War has broken out and Dad and I are roasting pork.  Of course if the definition of war includes the concept of a contest, then bombing a third-world city might not qualify.  The oven breathes over my face, its heat a visible blurry wave as I pull open the door to check on dinner.  The oven rack comes forward with an awkward jerk and I pry loose the tinfoil’s grip, folding it back to release the succulent aroma of crackling fat.  I baste the meat in its own juices using an enormous spoon—too enormous; it doesn’t fit along the sides of the roast to scoop the juice.  I replace the tinfoil, push back the rack, and close the oven.  I lift myself upright and an unfamiliar twinge plucks at my spine.  Lack of panic at a new ache or pain is a sure sign of growing old.  Oh God what is that becomes ouch, I hope that goes away.  My lower spine tingles, not in a good way, as I arch my shoulders back to remedy this new ailment.

The decaying old man appears in my periphery, dressed neatly in gray sweater and black slacks and mimicking my pose.  My father’s perennial house guest chooses me this time for his mocking reflection.  He waits for me to acknowledge him but I will not.

Fifty isn’t that old.  Especially considering I’m only forty-eight.  I’ve considered myself fifty since my forty-sixth birthday.  The old man in gray never says a word, not even to Dad who dotes on him like a dear uncle—simply gives Dad that toothless grin of his.  I pretend the bastard doesn’t exist, which has turned into a much more arduous task.  The old, gray, hunched, hairless (practically), toothless specter rarely leaves this house anymore.  He even has the audacity to show up at my apartment now and then or at my work or even when I’m out in the city.

I hear the shuffle of Dad’s worn, deerskin slippers on linoleum before a gentle hand on my back announces his arrival.  Crooked, spindling fingers give my side a squeeze as Dad works around me and opens the drawer next to the oven, the silverware drawer.  He opens the cabinet above and I help him pull down a plate but he waves it off; he wants one of the good plates from the shelf above.

“I’ve already set the table, Dad,” I sigh.

“Don’t be stubborn Tommy,” he says, smiling.  “You’re more stubborn than your mother ever was.”

I hand him the desired plate from the middle shelf and he shuffles through the doorway leading to the dining room (the swinging door is always propped open), off to make a third place setting.  I suppose it is stubborn, even rude, to ignore Dad’s perennial house guest and pretend he won’t be joining us this Sunday.  Dad has been setting a place for him as long as I can remember, well before Mama died, even before their fortieth anniversary.  At first I thought they were both crazy, until I started visiting more often—to do some of the things Dad could no longer do for himself—and I finally saw him for myself.  After Mama died, Dad’s guest started coming around more often.  Now the gray sweater’s presence is like a shadow stretching slowly over the house as years go by.  The smack of his gums on whatever soft dishes are available (mashed potatoes, butternut squash, applesauce), are the only sounds he emits.  I often tease Dad that his guest is from his side of the family—one of the Graham clan back in Manchester England—and that toothbrushes must have been invented in America.  Dad always answers with an exaggerated grin, full of teeth still rooted in his gums.

Now the gray sweater mirrors Dad as he reaches high into the china cabinet for another wine glass, right down to the slight tremble of Dad’s hand.  My impulse to do everything for my father is overwhelmed by my fear that if he stops moving he’ll crumble into a pile of dust.  At eighty-five, keeping active is no longer a good idea; it’s a requirement.  Not making yourself busy, mind you, being active.  It doesn’t matter what you do, it’s how you go about doing it.  I’ve found my father reading the plays of Chekhov and I’ve found him watching the worst television has to offer.  I’ve found him trying his hand at painting and I’ve found him toiling over endless crossword and jigsaw puzzles.  But I’ve never caught my father killing time.

“Am I starting the gravy yet?” Dad asks.

