Edwin Johnson staggered towards the window and looked out into his front yard.  He could see the child perched precariously in the limbs of a sprawling oak tree.  The little brat was trying to provoke him into barging out to yell and chase him off.  As he drained his glass in one long gulp, he reflected on the child.  The boy was getting braver in his shenanigans.  Edwin was actually starting to look forward to the daily distraction, but today he was tired, so he nestled comfortably into his favorite chair overlooking the front yard.  He studied the sunlight filtering through the clouds in the sky, blanketing the ground in alternating patterns of bright light and ominous shadow.  The boy dangled in the tree happily.

     Edwin coughed as he reached for the pack of cigarettes that was buried in his shirt pocket.  Lighting one, he inhaled contentedly, enticed by the smoke that curled and hung about his scraggly face.  Taking long soothing drags, he was hypnotized by the glowing ashes that reflected in the window pane.  Bewildered, he tried to recognize the warped image that reflected back at him.  The creases and folds of his haggard appearance were transformed into the face of a handsome young man.  His tearful blue eyes sparkled with a healthy glow and his crooked nose was noble and strong.  His limp, dull, gray hair was shiny black.  He gasped and lurched forward, then realized that he was seeing a ghostly younger version of himself.  Looking expectantly down into his lap, he saw only his old skeletal hands. His cigarette, burned to the filter, was held securely between two nicotine stained fingers.  The untapped ash suspended threateningly at the tip as he brought the cigarette unsteadily to his lips and took one last puff.

     Re-adjusting his vision, he looked out through the window.  The little boy climbed higher into the tree, glancing furtively to see if Edwin was watching.  Edwin groaned and eased out of the chair.  With a wheezing sigh, he smashed the cigarette out in the big abalone shell that was overflowing with butts and ashes.  He muttered to himself, “damn kid’s gonna break his neck,” and walked towards the door, pausing to prepare himself for the role of crotchety old man.  He jerked the door open and stomped outside in a rage.  “Full of spit and fire, that’s what ya are boy!” he yelled bitterly at the top of his lungs as he wagged his finger at the child.  His thick, gravelly voice sounded frightening, even to himself, and he chuckled silently.

***

     Christopher leaped down from the tree and scampered away quickly.  A headstrong and rebellious child, daring beyond his 8 years, he had an uncontrollable urge to aggravate the man.  While fearful of what the old man might do if he caught up to him, once he reached a safe distance, he boldly taunted him, “Na na, na na, na na, you can’t catch me!  You old geezer!”  he reached to the ground and picked up a handful of acorns and hurled them, one by one, towards the man.  Christopher’s fiery red hair, wild and untamed, seemed to stand on end.  The old man shook his fist in the air menacingly, his own stringy hair billowing from the static breeze, and then turned away.  He stomped into the house and slammed the door.

     A radiant smile spread across Christopher’s freckled face as he turned and bounded towards home.  The sky was filled with clouds, both dark and luminous, promising a great storm.  A gust of wind slammed against his wiry frame, knocking him off balance.  He crammed his hands into the pockets of his tattered blue jeans, leaned his head forward, and quickened his pace.

     Large heavy drips of water thumped Christopher’s forehead and trickled down his face as he walked through the gate in front of his house.  The tapping raindrops seemed to grow louder behind him as he headed towards the door.  He looked up and saw his mother waiting for him on the porch, her threadbare sweater pulled tightly around her shoulders.  She relaxed at the sight of him.  Thunder roared in the distance and he scurried up the steps as she held the door open.

***

     Edwin wandered through the expansive house, fighting the memories that danced in his head.  In one hand he held a glass of whiskey, in the other, a freshly lit cigarette.  Rather than revive the past, he forced himself to think about that rascal of a boy who disrupted his simple and uncomplicated way of life.  He shuffled through the empty rooms of the house, grumbling disapprovingly about how ill-mannered children were nowadays.

     Edwin’s stomach rumbled as he headed back down to the kitchen.  He prepared himself another drink and opened a can of clam chowder.  He vividly recalled the time when his young wife had attempted to create a batch of clam chowder from scratch.  He smiled at the memory of her.  Emily had stood stubbornly at the stove, her long dark mass of hair pulled back into a knot, wispy tendrils framing her soft face and an apron tied clumsily about her expectant belly.  Fiercely determined to succeed, she had looked at him with a sarcastic smile, her hands placed comically at her waist and said, “Now don’t you laugh, Eddie.  I’m going to make you a delicious pot of home made chowder. You’ll be so impressed!”  Placing one hand on her belly, and the other around her back, he leaned over to kiss her and lingered as he breathed in her lavender scent.  Later that night, when the labor pains started, he knew he would never again be able to have a bowl of clam chowder without thinking of that particular moment.  He sighed and plopped the contents of the soup can into a bowl and placed it in the microwave. 

***

     Christopher curled up into a little ball in the middle of his bed.  With each crash of thunder he snuggled deeper into his nest.  He could hear his mother downstairs, yelling on the telephone, “No Frank, I can’t come over tonight.  This storm is too bad and Christopher is in bed.  I can’t leave him!”  Then she spoke softly, mumbling words he couldn’t hear, followed by a quiet laughter.  Christopher imagined her smile.  Feeling the warmth of her love, he fell into a light slumber.