The One
by Sarah Carolan
The webs of frost had not yet engulfed my father’s grave. I stepped closer to the loose dirt, which raised like a cancerous lesion amidst the snowy cemetery, as silent as himself.
My father, the eyesore, remained plump inside his box, full of fluids and a pattering of powdered rouge. The heirloom timepiece clasped to his hairy wrist, and an ugly tie spun around his neck. Stoicism had stalked his heart. It struck him down like a clap to a mosquito. But if he was quiet, I was quiet. I had done everything he told me to do. But as fathers are meant to die before their sons, fathers do not choose their sons. Would he be happy I came here?
I attracted those who knew my father in life. The grievers left flowers and useless gifts at my door as if I were a vindictive god. The worse I looked for wear, the more people gathered, and the more food accumulated in my refrigerator and cabinets. I could not help but wondered if the other man received the same gifts.
The other man, and my father’s favorite. His one—The One. He who readily mourned. He who did not hide behind stoicism but released his grief like a pinch of salt to bring out the sweetness.
I watched The One whimper by the unfrosted plot, chuffing air into a fog. I approached as if circling prey, descending with a bout of excitement in my chest. The One had not paid his respects to me, and my appearance would surely surprise the man. If he loved my father, he would desire my approval as well. I was his image.
Leaves crackled, burning underfoot, and acorns shattered. The One turned too early, and I dropped the curl of a sneer. But he returned to the headstone without any acknowledgment.
Was his grief extraordinary? Too unmatched for spectators?
“Does it make you happy that he was buried with your tie?” I asked The One.
“It makes no difference.”
The One’s tailored suit clung to his chest like an envelope of folded corners. I searched for a thread to pull. I stroked my chin to the tune of late afternoon. There was nothing to be found here but hills of death and theater. But how good he was, not keeping score. Then again, his tie was buried with my father. He must consider that a victory. Or perhaps the victory lay with neither of us inheriting the timepiece.
“I’m sorry—for your loss,” The One said. “I understand how you must be feeling.”
There he goes again. What is sorrow without a scale? It’s penance for love.
“How are you feeling?” I asked him.
“As if walking outside myself, like a ghost,” he answered.
I suppose he meant a husk of his former self, or that death shaved away at his soul like shucked corn, removing the bulk of him. The One remained vacant, enriched by nothing but our rivalry. Why my father chose him, I would never understand.
“Did he tell you to be sad?” I asked.
The One's head moved, and then his shoulders followed. I gazed into his confusion.
“I miss him,” he said simply. “Did he tell you to be sad?”
The One must get off on suspicion. Flaunting his readiness for performance as if the mourners sat present, enthralled by his melancholic solo and those inimitable complexities. He knew the flourishes; to him, I was but a novice, an understudy for a part I would never play.
“It took every bit of effort to come here,” I said.
The One nodded and turned his back to me once more.
“We’re different,” I added. “I lost a father.”
“A great man, but it’s not a game of favorites.”
“No, it’s not a game.”
I watched him carefully. He may as well have been pulling a rope of handkerchiefs from his pocket, veiling antagonism with hand tricks of decorum.
“Why do you despise that I’m here?” The One asked.
It was meant as a cleaver, his words sharp and astute and threatening.
“You struck me,” I said.
“I’ve never stuck you.”
“Four years ago. You and father sat in the sunroom, smoking cigars, and drinking cognac. I came to join, but you turned me away. When I refused to leave, you struck me.”
“That didn’t happen,” The One replied.
“You happily struck me.”
The One shook his head and continued to stare at the headstone. ‘Here lies a beloved friend,’ it spelled in perfect depression.
“Quite the opposite, actually,” The One said. “You were drunk, and your father asked you to leave. When you refused, I tried to be the voice of reason. But then your father said, ‘Punch him.’ He meant for me to punch you, but I would do no such thing. You, though, well… you always did as he said.”
I tongued the inside of my cheek. I would feel sorry for The One if not for his smugness. He thought of himself so perfect, so strategically permanent.
“Let us be friends,” The One said. “It’s what he would have wanted.”
The One held out his hand. A blue tinge flushed his nail beds, and a red gossamer of veins traced his palms.
Could I argue the last request of my father? Did he wish for us to be friends?
I did not answer but reached for his hand. It felt clammy, in danger of crumpling within my grasp like shards of clay. I did not release it. Instead, I fixed my gaze on his wrist.
The One received no explanation. I yanked him forward, pressing my back into his torso, working the metal facets free. Once I held the chain in my hand, I pushed him to the frozen earth.
“What are you doing?” The One asked through panting breaths.
“This is mine,” I said, slipping the timepiece onto my wrist. “This is why he wanted me to come here.”
