Peter

by Patrick Devaney

I sat in the chair. I was nervous. There was a flurry of questions running in my mind. Would he be okay? Would he look okay? The man had seated him over twenty-two minutes ago. Peter was getting a haircut and I wanted to see how he looked.

“Mr., uh, Tom?” a voice called over my head.

“Yes?” I asked.

“Peter is all set to go,” the stylist said. “Isn’t that right buddy? How’s the new look?”

“It’s okay, I guess,” another voice called out. “Hi dad.” Peter’s voice was had a ring of hesitance to it. I turned around and there he was. He leaned forward to show me what the man did. “Does it look okay?” I looked at the boy, his new short hair sticking out a little in shock.

“Well, I think it looks great!” I said.

“Are you sure?” he replied.

“Yeah. I’ll tell you what. How would you like to go for a bike ride? I’ll even let you wear a helmet so you can mess up your new haircut. What do you say?”

“Okay!” His face lit up just the way little kids do and he ran past me, past the door and to the car. I followed him out, proud of myself. Today we were going on a bike ride.

Much time has passed since that happened, but it doesn’t feel like it. I sit down on the bench and beckon for Peter to accompany me. We are alone. No one takes walks in the park at night. We have it all to ourselves. It’s funny. We never used to walk; we always drove. Lately, though, I have been walking with Peter more and more. It’s just me and him now; just me and Peter. The park is quiet and still. In the trees there is no movement. There won’t be movement for two more months; the leaves are gone for the winter. They fled about three months back.

I look at Peter. He raises his arm and gently points towards the buildings. The dim light from the sun is starting to peak through the city as though there is really some beauty in it. After all, that’s where Peter was born. I look down at him, his wary brown eyes not yet awake, and as he gazes back at me, I see the love in his eyes. Peter is six now, but to me he has been around for much longer than that. He has changed so much. He smiles and rubs his head against my knee in the almost darkness.

Peter’s golden hair is starting to become speckled with snow. I look up. Flakes are falling faster and faster as they are pushed and whirled around by the wind. A faint smile emerges as they hit me too, forcing me to blink. I don’t mind. I sort of wish that I could just sit here all day, just to see what it would be like to be covered in snow.

People have started to walk their dogs, and take their morning jogs. One by one, they file into the small pathway, hoping to be the only people on it. Soon the picnickers will arrive, and then the regulars, then the tourists, and then we will go home, just before the white collars get off work. The daybreak has seeped into Peter’s hair, making him radiate. He doesn’t notice. He never does when he is napping. He’d had a long day yesterday and needs his rest. My schedule isn’t good enough for him.

Among the bustle of people hustling to nowhere, a man catches my attention. He isn’t following his schedule because he is a white collar and those don’t show up until five or six. He isn’t a quiet looking guy. He is the kind of person who always has the perfect amount of stubble on his face and never wears anything less than formal attire. He is wearing a navy blue V-neck, euro tie and a suit jacket. He trots over to me, pausing for a moment, because he’s the kind of guy who will do that, just to admire the joggers.

“Hi Tom,” the man says. “What brings you downtown?”

I look at him. He doesn’t make eye contact with me. His hands are playing with each other and his arms are tense. “I come here every day,” I say. I think I know him. I’m supposed to know him, at least. He might be a friend of my ex, or maybe her brother. He sits down on the bench. There is a pause of silence, until he looks up and wearily asks,

“So, how are you doing? Are you doing alright?”

“I’m fine.” Who is he? I stared at this man. Is he serious?

“Because I know a guy,” the man adds, “that can help.”

“Help with what?” I am still confused.

“Well, you know, help.” The man was becoming irritated now, his neck starting to tense up.

“Uh, what do you want?” I say. “You have the wrong person.” I look downward at the oblivious child and stand up. The man rises as well.

“Look,” he says. “I’m not trying to be pushy; I am just trying to help you, that’s all.” I look at the man. He tries to smile. I see beyond him. Something is off about him. I’ve got to get out of here now. My heart is hurting me as I grab Peter, turn and run. I dash through the knoll, through the trees, through the park, through the streets, through the snow and through the dark wood of my home.

I didn’t know why I ran at the time. Now it is clear. As we sit in the darkness, lying underneath the shadows of this living room, my house, all is quiet. Peter’s little baby eyes are still, his breathing slow and melodic, but my eyes are open. I will not sleep. I have to protect Peter from men like the one who was trying to hurt him. I’ll find out who set me up with that man. I never liked white collars. But for now, I want to stay here. Here it’s more peaceful. Here, nothing can happen.

