Story
by Guy Hogan
Number One Son
Several years ago at the age of fifty-one, Scott Delaney proposed
marriage to Shea Yeager twelve years after his father died of
cancer. Shea Yeager was thirty-eight, a full professor in the
English Department of the University of Pittsburgh; but she had
never married or had children.
She said, "I knew you were going to
ask me. I debated with myself all weekend."
"Dad wouldn't have believed it. He
thought I was a bum. Well, a lot of us kids back from 'nam never
got our ambition back."
They sat leaning toward each other at a
table for two next to the big window on the Forbes Avenue side
of the restaurant, their hands clasped together on the plastic,
red and white checkered table covering. It was a hot Monday afternoon
in August in the Oakland section of Pittsburgh. The buildings
and parked cars, the traffic and people stood out sharply in
the glare of the sun.
"You reach a certain age," he
said. "It's strange. For the longest I thought ultimately
life was meaningless. If the old man could hear me now. That's
not to say I haven't enjoyed my restless bachelorhood."
Shea said nothing.
"The old pick-up is paid off and you
know I keep her looking good and running sweet. I might even
make a few bucks on this collection of stories you're helping
me with."
Shea Yeager sat silent, looking down at
their clasped hands.
The waitress appeared with two bottles
of Iron City beer and a glass for Shea. The waitress was very
young, probably a university student. Scott and Shea unclasped
their hands so as not to exclude the waitress. The beer was cold
and delicious.
Outside, the harsh sunlight brought everything
into sharp focus. Inside, the air conditioning was on, but the
heat and glare of the sun came through the window pane. For a
long moment, Shea sat watching something on the other side of
the window pane. Then she looked at him.
"All right," she said.
"Yes?"
"Yes." She gave him her hands.
"You won't regret this." He laughed.
He felt giddy. "I guess I need your ring size."
"Think we'll ever have a vegetable
garden like your mom's?"
"I hope so."
"Wish I could have known your father."
He contemplated her for a few seconds.
He let go of her hands and sat back. He picked up his beer and
drank the rest of it down. He put the empty bottle back down
on the table, and then he sat looking at something on the other
side of the window pane.
"Sweetheart," he said, "I
wish I could have known him, too."
Guy Hogan © 2009
Guy Hogan is a Vietnam War
veteran.
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