Page 129 of Two Marlboros

I therefore dragged myself to 437 of 94th Street in Queens. I had seen the parked car and knew he was home, but at that moment I didn’t care. In fact, the idea of making him pay fueled a pleasure I hadn’t felt in too long.

I rang the doorbell without wavering. I didn’t care what he might say or do, because his ranting and his words like blades, as much as they were a stab each time, were a sign that he felt something for me. I was the son who had failed him, who had become someone else, but it was a matter that did not leave him indifferent.

It was my mother who opened the door for me. Her eyes widened as she realized that I had barged in there unannounced, leaving her no time to send my father away with some excuse. When she tried to close the door with a reassuring look, I stopped her with a wave of my hand. There was no need to hide; I didn’t want to do that anymore.

I heard his voice in the distance.

“Who is it, Elizabeth?”

How long had it been since he had called her “Liz”? How many things had I ruined in other people’s lives? How many balances had I broken and how many people had I hurt?

As he glimpsed me, he became stern, as he did every time he stared at me, but I did not reciprocate. There was only one thing I wanted, and that was not to fight. My mother’s face lookedtired; who knows how long she had been spending sleepless nights, perhaps reassuring my brother.

“Mom.”

It was the only thing I could say. She stroked my cheek, as if trying to understand.

“Honey, what is it? What’s wrong?”

I swallowed, but suddenly everything became more difficult. Everything was stuck. I had something in my throat.

“Can I come in?”

My father frowned for a moment, time to study the consequences of that question. My mother turned toward him, bewildered, then nodded to me.

I looked at their faces. My father, with the same eye shape as me, but with a sensitivity that did not belong to me - assuming he ever had one; my mother and that perpetual look of worry on her face, which made her look older than she actually was. She stroked me again, but I flinched abruptly. My father was not expecting this and began to stare at me. He crossed his arms as if he had become defensive.

I looked at the picture on the cabinet by the door: it depicted my father, my mother, and Jimmy. I wasn’t in it.

“I came to tell you that I will disappear from your lives forever.”

A few seconds of silence passed. I studied my father’s reaction, but I wasn’t surprised not to notice a single one.

“Honey, what’s wrong with you?”

“Please, Mom, don’t call me ‘honey’!”

My mother moved closer to me; he, however, remained planted where he was, continuing to observe me. I found myself listening to my own breathing and realized that I was struggling to exhale without making a sound.

My mother’s face grew harder.

“Alright,Nathan, tell me what’s going on.”

“I told you: I’m leaving for good. You can finally pretend you don’t know me and avoid those obnoxious formalities like birthday wishes. For you, it will be as if I never existed.”

My father still betrayed no emotion. He continued to stand there, his arms crossed over his chest, his lips tight and his eyes planted on me.

“Is this a joke? James, say something to him!”

She had turned toward my father, but he did not respond. He slid his gaze from her to me, and I, perhaps for the first time, was not intimidated. He seemed relaxed, perhaps because he didn’t care about the whole thing; rather, he was seeing his dream finally realized. His reaction caused a twinge of heat throughout my body. I clenched my fists without realizing it.

My mother returned to look at me. Every now and then she frowned for imperceptible moments, as if she was trying to understand.

“Nathan, what is this all about? Explain it to me, please.”

“There is nothing to explain. I will never come here again; we will never see each other again. You can live your life erasing me forever. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

My father looked like a statue of salt, impassive to every word I said. He stared at me with folded arms and steady eyes, while I sustained his gaze as I had never been able to do. He did nothing to shut me up; there, mute, he observed the situation. That wave of heat that had swept over me was channeled into a growing stigma. My breathing grew. I felt nails poking into my palms. My mother, on the other hand, was trying to say more, but she couldn’t, her breathing growing more and more labored.

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