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the walls closed in as I walked toward him. His fingers clutched the beer can as if they’d been frozen there, and I knew before I even rounded the chair.
    My throat swelled up as I crouched down next to the recliner and stared at him. His chin was pressed against his chest, and his eyes were closed beneath his reading glasses. He’d been too proud to wear the damn things until last month when he’d realized that he could no longer read his television guide or the key pad on the phone. It seemed like some of the wrinkles had smoothed, and, for the first time since I could remember, he didn’t look pissed off. His fingers rested against the beer can, but I saw now that they no longer held it.
    I stared at his thick, menacing hand for a moment remembering how I’d feared that hand, how I’d feared those fingers when they were bound into a tight fist. How many times I’d wanted the man to die, just to drop dead on the spot. I’d always imagined myself smiling and laughing over his dead body. But I wasn’t smiling as I stared at him, my dad, the man who’d made my life miserable because his life had been miserable and somehow it had made him feel better knowing that my childhood had been as hellish as his.
    I stood and the blood drained from my head. I steadied myself on the back of his chair, and the movement ruffled his gray hair. I stared down at him as I dialed the phone.
    “Emergency services, how can I help you?”
    “Yes, I just arrived at my dad’s house, and I found him dead in his chair.” My voice sounded unfamiliar as it echoed through the eerily quiet house.
    “Are you certain he is dead?”
    “He called me earlier to let me know he wasn’t feeling well—” my throat seized up on me and I fell silent.
    The woman’s voice softened. “Tell me the address and I’ll send the paramedics.”
    “I’m at four-hundred twenty Beechwood Street.” I hung up. The severe hunger in my stomach had turned to nausea. I ran into the kitchen and puked into the sink.
    His message, his plea for help, replayed again in my head as I splashed cold water on my face. I stood in the kitchen doorway and stared at him. He looked older and frailer than I remembered. I walked over to him and lifted his hand from the beer can. His fingers were stiff and cold. They’d never make a fist again. They’d never threaten anyone again.
    I carried the empty beer can to the kitchen. For some strange, fucked up reason I didn’t want the paramedics to walk in and see him with a beer in his hand. I wanted people to walk in and see a peaceful, elderly man who’d died in his sleep and who’d probably led an admirable life as a husband and father.
    I leaned against the kitchen counter and stared out the window at the dark driveway where his car was parked. From the corner of my eye I could see the long crack in the wood of the kitchen cupboard. Dad had come home from work, tired and steaming with rage about something that had happened on the docks, and I’d been sent home early from junior high after being caught in the bathroom smoking a cigarette. I’d managed to dodge his metal lunch pail as it soared across the kitchen toward my head. The cupboard had taken the brunt of the impact, and I’d always figured my skull would have cracked open just like the wood of the cabinet if I hadn’t ducked in time. I could definitely credit my dad with some of my agility and reflexes in the cage. Because of him, I knew how to duck and weave better than most.
    In the distance I could hear the sirens coming up the street. I ran the finger of my injured hand down the length of the crack and then plowed my fist through the kitchen cupboard. I heard a bone break as the wood splintered apart. Pain shot through my arm as I pressed my hand into my stomach and sank down to my knees.

Chapter 6
    Dray
    The nurse smiled sympathetically at me as she finished wrapping my hand. She looked about the same age as my mom, but that was where the resemblance ended.