'Make Me a Memory'

The best thing about Friday was the record store.  After school, Arthur would head towards the downtown instead of getting on the bus—he didn't live that far from school—passing familiar landmarks like Jim's Neighborhood Grocery store, the pet shop, or the gravel parking lot with weeds growing in the corners.  Heat would rise from the pavement in the summer, and in winter there was ice.  

After spending hours in the back of the store, flipping through vinyls of Jazz legends, he was on his way home when he heard a snatch of conversation.

"My wife doesn't know."

Arthur's eyebrows shot up but he continued walking.  That sounded like Mr. Elliott... his neighbor who had been married twenty years.  

"Yes!  If I'm going to surprise her for our anniversary, I'm going to do it right."  

So that was it.  Arthur smiled ruefully, glancing up at his neighbor's house.  It was a basic two story house, old style, with a huge oak tree on the front lawn.  That tree had always been there, even when Arthur was a baby.  Arthur smiled to himself, remembering the time he helped Mr. Elliott shovel out the driveway when it snowed a foot and Mrs. Elliott made hot chocolate.  Part of the reason it had meant so much was he didn't have anyone else to make hot chocolate for him that winter, or any winter.

He hoped the Elliotts would have a good anniversary.

Walking in the back door of his house, he passed his father's den without looking in, but even then he caught a whiff of alcohol—and applesauce.  His father worked at the applesauce plant at the edge of town and always came home smelling sticky sweet.  The alcohol smell was another matter entirely.

Arthur climbed the stairs to his room and tossed his backpack on his bed.  He lifted his saxophone from the stand in the corner and fitted the strap around his body, leaning into the instrument as he pulled a single, low note from the brass horn, letting it fill out and then fade.  He paused, licking his lips, then played several notes in succession, just random nonsense to warm up.  

An hour later, his stomach growled, bringing him back to reality.  He set down the instrument and went downstairs to eat something.  

His father was at the table, eating leftover mashed potatoes and sailsbury steak that Arthur's older sister had cooked for them when she had come to visit that weekend.

Arthur put together his own plate of the same, stuck in the microwave, and sat down to wait.  

His father's eyes were on his food.  Plate, fork, mouth.  Repeat.  He didn't look up at all, didn't even acknowledge that Arthur had sat down across from him.  Why was he so disinterested in what his son did?  The man seemed content to work, drink beer, eat, and sleep, without care for the activities of his children, except to yell at them now and again about chores or grades.  Arthur had won several competitions with his saxophone, and his father hadn't come to any of them.  

It wasn't that bad.  His father didn't hit them, or abuse them, and when he yelled it was because the kids really weren't doing what they were supposed to.  But it was bad, wasn't it?  It was bad, seeing your parent as a husk of themselves, the shell of who they had been.

"Dad, can I talk to you?"

His dad grunted, eyes never wavering.

"Dad... we never do anything together except chores and then you yell at us.  We never go to movies together, or the beach, or anything like normal families.  We don't even go on vacation anymore, except to grandma and grandpas house but you didn't even come last time.  I think you need to stop drinking so much beer and watching so much TV and start raising your children."  Arthur half expected his dad to nod or something for all the attention he seemed to be paying to the conversation.   

Instead, the glassy gaze hardened.

"Watch yourself, boy," his father said, rising from the table, and Arthur was suddenly aware of the broad shoulders and rippling arm muscles on the man before him.  His father turned, and his fell into shadow.

--

In history class the next day, Arthur had Mr. Russel, the nicest teacher at the school.  As Arthur watched him at the front of the room, he wondered what it would be like if Mr. Russel was his dad.  He played this game sometimes—what if?  It was a game that never ended well, especially if he thought about mother figures.

At lunch, he sat with Harry, who he supposed was his best friend.  They had kept each other company for a long time, and that was probably enough for the title.  Harry was a fellow band geek who'd had braces up until last year, covered the walls of his room with superhero posters, played the clarinet, and was one of the smartest kids in Arthur's class.  He was also in love with Lenatta.  It was funny because school was like a foreign language to her.  Arthur wondered why Harry could be so obsessed with someone so extremely different than himself.

--

When Arthur got home that night and caught the familiar flicker of the TV out of the corner of his eye, he made a decision.  He went into the garage, found a big black trash-bag, and took it into the den, collecting every empty bottle, TV dinner tray, and all the other trash.  

His father didn't move through the entire thing.  Arthur went up to his room exasperated, but when he came down later for food, the den was quiet.  His father was sitting at the table with his youngest sister, helping her with her math homework.  And when he looked out the window, he saw the television sitting next to curb with the trash cans.  His father caught his eye, and smiled.