Something has just bumped me. I rise. I can’t see a thing. Peter is gone. I can’t feel his warmth anymore. His warmth has disappeared. I crawl along the nearest wall until I finally find the light. Click. There he is. Peter stands by the door, quietly. He’s anxious. He was the one who bumped me.

“C’mon,” I say grumpily. “Go back to sleep. Really, come on.” I look at him. He is too groggy to speak a word, but I know. He won’t quit. The boy is determined.

We walk down the once again quiet streets. Peter is hungry, so we’re going to get him some food. I haven’t been much of a cook since Helen left. Now we just go to Food Market. Peter likes it. Well, he likes a lot of things. Growing boys can never have enough, I guess.

The bell rings as my feet touch the back rubber pad. The cashier stands to greet me. I nod at him as I pass by him. I have known him ever since I used to buy my food from his parents. Together, we walk over to the counter and as I point to the prepackaged fun-sized pack of ham, the kind kids love, Peter presses his face to the glass, looking at the intricate meats on display.

“This,” I say, “and a thing of baby carrots. Can’t be too healthy.” I take out my wallet to pay for the food. Inside the front flap lies a picture of Peter, one of his school photos. His hair is combed too much for his liking and his grimace shows it. He is wearing a baby blue tee and is clutching the prop apple put out for the picture. I smile.

“Ah, yes. Always eat your vegetables.” the cashier replies, returning my focus. He rings the food up and hands them to me. I try to smile faintly, but I just want to rest. I am tired. There are various benches lining the interior walls of the store and I lead Peter over to one.

“You have your snack. I’m going to sit and rest a little. Big day coming up.” I take the package, slide out two or three pieces of ham, roll them up and give them to him with the baby carrots. He looks up at me graciously and immediately begins to eat as I say, “Start!” It’s a fun game we play. As I watch Peter chow down, my mind begins to fade off.

I am standing on the top of a grassy hill, but there is no wind. I kick the grass with my foot. It’s not real. It is dark out but I can see perfectly. There is no moon. This isn’t real. Suddenly, there is a man, no a boy standing at the base. It’s me, but I am little. I reach out to grab the tiny version of myself, but I am too far away. He is yelling something, but I can’t hear him. I need to hear what he is saying, but I don’t, I just stand there. Something is stirring in front of him, right in front of my eyes, and the figure falls. There is a deferring screech and suddenly my whole body is aching, but my mind is not aware of this. I am focused on the fallen man. Oh No! I have to go help him. My feet are sprinting but I’m not tired. There’s no time. I’m getting closer and closer. I have to help him this time. I run down the slope, almost slipping on the fake grass and reach the spot where he is; he’s not there anymore. There is just a mass of water. I look down upon it. It is smooth and deep. I begin to wade into it. Maybe I will be there. I jump into the black liquid and start to sink, but I’m not scared. Maybe this will lead to something better. As I sink deeper and deeper into the cold, black, mirror-like water, I close my eyes. I don’t want to open them, but I have to. I raise my eyelids. My eyes are open now. There she is. I am in a room and so is Helen. It is cold and dark. I think I know what it is. I think I am in a morgue. This is not like the hill. It is vividly detailed in here. The air is brisk and there is an ominous feeling in this place. There is a wall of cabinets, but only one is open and it is empty. Helen is very angry. She looks at me and yells,

“I need you to acknowledge this. I need you to realize who is on that table!” I look down at the empty metal sheet. There is nothing there.

“I don’t see anybody there,” I say.

“Damn it Tom! You have lost your fucking mind!! This is your SON!”

“No!! I told you I don’t see anybody. ANYBODY!! Peter is al-“and with that statement she strikes me. My cheek burns red and then I wake up.

“Uh, Mr. Tom?” the cashier exclaims. He stands over me. His face is not like it usually is. It has more wrinkles than normal.

“Your dog, your dog just ran away. You lost your dog.” I look at him and my eyebrows fold slightly.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say. “I don’t…” I look around to find Peter. I turn to the ground beneath the bench. There is an empty piece of packaging and the full bag of carrots is fallen on the ground, various carrots lining the floor, but no boy. “My son is gone! I have to find Peter! Did you see where he left?” I stare at the cashier as my heart tries to free itself.

“Uh,” he blinks at me blankly. “No,” he says meekly. Oh no! I have to go find him. I sprint out of the store, leaving the carrots behind. I heave air in and out of my body. I am thinking of two things right now. Breathing and searching. In and out. I have to find him. I have to. Need to. I halt momentarily to fall over.

