supplicium post mortem

His office door opened with a skeleton key. Inside, dark wood paneling, lead-paned windows, plenty of room to swing a cane. Corridor stone, cool, bringing music and the lingering remnants of incense.

His study at home opened to a knock, dark-wooden floorboards, maroon wallpaper, leather couch chosen for its arm, which could be bent over. Wood everywhere: desk, bookcase, file cabinet (one drawer holding a slipper), hat-stand with canes, prie-dieu, and cross.

He usually dealt with Casey across his knee on that couch. When he wanted to make a point, he’d unbutton his shirt-cuff and roll up his sleeve, to show he was ready for strenuous punishment. The last time he dealt with her, she was across his knee and the door opened, revealing the darkened guest-bedroom. He stood her up and strode to the door:

“Matthew, what is it?… Not now.”

Matthew was six, one of The Others, those people who lived with us, though not corporeally. They’d never opened doors before.

He walked the dogs every morning except Sundays. He took charge of the garden. He carried things up the rickety basement steps. He did the grilling. He signed Casey’s permission slips. He put her across his knee. He snored.

The last morning he hugged me and said, “Don’t be anxious.”

At the interment, his voice in my head, overpowering everything else, saying, “Take care of little Casey. Take care of little Casey.” Over and over, his voice so close, so tender, so alive.

Check out other FFF entries from this week:

• PapaTomLA