Later that afternoon, in the loft bedroom, with their bare feet sticking out from under the blanket, Ronnie was playing with one of Casey’s dreadlocks, twirling it around her finger. 

“I really didn’t have that in mind, you know.” 

Casey said, “Don’t spoil it. It was nice.” 

“It was,” she said, and kissed his cheek. “What time’s your father due back?” 

“I’m not sure, depends on the bus.” 

“He likes that you’re his kid.” 

“Like I’m his long-lost partner in crime.” 

“We don’t get to choose our parents,” she said. “You could do worse.” 

“What about yours?” 

“They’re OK. I hang mostly with that aunt I told you about.” 

“The one my father shtuped?” 

“Don’t be tacky.” 

“You’ve got a crush on him, don’t you, my father.” 

“Half the women in town do.” 

“I’m talking about you.” 

“Yeah, well, for now I’m stuck with the son.” 

Casey smiled. He reached across his chest and took her hand. “Well, you gotta start somewhere,” he said, and pulled her on top of him. 

                                                #          #          # 

Just before dusk, a Greyhound pulled up in front of the Copper Crest bus depot and Nat Janz hopped off. He slung his daypack over his shoulder and started down the sidewalk, smiling to a woman in one of the store windows who was redoing the display. He blew her a kiss and headed toward the alley that lead to his loft. 

He saw someone coming out of the alley, could see it was Ronnie Riker. She glanced his way and gave him a wave. “Casey’s upstairs. I have to run.” 

Nat waved back, watched her jog across the street and get into her Jeep. 

Casey was at the fridge in his bare feet and jeans when his father came in. 

“Hi,” Nat said. “I just saw Ronnie.” 

“Hi. Yeah, she had to go babysit.” 

Nat tossed his daypack onto the sofa, glanced toward the bedroom. Smiled when he saw the rumpled blanket on the bed. “You get things squared?” 

“Pretty much.” 

“Good.” 

He caught the can of beer Casey tossed him and popped the tab. 

Casey popped a soda for himself. “How’d it go with the doctor?” 

“So-so.” 

“What’s that mean?” 

“I’ve got cancer.” 

“What?” 

“I know, bummer.” 

“Jesus Christ. How bad?” 

“Bad enough.” He took a swig of beer, wiped his mouth. 

Casey slumped against the counter, disoriented, waiting to hear more. “So what’d he say?” 

“He said, bottom line, cancer.” 

“I mean, what about treatment?” 

“The usual chemo crap. Radiation.” 

“Aw, man. When do you start?” 

“I don’t.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“I’m thinking I'll do a wholistic thing.” 

Casey stared at him. “Are you nuts?” 

Nat took another swig and shrugged. “Whatever. Meantime, let’s keep it to ourselves.” 

“Fine. But what are you gonna do – besides some voodoo nonsense.” 

Nat took one more swig, emptied the can, crumpled it and lobbed it at the sink. “First thing, I’m gonna de-sober.” 

                                                #          #          # 

Up the street from the loft was a bar called The Mogul. Not a very big place, intimate in its shot-and-a-beer way, so you could pretty much be anywhere in it and hear Nat Janz. 

“… so the TV guy is interviewing this old couple, and he asks the woman what her name is.” 

Nat was well along on his de-sobering plan, was holding court for a collection of barflies. 

 “And the woman says, My name is Myrna and I love to blow bubbles. And the TV guy says that’s nice, and he turns to the husband and says, And you, sir, what’s your name? And the old guy says, I’m Bubbles.” 

The bunch at the bar broke up, hooting and clinking glasses – except for one, an old boozer named Gizzy. He looked up at Nat with a blank, bleary-eyed stare. Nat put an arm around his scruffy friend's shoulder. “You see, Gizzy? I try to keep it clean and I lose you.” Nat signaled the bartender. “Another for my spiritual advisor here.” 

