by Christopher Hivner

John tensed at that statement, but held his tongue.

"I think Todd threw it away, but if he didn't, it's up in the attic in a box with Henley's name on it."

*****

John put the mower away, not bothering to clean the cut grass off of the body or tires. The bottom of the shed was covered in a layer of brown and green hair. He closed the shed door, clicking the padlock. When he turned he came face to face with his father. His mouth fell open. He hadn't seen Henley in at least four years. It took a minute for him to realize he was now slightly taller than his dad.

"What are you doing here?" John finally stammered.

"I'm here to wish you a happy birthday."

"Really?" John's defenses went up quickly. He wanted to believe, but there wasn't any reason to. He was going to let it go, but couldn't. "So how old am I today?" he asked.

Henley laughed. "Come on, boy. You're putting the old man on the spot."

John had hoped for once for his father to surprise him, but he got the answer he expected. So, his wall went back up all the way. "Ok, that question was too hard. How about this one: Where have you been for the last five birthdays?"

"You know, I forget dates and stuff."

"You forgot for five years?"

"Ok, I screwed up."

"I'm your son," John started, then hesitated. Five full years and nothing had changed. The man in front of him may be older, and now shorter, but he was the same man inside. "You know what, forget it." John sighed. "Just go away, Dad. It's what you're good at." John turned and walked toward the house.

"Hey, you little bitch," Henley said after getting over his initial surprise at his son's back talk.

John stopped and stared at his father with narrowed eyes, shook his head as a rebuke and then continued on his way. Henley followed a step behind.

"You know, I'm still your dad," he said angrily. "You show me some respect." John's harsh laugh was the only acknowledgment of his father's comment. Henley clamped a tight hand on John's shoulder and spun him around.

"Hey! I'm talkin' to you," he yelled. "I didn't come over here to get treated like crap by my own kid."

"Why did you come over here?" John asked. "It sure as Hell wasn't to wish me a happy birthday because you couldn't care less." Henley dug his fingers into the soft flesh of John's upper arm and gave him a shove.

"How is Ruby raising you that you think you can talk to me this way?"

John tried to walk away from his father yet again.

"So I miss a couple of days and everything's an attitude with you. You're too good to talk to me, you're too good to have me wish you a happy birthday."

"What's the point?" John threw back over his shoulder.

"The point," Henley bellowed as he shoved his son forward again, "is I don't want my kid growing up to be a punk." Reaching the back porch, John put his hand on the screen door handle. Henley grabbed his arm and roughly yanked John's hand back, pinching two of his fingers.

"We're not done yet," Henley growled. "You're not treating me this way and getting away with it."

"And what are you going to do?" John asked. "You haven't done anything for sixteen years, but now suddenly you're my father and you have something to say."

Henley reached out to smack John's face, but John was able to bob out of the way and Henley caught only air. Angered even further, he grabbed John by the back of the head, holding tightly to a clump of hair. He shook the boy's head back and forth.

"I'm your father, and I'm a man," Henley spit out. "You've got my blood in your veins, and you're not treating me this way. We're the same, me and you. Your skin is my skin, your hair is my hair. You're not better than me. You think you're all grown up now? Well, let's see what you got."

John's anger had turned to fear. So used to being ignored by his father, he had no idea the man had a temper. The brown of his eyes had darkened, and it took John a moment to realize he hadn't even known Henley had brown eyes. John wanted to say something but had no idea how to respond, though he did think to himself that it figured: the most attention Henley's ever paid to him and he's about to beat him up. Henley finally let go of John's hair, his open palm taking another swipe and this time connecting with John's cheek.

"Let's see what you got, boy," Henley said loudly. "Is this all there is to you, a lot of smart words? Don't you have any balls?" Henley made a grab at John's crotch and then laughed heartily when John flinched and covered up. "Well if I'd have known Ruby was going to raise you as a pussy, I would've stuck around and made sure you came out right."

John closed his eyes and pictured his mother Ruby; a haggard, worn-out face that showed ten more years than was really there. A slipstream of memories raced through his mind: The several dozen different jobs that she'd held over the years to try and pay the bills and give John as good as a life as she could, the two or three men that she had dated seriously who mostly turned out to be skewed copies of his father, and the moment he had realized that she had given up on finding someone who would really love her. His stomach started to hurt as the memories of the pain he had caused her over the years flooded over him. At that moment the only thing in the world that John wanted was to go into the house, sit down and eat supper with his mother, and then listen to her softly sing Beatles songs while she did the dishes, never quite getting the key right.

John opened his eyes and spoke. "I'm not going to fight you, Dad. But I do have one more thing to say to you."

"Yeah, what's that?"

John reached to his right and picked up a small clay flowerpot filled with soil from a three-legged table leaning against the house. He brought the pot up and cracked it along the side of Henley's head. Henley jerked backward and then fell onto the cement porch like a pile of dirty laundry.

"Look out, Dad." John dropped the clump of dirt still in his hands onto Henley's chest and went into the house.

*****

Tess Barber's back yard butted up against Patterson's Woods, which ran along the edge of the county line for almost two miles. Less than a mile in was a large clearing with an irregular, oblong shaped pond that a few fish and frogs called home. John Barber was running through the woods, his face being cut and slashed by tree limbs and barbed bushes. As he approached the pond, he took his eyes off where he was running and tripped over a rotted stump, flying through the air a few feet before landing with an inglorious thump onto the forest floor, dirt and decomposing plant matter being driven into his mouth and nose. John sneezed and spit the detritus onto the front of his short and then rolled over onto his back, staring up at a canopy of oak leaves. His chest rose and fell violently as he searched for breath.

The letter had been right where Tess said it would, a box in the corner of the attic marked "Henley's". Inside of it on top of some old clothes had been a cigar box and inside that, a stack of love letters that his mother Ruby had written to his father when they were young, a few letters that Tess had written to him and stuck along the edge, as though it had been crammed into a hiding place, was a business size envelope labeled 'for Johnny'.