A red light blinked. Children crossed the street. A man smoking a cigarette in a truck watched. Merle Haggard was on the radio. Days ended early. Brown leaves on the ground. Nightfall was an hour away.

He saw his son playing football in the park; running and getting tackled, laughing. The little kid could throw the ball as well. Sending it way down field for his friend to catch in a crowd; a hail Mary. Dad lit up another cigarette.

The radio now played George Jones. He sang along, He stopped loving her today. Took out a picture of a pretty blonde woman with feathered hair, wearing a sweater, and looked at it. He looked at her and watched him. How did things get so screwed up, he thought. Maybe life cheats us, he whispered. Maybe God laughs at us.

Dad watched his son throw one more touchdown. He looked at the picture a last time. Pulled a gun out of the glove box and stuck it at his heart. The trigger was pulled.

It took her years to pay off bills that had mounted over time. Death doesn’t stop collectors. She looked at the receipts carefully. Hotels, dinners out of town, various escort agencies, Asian massage parlors out on Highway 30. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. The young wife kept them as they were paid off. And then, one by one, burned the bills in an ashtray on his desk until they were black. His secrets had become hers.

At first, there was anger. Followed by madness. Dark days of drinking in the mornings and afternoons. Cursing out loud at pictures of him that hung on the walls. But, she never told her son. Mom just said, Dad was a tortured soul.

Autumn had returned. The two of them had Thanksgiving in a new apartment. There were no pictures of the father on the walls. Just reminders of God’s love crocheted on framed white pads and pillows. The boy never asked why.