It was one of those weird mid-west gusts of wind, typical of spring in Ohio, that blew a cone of ashes from outside the window, directly back into the car, and precisely into Brandt’s left eye. He felt a tinge of pain but if it hadn’t happened he might not have gotten off the highway until I’d driven clean to the West Virginia border. After holding it open long enough to produce a stream of tears he was forced to look back to the road, which was passing by at a much faster rate than he expected it to be. He had managed to navigate a ten-mile stretch of expansive highway notorious for clearly avoidable accidents without so much as noticing landmarks, cars, signs, or the fact that he was actually driving an automobile, and he hadn’t even smoked any pot. Brandt Kreiger was prone to this type of mindless locomotion, but afflicted far greater at times when a reunion with his son and his mother, a woman he’d never married, crept up to within three days of actualization. Momentarily thinking in real time, he navigated the last mile to his sister’s house with two hands on the wheel, and very cognizant of a new rattle in the airbag panel, just behind his head and disappointingly out of reach. For most modern men the notion of living with a younger sister is unbearable but Brandt had no reason to complain being that Rebecca, recently married and without child, bought a new house on the east side of Columbus, and that having an extra room, felt obliged to let him stay, in fact had insisted, since he had relocated for a job on quick notice and didn’t have the time, or arguably the responsibility, to look for an apartment. He should have been out months ago, after paying off the lease in Atlanta, but he felt than an unspoken comfort they had been fostering for each other might be diminished if he had, but more importantly, he had begun to think, was that he didn’t want to lose the protection of a woman who was slowly but surely becoming exactly like his mother. Earlier, at work, Brandt worked like a criminal all afternoon to make himself invisible, and upon seeing that it worked, no incoming email, no phone calls, and no regard otherwise, he snuck out an hour early, and now, with an eagerness not unlike being the first arrival at a rented ski lodge, he vaulted up the stairs to an empty house. They weren’t really coming to see him, Taylor’s mother anyway. Allyson would be attending a wedding with his sister but the arrangement left Taylor in the care of Brandt, which he felt, having been in the grip of a court order, was like stealing a weekend from State. He stripped off his clothes quickly and dropped, supine and spread eagle, onto the bed, immediately grabbing the one hitter from the nightstand and applying flame. Watching the smoke float lazily to the ceiling he found himself becoming ensconced in a grip of concern, a realization that if he did not do a quick inspection of the house Taylor would undoubtedly find some curious item that he had not seen before, in the normal course of discovery and play, and ask what it was. There happened to be many things that he would have a hard time explaining, the least of which physical items, but you can never be sure how far a tough conversation has the potential to go. And the possibility of Allyson being there as Taylor strolled into the room trying to blow a marijuana pipe like a whistle, or drawing mustaches on naked Swedish Porn Stars gave sufficient reason to tidy up and tuck away. He’d barely finished pulling on his oldest and most comforting blue jeans, a proactive force field of garment, when he heard a car door open in the driveway, and like an old dog Brandt could tell that it was not a familiar sound for this neighborhood. He high stepped it down the hall, being overtly quiet for nothing, to the door and peered outside. Taylor was busy explaining the world around him as he stepped down from the car, a young scientist proudly sharing the findings of a five year tenure on earth, and Mom, was, as always, accepting these truths and softly persuading him in the proper direction. Brandt could see his face a million times, the way it looks when Taylor first sees him, big bright eyes, an open mouth smile, stuck in awe, and it would never cease to remind him what it means to be alive. It became so engrained with joy that it developed a certain hint of permanence, like a rubber mask, and Brandt secretly wanted to peel it off and carry it in his back pocket forever. Brandt tended to exude a brisk air of distractedness in most social situations, as though he harbored many serious thoughts but was temporarily generous enough to keep them at bay, at least enough to pay dim