There were holes and burn marks all over his easy chair. A pipe and Prince Albert sat to his side on the small table. An over-filled ashtray, and a glass of whiskey kept him company throughout the night.

Silence. No noise. Just a hum from the furnace. The refrigerator rattled a bit. Head of a buck stared down on him. Shot the animal back in ’86. The year his son left home. Last time the old man saw him.

He remembered hunting with the boy. Teaching him gun safety and how to be patient. Let em come to you, he said. Like women. Just wait. They’ll come around. Don’t pursue them. Less chance of getting your heart broke.

The old man packed his pipe. Lit it with his brass Zippo he got in Vietnam. Looked up at the buck. Wondered where his son was.

He looked for him a long time ago. Thought he might have gone to New Orleans. Drove all over that town. Took a picture and asked folks if they’d seen him. People shook their heads.

Went all the way to New York City. He remembered the boy talking about moving there. Had nothing to trace him with. No leads. Didn’t know the city. Drove around aimlessly for three days. Looked in porno shops owned by Pakistanis, diners, and pool halls. Bars. All over Manhattan. Millions of people. Kind of all blended together. No one stuck out.

He did get a phone call a few years later. There was no voice on the other end. The old man knew it was him.

Listen, the father said. I know that’s you. You don’t have to say a word.  Just listen, he could hear the boy nod. You remember the time we went hunting, and I got that buck. I’m staring at it right now and thinking of you, he told him. I thought you were scared out in the woods. But, you weren’t.  You’re not scared of anything. Are you? Never was.

There was no talking for two minutes. Quiet. Two men with nothing to say. You take care. Hear me? Take care.