Sunday Nights by Brad Barkley

That evening, Winston dropped off his granddaughter Claire at her dad’s house, Steven opening the door before they rang the bell. Grunted thanks, alcohol breath. Seven years of awkward, screendoor diplomacy. Hannah’s death might have united them in grief, if they’d already loved one another, but they hadn’t. Always uneasy.

Claire had left her drawing in the car—a tree with a face. Winston set it on the dash, glancing at it as he drove. Were trees faceless, or could you even call something faceless if it was never meant to have a face? Words had always intrigued him. He and Steven—both widowers. Widows, widowers. Why two words for one thing? And Donna, his lover, gone now too. Lover and Loverer. His daughter, dead. No word for that. His thoughts felt stupid in his head, so he clicked on the radio.

He rolled down the window to toss his Marlboro, the wind snatching the tree-with-a-face drawing into the night, onto the highway, gone. No going back for it. He drove home, his street dark. Inside,  he poured the one bourbon he allowed himself each week, sat in the recliner, let out a sigh. Reached to put the footrest up before remembering the handle had broke. He sipped and thought about his horn, but decided to finish his drink. Playing was better at night. Day made mistakes worse. Night smoothed the edges. He lifted his glass, toasting the painting of Jesus on the wall, his mother’s, the ornate frame cracked with age. These nights accumulated—by now he’d toasted Jesus more than the priest at St. Pete’s.

Each time, every toast, he wished the eyes in the painting would tear themselves away from heaven, just for a moment, and look at him. Sometimes he’d close his eyes, then open them fast, as if that might make it happen. Not even heaven, really—just the attic, where he’d stored everything after his wife passed. So young. Raised Hannah alone, and did okay, he thought. As far as it went. As she went. He sipped and fought the urge to watch TV, which felt hollow on Sunday nights—like the blue throb of demise in nursing home windows.

He liked this ritual, time to think. About words, the tally of death in his life, about Jesus. Not that he’d call himself a Christian, exactly, but he admired the man. He sipped, toasted again. Churches had it backwards, painting Jesus in holy, golden light. Jesus was like the rest of us—born to a broken world, tried to figure things out, paid a price when he pushed too hard. Brave, for sure. Braver than Winston. Only once in twenty-five years on the force had he drawn his service revolver—after an eighteen-mile chase of someone he’d pulled over for a broken taillight. Turned out to be an old man with a stuck throttle.

He finished his bourbon, let the warmth snake down his throat. Everything quiet, except the hum of the AC, the gurgle of the fish tank. He heard them only if he made an effort. Might as well have been wallpaper. A mosquito bounced off the ceiling. From the alley, old leaves, engine oil smells. He thought about Donna and wished she could be around, just to talk to him the way she did before she went back to her marriage. Or those McDonald’s coffees, when she asked question after question. He thought about her in his bed, the room full of gauzy streetlamp light, Donna sitting up to take off her t-shirt, back pale and freckled, the soft knobs of her spine. Just self-pity talking. Memory extolling itself. Three months gone, but still existed. That was fine. He was supposed to want her happy, so he did. Said it to make it true.

“Doing the best I can,” he said to the Jesus picture.

He pulled off his boots, stuffed his socks into them. Went to the corner behind his mother’s dining set, and lifted the black case for his horn, so old he’d duct-taped the duct tape. Handle hinged with bent paper clips. His favorite part: opening the case to the expanse of red velvet, faded, spotted with valve oil. Made him think of the first time, sixth grade, Ott’s Music downtown, now a Dollar Store.

He lifted the French horn, noted the dent in the bell—1978, Linda Maxwell accidentally kicking a stand into it. No harm meant. The bell rested familiarly on his thigh. Winston tuned it, cupping his hand inside—“in the cave,” Mr. Pritchard used to say. Likely dead now too. The older you got, the more you could say that and be right. He remembered when his father started opening the paper to the obits, instead of sports, every so often clicking his tongue in mild sorrow.

Winston limbered his fingers, pursed his lips, and played. Some Saint-Saëns at first, the little bit he knew. His repertoire hadn’t expanded much since tenth-grade orchestra. He’d thought about learning new pieces, but settled into the familiar. Muffled tones filling the room like warm water, transitioning into a Beethoven sonata, vaguely aware of his out-of-shape lip, the hitches and sharp notes, memory his only technique.

Sometimes he closed his eyes and imagined there were two of him: one here playing into the early hours, and another out walking, who might stop in the street, hearing music behind the walls, falling across the dark lawn. He wanted to be that man, standing in the street, looking at the small house with clogged gutters and peeling paint, and think something beautiful was inside. Some deep happiness in that music. Just long enough to smile before walking on. Sometimes he imagined it so strongly he could see himself out there, walking by, and he would play a little louder, a little more perfectly, to hold the most exquisite notes as long as his lungs allowed.

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BRAD BARKLEY — Brad is the author of the novel, Money, Love and Alison’s Automotive Repair Manual.  He’s published two collections of short stories, Circle View and Another Perfect Catastrophe, and three Young Adult novels:  Scrambled Eggs at Midnight, Dream Factory, and Jars of Glass.  His short fiction has appeared in over thirty magazines, including Fractured Lit, Southern Review, and Glimmer Train. His new novel, The Real Life of Zara Kegg, will be published in 2026 by Regal House. He’s on X, @barkley_writes. He lives in the mountains of Maryland with his wife, Kristin and their dog Millie.

Art by ALI McLAFFERTY — Ali is a high-school history teacher, writer, and artist living in Austin, Texas. She is absolutely thrilled to have both her writing and art featured in Flash Frog. She loves funky antique stores, decorating her classroom like a cozy Victorian parlor, gardening, mushroom-growing, and the occasional dabble in witchcraft.