Free Above Us Only Sky by Michele Young-Stone

negatives. “The world will eat you up.”
    Ingeburg watched from the window. She’d already said her good-byes. She’d given Freddie sixty dollars and a dozen Spam sandwiches.
    The Old Man narrowed his gaze.
    Ingeburg’s palms itched and she broke out in a sweat. She banged on the wavy glass of the living room window—“Wait!”—and hurried onto the porch. “You have something for him! Don’t you have something for him?” Her expression pained, she added, “Don’t be not smart, Old Man. Don’t be that way.”
    Freddie looked to his doting mother. “I don’t want anything from him . I’ve had enough.”
    Ingeburg stared pleadingly at the Old Man, who dug into the left pocket of his high-waisted trousers. “Come here now!”
    Freddie rolled his eyes but climbed the steps. Ingeburg’s heart broke—seeing them together, so much alike, yet so different—seeing them part.
    â€œPut your hand out, boy,” the Old Man said.
    â€œI’m not a boy.”
    â€œDo it.”
    Freddie held out his palm. He expected money, but he’d turn it down. He didn’t want anything from his father. But then the Old Man did something unexpected. He pressed his father’s gold timepiece into Freddie’s palm, and cupping both hands around his son’s, he said, “You can come home when you’re ready.”
    Freddie looked at the watch. He was confused. Why are you giving this to me? He wanted the Old Man to say something kind, something apologetic, something meaningful about Freddie’s ancestors and the timepiece. Unfortunately, the Old Man wasn’t like that. He turned to Inge, flicking his cigar ash, and said, “I gave it to him. Are you happy?”
    Freddie slipped the watch in his pocket. “Thanks.” He was unsure what to say. Part of him wanted to fling the watch back at his father. Screw you! My mother made you do this, but Ingeburg had never made the Old Man do anything. Freddie didn’t know how to feel. He walked toward the subway, singing a Beatles’ song, He’s a real nowhere man/sitting in his nowhere land . . . He was ready to start his own life.

    In 1989, Freddie’s former wife, whom he’d never bothered to divorce, contacted him, screaming into the telephone, “Your father had no right to call my home! Who the fuck does that old man think he is? He says he’s coming here. He can’t do that. You don’t even pay child support.” She was out of breath. “What is going on?”
    â€œI’ll take care of it.” Freddie would’ve said just about anything to hang up with Veronica. There was a groupie in his bed. She’d planted herself there a day earlier and, except for moving naked between the bed, the refrigerator, and the bathroom, showed no signs of leaving. This was a serious problem but not an uncommon one. Just the same, he didn’t want the mother of his only child to know that there was a woman in his bed. Freddie reassured Veronica, “I will handle it.”
    â€œAnd I’m supposed to start trusting you now?”
    â€œYou called me. Isn’t that why you called me?”
    No one had said anything about trust.

    Freddie phoned the Old Man in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn. They hadn’t seen each other since Freddie had left home, age eighteen. Ingeburg picked up. Overcome by the sound of his voice, she whispered, “Wait a second.” She crept upstairs, where she continued to whisper. “I miss you. I love you. Your father loves you. It’s hard for him to say what he feels. I don’t know about Prudence. He is insisting we go to Florida . . . No. No. I do not know when. I am not a mind reader. You have to be a mind reader to know what this man is thinking one minute to the next. But no, he is not crazy. I think he is too sane. He talks too much these days. I like him better quiet. I need