attention to the present. In this way the people who know him find it very agreeable that he simply smile at what is being said, and when certain sentences apparently strike him as more brilliant than others he will periodically offer a, “Is that right?” and even, “I don’t believe it.” And try as he may to remind myself that this self-directed thinking has no place in a father-son relationship, he found himself, all to often, and at the most inopportune of times, caught in a tail chasing spin that rendered him deaf, dumb, and blind. Taylor ran across the porch and leapt at Brandt. His soft heavy body, weightier than he had committed to memory, was a cumbersome reminder of how much he was not there. He buried his himself in Brandt’s shoulder and delivered his most powerful squeeze. Brandt pressed his nose firmly in Taylor’s soft blond hair, breathing deeply the smell of his head. Allyson engaged his eyes from a small wooden chair in the foyer, a look that struck him as complimentary to the solitude he had been feeling lately when looking at that empty and out of place chair. He could do nothing but smile. Then he saw them, her legs, tan and small. He could almost, for the first time in what seemed like forever, recall how they had victimized him in chemistry class for the better part of a semester, ten years removed. A younger Brandt had wretched in pain wanting to touch them, a hormonal lunatic afraid to cross the lines of social class, a fool. She seemed suddenly very pretty and innocent, nothing like the image he had been holding of her since Taylor became an idea, that of a tired and bitter woman that hated his very being. He felt betrayed and lost. The ideas would be nothing if not for his own volition. All of the beauty in the room, the real and the magic family stuff, cast a shadow over his heart as he mired in all of his own ugliness. Brandt noticed that Allyson was victim of a tremor and was hugging herself. Looking out the window at the acclimate weather he guessed that is was likely the source of her nervousness, having been in the car for two hours, although there could be little doubt that his mere presence added a little kick to the shivers crawling up and down her spine. “Rain makes it tough on that highway doesn’t it?” He offered. “Yes. Jesus.” She bolted up from the chair pressing her hand against her forehead and let out a small laugh. She walked rapidly through the room and into the kitchen. Brandt kissed Taylor on the cheek and nodded in her direction suggestively. Taylor returned a nod, very slow and deliberate, a trait of his designed to demonstrate the importance of agreeing with ones parents. “Well sit down. Have a smoke and relax.” He hiked Taylor up on his hip and stood crookedly supporting sixty pounds. “How long did it take you guys?” “Eight hundred and sixty five forty years Dad,” Taylor jumped at the opportunity to offer his take. “And I didn’t even take a nap.” “You sure didn’t!” Allyson said sarcastically. She let loose a little laugh, shook her head and rolled her eyes at Brandt, the left eyelid shuddering, a tick he had come to realize was reserved just for conversation with him. “I’ll bet you had to stop and poop somewhere along the way.” Brandt secretly loved to find out that this had occurred, due to some lingering resentment from having tended to that exact necessity a time or two, and never failed to ask. “Nope.” A smile broadened quickly across Taylor’s face, his mind crossing another hurdle in the race to become big and he was aware of it. “I don’t believe it.” “Oh yea Dad. Not even one load.” He scrambled loose from Brandt’s grip and slid down his torso to the floor. “Hey Dad,” he called rounding the corner to the basement stairs, “Is my bug catcher kit still in the garage? Where we put it the last time.” “I don’t know. We’ll just have to look for the thing. I’m sure it’s here somewhere.” He called after him. Brandt gestured for Allyson to follow. He really didn’t know where it was. He certainly had not put it away the last time. He hadn’t put anything away in six years that he was keenly aware of, not that he is sloppy; it’s just that his family and friends tended to bring up the rear, putting things away, patching wounds, and paying all the fines, since Taylor was born, and he nearly died. And now Brandt counted on it. Cartoons have changed dramatically in both content and characterization Brandt often thought, but they, nonetheless, have not lost that magic ability to mesmerize the youth. This power, this nowadays persistent medium, thanks in large part to the expansion of cable to include such things as the twenty four hour cartoon network, ranked high