glancing at my passenger.

“The fort?” he puzzled, his brow furrowed deeper now. I remained silent and turned my attention to the broad expanse of Pacific Ocean entering stage left as we continued our slow circle.

“Actually, I’m referring to this rather curious airplane ride,” the priest said, his tone uneven, uncertain.

“I cut his fort down with a chainsaw this morning,” I said, ignoring the priest’s previous remark. “I didn’t contemplate the finality … until the top section fell to the ground in a heap. I don’t think I’d really cried since he died,” I said. And my tears returned.

[else]

Fortress Falls (Lexington Avenue Express – Short Fiction)

A fortress of dandelion-down collapsed at the edge of my lifetime. I’d crafted it with my own hands but in an instant it was gone and now I sit quietly, leaning left as I circle and wait.

“How old was your son?”

The young priest seated beside me had asked this earlier, but perhaps he’d forgotten Kevin’s age or the previous question or both.

“Seven,” I repeated.

“And you do believe he’s … in a better place now,” he responded, his tone signaling affirmation rather than curiosity.

“I suppose,” I said, waiting for his next question, the one crafted to delicately address my present circumstances.

“Why do you think you’re here, Paul?” he asked, dashing my hopes for an approach a bit more creative.

“To serve the greater good,” I said, unable to resist the urge. The priest’s pale brow furrowed slightly and he stroked his close-cropped beard. He didn’t smile.

“Do you find humor in your … situation?” he asked following scholarly consideration.

“No,” I answered dispassionately, turning my head for a moment to contemplate the familiar meld of fall colors presented by the Irishman’s auburn beard and carefully crafted coiffure; the intricate layering nearly concealed his prominent bald-spot.

“Do you want to go home, Paul?” he asked.

I decided not to answer too quickly; the boundary separating my uncertainty and indifference being somewhat difficult to determine even under the best of circumstances … and these were not the best of circumstances.

“No,” I said after thoughtful pause, but the priest’s reaction would likely have been the same had I answered, ‘yes’.

“Cessna seven-seven Charlie Tango, this is Hampton Tower, if you copy, contact us on squawk one-one-five point seven, over.”

The priest and I ignored the radio transmission. He gazed out the window at the empty parking lot beyond the beach below us. As I watched him, I wondered if he was counting the yellow-framed parking spaces there as I had done. We’d been circling for two hours.

“Sixty-one seems a strange number,” I said.

“Sixty-one?”

“Sixty-one parking spaces,” I elaborated.

“Oh, yes, sixty-one,” he said and his eyebrows arched reflexively. “I suppose it is an odd number.”

Of course it’s an odd number you idiot! I wanted to scream but didn’t. I knew he wouldn’t laugh; he seemed to have lost his robust sense of humor.

“Yes, a strange number, indeed,” I repeated and an uncomfortable silence settled about us as the small airplane droned on, banking ever-left.

Leaning against the pilot-side door, I considered the various forms this sort of denial of the inevitable can take. For some it may be colorful wallpaper depicting ballerinas or baseball players, for others a collection of stuffed animals or tiny construction equipment. In my particular case, a backyard fort had served as physical aspect, a wooden bastion nailed solid, square against the crawl of time that had eventually devoured my son.

“Seven-seven Charlie Tango, this is Hampton Tower, if you copy, respond one-one-five point seven. You’ve got some rough weather approaching from the west, over.” The controller’s tone was more urgent now.

“Paul,” the priest began, “your son passed nearly four years ago. I’m sorry for your loss but I’m afraid I don’t understand your present behavior.”

“You mean the fort?” I asked, again glancing at my passenger.

“The fort?” he puzzled, his brow furrowed deeper now. I remained silent and turned my attention to the broad expanse of Pacific Ocean entering stage left as we continued our slow circle.

“Actually, I’m referring to this rather curious airplane ride,” the priest said, his tone uneven, uncertain.

“I cut his fort down with a chainsaw this morning,” I said, ignoring the priest’s previous remark. “I didn’t contemplate the finality … until the top section fell to the ground in a heap. I don’t think I’d really cried since he died,” I said. And my tears returned.