“No,” I reply, “but I think the potatoes are ready to be mashed.”  I turn off the gas burner below a boiling glass crock as Dad shuffles toward the sink to retrieve the strainer.  As our joint venture into cooking has evolved, the various tasks naturally fell to whoever proved most adept at them.  Dad is the gravy man.  In the perpetual search for any unknown, hidden talents, the culinary arts turned out to be one he had, (his two landscapes adorning the walls of my city apartment are truly terrible).  When cancer took my mother a decade ago, the menu was buried with her.  Dad supplied most of the ingredients from his prized garden but Mama did absolutely all of the cooking.   The third pizza I brought back to the house convinced him it was time we learned to cook.  A smile floats from my stomach as I slip on oven mitts.  Back then Dad’s smooth resiliency to some of life’s harder knocks still surprised me.  Within a year he had turned his new hobby into ours.  I, however, was the one who pushed us into such exotic climes as sushi and stir-fry.

“Watch yourself,” I say.  The gray sweater stands next to Dad as he puts the old, thick metal strainer into the sink and steps back.  It looks burdensome in Dad’s withered hands.  I pour the contents of the crock into the strainer, hot damp steam rushes up and I lean my face forward to greet it.  Dad reaches into the sink and I want to stop him, but check myself.  He grabs the strainer and shakes off the excess liquid, his frail body like vibrating glass ready to shatter.  I hold the crock low to make it easier for him to pour the potatoes back in.

“You should set a place for your companion,” Dad says, “it’s not right to leave her sitting in your car.”

“Dad, I’ve told you a million times, I’m not seeing Jenny anymore,” I say, “I’m not seeing anyone.”

“Stubborn,” he says.

I swallow my annoyance and put the crock back on the stove.  Dig into your anger and you often find fear underneath.  In this case I need only run a thumbnail along the surface.  It’s terrifying to watch the most magnificent mind you’ve ever known start to slip.  I expect the smug eyes of the gray sweater to fuel my anger, but he’s not in the room.

Dad brings over the cardboard container of milk and a half-stick of butter from the fridge.  The milk crackles like burning paper as I pour it into the hot crock.  Dad carves off a chunk of butter onto the potatoes.  He starts to whistle and I look away, laughing, so he can drop the remainder of the stick into the pot.  I pull two forks from the drawer and his fingers squeeze my side again, pulling me close as we work together to whip the spuds into shape.

Thoughts of Jenny start with my bedroom, her smile, the flares of golden hair splayed all about the pillow, her smooth, lithe body entangled in the sheets; a tigress smoldering with sensual energy.  Even now, the troublemaker twitches and grows hard.  God took his time when he created young women.  After so many years with Carmen, who had let herself go—the years leading to our divorce played hell with her physically—Jenny’s taut skin had been a breathtaking revelation.

Memories of Jenny end with a dinner, with the admission to myself that our pairing was absurd, a flailing against life on my part.  The final rationalization—that our differences were a simple age gap—crumbled under the weight of Jenny’s theories concerning the motives of contestants on a “reality-based” television program.  Regardless, at twenty-four she was too young for me.  Jenny was a reaction to suddenly finding myself alone, wife and son gone, at forty-seven.  Alone at an age when it’s scary to be alone.  Then again, at what age was I not afraid of being alone?  To my credit I faced reality after three months and called it quits with Jenny.  Paying a small fortune to own and garage a Jaguar in the city—driven only three to four times a week to Dad’s house in Stamford, Connecticut—is childish.  Trying to keep up with a woman half my age is worse.  To Jenny’s credit she seemed to understand—it was much tougher to break the news to my penis.

I settle into a corner of the worn old couch in the den, Dad seats himself, upright but comfortable, in the wood and vinyl chair he’s had for years, relaxing until the gravy’s moment has come.  The gray sweater sits beside him imitating the frail slump of Dad’s shoulders.  We watch silently as the made-for-television war flashes across the wide screen I bought Dad six months ago.  War now requires an editor and producer, lighting and sound experts.  I glance at my father and I know he is watching with the eyes of a young Clive Graham, who survived the Blitz in London during World War II.  It occurs to me that when I watch my father’s eyes at times like this, the gray sweater disappears.  Dad’s mind isn’t in London of 1940, it’s in a Middle East city today.  My father is watching the images from the view of those in the city, already deeply bruised by hardship, hunkered in fear, and I too, through him.  Dad is my tether to the past, my portal to history.  Through him I imagine myself in that city at night, pounded by wrathful technology, and the dry, acidic taste of fear rises in my mouth.