among his arsenal of weapons used to fight the war against childhood debauchery and general loss of parental control. It is both proactive and immediate. He used it in the supermarket, to get him out of the tub, to get him to eat, and to buy himself some time to recoup at various intervals during the second and forth weekends of the month. After finding the bug kit, just where he thought it would be, and then trying to find the words that would make him understand that being out in the rain and digging in the mud was not a good idea, but failing, Brandt quickly found that Dexter’s Laboratory held the 7:00 spot on Fridays. This discussion died immediately as Taylor dropped first to his knees three feet from the television, leaving the bug kit for abandon, its contents scattered about, and then to his belly supporting his chin deftly in his palms, his eyes locked and wide. The living room in Rebecca’s basement had never quite felt like a waiting room in a doctor’s office but it did now. Everyone present needed to be there, in theory at least, but it was not polite to ask the others the nature of their visit. Brandt had arranged early in the week to take them out to dinner, the three of them, because they would be alone for several hours while his sister and her husband attended the rehearsal dinner that evening. “Any idea’s about where you guys want to eat?” He tossed out like a balloon. “Not really. What ever you want is fine.” She blew a cloud of smoke at Brandt, her legs crossed, her foot swaying heavily. He stuck his bottom lip out, gesticulated an inquisitive set of eyes and nodded while rubbing his chin. He looked back to the television. She did the same. Taylor had not moved. Somewhat escaping his control Brandt’s eyes darted secretly back and forth in the dimly lit basement from Dexter to her, mostly her legs. Dexter, all head and no body, worked expertly at concocting amazing effective potions designed to repel his sister, Brandt nervously concocted dreamy sequences of rekindled love. Dexter beamed with enthusiasm in the lab. Brandt recalled again, that chemistry class 10 years ago and how he hated it, how he had hated that crazy Vietnam veteran who taught it with a hint of madness, and how he hated that he could not stop his goggles from filling with steam, but most of all he hated that he could not get through to Allyson, and I felt like that again. Dexter rubbed his hands together and laughed aloud, the brilliant blue glimmer of laboratory lightening glinting from his glasses. Brandt chewed a fingernail. The moon cast a beam of soft yellow light through the small window, it landed on her calf and shifted direction coming across a well-defined shinbone and beamed directly into Brandt’s glassy eye. “Do you want to go ahead and get ready? We can go anytime. I’m sure you guys are hungry.” Brandt offered. She extinguished her cigarette, bent down and patted Taylor’s head leaving behind a gentle kiss and walked towards him. As she passed he reached out and grabbed her thigh. “I thought that, you know, if you wanted, we could go out later. Becca could watch Taylor and you could just relax you know. I’ll buy.” “Sure.” She patted his arm and continued around the corner and up the stairs. Brandt got down on the floor next to Taylor and sprawled out on his belly. He held his chin in one hand and the other he draped carefully across Taylor’s back. For a moment it was though Taylor didn’t even notice. Then he threw his arm around his father’s neck, looked him in the eye, and planted a big kiss on his mouth. He looked at Brandt, “I love you Dad. Sure am glad I am here in Columbus with you. Maybe tomorrow we could go fishing? You know I brought my pole.” “We’ll have to see but that sounds like a good idea.” Brandt kissed him on the cheek. “Where would we go?” “To the creek over the hill. You know over there,” he pointed at the wall, “Just like the last time.” “Is that right.” They both looked back to the television as it became apparent that Dexter was about to engage in something extraordinary. He grew to be hundreds of feet tall, ready to take on evil of any kind, seated comfortably at the control panel of a mechanical wonder. Brandt began shrinking in the presence of his convoluted family and wishing that he also had a laboratory of his own, a place where he could create magnificent devices to deal with what the world dealt him, a place to create magic that would effect people, real stuff not the garble he had been etching onto hard drives for the last five years. But what Brandt really needed was a giant robot suit that would allow him to smash things and that would send people running in all directions