The Miracle Letters of T. Rimberg by Geoff Herbach

without dreaming about the apartment, because Chelsea . . . Chelsea in your dreams, which were soft dreams and you woke up and felt for her, then felt again her being away.
    And the empty spot without Chelsea, the hole, made you mean.
    Then Cranberry at the breakfast table, little asshole, wanted a haircut. You said you'd pay for it, but he refused, said it was dumb to pay someone. Everybody has scissors.
    “I have no scissors,” you told him.
    He stood, walked to the cutlery block, pulled out a knife, and started sawing at his mohawk, glaring at you.
    You said, “Goddamn it, stop.” You stood, slammed a kitchen chair onto the floor, said: “Don't you ruin my mother's knife.”
    He dropped the knife on the counter, clattering. He moved to the chair, sat, face flushed. You scolded him for the knife disrespect.
    “Jesus, so fucking sorry,” he shouted.
    “Don't shout,” you shouted.
    Moved to the utensil drawer. Told him that Dad purchased those knives in Chicago on a business trip, just before he left. That you remember him bringing them home. How much Mom loved those knives, said, “Oh what beautiful knives.” So pleased with the measly gift. You took an old kitchen scissor out of the utensil drawer, which smelled moldy, unclean, smelled like Mom in the old people home. Your face got hot. Mom's gone.
    “Where is your dad? Dead?” Cranberry asked.
    “Have to spray down your hair. It's hard as rock.”
    Pulled the nozzle from the sink. Turned on the water. Sprayed his head.
    “Is your dad dead?” he shouted, the noise of water splashing. His eyes closed tight. Water splashing on you and the floor.
    “Maybe. Probably.”
    “If you don't know, he's not. Because you'd know. You'd sense it, man.”
    Didn't respond. Replaced the nozzle, picked up the scissors. Light from the window poured in. Mom complained about this morning light, standing at the counter, you and Charlie over early on a Saturday for sugar cereal Mary wouldn't allow. Most Minnesotans would kill for this exposure, Mom. Charlie crunching Frosted Flakes. Charlie's gone, too. You grabbed the front of Cranberry's sprayed-down head. “How short?”
    “Inch, maybe. No, half inch, then it'll blend with the sides better. I'm going to make it purple. I had a dream about purple hair.”
    “Fine,” you said, cutting, not good cutting, wincing at the cuts.
    “Purple is
the
color. Where's your dad live, if he's not dead?”Cranberry asked, eyes shut tight.
    “Somewhere. I got an inheritance from Europe.” Grabbed the next few inches above CB's forehead, intending to mow the mohawk front to back.
    “Inheritance? Then your dad's dead.”
    “No.”
    “What?” said Cranberry.
    “I don't think so.” You stopped cutting, thought.
    “Inheritance? You don't think?”
    “I don't think he's dead.” The check and the letters and the postdating of the letters. And those pictures in Antwerp. And how he took you that time to Packer training camp. “I don't think so. But maybe by Hanukkah. He might not be dead, but by . . .” You cut slow, shearing the mohawk. Big, slow chops.
    “I don't follow, man.” Cranberry shifted, making you notch to the scalp, to his skin, which scared you, a bolt of fear at seeing skin. You paused, then began cutting again.
    And while cutting you thought: Dad's the only one. No David, who will not talk. No Mary, who divorced you for good reason. No Chelsea, who could not take you anymore. No kids, who live shielded from you under Mary's wing. No Mom, who isn't even Mom anymore. No one but dead Dad, who you loved so much, is left. “Cranberry?” you said.
    “What?”
    “Something . . .”
    “What?”
    “Just a second, I'm thinking.”
    “Thinking about what? Hey, stop cutting my hair. You're not paying—ow!”
    “Do you have a passport?” you asked.
    “What are you talking about?” he asked. “Stop cutting!”

Day Five:
Transcript 2
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    As soon as the decision was made. I made the decision to go find Dad in Belgium