The smell of the roast reminds me that we are safe and fear melts into sorrow.  So Dad and I sit in silence, sending sorrow to fellow humans on the other side of the world.  I start to feel helpless, like I should be doing more, but remember something Dad said once.  Simple compassion is often misunderstood and tragically underrated.

“They seem to have put away the pretty reporters for the war coverage,” notes Dad.  Wicked old man, he enjoyed Jenny’s brief tenure at our dinners more than I did.

“All the old anchors work long hours during these historic moments,” I say.  “They’re still clinging to the dream of being the next Walter Cronkite.”

Dad sips some of his water and returns the glass to the tray next to his chair.  He places it with a slow and deliberate motion and the gray sweater returns momentarily.  “There are too many channels and too much cynicism for such a throne today,” Dad says.

“Too little attention span you mean,” I say.  He might be right about the cynicism.

“I ordered a model plane kit,” says Dad, “one that really flies I mean.  We should get it in time for Cory’s next visit.”

“I’ll tell him during our next phone call,” I say.  I run my thumb along the peeling corner of my beer’s label.  Cory will love that.  Cory’s grandfather shits gold bricks.  “I have to keep you and this house around, old man.  Otherwise my son would never leave the West Coast and visit me.”  A shameful cry for attention—rising from his chair, Dad doesn’t let me down.

His hands cup my face.  “My grandson is a brilliant source of joy but you are my best friend, Tommy,” he says.  “Always.”

“Thanks Dad.”  I squeeze his hands as tight as I dare but don’t look at him.  I can’t.

“Keep your arms open,” Dad says, heading back to the kitchen, “it is all you can do.”

I smile and swallow a mouthful of beer.  He may be my only fan, but he is enough.  His thin silhouette stops in the lit entrance to the kitchen.

“C’mon Tommy, I’m famished,” he says.  “Let’s get this gravy going before I turn to dust.”  Dad loves to tease me this way, inviting me to acknowledge, celebrate even, the waning years of his life.  The gray sweater, standing next to the kitchen doorway as I walk through it, gives me a toothless grin.  I try, but I can’t smile back.

Dad places the serving tray and another pot on the counter as I lift the roast from the oven.  Using the carving knife and fork I hoist the steaming meat on the tray and pour the remaining contents of the tin into the bowl so Dad can work his magic.

“You’re a skilled chef, Tommy Graham,” he says.  I’m tempted to lean down so he can tousle my hair.  Dad says my name with the same chime in his voice; as if I were still the toddler screaming Papa, Papa what did you bring me, when he returned home from work on Fridays.  I imagine people at work hearing him and I almost laugh—Thomas to those above me on the corporate ladder and Mr. Graham to those below.  A self-important stock trader (ten years too old for the job), nobody would dare to call me Tom, let alone Tommy.  But that’s my personal damnation isn’t it?  The wisdom to see what an asshole I am but not wise enough to do anything about it.

“Tommy, you should set a place for your companion,” says Dad, working more flour into the pot as he stirs the thickening gravy.  “It is rude to leave her in the car while we eat.”

“Dad, I don’t have a companion,” I say, running a hand along the back of my neck. “Jenny was too young for me, I don’t see her anymore.”

“I’m not talking about Jenny,” says Dad.  I glance over and am surprised to find the gray sweater is not shadowing him.

There is a knock on the back door and I can see from the expression on Dad’s face that he isn’t expecting anyone.  “Keep stirring the gravy, I’ll get it,” I say.

The far end of the dining room has glass doors that open, three steps down, to the back entryway.  I pull open the back door expecting to find an evangelist or the paper boy but find instead a tall, gaunt gentleman dressed in black slacks and black suit coat over a crème-colored cardigan.  He lifts the black fedora off of his head in greeting, exposing his angular features and dark hair; his eyes are wide, unreal orbs of pitch that seduce and terrify all at once.  He gives the warm smile of an old friend but like the old man in the gray sweater, he says nothing.  Recognition lashes my mind like a whip and I slam the door shut in his face.

“Tommy, who is it?”  Dad is standing at the glass doors.

“No—No one,” I say.  “They have the wrong house.  Let’s eat.”