at his mere presence. He began thinking of how he might sneak a few hits before they left for dinner. Discipline is hard with a five year old. It is hard for both Mom and Dad, but it becomes particularly confusing and extremely varied in intensity when Mom and Dad are both there, but for everyday events are not. A hue of apprehension hung briskly in the breathing air of Brandt’s Audi, and the air itself seemed to diminish the longer they drove towards the restaurant. Taylor sat in the back and mouthed the words to the songs on the radio, a sad reminder to Brandt that he spent too much time in cars, although everyone else seemed to find it cute. He was apt to act out any minute, an infinite threat these days, and in the face of that coupled with the tenseness already abound, it seemed that they were more interested in just getting through this than actually trying to enjoy themselves at all. Damon’s is a creepy rib and steak house. It serves duly as a sports bar, having twenty some big screens, and scantily dressed waitresses, but they try hard to maintain an air of elegance in the service of their oversized portions of brazen slabs of meat. Brandt tried to comfort himself with this knowledge and maintained an aloof look of wise decision making as they entered the dark corridor, passed the gumball machines generously maintained by the local Kiwanis, and walked up to the hostess station, hand in hand, in hand. The hostess podium, more like a teenage vanity station than a point of welcome, with all the young waitresses, heavy smudged with makeup and ensconced in sexually suggestive stretch materials, was very unapproachable to Brandt. He felt suddenly very shy and his face became warm with embarrassment. He had become prone to two very distinct physical and mental reactions when facing attractive women while in the company of his son, of which due to genetics there was never any question. Sometimes it was one of elegant responsibility that would be the ultimate dream of any woman. He had even considered, for a time, during the stroller years, that he would tell women who happened to inquired about Taylor that his mother had died during delivery, but that they were trying very hard to get by and relying on each other for comfort. Brandt was convinced that any woman with any sense would sweep them up and care for them forever. He’d gotten some laughs explaining this devious plan to his friends, who at times wanted to come along and act like his faithful brother, but he never had the guts to give it a trial run. At other times he felt like he had been caught in the private act of an old man, like washing down a handful of heart pills with apple juice or changing a colostomy bag. It was like Brandt sometimes to only think about himself. “Hey there buddy. How many tonight?” One of the waitresses came out from behind the podium and knelt down to address Taylor. He turned and counted out loud, “Mom, dad, and,” poking himself firmly in the breast, “Me. Three.” Allyson and Brandt smiled and each patted one of his Taylor’s tiny shoulders. “That is a beautiful dress.” Said another waitress to Allyson. “Oh, thank you.” Allyson replied, shifting her weight to one foot and twisting quickly sideways, bringing the other up to the toes and pressing it against her ankle. A real smile surfaced on her face. It surprised Brandt, both in that it was very pretty, and also because he felt that perhaps he might have succeeded, after all these years, in actually becoming invisible and everyone was glad because of it. “What’s the name,” asked the waitress, returning to her conversation with Taylor. He said nothing. “Kreiger.” Allyson quickly killed the silence and relieved his burden. They all smiled and nodded and stood and felt quite uncomfortable. To the right was an unoccupied bench where Brandt succeeded in ushering everyone to wait for the table. Taylor squeezed in between them, a trigger of movements and emotions not felt often between people that have lost their intimacy to confusion, pride and finally distance. He looked up at Allyson, “Mom why did you say Krieger. Our name is Marshall.” The breath escaped Brandt and he looked away. “Because we are with Daddy tonight and his name is Kreiger. That’s why.” She smiled and gently rubbed the back of his head. He looked down at his knees and clasped his hands in his lap. Brandt saw this from the corner of his eye. He licked his lips, took a deep breath, and thought of suppressing a gag that wasn’t really coming. Moments later they were walking towards the table, following the polyester hum of two teenage thighs rubbing together, while keeping their eyes fixed on Taylor just