All Day Long And All Through The Night Previously unpublished. In the morning, having dreamed of lying in his mother’s arms and sucking, as he has not done in years, at her breast, the boy is awakened by his mother’s voice, whispering in his ear that it is time to go to kindergarten. Her breath smells like coffee, her dress of starch; his eyes open and he sees her stiff hair outlined by the window’s dim light. He wants to stay home and be with her; at the same time he wants to go to school, because show and tell is today. He will show a rock that he found. He gets dressed and puts the rock in his sweatshirt pocket. In the bathroom he washes his face and combs his hair; in his sweatshirt pocket is a baseball. Today there will be practice; today he will have band. He plays the clarinet, though he has no talent: it’s all right because no one in the band is talented. His parents and older brother will come to the spring concert; his brother will mock him later, telling him that he looked like a fag. He is better than his brother at baseball, but his brother won’t come to the games. He goes to the kitchen. His little sister is already at the breakfast table, eating a piece of toast. His mother is frying eggs. His mother says, “You’re wearing that?” “Yeah,” he says. His voice will deepen soon; for now, he is trying to force it. “Yeah, I am,” he says, secretly touching the cigarette pack in his pocket. His sister says “You look dumb” and his mother says “Tracy!” and he says “Shut up” and his sister says “Make me.” Then his brother comes downstairs and says “Are the chicken embryos ready?” and his mother says “Nathan! Don’t be disgusting” and his brother says “You’re the disgusting one, chicken-embryo-killer.” After breakfast he gets into his car and drives to school. The car used to be his brother’s, but he inherited it when his brother killed himself. His father had wanted to sell it but capitulated. “Just keep it out of my sight,” his father told him, and so he parks it on the street several blocks away, in front of his girlfriend’s house. While his brother was overdosing at the bottom of the abandoned public swimming pool, he was having sex with his girlfriend for only the third time. In her bed with her parents away, he felt like his brother: rebellious and full of life. While he drives he listens to the radio. A weatherman says “Sun.” When he arrives at school he adjusts his necktie in the rearview mirror and checks his briefcase to make sure he has everything. He walks in, pours himself a coffee in the teachers’ lounge. He is reminded of his mother. She doesn’t drink coffee anymore, she gave it up after her seminar at the wellness center. His father, living alone in a distant city, still drinks it and has taken up smoking to boot. He greets his fellow teachers, one of whom is his lover. She passes him a note. It reads, “No note-passing!” In his classroom he says “Good morning” to the students and turns to write the day’s assignment on the board. When he turns back, the students look different, younger. He tells them about history. They write down what he says. A teacher appears at the door, the one he used to love. Curtly she says “Phone call.” He goes to the lounge. It’s his wife. There has been an accident involving their baby daughter. “Hurry, she’s not moving,” his wife says. He gets in the car and speeds home. His wife is pushing their daughter out of the garage in her wheelchair. “Daddy, Daddy!” says his daughter, “I got an A! I got an A!” They take a walk. His wife looks older, more sad, but more real as well. He tries to take her hand but she pushes him away. He says to his daughter, “We’d like to meet this Brad, why don’t you invite him home?” His daughter says, “We just met, Daddy.” Soon they arrive at the park. It is a beautiful day. In the shade of a tree, a groom is waiting, a minister. He wheels his daughter to them and gives her away. His father has come to the wedding but is shaking from his illness and has to be led around by the arm. His mother, tall and beautiful, does not speak to his father. His wife drinks far too much. They throw confetti, they throw rice. When he and his wife get home, the phone is ringing: it’s his mother’s second husband. “I’m sorry, there was nothing they could do for her.” They go to the funeral. When they arrive, his sister comes up to him and says, “Her husband, that bastard, gets the house.” She has come alone and wears a tattoo of a bleeding rose on her breast. He approaches the casket and looks inside. His father is lying there. “Nathan’s death killed your love for me,” he says, filled with anger. His daughter wheels up to him, holding her infant son. “Brad and I are taking the baby home,” she says. They get into the car and go to their daughter’s. A card in his hand reads “Happy Birthday to a Super Kid!” He gives it to his grandson. “Thank you,” says the boy, and they sing as the cake is brought in. But their voices sound wrong, the notes are muddy. “My ears,” he says. “We’ll stop at the doctor’s.” “I’m sorry,” the doctor tells his wife. “You have three months to live.” “This life has been a waste,” his wife says. He turns up the volume on his hearing aid. “What?” he says. When he gets home, he finds his second wife in bed with another man. He walks out to the porch, using his cane. It is evening. The sun is setting. He is holding a letter, and included with the letter is a photo. “Grandpa, I hope you can share my happiness.” The photo is of his grandson and another man, arms around one another’s shoulders. He looks out at the yard. It needs to be weeded. He has been weeding for weeks, but by the time he reaches one end of the yard, new weeds have sprouted at the other. Now he looks at the photo again. His grandson and grandson’s partner are older; the partner is holding a small baby with Asian features, and kissing its cheek. He is saddened to think that the baby will never have a mother. The baby will never smell a starched dress or suck at a breast. His sadness would disappoint his grandson, but his grandson will never know. Now the yard is barely visible. The grass is overgrown; the hedge has not been trimmed. He turns to go inside. Tracks have been worn in the old wood floor where he has walked from room to room, over years. He goes to the bathroom, tries to urinate, but he can’t tell if he’s done it or not. When he thinks he’s through, he pushes his walker into the bedroom. It takes him a long time to get into bed. He picks up a book and begins to read it, but the words blur. He looks up. The photos on the walls are dim smears. He reaches to turn off the lamp, but the room is already dark. He falls asleep thinking that tomorrow he’ll rid the yard of weeds; after all there are a finite number, he’ll just pull out one after the other until all of them are gone. He dreams of doing exactly that. But he does not wake up. c2009 by J. Robert Lennon.