Edgar entered the house he grew up in for the first time since he went away to university. The house was dim and stale with the smell of stale cigarette smoke, reheated meat and sour beer. The coffee table was cluttered with cans and pizza boxes, and where it wasn’t covered with crumbs, it was covered in a dust-like substance that looked like it would take more than a cloth to get it clean.
It was just after two in the afternoon, and Edgar’s father was already on his second—or maybe third—can. The old recliner creaked each time he leaned forward to adjust the volume on the TV, though he wasn’t really watching. The news anchor was saying something about a mayoral race. Or a fire. Or both.
Edgar didn’t step fully into the living room. He lingered by the doorway, one foot still in the hall, as if stepping further might contaminate him. In his hands he was holding a small cardboard box with campus bookstore tape still wrapped around it.
“I brought something from school,” he said, trying to sound casual. “Thought you might like it.”
His father didn’t look up. “Is it a beer?”
“No. It’s just a mug. For coffee.” Edgar opened the box and held it up. “See? It’s got the school seal on one side, and the quote from the founder on the back.”
His father finally turned toward him, bleary-eyed. “A mug.”
“Yeah. I thought it was nice.”
His father scoffed. “Jesus Christ, Edgar. You’re gone four months and come back with a goddamn mug. Be useful and go get me a beer.”
Edgar hesitated. “It’s just a souvenir.”
“You think we need souvenirs around here?” He grabbed his can and took a long, wet sip. “What is this? Some fancy-pants reminder of how you’re better than us now?”
“That’s not what I meant—”
“‘Look at me,’” his father mocked, voice warping into a high-pitched whine. “‘I went to college and bought a ten-dollar mug.’ Coming home to remind us how you are this college big shot now?”
Edgar set the mug down carefully on the coffee table. “I wasn’t trying to—”
“Oh, but you were. You were.” His father pushed himself to his feet with exaggerated effort. “You think you’re smarter now. You think just ‘cause you read some books and stayed up late writing your little papers that you’re better than this house. Than this family.”
“No, Dad,” Edgar said, trying to keep his voice steady. “That’s not what I think.”
His father’s lip curled. “You always were a soft one. Thought too much. Talked too little. Now you’re just some college boy who doesn’t know where the hell he came from.”
And then, before Edgar could react, his father shoved him.
Hard.
Edgar stumbled backward and landed awkwardly against the wall, his shoulder knocking a framed painting of dogs playing poker sideways. The thud of his body echoed through the narrow room.
He didn’t get up right away.
His father stood over him, eyes wild and unfocused.
“Never did have any spine,” he muttered. “Always just curled up like some kicked dog. Pathetic.”
Edgar stared at the mug on the table. The founder’s quote was just barely visible from where he sat.
“To know oneself is the highest achievement.”