Danny Schaefer parked the Mustang and stayed behind the wheel with the engine running. Reluctant to leave the air-conditioned comfort of his new car, he scrutinized the building from the curb. His father, Al, who he hadn’t seen in fifteen years, lived on the second floor of one of those old three-story condos west of the Interstate in south Florida. This one screamed shabby—faded, rain streaked stucco fronted by rusted wrought iron railings guarding the open landings, behind an unkempt lawn.

The memory of the final beating Al gave Danny before leaving Mom and him for good came roaring back. Mom’s family was there for his tenth birthday party. Danny said something that Al didn’t like—he didn’t remember what.

“You said what?” Faster than Danny thought possible, his father grabbed him and headed for the cellar stairs.

“Al, wait. He didn’t mean anything…” His mother’s protest faded as he was dragged down the steps, his left wrist in Al’s death grip, his right hand grasping uselessly at the spindles beneath the rail, his knees bouncing off each of the twelve steps.

In the cellar, Al pulled off his belt and doubled it over, pulled his son’s pants down and bent him over an old kitchen chair, waiting for years to be repainted. Having been beaten for any number of meaningless offenses, Danny, knowing what was coming, screamed louder with each stroke, timing them so they would coincide with the sound of leather meeting skin. Painful though the strap was, the screams were as much about getting Al to stop, convincing him he’d done a good job.  As always, he counted them. Danny counted everything. Somehow life made more sense when he counted. Al swung ten times, one for each year of Danny’s age, took a deep breath, added a final blow, even harder than the others.

“And one for good luck, wiseass,” he wheezed, panting from exertion.

Al climbed the steps and returned to the table. The conversation had been replaced by grim silence, Danny’s muffled screams now hanging silently over the dining room like the odor of a discreet fart that no one would mention.

Danny returned to the present. That eleventh stroke, the one that caught him off guard, still ate at his gut after all these years. Now enraged and bent on revenge, he left the car. It was time to visit dear old Dad.

The afternoon was hot and humid, even for summer, the clouds, gray and low as a prison cell. His t-shirt was soaked by the time he’d climbed the steps to the second level and rang the bell next to the louvered door. TV chatter came from within, a baseball game. Al still loved his baseball. Danny turned away to lean his elbows on the shaky rail, stared at nothing, heard a toilet flush. When the door opened, he turned to find Al looking much older than his sixty-one years.

        “Who the hell are you?” The voice was raspy and weak, the appearance even worse—rheumy-eyed, sallow, liver-spotted head almost hairless. He wore a stained beater over red Bermuda shorts with a wet spot near his crotch.

        “I’m Danny.”

        “Danny who?”

        “I’m your son, Al. Remember me?”

        “My son? Holy crap, you’re all grown up. Come in. Sit down.” The words were hardly out of his mouth when he started hacking and coughing, then spat into a dishtowel. He turned and limped to an overstuffed armchair, dropping the towel on a side table.

“I got emphysema,” he said, with no more emotion than if he were reporting getting the Miami Herald. “The clinic says my condition is dire. That could mean anything, right?”

Whatever was supposed to cool the air wasn’t working—the furniture reeked from sweat. Danny sat gingerly on a Danish Modern sofa, next to a large throw-cushion.

“So why now, after all this time?” Al seemed genuinely interested. He probably didn’t get much company.

“Because I heard you might be dying.”

“Good for you, kid. You get right to the heart of the matter.”

“What happened to the woman you left Mom and me for?”

“Her? I can’t even remember her name. She was out of here in a month. Found someone younger and richer, I suppose.” Al’s attention drifted back to the old, black and white Motorola. The Oakland A’s were playing the Yankees. Al, not easily dissuaded, was still following the A’s two cities after the franchise left Philly.

Danny was reminded of the last morning he would see his father until that day. Dressed in a double-breasted gray suit and a hand painted, maroon tie, and as if last night’s beating never happened, Al, who’d been a bookie, taught Danny how to handicap a baseball game, his sole legacy to his son.

“Why did you beat me so much?” Danny said, bringing Al back from the TV. At that point the only thing he was killing was time. Aware of the cauldron boiling inside him, he wanted to savor the luxury of that last quiet moment.

Al thought for a while. “I used to get pissed off sometimes. It wasn’t personal.”

“It was personal to me, Al. Don’t you remember my birthday party?”

“What party?”

There was no recognition in his eyes—not an iota of realization. Could he be that totally ignorant? Danny felt rage and lust growing inside him.

 “The night you whacked me eleven times with the strap. Not ten times, Al. You added one for good luck. Now, that was personal.” The glare in Danny’s eyes and the menacing tone of his voice finally alerted Al that his son might not be there for a social call. When he saw his father’s fear, Danny’s heart pumped faster and blood filled his groin.

“Wait a minute, kid. That was a long time ago. You gotta understand…” He began to cough again, and reached for the befouled dishtowel.

“It’s time, Al,” Danny said, his voice rising to match his passion. He quickly grabbed the throw cushion, got up, and with both hands pressed it over his father’s face. There was very little struggling, maybe a half minute.

Danny kept the cushion there for another minute or so, just to make sure. When he took it away Al’s hands still clung to the dishtowel pressed against his mouth. Pleased that he was able to end his life before his disease could, Danny addressed his father, speaking to his vacant eyes as if they could understand every word.

“Don’t you know you can’t escape your past, Al? Did you really think you could just leave and everything would be okay?”

Danny replaced the cushion, carefully fluffing it up. He turned the insert on the doorknob, wiped it with his shirttail, and noted the gratifying click as he pulled the door shut. On the landing, he heard the crowd on the TV roar. Someone had hit a home run.

 Back in the car, he put the air-conditioner on full blast, and waited for his erection to subside. Being aroused by lust was normal. Getting turned on by rage and the fear it produced was something else entirely. It was hardly the first time it’d happened, but Danny was not one to question his feelings.

He dropped the lever into Drive and headed back to the Interstate.