Unfinished Dialogue

It was late when Arthur finally parked outside of his father’s apartment. He sighed with relief at the closed curtains, not wanting any premature eye contact. He fiddled with the notes he’d written, mouthing the words to make them real. He would stutter or say it wrong and then start over until he felt satisfied with the way it came out, and even then he practiced three more times. He told himself he kept the car running to keep warm but he knew deep down he wanted the sound of the engine to cloud over the static in his brain. He tucked the notes in his pocket and fumbled with the keys, turning off the new coupe and finally stepping into the brisk evening air.

Arthur knocked on the gray door, heart beating against his ear. Within a painstakingly long few seconds, it was opened and his father stood before him, staring him in the face. 

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

His father had grown thinner and his few strands of white hair were barely clinging to his scalp. Arthur managed a smile.

“May I come in?”

“Oh, yeah, of course.” His father beckoned him to follow and hobbled towards the kitchen. 

He was surprised to see how cluttered the apartment had become, how grimy the sink and oven had gotten. “I brought sugar cookies.”

“Put ‘em on the counter,” his father said.

Arthur did, and then they stood in silence. 

He tried to distract himself by looking around.

“I know,” his father said. “It’s messy. I haven’t had much help these last few months.”

“Oh no, that’s not what I was going to say.”

“It’s what you were thinkin’.”

More silence.

“So, I came here to talk.”

“Good. I’ve been meanin’ to talk to you.”

Recalling the words he’d recited in the car, Arthur began, “I want to start out by s-”

“No, I start.”

He blinked. “I- okay, I understand, say what you wa-”

“I saw ‘ya come in that fancy new car of yours. You would pick red.”

It was then that Arthur noticed the stains on his father’s white button-up and the faint smell of cheap noodles. The room seemed to close in around him, the beige walls sinking closer with each quick breath.

“Yeah, I got the coupe a few weeks ago.”

“I guess you got the money from the books?”

“Yeah.”

“I read ‘em.”

“Oh.”

“They weren’t that special.” His father sat down on the green armchair, taking a cigarette off the side table and holding it to his mouth.

Arthur sucked in a breath, “Okay, dad. I’m actually here to-”

“What was the last one about again? The latest book.”

“Oh, it was horror, about a girl who’s being stalked.”

“How’d it end? I couldn’t get through the first few chapters.”

“She gives up,” Arthur explained. “She gives up and lets him take her.”

“Sounds familiar. I guess it’s true that you gotta put a bit of yourself into your characters.”

“What?”

“You were always weak,” His father said, huffing the cigarette. “You always give up on what matters.”

“What- okay, Dad, I’m not here to-”

“You gave up on me.”

“What?”

“You always fancied your mama more so it only made sense that you flocked to her after the divorce. Like a sheep.”

“You think I gave up on you?”

“Look around and tell me,” he gestured to the clutter. “When’s the last time you came to help me? When’s the last time anyone came to help me?”

“I don’t have to visit you to love you.”

His father scoffed. “Love me? You don’t love me.”

“Dad, I’m not going to have this argument with you.”

“Okay then, you don’t wanna admit to it. I get it. Then let’s talk about the books.”

“I don’t w-”

“What did you do that I didn’t? What did you do to get book deals and signings while mine sit untouched on a shelf?”

“I don’t know what you want me to say to that.”

“I want you to tell me what you did that I didn’t.”

“I’m not going to tell y-”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s pointless!” Arthur cried, raising his voice. “I’m not going to stand here and try to figure out what you want to hear because nothing will ever be good enough for you! You will always be upset with me, you will always resent me for doing what you could never do!”

“You think I resent you?”

“I know you resent me.”

“Hah! You don’t even know-”

“You made a comment on my car,” Arthur explained, voice still raised. “You made a comment on the color and said how my books weren’t good, you never call me, you never make an effort to talk to your own son because you can’t accept the fact that he’s successful.”

“I’d hardly call you successful.”

“I’m a New York Times Bestseller! How is that not successful!?”

“Everyone’s a Bestseller these days,” his father grumbled. “Except for the people that actually deserve it.”

“Oh, like you?”

“Yes, like me.”

Arthur laughed coldly, “You wanna know why your books never sold? Maybe they were just bad. Maybe no one wanted to even try to publish your garbage.”

“Then why did you become a writer?”

“What?”

“Tell me, why did you become a writer?”

“Because I like to write.”

“You became a writer because you waddled up to my desk with your little feet and asked to read my work. You became a writer because you-”

“I don’t want to hear it-”

“Because you were inspired by me. So tell me, if my works were so bad, why did they inspire you so much? You owe everything to me, it’s because of me that you’re where you are in the first place.”

“Because I was a child? Because I was naive and impressionable and actually looked up to you and thought you were the coolest dad ever but that was a lie.”

“You looked up to me?”

“Yes!” Arthur choked. “I have always looked up to you! It’s why I became an author in the first place, to make you proud! To do what you do, to carry on your legacy! But nothing I do will ever be good enough for you because you’re mad that it didn’t happen to you.”

“If you looked up to me so much, why did you never visit after your mom left!? Why did you follow her like the sheep you are without ever giving me a second thought?!”

“Because you never answered your phone! You never returned my calls or my texts or even my voicemails! You gave up on me.”

“I didn’t want to talk to the son that abandoned me in my time of need and left with that whore!”

“She’s not a whore! She never had the affair!”

“I’m guessing she told you that?!”

Arthur took a deep breath and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t want to talk about mom right now.”

“Neither do I, I hope I never have to talk about her again.”

He spoke carefully, tiptoeing around each word. “The whole reason I came here was to give you this.” He pulled a white envelope out of his coat. 

“I don’t want an apology letter, it’s too late for that.”

“It’s not an apology letter,” Arthur hissed. “I have nothing to apologize for. Take it.” He threw the envelope at his father, who eyed him with disdain as he opened it.

He pulled out a check. “What is this?”

“Half my sales revenue.”

His father’s eyes grew wide. “Your what?”

“It’ll help cover the cost of your medical bills and help clean this place up. You can hire a cleaner or something.”

“I won’t take this.”

“You will.”

“I don’t deserve it.”

“You do.” Arthur clenched and unclenched his fists, eyes darting around so as to avoid his father's gaze. “You...you were right. You were my biggest inspiration. I wouldn’t be where I am now if it wasn’t for you.”

There was silence.

“You deserve it,” he continued. “More than I do. Maybe you could even use it to find a good publicist for the books. I’m sure they’ll sell.”

“I thought you said they were bad.”

“I...I was angry. I’m sorry.” He sat down on the wooden armchair across from his father, head in his hands. “I don’t want to have this relationship with you. I don’t like arguing, I don’t like being this distant. I want to be your son.”

“And you think giving me money will help?”

“No. The money wasn’t supposed to come with an apology, but after being here I... I’m sorry I didn’t try hard enough for you. I’m sorry I never visited you, that I picked mom over you. I admit that I did that. I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I said you resent me. I shouldn’t have said that either.”

His father placed the envelope on the wooden side table. “Get out of my house.”

Arthur closed his eyes. “Okay. If that’s what you want.”

It began to snow when he drove home that night. He’d thought the drive back would leave him with clouded thoughts, with a boiling rage. Instead, he felt nothing. He thought nothing. 

He was tired.

He parked in front of his suburban home, the grass freshly cut. He crawled into bed beside his sleeping wife. His weary dog perked its head up to acknowledge his presence before drifting off back to sleep.

Arthur stayed awake for hours before finally waking up the next morning to a single text on his phone.

Dad:

I’m sorry, too.

Arthur fell back asleep.