The Other Father - Flash Fiction Story by Salvatore Difalco

 

The Other Father

Flash Fiction Story

by Salvatore Difalco

 

 

 

I was sitting in Café New Orleans on Yonge Street one cool autumn day, watching the foot traffic flow north and south, nursing a coffee, my thoughts scattered. I thumbed through an old, green hardcover copy of Seamus Heaney’s first book of poems Death of a Naturalist without much attention. A man garbed like a mime passed by—his face painted white, a beret on his head, his top striped—and he looked complete, walking methodically. The only fault lay in his paunchy physiognomy. It’s hard to respect a bloated mime. As he passed he turned to me, locked eyes, and without changing expression flipped me the bird, as succinct and deflating a gesture as there exists. I sat there mildly amused, perhaps a little impressed. He had succeeded in getting his message across wordlessly.

 

In the midst of my reveries, a man approached my table. As I liked to sit near the windows for a panoramic view of the street, I noted him in the reflection of the window glass, a dark figure distending as it closed in on me. For a brief moment I felt a finger of anxiety pluck my nerves. I thought perhaps a solicitor, or beggar, or a deranged person intended to interfere with my state of abstraction. Strangers put me off, whatever their costume or motivations. I am not a friendly or gregarious person by nature, nor can I pretend to be. Nevertheless, I turned away from the window and saw an elderly man in a three-piece brown suit standing there, his short collar open, his neck sagged and crinkled like beige crêpe. His face looked vaguely familiar, aged but still well-defined, even chiselled, with high cheekbones and a strong nose. He was bald with a smooth unblemished skull and large leathery ears. I caught a whiff of Old Spice, an echo of a past when men routinely splashed a little aftershave on their raw, freshly-shaven faces.

 

“Hello,” he said flatly. He wore no expression and kept his arms at his side. I studied him but drew a blank.

 

“Do I know you?” I asked.

 

“It’s me,” he said, the line of mouth rising at the corners.

 

A moment passed. I had a vague awareness of the long-bladed overhead fans in the café swirling slowly, the greenery of the potted plants, and the fastidious waiter with the impresario moustache twirling from table to table and then to the bar. Faint jazz played over the speakers, inarticulate, more like a pleasant buzz.

 

The man seemed to be gathering himself for some kind of announcement or statement. I was about to tell him where to go when he leaned toward me and said, “I’m your father.”

 

At first I thought I had misheard him. I thought he’d said he knew my father. My father had died when I was a child. My memories of him were fragmentary at best. I said nothing and waited for him to either repeat what he just said, or perhaps disassemble as would a sketchy figure at the conclusion of or sudden shift in a dream.

 

“Did you hear me?” he said.

 

“I heard you just fine,” I said.

 

A silence ensued. The waiter appeared, shot me a look, then asked the man if he wanted anything. “I’m just saying hello,” he said. “I won’t be long.” The waiter again looked at me and as I gave no indication of discomfort—though I didn’t exactly feel comfortable, more like flummoxed or annoyed or even indifferent—he assumed all was well and darted off.

 

“Look,” I said, “I don’t know who you are, or what you want, but my father died a long time ago. I’m guessing you’re not all there, maybe a little touched, I don’t know, but I suggest you get out of my face before I do something you won’t like.”

 

Far from being deterred or intimidated by my threat, the man smiled.

 

“You think I’m being funny?” I said.

 

“No,” he said. “You’re just like I used to be. A hot head, a tough. I bet you can handle yourself.”

 

I flattened my hands on the table as if I were about to suddenly rise and lunge at him. “I bet I can handle you,” I said. “Now quit bothering me and get the fuck out of here. I’m not telling you again.”

 

The man raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Okay, boss, no problem,” he said. He turned to leave but threw me a final salvo over the shoulder. “Say hi to Carmela,” he said. With that, he padded toward the exit, nodded to the waiter, and pushed open the door.

 

I sat there for a long moment.

 

The waiter came and refilled my coffee. “Everything okay?” he asked. He had served me on countless occasions and we had an impersonal but amicable bond. 

 

“My mother’s name is Carmela,” I said.

 

The waiter looked at me uncertainly. “Um, that’s a lovely name,” he said with an almost questioning rise at the end of the phrase.

 

“Yeah, Carmela,” I said. “I miss her.”

Salvatore Difalco - writes from Toronto, Canada.