Prodigal Blues

I will watch over my child when it is born, and I will stay by my wife's side no matter what; I my loved one's watch will keep all through the night.

I have made copies of everything from both computers, and have assembled over two dozen packages that I will mail out in the morning; The Columbus Dispatch, The New York Times, newspapers in Los Angeles, Denver, Washington D.C., and many others.  All of them contain the same information, all have the same unsigned cover letter.  I will wait two weeks after mailing them, and if none report what's in their possession, then I will take the computers and the discs and I will walk into the studio of a Columbus television station and give them quite a show.

Tanya and I still have the money, and have agreed that we will wait until the families of the missing dead children from Grendel's house have come forward, as they eventually will once some sort of identification has been made on those body parts that can still be identified.  When that happens, we will start sending out the money to each family.  It isn't much, but it's the best I can do for them and still remain anonymous.

But we're not completely altruistic; we've decided to keep some of the money for the raising of our child.  I can think of no better way to piss on Grendel's memory.

I wake some nights to the echoes of cries from my dreams.  I lay there for a while, watching Tanya sleep and reminding myself again how very, very lucky I am that she permits me to be her husband.

And I feel lucky to have known Christopher.

When I wake from these dreams that I never remember, I slip out of bed and go downstairs to the living room, where a silver-framed photograph sits on the mantel above the fireplace.  I take this photo in my hands and stand near one of the windows, looking at it in the moonlight.  I see their faces and their smiles and the way the bright sun alights on their features, and I imagine that it is me who has taken this picture, who is taking this picture.  They have come to visit Tanya and me at our new house, and, of course, to see the new baby that everyone coos and goobers over.  We've had a wonderful picnic lunch and laughed about our past exploits.  Arnold has played some Billy Joel songs on our piano because he's good at it and, besides, it gets on Rebecca's nerves and he thinks it's cute, the way that one little vein in her forehead pops out when she yells at him to play something else.  Rebecca has a new boyfriend at school who she doesn't want to talk about, but she smiles whenever we kid her about him; prom is coming up, after all.  Thomas has just learned how to skate and likes to show us his fancy moves before he slips and falls on his ass and we all laugh, including him.  Denise has just started second grade and thinks her teacher's a mean old prune.  And Christopher… Christopher has started writing his very first children's book, all about the adventures of a stuffed toy aardvark named Wilbur whose sole quest in life is to find other damaged and abandoned toys and make them new again so that they can find homes with children who love them.  But Wilbur has gas problems; even though he's a toy, he farts a lot, so no one can be near him for too long, which often puts a crimp in his plans.

I stand in the yard and tell them to all gather together on the porch; Tanya has made cookies for dessert, Edna's famous truck-stop-recipe cookies, which are yummy anytime, but are best when they're still warm, so we have to get the picture taken now before I lose the light and the cookies cool.  Scoot in closer, gang, that's it.  Look over here, at me, that's right.  If you smile for Pretty-Boy and say cheese so I can take this damned thing, then it's cookies for everyone.  Sound good?

All in favor….