When Rodger entered the kitchen at seven o'clock to put on the kettle for his breakfast he was startled by the silent presence of his father at the end of the table. He wasn't doing anything, just sitting, an empty coffee mug before him.

"Hi."

"Hi, what time did you get in last night?"

"Ten o'clock, same as always. Kettle hot?"

"Probably not. I made this awhile ago."

"Must have been quite awhile. It's stone cold now. What time did you get up?"

"Around five. I couldn't sleep."

Rodger filled the kettle at the tap and placed it on the large front burner. He turned it on and left the room, headed for the shower. A sudden thought occurred to Frank, "Rodger?"

The blond head re-appeared around the corner of the kitchen wall. "You rang?"

"Yeah, I was wondering, if you don't have anything after school, maybe you and I could do something; play pool maybe," he added as the idea came to him.

"I don't play pool. Besides, I work tonight, remember?" The head disappeared and Frank heard the bathroom door close. The shower began to hiss. Frank sighed audibly, "That's right, I forgot," he said aloud to the empty room.

When the kettle boiled Frank took three eggs from the refrigerator and placed them gently in a saucepan. He poured the boiling water over them until they were almost covered. Immediately one of the eggs began to make a faint whistling noise, emitting a tiny column of bubbles where the shell had cracked.

"Damn. I forgot, supposed to start with cold water." He placed the pan on the stove and stood watching it impatiently until the water began to boil once more, then he noted the time. He began to search the fridge for the remainder of Rodger's lunch. Finding no fruit, he packaged a handful of raisins, carefully folding the waxed paper over to seal them completely. Next he found some graham crackers in a cupboard, and after coating them liberally with strawberry jam, wrapped them face-to-face in another neat parcel. He removed the eggs from the heat and filled the pan with cold water, and placed it under the faucet where the water could trickle slowly into it. Frank pulled several plastic containers and bags from the refrigerator and examined them, throwing much of it directly into the garbage. He found a wilted celery, and discarded most of it, keeping the heart, and salvaged enough of an aged lettuce to garnish the boy's sandwiches. By the time Rodger re-entered the kitchen Frank had completed the egg salad and was wrapping sandwiches.

"Coffee's in the cup there, just pour in the hot water. Toast'll be ready in a minute … I made your lunch: egg salad!"

"Gee, thanks Dad. I usually just take peanut butter, or sometimes I buy my lunch in the cafeteria. I really like your egg salad." He smiled brightly at his father for the first time Frank could remember in a long time.

While the boy was seated at the table, happily eating his breakfast, Frank showered and shaved and then stepped quickly across the hall to the bedroom. He quietly searched out clean socks and underwear, then opened the closet door to find his blue jeans and a shirt. When he did this, he dislodged several board games that had been piled carelessly atop some blankets on the top shelf and had subsequently slid down until they were precariously balanced between the shelf and the closet door. Frank reacted instantly to the impending disaster, scrabbling helplessly, trying to catch the boxes as they tumbled to the floor, but they landed with a clatter, the Checkers game bursting at two corners and noisily scattering tiles in all directions. Diane jumped upright in the bed, and upon comprehending the situation, turned on Frank with all the caustic vindictive she could muster. Frank hadn't time to compose any kind of a reply, the attack had come so quickly on the heels of the accident, but as Diane showed no sign of relenting in her angry tirade, he slowly began to rally, his temper taking over control. His fists clenched, his arms bowed up slightly at his sides, as he glared at her, his face reddening with his developing rage. He spun on his heel and took three long strides toward the bedroom window. Grasping the curtains at the center one in each hand he threw them open in a single violent sweeping movement. Sunlight streamed into the room, capturing in the air the cloud of dust he had disturbed in the material, and creating oblique bars of illuminated particles which, as the cloud grew, extended further into the room.

"Now, if you'd get out of that fucking bed, and get some fucking work done today, maybe you won't be such a fucking night-owl this evening! he bellowed. "And while we're at it, are you so useless you can't go to the store and get a few groceries?"

