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Monday, February 4, 2013

Khazan

My Son the Murderer
By Bernard Malamud

1914-1986, US Jewish-American make unnecessaryr. Story from Rembrandts don (1973)
About 2,500 words

He wakes tint his father is in the h all toldway, listening. He listens to him sleep and dream. Listening to him get up and fumble for his pants. He wont put on his shoes. To him not going to the kitchen to eat. Staring with leave out eyes in the mirror. Sitting an hour on the toilet. Flipping the pages of a book he cant read. To his anguish, loneliness. The father stands in the hall. The tidings hears him listen.
My son the stranger, he wont tell me anything.
I untied the door and train my father in the hall. Why ar you standing there, why dont you go to work?
On account of I took my spend in the winter instead of the summer like I usually do.
What the hell for if you spend it in this dark afoul(ip) hallway, watching my every move? Guessing what you cant see. Why are you always spying on me?
My father goes to the bashroom and aft(prenominal) a while sneaks out in the hallway again, listening.
I hear him sometimes in his room but he dont talk to me and I dont know whats what. Its a terrible feeling for a father. Maybe someday he will write me a letter, My dear father รข€¦
My dear son Harry, open up your door. My son the prisoner.

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My wife leaves in the morning to rest with my married daughter, who is expecting her fourth child. The mother cooks and cleans for her and takes care of the three children. My daughter is having a bad pregnancy, with high blood pressure, and lays in bed most of the time. This is what the doctor cognizant her. My wife is gone all day. She worries something is wrong with Harry. Since he graduated college last summer he is alone, nervous, in his own thoughts. If you talk to him, half the time he yells if he answers you. He reads the papers, smokes, he stays in his room. Or once in a while he goes for a walk in the street.
How was the walk, Harry?
A walk.
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