Lucas Dean Fiser: My Father Stood Loading His Gun

Michael Pfammater 1.jpg

Fiser recounts a memory of his father on a winter afternoon @ Pif Magazine.

My father stood in my doorway holding his .45 caliber handgun. He leaned against the wood framework smoking a cigarette, loading the gun. Smoke circled his head like a halo, and I gently laid the book I was reading into the sheets. Every time he loaded a bullet you could hear the steel snap into the magazine. His mouth moved when he did this.

I watched, staring at the cigarette burns on his arms that his father had given him as a teenager. Now they stood out as large purple circles bulging off of his skin. He didn’t talk about them. He didn’t tell me what he did to make his father give them to him. He just rubbed his hands along them every now and then as though he was caught up in a memory. The hair on his head was long and pulled back into a ponytail. His sweater was blue and holes collected themselves around the collar—sleeves rolled to his elbows. He coughed on the smoke from his cigarette, knowing I was unaware of what we needed to do. I was 14 years old.
My mother had left the house earlier that morning with tears in her eyes, hugging my father in her stilettos and blonde hair, stained coffee cups in the sink. He whispered things into her ear. Her sobs echoed through the hallway. He whispered more things and they hugged.
“…why do we have to do this, I can’t believe you want to do this…”
Outside snow was falling and covering the gray yard. He stuffed the .45 into the front of his pants and we walked out of my room out of the hollow hallway of our trailer, out to the backyard. Birds were moving around in the tree, the hushing sound of the snow and their voices is all I remember hearing. My father stood in the middle of the yard in front of me crushing the remainder of his cigarette into the snow. He reached for the red handkerchief in his back pocket and blew his nose. Birds still chirping, snow still falling. The pistol gleamed from his pants.
We walked further near the pasture where the dogs Koda and Gus were kept. They were kept by an acre of aluminum chain link fencing. Koda was my mother’s oldest wolf hybrid. She had rescued her seven years prior from a stranger who starved her and kept her in his basement for years. Her ribs had been broken when we first got her. My mother nursed her back to health in our house. She slept in the living room for the first few months, moaning in the night and scratching at the pin we kept her in. My family adjusted. I remember walking out to the living room at night to talk to her. I would tell her everything about her I loved and stick my fingers through the pin to touch her blue-gray coat. Her eyes were tired and seemed to glow in the night—a bright swirling orange. They must have glowed in the man’s basement too. She must have been able to hear him walk along the wood flooring upstairs—above her. Sitting near the boiler or old brown boxes labeled Christmas and Halloween and Birthday she would probably wait for him to walk down his creaky staircase; the man only seeing the glow of her eyes, the swirling orange, twisting like a dying fire.
My father adjusted the gun in his belt as we approached the chain link pen. The pen stood alone in the pasture surrounded by nothing but snow covered grass. But on this day it stood unsure of itself. I asked my father what we were doing and he paused. I watched the foggy breath poor out of him, his lips cold and surrounded by the black of his beard.
Image: Michael Pfammater @ F-Stop Magazine

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