The Bazaar of Bad Dreams

That kid will be in his fifties now, probably going silver at the temples. Sanderson hopes this grown version of the kid who killed his brother has scoliosis, he hopes the guy’s wife died of ovarian cancer, hopes he got mumps and went both blind and sterile, but he’s probably just fine. Managing a grocery store somewhere. Maybe even, God help them, managing an Applebee’s. Why not? He was sixteen. All water over the dam. Youthful indiscretion. The records would be sealed. And Reggie? Also sealed. Bones inside a suit under a headstone on Mission Hill. Some days Sanderson can’t even remember what he looked like.

‘Dougie and I used to play Batman and Robin,’ Pop says. ‘It was his favorite game.’

They stop for the light at the intersection of Commerce Way and Airline Road, where trouble will soon occur. Sanderson looks at his father and smiles. ‘Yeah, Pop, good! We even went out that way for Halloween one year, do you remember? I talked you into it. The Caped Crusader and the Boy Wonder.’

His pop looks out through the windshield of Sanderson’s Subaru, saying nothing. What is he thinking? Or has thought flattened to nothing but a carrier wave? Sanderson sometimes imagines the sound that flatline might make: mmmmmmmm. Like the old testpattern hum on TV, back before cable and satellite.

Sanderson puts his hand on one thin topcoated arm and gives it a friendly squeeze. ‘You were drunk on your ass and Mom was mad, but I had fun. That was my best Halloween.’

‘I never drank around my wife,’ Pop says.

No, Sanderson thinks as the light turns green. Not once she trained you out of it.

‘Want help with the menu, Pop?’

‘I can read,’ his father says. He no longer can, but it’s bright in their corner and he can look at the pictures even with his Uncle Junior gangsta sunglasses on. Besides, Sanderson knows what he will order.

When the waiter comes with their iced teas, Pop says he’ll have the chopped steak, medium rare. ‘I want it pink but not red,’ he says. ‘If it’s red, I’ll send it back.’

The waiter nods. ‘Your usual.’

Pop looks at him suspiciously.

‘Green beans or coleslaw?’

Pop snorts. ‘You kidding? All those beans were dead. You couldn’t sell costume jewelry that year, let alone the real stuff.’

‘He’ll have the slaw,’ Sanderson says. ‘And I’ll have—’

‘All those beans were dead!’ Pop says emphatically, and gives the waiter an imperious look that says, Do you dare challenge me?

The waiter, who has served them many times before, merely nods and says, ‘They were dead,’ before turning to Sanderson. ‘For you, sir?’

They eat. Pop refuses to take off his topcoat, so Sanderson asks for one of the plastic bibs and ties it around his father’s neck. Pop makes no objection to this, may not register it at all. Some of his slaw ends up on his pants, but the bib catches most of the mushroom gravy drips. As they are finishing, Pop informs the mostly empty room that he has to piss so bad he can taste it.

Sanderson accompanies him to the men’s room, and his father allows him to unzip his fly, but when Sanderson attempts to pull down the elasticized front of the continence pants, Pop slaps his hand away. ‘Never handle another man’s meat, Sunny Jim,’ he says, annoyed. ‘Don’t you know that?’

This prompts an ancient memory: Dougie Sanderson standing in front of the toilet with his shorts puddled around his feet and his father kneeling beside him, giving instruction. How old was he then? Three? Only two? Yes, maybe only two, but he doesn’t doubt the recollection; it’s like a fleck of bright glass seen at the side of the road, one so perfectly positioned it leaves an afterimage. ‘Unlimber, assume the position, fire when ready,’ he says.

Pop gives him a suspicious look, then breaks Sanderson’s heart with a grin. ‘I used to tell my boys that when I was getting them housebroke,’ he says. ‘Dory told me it was my job, and I did it, by God.’

He unleashes a torrent, and most of it actually goes into the urinal. The smell is sour and sugary. Diabetes. But what does that matter? Sometimes Sanderson thinks the sooner the better.

Back at their table, still wearing the bib, Pop renders his verdict. ‘This place isn’t so bad. We ought to come here again.’

‘How about some dessert, Pop?’

Pop considers the idea, gazing out the window, mouth hanging open. Or is it only the carrier wave? No, not this time. ‘Why not? I have room.’

They both order the apple cobbler. Pop regards the scoop of vanilla on top with his eyebrows pulled together into a thicket. ‘My wife used to serve this with heavy cream. Her name was Dory. Short for Doreen. Like on The Mickey Mouse Club. Hi-there, ho-there, hey-there, you’re as welcome as can be.’

‘I know, Pop. Eat up.’

‘Are you Dougie?’

‘Yup.’

‘Really? Not pulling my leg?’

‘No, Pop, I’m Dougie.’

His father holds up a dripping spoonful of ice cream and apples. ‘We did, didn’t we?’

‘Did what?’

‘Went out trick-and-treating as Batman and Robin.’