Diane flinched every time he used the course acronym, delivered at the full of this lungs. It was one she found particularly offensive and Frank used it rarely, but he relished the use of it here, enunciating it clearly, repeating it for emphasis as though slapping her with it. Diane's face adopted a haughty expression of contempt, and administering a final withering sneer upon the hapless Frank, crossed the hall, loudly locking the bathroom door behind her. He found his jeans and pulled them on angrily, the legs snapping into place, and flinging his shirt over his shoulder, returned to the kitchen. Rodger was nowhere to be seen, and piled neatly on the kitchen counter were the careful packages Frank had prepared for his lunch.

Frank put his arms into the sleeves of his shirt, left it unbuttoned and went in search of his boots. He dropped them onto the porch floor and having stepped into them without lacing them, clumped hollowly down the kitchen stairs. When he reached the bottom step he sat down and slowly tied the heavy work boots he wore when working in the garden. He sat motionless for some time, pondering the morning's events. The incident involving Rodger's lunch bothered him most, discouraged him, and would create a pall over the entire day. The quarrel with Diane was nothing unusual; though the swearing was and had probably been a mistake. It had given Frank some momentary satisfaction but would result in several days of frosty silence from his wife.

This morning Frank had felt a minor break-through with his son, a softening in the boy's normally cool attitude toward him, and had hoped a rapprochement of sorts might be possible. He had seen on Rodger's face a warmth not usually there, and had hoped to build further upon it. Surely as the boy grew older he would begin to see his home in a clearer light, and recognize much of his mother's behaviour and attitude as aberrant. He would become less likely to side with her, avoiding Frank as a natural consequence of being forced to choose sides in the constant conflict. Frank felt it was unnatural that the boy was so little influenced by his father, and believed he had so much to pass on, if only they could spend more time together. Now of course, the small gain he had felt this morning was gone, ruined. Rather than sit down to the lunch Frank had so carefully prepared for him the boy would have nothing at all. Frank hoped he had pocket money, or else he might go hungry.

He looked at his watch: almost eight. School started at nine. Rodger would be somewhere on the school grounds no doubt. Frank returned to the kitchen, packed the lunch in a brown paper sack and returned to the garden. The school was ten or twelve blocks away, just over a mile; it would make a good walk for a fine spring morning, and the exercise would take the edge off the tension that was beginning to mount in him. He would feel much better knowing Rodger had that lunch.

Frank covered the distance quickly, stretching his long lean legs and feeling the first dull pleasurable burning sensation of the brisk exercise. His heartbeat quickened and his breathing deepened as he swung his arms to the steady rhythm of the heavy boots and enjoyed the first deep draughts of fresh air in several days. The walk last night had not satisfied him, had further frustrated him in fact, and this errand to the high school acted as a safety valve, drawing off the volatile pressures created by the hopeless, inalterable situation that held him.

As he approached the school he searched for the red shirt he knew Rodger was wearing. There weren't many students about yet and it should have been easy to spot. Perhaps he was inside the building already. As Frank approached the heavy plate glass doors he could see no-one in the lobby or in the hallway immediately beyond. He would have to deliver it upstairs to his "home" room, and if Rodger wasn't there he could leave it with someone. What was it? Room 216? It was on the second floor anyway, he would recognize it when he saw it. He had visited it one evening before Christmas to view Rodger's science experiment: a prize winner. At the top of the stair he turned left and recognized the familiar laboratory benches through the third door he approached on his left. The teacher, whom Frank had never met, stood at the chalkboard copying from a notebook in his hand. As Frank entered the young man completed this task and turned to find him standing in the doorway.

"Are you looking for someone?" he said, not unkindly.

Frank realized suddenly what an impression he must make on a stranger, dressed as he was in his gardening clothes. He needed a haircut too, something that made him feel increasingly self-conscious as he grew older and his hair slowly thinned out.

"He probably thinks I'm a delivery-man or something," he realized glumly. "Yes, I'm looking for my son, Rodger Wilson. He forgot his lunch, and when he wasn't outside I thought he might be working on something in here."