Hours later, after last-call, Casey stood out front on the sidewalk, hands cupped around his eyes, trying to see some sign of life through The Mogul’s darkened window. The place was obviously closed. There was a chirp from his pocket and he took out his cell, checking the caller i.d. 

Spoke to the phone. “Hi.” 

Ronnie was on the other end. “Hi, you can stop looking.” 

“Where is he?” 

“He’s naked with his friend Gizzy in my aunt’s hot tub, yelling for her to come out and join them.” 

It was after 2 a.m. when they got Nat back to the loft, each with one of his arms around their shoulders, guiding him inside. 

“Into the bedroom,” Casey said. 

He flicked on the light and steered his father to the bed, turning him around so he could sit. 

“Pants wet,” Nat said.  

He unbuckled his belt and let his pants drop before he sat on the bed. Casey helped him get his feet up, Nat flopping back on the pillow. Ronnie had come in and was pulling Nat’s boots off. 

She yanked one. 

Nat farted. “’scuse me.” 

Ronnie got the boots and pants off and dropped them on the floor. Said to Casey, “That shirt’s wet, too.” 

Nat tried to get up. “Where’s Gizzy?” 

Casey pushed him back down. “Gizzy’s fine. He’s sleeping.” 

“Where?” 

“His sister’s, where we dropped him.” 

Casey helped Nat struggle out of the shirt. 

“You sure?” asked Nat. 

“You’re the one gave directions.” 

“Oh.” 

“You need to pee?” 

“I think I did it in the hot tub.” 

“Great. I’ll see you in the morning.” 

“You OK on the couch?” 

“I’ll be fine.” 

“Lemme know you need anything.” 

“Right.” 

Ronnie unfolded a blanket and they draped it over Nat. 

“G’night,” said Nat. 

“G’night,” said Casey and Ronnie. They let themselves out, clicking off the light and quietly closing the door behind them. 

Casey went over to the refrigerator. “You want something to drink?” 

“What I want,” Ronnie said, “is you to tell me what’s going on.” 

Casey opened the refrigerator, glanced inside, closed the door without taking anything. “He’s sick, Ronnie.” 

“I know that. How bad?” 

Casey didn’t say anything. 

Ronnie waited. Then nodded. “You’ll tell me when you want to.” 

“It’s not like I don’t want to.” 

“I know, it’s a guy thing. There anything else you need? I should get home.” 

“I can handle it, but thanks.” 

“The blind leading the blind drunk.” 

“That’s a good one.” 

“You realize how much like him you are?” 

“I’m sure you say that with all due respect.” 

“Jesus.” 

They watched each other for a long moment. Finally, Ronnie shook her head, stepped over and kissed him. “You’ve got my cell if you need me.” She turned for the door. 

Casey called to her back. “Thanks for everything. I mean it.” 

“Get some sleep.” 

The door was still open from when they’d come in. Ronnie pulled it closed on her way out. 

Casey went over and plopped himself down on the sofa. Closed his eyes. Opened them and looked down at his hand. It was resting on Nat’s daypack that he’d tossed there earlier. A sharp corner from something inside was poking a bulge in the fabric. Was poking his hand. 

He frowned and unzipped the pack. Reached inside and pulled out the sharp-cornered item – a plastic shopping bag from Gladding’s Frame Shop in Denver, wrapped around what looked to be a framed picture. 

Casey hesitated a second, then unbagged the picture and turned it right-side up. Held it in his lap. Stared at it. 

It was a photograph of him as a little boy, posing proudly with a skateboard. Standing beside him was a younger Nat, hand on his boy’s shoulder. Casey squinted in the dim light. Something was written in the corner. He held the picture up to read it. 

                                                To Casey

                                                From Dad  

Casey sat there for a long time and looked at the two of them. Tried to remember the day. His mother had probably taken the picture, had to be on one of his father’s visits. He had no idea his father even had it. After a while, he slipped the picture back into the plastic bag. Folded the bag just like it had been and slid it into the daypack.