Dad comes down the stairs and I’m powerless to stop him.  Lying to my father is always a fruitless venture.  He gently ushers me aside and opens the door.

“Oh,” says Dad.  His face constricts with alarm but quickly softens, as if the muscles in his face were trying to show fear and failed from a lack of practice.  “I didn’t expect you today,” Dad says, taking the man’s hat, “please come in, dinner is almost ready.”  The man enters the dining room and Dad takes me by the hands, his eyes searching mine.  “Help me set a place for him Tommy.”

“Dad, no,” I plead, “we can still ask him to leave.”

In the half-light of the hallway my father’s smile radiates the glowing warmth of a fire’s last embers.  “Please, Tommy.”

My limbs calcify, as if hardening cement dripped into the marrow of my bones.  Ten years ago my parents asked me to help set a place for this particular guest in black and I didn’t—I couldn’t.  I don’t want to now, I want to scream and throw the man out—the gray sweater too.  I don’t want to set the man’s place—I don’t know if I can—but I have to try.  No one should do it alone.  Dad will not do it alone.

My hand trembles visibly as I collect silverware out of the drawer.  I reach for a plate on the lowest shelf of the cabinet and sigh.  Breathing deep, I gather resolve from the air in the kitchen and draw one of the good plates from the middle shelf.  I enter the dining room in time to see Dad taking down yet another wine glass from the china cabinet.  The gray sweater is beside Dad but not mimicking him.  Dad’s movements are steady now, graceful.  The silverware and plate clatter together as I try to set them—I need both hands to place the plate on the table.  The black suit coat leans back patiently and Dad sets the wine glass.  Dad turns to me and I realize I’m still clutching the silverware in a painful, white-knuckle fashion.  Dad’s hands slide under my forearms, his touch loosening my grip, and helps me guide the utensils into place.

“Tommy why don’t you carve the roast and bring it in,” Dad says.  I see he has set out all the other dishes: the potatoes, asparagus, butternut squash and applesauce, butter, pepper and salt—a humble yet iridescent, multicolored banquet.  “Is red wine okay for everyone?” says Dad.   “I have a 1961 Chateau Trotanoy Bordeaux that has been waiting for just such an honored occasion.”  The guests smile in appreciation and Dad shuffles off to the den to collect his most prized bottle of wine.  I plod into the kitchen and carve the roast.

When I enter with the serving dish, Dad is seated at the head of the table as usual with the black suit coat to his left and the gray sweater to his right.  I center the roast between them and Dad begins filling plates as I settle into the chair next the gray sweater, a full glass of wine waiting for me—Dad gave up trying to convince me to take Mama’s chair at the other end of the table.  I lift up my plate and Dad hoists a cut of meat onto it.

Everyone tucks into their meals and the room is silent but for the light clatter of silverware and fine china—and the smacking of toothless gums.   I glance to the left; my neighbor’s plate is a simple pile of mashed potatoes, squash and applesauce.  I wake to the fact that my listless mouth is now full of food, too much to chew never mind swallow.  The old man’s smacking gums agitate me further and I remind myself that if I can treat every elderly person as I would my father, my life would be easier.  When that fails I admonish myself that someday it will be my own fragile dignity on display.

“Well, we’ve done it again, Tommy,” says Dad, placing his utensils onto a now spotless plate, not even evidence of gravy remaining.  “I dare say the roast and its gravy could not have been more succulent.”  Dad sips his wine and returns it slowly to the table; eyes on his glass, Dad gives the black suit coat’s forearm an affectionate squeeze.  “I must apologize for not pulling out the good stuff when last we met.”  Dad’s expression drops and, urgently clutching the black sleeve, he turns on his guest.  “You are here to see me?”

The black suit coat pats my father’s hand with an affectionate smile and my father instantly relaxes.  I relax as well, and the shame heats my face.  I watch the man’s smooth, dark features as he takes a sip of his wine.  I would almost say he was beautiful.  You would think with a war going on he would have plenty of work elsewhere, wouldn’t need to come scrounging around for the old and the sick.

