Willie had given himself the gargantuan duty of keeping his father from destroying the Williams family annual Christmas party, though he did not know how he would accomplish such a Herculean mission. The eight year old, in Batman pajamas, which fit perfectly when he was six, but now appeared to be restricting the boy to within an inch of his life, watched his father like a student taking notes for a test. Willie’s real name was Horace Williams, Jr., though most in his family called him Willie to avoid invoking his father’s name, whom they viewed as the family embarrassment. Willie’s ashen face watched from the first floor landing as his father stumbled from the couch to the turntable to replay the song again. He was, as his wife would complain, screeching off-key in his intoxicated attempt to duet with Charles Brown. His last name scrawled in red cursive writing over his left shirt pocket. Speaking to no one in particular he proclaimed, “This sombitch sing his ass off.” Horace was still wearing his green janitor’s uniform. Willie’s father, Horace Williams, was on the last day of a three-day drunk. Willie heard the broken silence splintering with the smooth opening strains of Charles Brown’s Yuletide lament, “Please Come Home For Christmas.”
He snatched an album from the wire stacks built on the old RCA stereo console. “Ain’t no Christmas party without this brotha,” Horace bellowed. The cold entered the living room like a bum’s rush.
“What in the world is y’all talking about,” his father shouted to his sleeping household, the front door still open. on Saturday morning after leaving for work at 4:00 a.m. With his window right above the front door, Willie could hear his father fumbling with his keys and knew his prayer for sobriety hadn’t been answered. His first prayer had already been answered: that his father would return safely home.
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Willie heard the hollow footsteps of his father’s worn black work boots coming up the cracked walkway and prayed for him to be sober.
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