by John Langan
"'Nor is the issue settled there. For such characters as David Copperfield and Pip, their dead fathers exert profound influences on their lives. Those fathers are oddly active absences. Indeed, it does not seem too much an exaggeration to say that, dead, Dickens's fathers have a much greater effect on their sons' lives than ever they could have hoped for during life, for worse and for better. In his great long novels no less than A Christmas Carol, Dickens presents us a world through which the dead glide, in which fathers' deaths become their bequests to their children.'
"Take that for what it's worth," Veronica said.
Upstairs, my son woke with a snort that immediately ascended into a cry. "I'm sorry—I have to get him," I said, heading for the stairs.
"Sure," Veronica said. "Good night—or good morning."
"Good night," I replied, already taking the stairs two at a time.
Robbie was standing up in the porta-crib when I opened the door, his hands clutching the railing, his face tilted up to the room's darkness, mouth open wide, cheeks wet with tears. In the bed, Ann stirred. I hurried to Robbie and hoisted him out of the crib, murmuring consolations as I carried him to the rocking chair. As I settled into the chair with him and started to rock, his crying tapered off. He sniffled, wriggled into a more comfortable position, and closed his eyes with a hitching sigh. "There," I whispered. "Daddy's good boy."
Downstairs, I heard the door to Veronica's room open and close. It would remain shut until later that same day, when the rest of us went out to P-town; then, she would pack her things, make her bed, and leave before our return.
I shifted in the rocking chair, trying not to disturb Robbie too much as I sought a more comfortable position. A second night without sufficient sleep had taken its toll. Fatigue tugged at my eyelids. My head nodded forward. My arms and legs were heavy as lead. It was not out of the question that I would succumb to sleep in the rocking chair, my son in my arms; in fact, it was highly likely. My mind, though, was alight with the story I'd been told, burning with details I hadn't begun to sort through. I was full of the joy that comes with discovering a story.
Robbie started, opened his eyes.
"Shhh," I said. "That's all right. Daddy's here. Daddy's here. Shhh. Daddy's good boy. Daddy's good boy."
THE END
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House of Windows
Table of Contents
Acknowledgments
Prelude:
A Face Just Out of View
Part 1: Mutual Weirdness
Interlude: Standing at the Railing
Part 2: Malediction
Epilude: Three Endings