in case of anything. The four of them jostled for position at the booth, Allyson to get around the waitress, the waitress just trying to present the menu’s properly and in place where they would likely sit, and Taylor being pushed into the booth by Brandt trying to eliminate the waitresses possible suggestiveness in that regard. He did not want to sit alone across the table from both of them. Several months ago, at a brunch to discuss insurance and school, this had happened. It had ended in Brandt’s belief that he now understood the pressures of being on the receiving end of a grand inquisition that held the potential to result in exile. Like the accused he had sat, head hanging low, and poked at his ménage of Shoney’s Brunch Bar offerings, perhaps his final meal. He recalled having wanted to stick the fork in his eye and bleed out all over the table initiating pure panic, or to simply slink down in the booth and crawl under the table in search of coins and carelessly discarded pieces of hard chewing gum that he might put in his pocket and examine later. He looked to the right at Tyler busy at work on the kid’s menu and then opened his own ready to think about food now that he could probably eat, being on the safe side of the table. Taylor got to work quickly, connect dots, matching pictures, and drawing randomly on the children’s placemat. His lips pursed outwards, then slanted to the right somehow strangely in tandem with the lines being put on the paper, as if the concentration of drawing was so overwhelming that it venerated his entire nervous system. Brandt took note of this and began squeezing his own butt cheeks thinking that Taylor might likely be doing the same. “Are you still going to Boston for Beau’s wedding reception?” Allyson asked meekly, poking at the ice cubes floating atop the glass of tea. “Yea. I think I am taking a few extra days and making a drive of it. You know, stop a couple of places along the way.” Brandt pushed an overzealous portion of salad into his mouth and pulled a trailing piece of onion back out. “Can you get that much time off work?” “Mmmmm.” He replied, nodding, mouth full, unable to speak, and stabbing his fork at the air above the plate. He finished chewing and put down the fork. “Let me see what you are drawing kid,” Brandt grabbed the grabbed the placemat and gave Taylor a shove in the arm. “What is it?” “Hey give it back Dad,” Taylor barked and lunged up to grab it. Brandt let it go freely. “It’s Me and You, and Mommy. And this is a pond that we are fishing in. See the poles?” “Ah, yes I do. And I bet those are bluegill in there.” Said Brandt raising his eyebrows. Taylor made big eyes and nodded immediately getting back to placing m’s in the sky, his manner of birds. Brandt, feeling awkward having lost the attention of Taylor, grabbed his son’s head and cradled it against his chest, leaving very little air for breathing. Taylor squirmed, then shouted, and finally began screaming. Clearly irritated he yelled at his father inciting the attention of other diners in the immediate area, “No playing at the table.” He looked at his mother for approval and was gratified, in fact the entire room seemed to concur. “Did I tell you that Higgy, Josh and I are going to Amsterdam in October?” “You are. Sounds like a great idea.” Replied Allyson, her left eyelid shuddered and she let loose a short blast of air, a hint of discontent. “What?” “Nothing. Like I said it sounds like a great idea.” “You’re being sarcastic. Do you realize the last time I took a vacation?” He waited for answer. “Well it’s been three years. I’ve been working my ass off.” She obliged him with a half nod. “We’re flying into Paris and then driving over.” “What are you going to do in Amsterdam? Do I even need to ask?” She cocked her head and lifted her straw, half full, and gently raised and lowered her finger placing little drops of tea on the floating lemon. “I don’t know, hang out, make like a European, eat food and shit.” It didn’t make much sense to keep talking after that now that the likelihood of disagreement had been escalated by Brandt’s attempt to make conversation and poor judgment by way of content. The food was served, half eaten, and pushed around the plates. The placemat, now covered in crayon in all possible areas, was abandoned leaving Taylor with nothing to do but disappear under the table only to pop out on one side and then the other, a transfer of allegiance to the least disapproving parent at the given moment. A tip was left, not a big one, not sufficient, but it was not the waiter’s fault. It was a monetary calculation of confusion and lack of desire to wait for change. The Cactus