No Cognitive Defect - Part I

They sat quietly while the Weather Channel’s false prophet gestured to maps and Doppler radar images, went through an array of “if-this-then-that “ scenarios, and ultimately made it clear to Wilson, Evan and everyone in New England that he had no clue what kind of weather was headed their way. Wilson sensed what was coming his way right now, though. He’d seen it in Evan’s eyes almost from the moment his son walked through the door earlier in the week. He could feel Evan glancing toward him even now, and could see him shifting around in his chair every few minutes. The moment was at hand, Wilson knew it.

“We need to talk, Dad,” Evan began.

“Christ, here it comes,” sighed Wilson.

“I’m moving home,” Evan said firmly.

“The hell you are,” Wilson shot back.

“I am. You need me. I’m a writer. It doesn’t much matter where I hang my hat. I’ll move home for few months. I can write regional pieces.”

“Go back to California, Evan. I don’t need you. I’ll manage. I’m not an invalid. I can cook. I can even drive. Your mother had hand controls put in the Buick two years ago. I’ll manage.”

Evan was undeterred.

“Dad, your car was inspected last year. It’s been driven less than fifty miles since. Mom took you everywhere you needed to go. Today you couldn’t even get your plate to the table. It’s settled. I’m coming home, at least for a few months. I’ve already cancelled my flight home. That’s that.”

“That’s that?” he shot back, astounded. “That’s that! You barge back in here after all these years and simply take over? You see me for a couple of days and independently decide I am a hopeless invalid, then announce you’re inflicting yourself on me for god knows how long, and all you can say is ‘that’s that?’”

“Dad, listen, I…” Evan said softly.

“Go screw yourself, Evan, and that’s that,” he said, regretting the choice of words immediately. He pushed his TV tray over, sending his coffee cup and saucer smashing to the hardwood floor. He pulled himself up from his chair and went off to his bedroom.

* * *

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