Blue

One would think black was the colour Ben associated his son with, but it wasn’t. Black never made him cry. Not even the black shirts he had been wearing those past months reminded him of the son who was no more. No, black was a safe colour, black was…just black. Mourning, yes, but not Adam.

Blue was what caused the most heartaches. But not every blue. Not the deep, calming blue of the lake and certainly not the bright sky blue of Hoss’ eyes – that was solace. No, it was the murky, faded blue of the empty chair next to the fire place. The chair no one dared to sit on. The chair Ben didn’t even touch, in fear that that would send away Adam’s spirit. As if not touching his favourite seat would conserve the essence of Adam somehow. It was completely ridiculous, Ben knew that, but still…

Ben saw that faded blue everywhere: in a woman’s skirt on C-Street, in the print on a soda package in Hop Sing’s kitchen, in the enamel of a frying pan in the bunkhouse—and it always conjured the picture of his eldest, sitting in the blue chair and reading one of his beloved books. And this picture inevitably made Ben—angry. It brought tears to his eyes, and when someone saw it, Ben knew they thought he was sad, and he was, but, secretly, he was angry, too.

He stared at the chair, and the blue devil stared back, accusingly, mockingly empty—and that was when Ben snapped. He leaped forward and with sudden determination seized the chair and dragged it into the front yard.

The axe lay abandoned at the chopping block; it was in Ben’s hand before he could even think about it, and he brought it down on the taunting piece of furniture with a force born out of grief and anger and disappointment. The seat cracked in the middle. Ben crashed the axe down again. Again. Again. Again. The left armrest broke under the furious blows, the right one splintered only seconds later, then the legs, the cross members, the backrest, and Ben smashed on and on, driving wood into the ground with violent blows and sending splinters all over the yard. He pounded on the shattered debris, and he pounded in anger at his son, who had been too proud to back out of a fight he was bound to lose, at the stranger, who had finally died of his injuries, so they couldn’t hold him liable for what he had called a fair duel, but Ben would always consider cold blooded murder, and in anger at himself, who had failed to protect his son, to talk him out of this suicide in the name of family pride. He pounded at the shredded wood and fabric and stuffing until he was completely spent, and he sank to his knees and finally allowed his tears to flow.

***

When Hoss came home that evening and entered the great room, something had changed. His father was sitting in front of the fireplace, a glass of brandy beside him and in his hands the book which had been lying on Adam’s bedside table for months. Pa looked more at peace as he had for—well, since Adam had died. Something in the fire cracked, and Hoss looked into the flames to find that there weren’t any logs in the fireplace, but splintered wood and tatters of faded blue fabric. Instantly Hoss’ gaze went to the empty place where only that morning a chair had been standing, then he looked at his father, at the fire again and back at the contently reading man.

And Hoss understood.

***fin***