by William Cass
Carl pulled on his brown cardigan, gripped his cane, and left the house. It was just after 6am, the charcoal sky ink-washed over rooftops to the east. At the end of the driveway, the old man paused. He looked to the left at the streets he’d grown accustomed to taking on his morning walks, then pressed his lips into a thin, tight line, blew out a breath, and turned right.
At that hour, he had the neighborhood of small, silent houses to himself. Every now and then, a dog barked, and sometimes another answered. Otherwise, it was silent. At the bottom of the hill, Carl entered the town’s central park. He had that to himself, too. With fall’s early advance, some leaves on the trees had begun to turn. He passed the fountain and the playground before he came to the pond. Carl stopped and stared off across the gray water with its scattering of ducks dotting the surface. At the pond’s edge, their old bench stood empty. He blew out another breath, then used his cane to lower himself down onto it.
A couple of ducks swam over his way and regarded him. “Nope,” Carl whispered to them. “Not today.”
He gazed off across the pond at the trees on the far shore, smatterings of color against the lightening sky, and sat very still thinking, remembering. At one point, he reached over and ran his hand across the vacant spot next to him.
Perhaps twenty minutes later, the sound of footsteps approached on the cinder path and a man with a small boy emerged at the pond’s lip several feet away. The boy gave a squeal of delight as a flotilla of ducks made a sudden migration their way; Carl supposed he was probably about four years old. The man opened a plastic bag that held hunks of bread, handed it to the boy, and chuckled watching him toss bread to the ducks that swarmed in the shallows in front of him.
Several moments passed before the man turned to Carl with a sheepish grin and said, “Sorry to disturb your reverie.” He gestured with his chin towards the boy. “My son’s an early riser. We discovered this place a few months ago. Started coming here so his mom could sleep a little longer before work.”
“No problem.” Carl swallowed. “I understand. My wife and I used to come feed those ducks ourselves for many years.” He paused. “Until she passed away.”
“I’m sorry,” the man said. “How long ago?”
“A year. A year ago today.”
The boy had turned around to listen. He stared at Carl with solemn eyes, then walked up to him and extended his open bag of bread. They looked at each other, the boy nodding, until Carl took a few hunks of bread from inside it. The boy pulled some from inside, too. First, the boy tossed a hunk, then after a moment, a small smile creased Carl’s lips, and he did the same.
© William Cass
William Cass has had over 300 short stories appear in literary magazines and anthologies. A nominee for Best Small Fictions and Best of the Net, he’s also had six Pushcart nominations. His first short story collection was published by Wising Up Press in 2020, and a second collection has recently been released by the same press. He lives in San Diego, California.
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