I open my eyes. It has just been moments since I can remember, I can tell. I prop myself up. I have lost. He is lost; gone. Tears are coming now. I lean my back against the concrete and sob. I look at my watch. I guess there’s nothing left to do but go home. He won’t be there.

I am home now. I sit by the door, waiting for Peter to come home. He doesn’t. Then the phone rings. Maybe it’s him. I grasp the phone in my palms praying for a soft child’s voice to be on the phone.

“Hello?” I asked uneasily.

“Hello? Tom? Is that you?” the voice on the other sounds familiar. “This is Helen. I know you don’t want to talk to me, but I just want to tell you that I found Peter.” Oh! I breathe in and out, but this time it is because of relief.

“Look,” Helen says. “You are not going to like what you see.” The butterflies in my stomach that have just appeared are starting to bite me now. “I’ll give you the address of where he is, but you have to hurry. There isn’t much time.”

“I grasp the clutch and pushed it into Park. I haven’t driven in over ten years, I never needed to, but this is an emergency. I scamper into the building. There is a desk there with a man sitting beside it. He looks up and says,

“You must be Tom. Helen told me a man would be coming in soon. She told me he’d be as worried as you look. The room you are looking for is number four.” He turns back down to his papers and then adds, “Good luck. Hope every thing turns out alright.” I turn and walk past the rows of seats, past the stack of veterinary magazines and into room number four. I press my fingers together for a moment and place my face against the cold wood. I don’t want to walk into what I am about to. I take a deep breath and open the door. I walk over to the white cloth table and see what everyone else is looking at. I look down upon it, down upon a dog, his golden hair still, his tail no longer moves and his eyes are glasslike.

“The doctor had to put him down just a moment ago,” a voice soothes. “Just before you arrived.” I turn around to see Helen, her eyes gazing upon me. She is worried about me. “He was hit by a car. They say that one of the tires punctured his lungs. They did everything they could. I’m sorry. I’m sorry you weren’t there.” I look as the golden retriever and then back to Helen.

“I thought you told me you found Peter?” I exclaim.

“I did. Look, I thought this might happen. Look at his collar.” She points to the dog. I slowly walk over to the still animal and brush back fur to reveal a small metal object clipped on to his collar. It states: Peter Ganson. I look up.

“I don’t understand.” I am confused.

“I know,” Helen says. “Peter, our son is not with us anymore. He is gone now, but he is where he is supposed to be. He is home. He went home a while back Tom. Tom?” She looks at me. “Tom, you have just got to get over that fact and move on.”

I looked at her, then back at the sullen shape lying on the cold table. I can’t think. I must not be processing this right. As I try to think about the last moment with Peter, when we were together at the store, to cherish it, my mind kept wandering off into other places.

“No. You’re wrong.” I stare at her, and as my vision blurs, I say, “Don’t lie to me, not again.”

“But,” Helen protests. She has said enough. I’m not going to sit hear and be fed this propaganda. “I think I’ll go home now,” I said. “My real home.” I start to leave, but Helen puts her hand on my shoulder. I turn around.

“Tom, I think you should have this.” She reaches down and unclips the dog’s collar. “Take it,” she says.

“I don’t want it,” I mumble.
“Come on. I know you don’t want to listen to me right now, so don’t. Don’t take this because of me. Do it for Peter. Both of them.” She hands me the cold object. It still has little golden hairs sticking to it. Helen looks back up at me and says, “Tom, when you’re ready, maybe you’d like to see him.” She hands me a folded piece of paper and I leave the room. I’ve had enough for today.