Café is not a bustling nightclub or a venue for ecstasy and dancing. It is not a jazz bar with men drinking brandy from snifters and smoking cigars. There are no naked women there and they do not serve food. Yet it is not a hole in the wall frequented by penniless drunks with poker machines and draft beers in plastic cups. It is a rather pleasant place, for the most part, with a good jukebox and a strong drink. It is a place to be alone, for you are not likely to be approached. The clientele is a strange breed of young men and younger women collectively miring in a mild identity crisis. They strive hard but miss the mark. They all want to be someone but they are everyone and no one, and the membership of their existing social circles is not likely to reach out for growth. You can feel it in their gaze, smell it in their perfume’s, and see it in the fabrics scantily covering their average bodies. But in Brandt’s experience there always seemed to be two unoccupied stools close to the door and at the corner of the bar, making for one of the finer spots to sit in all of Gahanna. He pictured the neon sign and could almost taste the cold whiskey as he and Allyson rounded the corner of Hamilton Avenue, having relinquished control of Taylor, heading for that exact spot. Already an easiness had settled about them. There was no longer any need to worry about what the other might think of the other in dealing with Taylor and they were free to smoke without worry for damaging a growing set of lungs. Brandt had full intentions of being polite and bolstering his standing through pure and interesting conversation. Allyson was not sure what to expect and only wanted to avoid a fight. This was known to them mutually, exchanged in a few quick glances and the quality of their breathing. The seats were open as expected. The bartender asked Allyson what she wanted and smiled at Brandt without taking his order, so when she returned with a Miller Lite and Brandt’s drink of choice, Crown Royal and Diet Coke, she had to wonder just how often he frequented the Cactus Café. For the first hour not much conversation took place, save for the intermittent and half-hearted comments about others in the bar. Brandt downed four drinks to Allyson’s one and a half but the effects were roughly the same. The alcohol flowed smoothly through their livers into the blood, expanded their bladders, and massaged just the right areas of their brains where infrequent niceties and bold promises of the future are stored. As Brandt stirred the ice in his fifth cocktail, Allyson finally broke free and attempted a meaningful tract, “Dinner was really good. We appreciate you taking us. You really didn’t have to.” “Is that right?” Brandt smiled and flicked a long ash towards the ashtray approaching capacity. He stood and patted her on the arm and walked across the bar to the bathroom. Allyson watched him intently and recognized that his swagger was already a little slanted or sideways. She really couldn’t decide which, feeling a bit unparallel herself. She picked nervously at the label on the bottle; ripping off shreds and rolling them into little balls that now littered the bar. She drew heavily on a cigarette and blew the smoke high into the air. She was slightly startled as Brandt began speaking from behind here while approaching his stool. “Taylor was really well behaved. I meant to tell you that I think you are doing a great job. I mean you’re a good mother.” A large smile broadened across her face, her teeth looked very white in the odd lighting of the bar. She was turned to face him, her legs crossed and exposed, the dress sitting perhaps higher on the thigh than its length would dictate. “Well you know, you are a good father as well. He really loves you and misses you. We all do. Kind of.” She laughed. Brandt stared into his glass and nodded. “It’s nice being back closer,” he said, “I really would like to spend as much time with him as possible. I feel like I missed the world when I was gone.” He looked at her. “Yea, I know. But hey, now your back.” She reached out and laid her hand on his leg. “You did the right thing going down there. Look at where it got you.” She smiled, backed off and took a large swallow of beer. “You mean career wise or here with you tonight?” He asked. “Both. Silly.” She tipped the bottle again and turned to face the bar. He leaned over and placed his hand on her shoulder, “Is that right? You’re the lucky one. Imagine me letting you hang around again after all those terrible things you did to me.” He took on a look of shock, both mockery and repose, before she had a chance to respond. “You asshole. I can’t believe that…” Brandt