"No … he's not here, but I'm glad you're here anyway. I want to discuss Rodger's progress with you. Please come in." He rounded the end of the long bench that traversed the front of the room and extended his hand. "I'm Bob Horowitz," he volunteered cheerfully.

"Frank Wilson," the older man stammered as his hand was pumped enthusiastically.

"I'm Rodger's home-room teacher this year, though I've had him other years for science class. A good student … very bright … but lately he has begun to worry me. He seems to have lost interest, just in the last few months really, and other teachers have begun to notice it as well. He's still well above a failure of course, Rodger doesn't need to work to achieve what we call a passing grade, but he's putting in the very minimum of effort, and he never stays to complete experiments after school as he used to. I thought perhaps you could shed some light on the situation for us. You know, next year he's in grade thirteen, and the sort of marks he will need to get into university will require considerably more effort than he has shown this term. He is still planning a career in journalism, isn't he?"

"Oh yes, I'm sure he is. I can't think of anything that has changed. Rodger works part-time and perhaps that has become too much for him. But then, he's done that for two years now. I thought he was working really hard in school, I know he goes to the library a lot in the evenings … maybe he's just found some other interests, something new to read for example."

"Perhaps it's nothing to worry about. Sometimes a student will go through a period like this and then snap right out of it. This could all be over a girl for instance, and of course he has had a lot of illness this term."

The words hung heavily on the air for a long minute while Frank digested this news. Rodger had missed no school that he knew of. Of course Frank was never there when the boy left home in the morning, but there had been no mention of any absences. He hoped his expression didn't betray his surprise, and he replied casually. "I'll try to get to the bottom of it. Meanwhile let's hope it's nothing serious."

Frank left the brown bag on the instructor's bench and recovered the distance home in even less time than before, being ever watchful for his son. He didn't see him however, and arrived home in a real stew, growing increasingly concerned about the boy. As he entered the kitchen he heard the steady rush of the shower, and he knew that Diane was probably not aware he had been away. It was just as well, as her reaction to Rodger's truancy while unpredictable, would be totally inappropriate, and out of all proportion to the situation. It would be better to say nothing and wait for a chance to talk to him quietly in private. Frank saw the inconsistency in this: by excluding Diane in the matter he perpetuated the very alienation that was at the root of the problem; but this could be an opportunity to regain Rodger's confidence.

As his heart rate subsided Frank realized he was feeling very thirsty, and after turning the cold water faucet on full, reached into the cupboard for a drinking glass. He was immediately arrested by a loud screech from the shower, where Diane had received the temperature change caused by Frank's forgetful use of the water. He turned it off quickly and retreated out the door and down the steps, hearing Diane's railing voice diminish behind him. This latest foible left him almost completely unhinged. He felt tears of anger and frustration well into his eyes. He had to get out of there for the day somehow, lately he had been growing less and less able to disguise his lack of feeling for her. The powerful affection he had once felt for his high school sweetheart had now simply dissipated, leaving only apathy in its place. It had gradually eroded through periodic bouts of rejection and emotional turmoil and finally reversed itself into the present absence of any emotion whatever. He felt nothing for her, his anger was precipitated solely by his inability to alter his condition, by the hopeless despair that arose out of so many personal factors. His belief in monogamy, his relative poverty, his obligations to family, and his need to maintain appearances had him trapped in a narrow existence, a tunnel faintly illuminated by what appeared to be a very distant exit.

Frank strode to the aging power lawnmower and tugged on the cord angrily. The motor spun uselessly and he jerked the starter again and again until it roared to life and he began to rapidly follow the perimeter of the lawn where Rodger had begun to cut it the previous evening. He would finish this quickly, go pick up a few groceries at the store, buy a dozen beers and go visit his old man. Frank's father rarely drank but he enjoyed a visit from his eldest son. By supper-time the effects of a half-dozen beers each would have them feeling warm and convivial with one another. Yes, that was the answer; just disappear for the day.