“This house has certainly seen everything life has to offer,” says Dad, his voice returning to that of gracious host.  “When Tommy arrived there was wine, food, cigars, smiling visitors.”  My father’s eyes find and hold mine; an expression of grateful surprise animates his features as if I’ve given him something beautiful and rare that he didn’t expect.  “Joy sat at this table more times than not when Doris, Tommy and I shared this roof.”

My gaze follows Dad’s to his wine glass.  I watch the dark liquid whirl around the decanter, his fingers playing with its base as his voice dances in my ears.  “Aside from my family,” he says, “I loved my garden the most.  It offered a stage for the slow constant rhythm of life, a rhythm I fell deeper into with each passing year.  The seasons are a poem with four stanzas, an elegant reminder of the cycle of life.”

Both guests, black and gray, smile and slowly nod their heads.  Resentment forces my eyes shut.  I want them both gone.  Now.

Dad touches the black suit coat’s arm again.  “Believe it or not, I would even take a thermos of coffee and a book out to the garden in the dead of winter—for as long as I could stay outside anyway.”  Dad laughs.  “The neighbors used to think I was crazy.  I would tell them that I wanted to experience the whole poem.  I suppose that didn’t clear up their confusion.”  He looks at his guest again.  “You know, I think those days most of all made me a better host to you.  Made me see the truth about you.”

Dad swallows the remainder of his wine and pushes back his plate with a smile.  “The potatoes could have used a tad more butter, I suppose,” he says, smiling.  His gnarled hands press into the table and he rises unsteadily to his feet. “You’ll all have to excuse me now, I need to go lie down for a bit.  Please don’t let the wine go to waste.”

“Dad, no,” I say, nearly knocking my wine to the table.

My father gazes at me and the light of the room plays off him, an illusion of my watery, irritated eyes.  My blood percolates as Dad refills the black suit coat’s glass.  My father’s eyes shine; caress me—it is no trick of the light.  He places a hand on the black suit coat’s shoulder and I understand.  Dad asked me to set his guest’s place for my sake, not his.

“I’m tired Tommy,” says Dad.  “I need to lie down.”

Dad leaves the room and I feel unreal, I reach for my wine glass to avoid floating away.  We sit in silence drinking the wine.  I stand and empty the bottle into the remaining glasses.  I’m trying Dad, I’m trying.

Ten minutes pass and the black suit coat finishes his wine and rises.  He pushes in his chair, nods a silent thank you and makes his way to the door, letting himself out.

Oh, Papa.

My eyes pinch shut and my hands adhere to the table but it doesn’t help, everything still spins.  She is here now—she let herself in.  I don’t need to open my eyes to feel her presence.  The companion my father talked about but I failed to recognize.  I open my eyes and she stands just inside the glass doors wrapped in a full-length sweater of slate blue.  A sweater the color of darkening clouds on a frigid, damp day.  I smile at my own foolishness.  My father was as sharp as ever.  I see her now.  Loneliness; my companion.

Dad was right.  I have been rude.  She was waiting in my car.  She lives in my apartment and has lived there for a long time.  Yet I only acknowledge her when my solitude is most acute—sitting outside a courtroom after the judge ruled Carmen could sell the house and move to California.  The judge allowed her to take my son away.  I sat wanting desperately to cry or to throw up but was too empty to do either.   Was there ever a more desolate bench than that one?  Am I more alone now?

I see her clearly now, in her long sweater, arms wrapped tightly around her.  Gaunt, yet regal cheekbones and faint lines around mouth and eyes—she is a withering, classic beauty.  Eyes of ash-gray simmer with exhausted yearning but don’t look away.  Her touch weighs heavy on me now and I can look back in time to moments when I didn’t recognize her caress.  The dull ache at the sight of a pretty woman—at the cafe, across the bar, in line at the grocery store—could she be the one to end my loneliness?  The subtle yet sharp twinge when the woman’s lover arrived with two cups of coffee—the sigh of loneliness.  The maddening trick of memory that embellishes the highlights of my marriage and dilutes the bitterness.   A son’s one syllable answers as he toils through a tiresome phone call with his father.

I rise to my feet and hold an open hand to my mother’s former place at the table.  “Please sit,” I say, “there is plenty of food left.”