interrupted, “I’m just kidding there jumpy. Trying to make you relax. You’re all tense and shit.” He settled back into the stool and faced the bar. For a moment there was a silence between them. “You look nice tonight, you know.” He offered. “Now you want to kiss ass,” she said, “well you should.” “I mean it. I meant to tell you earlier but I was a little nervous. I was really struggling there through dinner.” “I know.” “How?” “I know everything about you. You know that. How long have I been saying this now? Hmmm… let me see… 10 years?” She opened her eyes wide and cocked her head. Brandt lit a cigarette and shook his head from side to side while exhaling out over the bar. His eyes remained squinted. “And what else do you know about me?” He asked. “Your evil plan.” “What!” He bolted upright from his slouch. “What evil plan?” “Oh, don’t you worry. It’s O.K.” She smiled and took the cigarette from his hand and took a slow deep drag. Brandt stood up and loomed above the bar, staring accusingly down at her. He placed one hand on the bar and the other on the back of her stool. He lowered his head to eye level and extended his neck so that his face was just three inches from hers. “What is it?” She took another drag from the cigarette then extinguished it. “Why don’t you just do it?” “What?” He knew what she meant, having played out this game of cat and mouse with her on several other, very similar, occasions. He raised his hand from the back of the stool and slid it under her hair, cradling her nape in his palm. They both closed their eyes and went temporarily deaf. Moments later, a span of time marked by nothing more than a quick breath broken into jerky segments, and one beat of the heart, their lips met and remained pressed together. They separated. Brandt lifted his glass and drained the last it, the golden drink seeped through the ice and down his throat. Allyson examined her bottle then consumed the last drink in a powerful swallow. “Do you know what I am thinking now?” He asked. “Yes.” A constant cool breeze flowed over the bed and up into the area fan. Brandt watched in silence, the shadows of the blades on the ceiling and considered his feelings, new ones, and things paternal. His arms were folded behind his head and snuggled tightly to his sides were his son and the woman he had never married. He found himself becoming ensconced in a grip of concern, a realization that if he did not do a quick inventory of his mind and a quick inspection of the events that had transpired, he would someday find some curious item that he had missed or misunderstood about himself or everything, and have to answer to what it was. There happened to be many things that he would have a hard time explaining, the least of which physical actions, but you can never be sure how far a familial emotion has the potential to go. He unfolded his arms and placed on hand on Allyson’s smooth thigh that was draped across his legs. The other he slid under the pillows out and behind Taylor’s head. He turned his head and placed his nose carefully in front of Taylor’s mouth, agape and gently blowing early morning breath. Brandt captured one of his exhales breathed it in deep and held it there as long as he could. That Sunday morning Big Walnut Creek ran strong through the neighborhood from the damn on it’s way to the river. It was greenish brown, accented with small white caps at the fast rocky runs, and skirted with leaves in the deep pools that formed under the overhangs of the trees lining it banks. A large Egret glided just above the surface of the water around the bend, gracefully motionless in flight up the straight and finally ascended into the sky at the island 100 yards or so from Brandt’s house. His eyes happened upon it as he shut the backdoor of Allyson’s car, having just fastened the seat belt around Taylor, said his goodbyes, and battled the nausea that always reared up at times like these. He succeeded in holding back the tears that had come so unexpectedly the last time. As the car pulled out of the driveway, it’s occupants set to undertake the arduous journey back to West Virginia, Brandt thought that he might walk down the street, and then across the bridge, and then down the bank to the creek, careful not to slip on the rocks or in the mud and straight into the water. He would wade in a few steps at a time to the point of complete submersion, accompanied by a trail of bubbles on the surface out about 20 feet or so to the middle, the deepest part. He envisioned himself sitting Indian style at the bottom, his cheeks puffed out wide, his hair wafting gently about his head, waiting for something fantastic to happen.