The Prodigal Returns 

The telephone rang at my house, which was located out in the country, in a rustic suburb of St. Louis. It was Mom.

“Joey’s home,” she said breathlessly. She waited a beat. I said nothing.

“Jeff,” she said. “Are you there?”

“I’m here.”

“Are you going to come and see your brother, visit for a while?” she asked hopefully. I thought back to how Joey hadn’t touched base with any member of his family for seven long years. That was a lot of unanswered letters, a lot of unreturned phone calls, a never-ending questioning of Joey’s many friends.

“No, Mom, I’ll pass. I’m sort of busy, you know.”

After a pause, Mom said, “I understand.”

“How long will Joey be there?” I asked.

“He’s going back to California in a week,” she replied.

“See you in eight days, then, Mom.”

“Bye, honey,” she said sadly.

“Bye, Mom.”

Eight Days Later       

Seated at the dinner table, I looked up from the hamburger casserole and asked, “How was the visit with Joey?” 

Mom lowered her head, appeared ready to cry. I glanced at Dad, who as usual was stoic and unreadable.

“You don’t seem very happy about seeing him again,” I said. Mom was forever conjecturing about Joey’s whereabouts, talking about how she was dying to see him again. Nobody said anything. It wasn’t until months later that the true story of Joey’s visit was revealed. It was worse than I had imagined. Moreover, it helped explain the dark, brooding stain on Dad’s recliner, the only decent piece of furniture in the  home.

. . . . . . .

Three Days Before

It was well past midnight when Dad padded from his bedroom out to the living room of the small frame house in Southern Illinois. He had been awakened by a din emanating from the stereo and the voices of a score of persons unknown to him, who were packed into the living room and kitchen. The air was thick with cigarette smoke as well as the sweet effluvium of marijuana. A high-pitched soprano voice soared above the rumble of other voices and shrilled the length of the house. A flutter of laughter followed. Dad frowned. As he stepped into the room, no one seemed to pay him any mind. Finding his son, he gestured to him. Joey staggered up to Dad, grinning stupidly.

“What the hell is going on, Joey?” asked Dad.

Joey shook his head as if to clear it, then proffered a lighted joint. He had a shit-eating, stoner grin on his face.

“Take a hit, Dad,” he urged in a sing-song voice. “It’ll get you high, man!” 

Dad waved the offer away and his face, if possible, grew even darker. Now he knew where the five hundred dollars he had gifted his son for a new start in California had gone. The room was rife with drugs and alcohol. A girl with long blonde hair, who couldn’t have been more than fifteen, floated by, as if in a daze. Dad shook his head disapprovingly.

“I opened up my home to you,” he rumbled angrily. “And you bring all this shit into it.”

Joey blinked. He was having trouble following his father’s words. 

Dad continued, “Now, take your friends and your drugs, and get the hell out. This isn’t your home anymore. Get out,” he  repeated. “And,” he added meaningfully, “don’t come back.”

Instantly sobered by this harsh rejection, Joey frowned, quickly gathered the partiers, and steered everyone to the door. “Let’s go over to Mike’s house,” he said, referencing his best friend, a skinny blond man in a biker vest. And, leaving an unmerciful mess behind them, the entourage quitted the Walker house. As they left, Mom crept from the bed and joined her husband in the living room. The door slammed shut. A thick blue fog of pot smoke hovered near the ceiling and overflowing ashtrays and spilled bottles of beer littered the residence. Sitting on the arm of a recliner was a hypodermic syringe.

“I’m sorry, Pete,” Mom said, as though it were her fault.

“It’s alright ‘hon. We’ve still got one son.”