I fling myself into the frigid air, the snow zinging by me scratching me on the way. I used to like the snow, but now I’m not so sure. I reach my hand into my pocket searching for keys, but instead I find a rectangular object. I pull it out. A wallet. I must have put it in the wrong pocket at Food Mart. I flip it open and there he is, his brown eyes staring at me. I just stand there for a moment and then open the door to the car, the right side for some reason. It won’t budge. I turn the key, locking the door, and turn it once more. Nothing. Taking a deep breath, I look down at the door, its paint scraped off and body bent and turned up in a sick way. My eyes widen in horror and a sickening feeling grasps the inner part of my stomach. Someone had destroyed my vehicle! I’ll never be able to get away from this place, this lie, Helen. Now I won’t be able to find my son! I stare at the door again. Maybe this wasn’t a vandal. Maybe I’m just forgetting things. Maybe I’m getting old. I sit down in the passenger seat, confused and alone. Then I smell something that has been distant in my mind for a long time; a familiar scent. It smelled like Peter. Peter hasn’t smelled like that in over two years. The scent was coming from the glove compartment. I hear the clicking sound as I clip open and lower the compartment door. The light wanes into the blackness and glimmers as it catches plastic. I pull out a bag and stare at it. There’s a shirt inside and I reach my stiff hand into the bag to pull out the green object. That aroma. I look at the shirt again. It was the shirt that Peter wore the day we almost went bike riding, I smile, but then the butterflies are back and a metallic taste in my mouth as I turn the shirt over to reveal the tattered fabrics. I halt my speech. The world around me does not make sense anymore. This is not right. I would have remembered something like this. I would know of this memory if it was a memory, but it isn’t, right? I can’t think. I can’t even hold myself upright. I slump down in the seat and my foot touches something. I look down to find a helmet. Reaching down to grab it, my ears start to ring. No, it’s more of a terrible squeal in my head. It won’t go away and I can’t quite put my finger on what it is. An object jabs me as straighten myself up in the seat. The shriek won’t go away. I pull it out and hold that same piece of paper that Helen gave to me. On the letter it says: Peter Ganson: Dawson Cemetery.

“What?” I exclaim and try to get out of the car. The door crumples out of its socket and I stumble out, slipping on the ice. The last sound I remember is the crunch of my head hitting the ice and the echo of a car trying to screech to a stop. It sounds like it did.

It’s sunny again. I guess it’s that time of year. The leaves have arrived back, giving the trees their bodies back once more; before, they were just skeletons. I suppose that makes it spring. The days had been tough since I “came to reality.” That’s what the doctor says, anyway. My days sometimes feel useless so I count the days since he left to tell myself how far I have come since Peter’s absence. Well, the absence since I realized he had departed home. That was his real departure; to me. I look down at the ground. A humble rock was all that they left him, but it will do. It took me thirty minutes to find his grave, but I have found him now. I look down at it. People have been here before, placed flowers on the grave, and even a note. This is my first time, but this time, I am ready. I pull of a heavily used piece of white, or at least it used to be white, paper out of my pocket. It has been folded and unfolded, and erased and written on many times. It is a letter.

“Okay,” I tell myself. “Here goes.” I clear my throat and begin the read to the spot of earth embroidered with flowers.

“Dear Peter Ganson,

Hi. How have you been? I am sorry about your misfortune. I think that I am beginning to grasp hold of the situation now. Helen, your mom, and I have been talking more and more. I think that I might be able to talk face to face with you, but not right now. I’m not ready yet. I still sit on my bench and watch people jog and exercise, only during the day though. After what happened, I don’t know if, I don’t know if- I can’t handle this town sometimes; always. I think I’ll get over it. Well, I am officially retired now. They thought it was better for me to do so in “my emotional state,” but that was a long time ago and I enjoy it now. I know you have been away from me for thirty-four days, I’m sorry almost two years, but it has felt, h-has, fe-felt longer than that. -

I break off. It is hard for me to read like this. I begin to talk to the grave now, still heaving huge sobs. Forcing to keep my watery eyes open, I say,

“I’m sorry; I don’t know how much longer I can last like this! There have been days when I wake up and roll over to ruffle your hair, and I-I, I just can’t, because you’re gone! Helen tells me that it gets easier, that she felt like this for the first year too; she says that I am re-experiencing my pain all over again and that it takes time to get over such a traumatic experience, but I’m not as strong as her. I don’t know if I can do it.” I take a deep breath, closing my eyes as I do so. “I think I’m ready to keep going with my letter if that’s okay with you.

I know you have been away from me for almost two years, but it has felt longer than that. It has felt like ages, like I don’t know you anymore, even though I remember you so vibrantly. I still remember when I took you to get your haircut and it was the first time that you did it all by yourself, without my help. I just wish that I could have had the opportunity to take you on that, that bike ride. But now that is done and I can’t anymore, but I always think of what the day would have been like if we had done that together. At least you are home now. I’m glad about that. I also brought a friend for you. His name is Peter too. I hope you two like each other. He has a lot in common with you. I love you.

And then I sign it Tom Ganson, but cross that out and neatly write, “Dad” in its place.

I wipe the tears onto my sleeve, reach into my bag and pull out a small metal item. It states in bold letters PETER GANSON. I reach down and place the dog tag so that it leans up against the gravestone, right next Peter’s name. I just have one more item to return to Peter. The other one Peter doesn’t like too much. I place his school picture, grimace and all, right up next to the words BELOVED SON. I get up and say goodbye to Peter for the day and all the days to come too.