First shot at it................

“Honey, can you get it?!” the incessant drone of the elliptical trainer reduced her voice to a loud
whisper. He was surprised she could hear the phone at all. He walked through the living room, blew his wife a kiss, and proceeded to the kitchen phone where he could actually hear.

“Dan? Dan Willingham? This is Jenn.”

That night on the beach came back to him as if it were yesterday. Kona gold and Mickey’s Big Mouths, the rest of the group skinny dipping, he and Sara alone on the shore. Young, stoned, and stupid were order of the day. She was off-limits, oldest daughter of the state’s biggest thug.

“Sara wanted me to call you.”

They didn’t go to the same school, so he didn’t expect to see her until the next party. When she showed up on his doorstep a month later, he knew something was up. He deferred to her wishes, telling no one until she contacted him again. Her father showed up on his doorstep instead, making it perfectly clear with his words and his Glock that Dan was never to go hear his family again; he went as far as to go to Dan’s mother’s work, too. He had to what the old man said. It was too dangerous not to.

“It’s Aiden.”

Her sister Jenn called him seven months later. A boy, seven pounds, thirteen ounces, twenty inches long. Aiden Joseph. Sara remembered. Her old man be damned.

“Ah, crap, Dan.”

Staying away tore him apart. Booze oozed through the cracks, ostensibly keeping him together but destroying what was left. He knew what it was like growing up without a father. Joe died when he was five, a heart attack coming out of nowhere. Teenage rebellion became full-fledged addition. In his few sober moments he wondered about Aiden, what his life was like, what he could do to reach out to his son. He knew whole heartedly what it was like to grow up without a father. He could do nothing, so he reached for another drink.

“He’s gone. Car accident, DUI-his fault. He’s been battling the bottle for years.”
Years of abuse took its toll on his body, his mind. Dan woke up on the side of Keeaumoku Street covered in vomit and reeking of cheap vodka and crappy pot. He staggered to his feet, still buzzing from the night before. A minivan went by. The driver, aghast at what she saw, sped up. A small boy in the back waved, huge smile barely contained in the small face. The eyes were unmistakable; Dad’s. It was Aiden Joseph.

“He left a little girl. You’re a grandpa.”

He was a successful song-writer now, a fifteen year overnight success. Wed for two years and sober for twenty, he lived on the mainland now for more than he lived in Hawaii. It was partly for the fresh start, partly to quell the impulse to talk with Sara. He kept his number listed, even as his fame grew.

“Don’t come to the funeral. Dad would kill you, and you’re not listed in the obituary. I gotta go…”


“Who is it?!” she screamed, grabbing for water out of the fridge, oblivious to the fact she was still yelling although the exercise machine was off.

He gently replaced the phone on its cradle, walking away.

“No one. Wrong number.”