The Table

    He’d made the table when a young father.  Not a nail or a screw was in the table.  It was made completely from wood, cut joints with peg and dowel joinery.  It had been done just to see if he could, and had earned the spot in the dining room, the family table.  Looking at the marred surface he noted each cut, every scratch, dent, and burn.  He knew how almost each one had happened.  He sat at the scarred table, studying the almost naked surface.  The varnished, clear pine was cool to the touch; it was silk to his calloused hands. 

    He poured the glass two-thirds full of amber liquid; it tempted his nostrils with the smooth aroma and subtle burn.  He took a long, deep draught and inwardly sighed as it burned while traveling his throat.  The glass was then placed on a circular scar on the table, the remnant of a long evening several years ago.  His daughter, their daughter, had announced her intention of marrying a young man with little ambition.  He had liked the kid, just not for his daughter and at the time he’d tried not to let the disappointment show, but it had.  His wife, their daughter, the fiancé,  and he had then sat at the table for several hours.  To the young couple's credit they had handled it like adults, probably better than he had.  The liquid from the glass that evening had spilled over and then set for hours, burning the finish on the table.

    Now, years later his daughter lived a good life.  They weren’t wealthy but then neither was he.  They were comfortable, in love, and the kid had turned into everything a husband and father should be.  He couldn’t complain, even if he’d wanted to. 

    He took a sip of the liquid and his focus shifted to a leathery, gnarled hand.  The hand had gone from smooth and young to rough and scarred overnight it seemed.  Smooth and soft, like he had been before living, before the disappointments and regrets had taken hold and immobilized him.  The swollen knuckles on the right hand were painful, any gripping or clutching had become difficult, however as most of the rest of life he bulled through it, ignoring the pain doing whatever needed to be done.  Sitting up with a sick child or wife, or selling his soul to no avail.  He just did what had to be done; it was the way he was.  Both hands wrapped around the glass and another swallow slid down his throat.

    The warm glow from the whiskey began to infuse him, comfort him.  Looking to his right he smiled at the dents in the table.  Once he had kept track of them, then he’d lost count and given up.  It had been a losing battle from the beginning.  Each indentation was the end of a spoon or fork that had been hammered into the table by their daughter’s tiny fist.  He leaned forward and softly stroked the dents; a tear plopped into the glass mixing with the golden warmth.

    On his left, the table was marred by scratches and carvings, between where their two sons had sat while growing.  He had never seen either cut the table, or even acknowledge that the surface had been carved.  The carvings into bare wood would just appear, he’d never been able to pinpoint a time.  They were black with age and spilled meals.  Neither had ever admitted to cutting the table, he suspected his wife had known but to protect their sons she had never told him. 

    In the center of the table were several burns.  One of the larger burns was from a daughter-in-law placing a traditional holiday dish, without thinking, on the bare table.  She’d burst into tears realizing what she had done and fled the room.  He’d followed before his son could, finding her behind the closed bathroom door.  Back to the wall, he slid down, sitting in the hall waiting for her.

    After a few minutes she was startled to find him there when opening the door.  He smiled and she sat on the floor next to him.  Her eyes were red and puffy.

    “I’m so sorry,” she said barely audible..

    He let that hang for several seconds, “It’s okay, I like it actually.”  He was quiet then whispered, not quite able to keep the emotion from his voice, “You’re part of the family, I think of you as my daughter.  It’s your mark on the table, everybody has at least one.  Val is the only one who knows this; if you look closely you’ll find an eighth inch diameter patch on one of the corners.”  He chucked softly, “I was lazy and drilled through a piece of wood into the table, duh.”

    She laughed, “You did?”  She turned to him with a soft questioning look, “You really think of me as your daughter?”  The woman whispered.  “I didn’t know that.”

    “You’re serious?” more a statement than a question to her.  “Yeah, you’re one of my kids.”

    “Thank you,” she kissed his cheek softly.

    “Yeah, well, don’t get carried away or anything.  Don’t sweat the table, it’s seen worse, sometime check out the obscenities your husband carved into the bottom.  He doesn’t know I know.”  He looked at her with a smile.

    He felt the worn, smooth words under the table and sighed.  When they would argue the eldest son would run his hands over the obscenities regarding his father.  There had been more than a couple of tumultuous years between the two of them.  The boy however, had grown into a fine man and the father was proud

    Another tear slipped down the man’s cheek, unnoticed.

    He dumped several cartridges from the box before him on the table.  He put one to his mouth and let the metallic tang pervade him, then dropped it into the whiskey.  Picking up the Smith & Wesson .38 he had bought for his wife he spun the cylinder and opened it.  Inserting a cartridge he swung it closed, placed it before him and stared at it.  Unconsciously he took a sip of the whiskey and noticed the lead had already tainted the drink. 

    It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

    He turned the cylinder of the revolver until the hammer would fall on the cartridge when he squeezed the trigger.  He tasted the barrel; it was cold and burnt his lips.  He sipped the lead fouled drink.  He contemplated a lead soiled mind.  Tears now freely flowed down his face, he placed the revolver before him and cradled his head in his hands.  The phone jarred him.  He let it ring.

    The machine answered it, he listened for the caller, “Hi Grandpa, are you home? “  He went to the phone.  “Hi Grandpa, I was afraid you weren’t home, I need help with my homework.  I don’t get this math.”

    “Hi Melanie, your dad can do the math, he’s pretty good at it you know.  What class is it again?”

    “Algebra II.  You make it easier, Grandpa; I always get it when you explain it.  Could you come over and explain it? Mom said you could have dinner with us if you want.  Please?

    “I don’t know Mel,” he searched for an excuse.

    “I could come and get you, I kinda wanted to talk to you about some other stuff to if it’s okay?” Her voice quavered at the end. ‘

    “Mel..., I don’t know...  I am not really feeling that good, honey.”  He was barely holding back the tears.

    There was a short silence, “Do you miss her? Do you miss Grandma, Grandpa?”  It was almost whispered.

    His voice broke, “Yeah.”

    “Me too, Grandpa, a lot.”

    “Okay Honey, I’ll come.”

    “I’ll come and get you,” his granddaughter said, “I’ll be over in fifteen minutes, okay?”

    “Thanks, Mel.”

    He put the gun and cartridges in the closet, on the top shelf.