New Hope For Small Men: Chapter 15

by Grant Bailie

“Fuck!” the voice said. “Fuck that! That is complete fucking shit on a Saturday!”

Robert crawled out of bed and found his cigarettes. He took his seat, lit a cigarette, rubbed his chin and considered shaving.

He had been having a pleasant dream. In his dream he had been flying. Not in a plane, or in a balloon, but on his own, carried up by a sudden wind that, after a few moments of panic, he had found that he could control and then was soaring out of the city, over the woods that lined highway 73 leading out to the suburbs and then to the farmlands beyond. There were cars beneath him, but they were stuck in traffic. There was an accident ahead and Robert flew over it, through the smoke that rose from a burning car and smelled incongruously like the pleasant smell of wood burning.

He smoked his cigarette and put it out in the can he had been using as an ashtray and then smoked another one. The day was pleasant enough if you could not hear and did not make the mistake of looking down.

That afternoon Mr. Carleton knocked on his door asking for tea.

“I think I have a bag left,” Robert said.

“If not, water is fine.”

There was something unusual about Mr. Carleton’s manner today. Robert had noticed it even in his knock, which had been more rapid and forceful than was his habit. And now, while Robert looked for the one tea bag he was certain he had somewhere, Mr. Carleton paced back and forth in front of the window, instead of sitting there in his usual spot. Once, he did actually sit down in the chair but then tapped on the windowsill three times with his knuckle and rose again to resume pacing.

Robert found the tea bag and started the water. He sat on the edge of his bed and watched Mr. Carleton.

“My daughter’s coming,” he finally said while Robert was pouring the water into the kettle, as if Mr. Carleton had been waiting for that exact moment to break the news.

“Really?” Robert said.

“Yes. Really.”

“That’s great.”

“It is great.”

He sat down in the chair, looking out at a phone line that at that moment contained no pigeons.

“When is she coming?”

“Next month.”

“You must be excited.”

“I am.”

“So what brought this on?”

Mr. Carleton looked at him, not understanding the question or lost in some thought of his own.

“I mean, why is she coming?”

“To see me, of course. To see her father.”

“Of course.”

He was quiet for a moment. His eyes were probably damp, but his back was to Robert now and this too was unusual. He usually sat at an angle, so Robert could see his profile — the melting flesh and the large nose that comes inevitably with age, the sun that cut through the thinness of his hair and gleamed off the scalp beneath.

“She travels a lot for her job,” he said when Robert was pouring the tea into two cups. “She wrote me a letter. She travels a lot and has some business in the city. She’ll be staying with friends downtown but wants to get together for lunch or something.”

“It’s nice that she wants to see you,” Robert said, handing him a cup.

“It is,” he said. “It really is.”

“You must be excited.”

“I am excited.” He took a sip, swallowed and sighed. “This is really excellent tea,” he said. “This is an excellent cup of tea.”

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