My father, the eyesore, remained plump inside his box, full of fluids and a pattering of powdered rouge. The heirloom timepiece clasped to his hairy wrist, and an ugly tie spun around his neck. Stoicism had stalked his heart. It struck him down like a clap to a mosquito. But if he was quiet, I was quiet. I had done everything he told me to do. But as fathers are meant to die before their sons, fathers do not choose their sons. Would he be happy I came here?
I attracted those who knew my father in life. The grievers left flowers and useless gifts at my door as if I were a vindictive god. The worse I looked for wear, the more people gathered, and the more food accumulated in my refrigerator and cabinets. I could not help but wondered if the other man received the same gifts.
The other man, and my father’s favorite. His one—The One. He who readily mourned. He who did not hide behind stoicism but released his grief like a pinch of salt to bring out the sweetness.
I watched The One whimper by the unfrosted plot, chuffing air into a fog. I approached as if circling prey, descending with a bout of excitement in my chest. The One had not paid his respects to me, and my appearance would surely surprise the man. If he loved my father, he would desire my approval as well. I was his image.
Leaves crackled, burning underfoot, and acorns shattered. The One turned too early, and I dropped the curl of a sneer. But he returned to the headstone without any acknowledgment.
Was his grief extraordinary? Too unmatched for spectators?
“Does it make you happy that he was buried with your tie?” I asked The One.
“It makes no difference.”
The One’s tailored suit clung to his chest like an envelope of folded corners. I searched for a thread to pull. I stroked my chin to the tune of late afternoon. There was nothing to be found here but hills of death and theater. But how good he was, not keeping score. Then again, his tie was buried with my father. He must consider that a victory. Or perhaps the victory lay with neither of us inheriting the timepiece.
“I’m sorry—for your loss,” The One said. “I understand how you must be feeling.”
There he goes again. What is sorrow without a scale? It’s penance for love.
“How are you feeling?” I asked him.
“As if walking outside myself, like a ghost,” he answered.
I suppose he meant a husk of his former self, or that death shaved away at his soul like shucked corn, removing the bulk of him. The One remained vacant, enriched by nothing but our rivalry. Why my father chose him, I would never understand.
“Did he tell you to be sad?” I asked.
The One's head moved, and then his shoulders followed. I gazed into his confusion.
“I miss him,” he said simply. “Did he tell you to be sad?”
The One must get off on suspicion. Flaunting his readiness for performance as if the mourners sat present, enthralled by his melancholic solo and those inimitable complexities. He knew the flourishes; to him, I was but a novice, an understudy for a part I would never play.
“It took every bit of effort to come here,” I said.
The One nodded and turned his back to me once more.
“We’re different,” I added. “I lost a father.”
“A great man, but it’s not a game of favorites.”
“No, it’s not a game.”
I watched him carefully. He may as well have been pulling a rope of handkerchiefs from his pocket, veiling antagonism with hand tricks of decorum.
“Why do you despise that I’m here?” The One asked.
It was meant as a cleaver, his words sharp and astute and threatening.
“You struck me,” I said.
“I’ve never stuck you.”
“Four years ago. You and father sat in the sunroom, smoking cigars, and drinking cognac. I came to join, but you turned me away. When I refused to leave, you struck me.”
“That didn’t happen,” The One replied.
“You happily struck me.”
The One shook his head and continued to stare at the headstone. ‘Here lies a beloved friend,’ it spelled in perfect depression.
“Quite the opposite, actually,” The One said. “You were drunk, and your father asked you to leave. When you refused, I tried to be the voice of reason. But then your father said, ‘Punch him.’ He meant for me to punch you, but I would do no such thing. You, though, well… you always did as he said.”
I tongued the inside of my cheek. I would feel sorry for The One if not for his smugness. He thought of himself so perfect, so strategically permanent.
“Let us be friends,” The One said. “It’s what he would have wanted.”
The One held out his hand. A blue tinge flushed his nail beds, and a red gossamer of veins traced his palms.
Could I argue the last request of my father? Did he wish for us to be friends?
I did not answer but reached for his hand. It felt clammy, in danger of crumpling within my grasp like shards of clay. I did not release it. Instead, I fixed my gaze on his wrist.
The One received no explanation. I yanked him forward, pressing my back into his torso, working the metal facets free. Once I held the chain in my hand, I pushed him to the frozen earth.
“What are you doing?” The One asked through panting breaths.
“This is mine,” I said, slipping the timepiece onto my wrist. “This is why he wanted me to come here.”
Sarah Carolan is a writer and artist based out of Chicago, Illinois. She received her BFA from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago with a focus on architecture and design. Growing up, she spent summers at her family's cabin in Wisconsin, which encouraged her love of nature and folktales. Sarah enjoys reading and writing stories with darker themes and is currently finishing her second novel.