Oyster

"That's when I reach for my revolver!" There's a voice screaming in the living room. We look at each other, eyes darting furtively around the room, making sure this is real, each of us is not just hearing voices out of the ether.

"That's when I reach for my revolver! That's when I reach for my revolver!" Its getting louder now. No one moves. I look at the clock. It is 1 in the morning.

"Oyster," Georgie says. "Oyster, I think a homeless man might have just wandered into your house."

"No," I said. "No, I think that's--"

"That's when I reach for my revolver!"

"That's my dad," I say.

"Does he have a gun?" Georgie asks.

I walk into the living room and there he is, sitting on the couch looking like a stranger. My entire life he has worn a beard, big, thick and black, like primeval forests, like some kind of wizard, and now here he is sitting clean-shaven in the living room, his cheeks flushed and dark red like a tomato that's begun to shrivel, wearing headphones and screaming this phrase over and over again. "That's when I reach for my revolver!" His eyes are hazy as he takes the headphones off.

"Sorry, I'm just listening to music. On my iPod." He shouts this still, even without the headphones. He takes off his coat.

"Is that for me?"

"My iPod. Mine. That I bought with my money." He points at me, his finger quivering a little at the end. He pulls it out of his pocket and points to it and then throws it on the ground. "I love music."

I walk back into the kitchen. "He's just my dad. Not a bum. It's my dad."

"Hey everybody," he says, walking in. He doesn't look at us or anything, his eyes wandering over our heads to the window behind us, an open bottle of Jim Beam in his hand. "Did everyone have a happy birthday?" He points at Georgie, hoisting the bottle over his head. "Did you have a happy birthday?"

Georgie looks at me, opening his mouth, not sure what to say.

"What about you?" He points at one of the twins. "I don't even fucking know you, kid." He swings the bottle, spilling a line of whiskey on the floor.

"There's some food, Dad. If you want it." I point to the cupcakes and macaroons on the table.

"No," he said, touching the wall. "I'm just thirsty, just really." He opens the cabinets, starts throwing tubberware on the floor, plastic cups bouncing on the counter. He pulls out the tiniest cup he can find, a teacup barely more than an inch wide. He could hold it in the palm of his hand but he doesn't. He grips the fragile handle between his big index finger and thumb, almost daintily. He tries to pour the Jim Beam into this tiny cup but both hands are shaking and moving in different directions, like two fish in an aquarium swimming circles around each other. Some whiskey dripped in the cup but more splashes into the sink. With his back to us, he holds the cup aloft and pauses for a moment, his shoulders shaking slightly. I can see something, brown liquid, dripping from his elbow, drops dribbling onto the floor and scattering on the countertop as he begins to laugh.

"Dad," I say. "Your elbow is dripping."

His shoulders shake as he keeps laughing, whiskey scattering from his elbow. He drops the tiny teacup into the sink with a clatter but it does not break. "Oh fuck," he says, gasping for breath between laughs. "You wanted an iPod for your birthday. Happy birthday. Everyone has a happy birthday." He grabbed the bottle and stumbled back into the living room. We could hear him in there, examining the furniture and the woodwork of the house, commenting on the craftsmanship and sturdiness of the wood and beams.

"Well, uh," Georgie says. The twins pull out a phone and begin to call their mom. "I should probably get going," he says.

I walk them all to the front door. There are a row of trinkets and baubles on the bookshelves that mom had left behind. She had a love of owls, but I was never sure why, and the top of the shelf is covered in them in all different sizes and colors and materials, ceramic, wicker, plastic, blown glass, all standing like a little army, a crowd of immobile owls with a silver crucifix standing behind them all. Dad, now shirtless, grabs one from the shelf and looks it over for a second. The twins stop and watch.

"Did you have a happy birthday?" he asks the owl. He cradles it in his hand as he picks up another. "What about you? Did you have a happy birthday?" He does this with each one, picking them up, looking them over and asking them, a small collection forming in his arms. He turns around to us. "Everyone had a great birthday." He smiles. He picks each owl out again from where it lay cradled in his arms and throws them against the walls, into the bookshelf, onto the couch. "Everybody had a really great birthday. Everybody!" Some shatter, the ceramic pieces scattering over the floor. Others land with a dull sound. "Everybody," he says. When his arms are empty again, he grabs the bottle and turns back to the bookshelf. "This is a good solid bookshelf," he says and starts to climb it. The top of it wobbles dangerously, we can see the sides of it bend and sway, his feet kicking books to the floor, his hands pulling his body weight upwards. The crucifix at the top falls over.

"Dad! Dad you need to come down."

He pulled himself on top and sat there, the shelf moving with his weight.

"Mr. Oster," Georgie said. "I don't think that bookshelf can support you."

"Who built this shelf?" he yelled. "Who built this fucking bookshelf? I did. There's no stronger shelf in the whole world. Its strong. These are my books." He kicked them out of their holes onto the floor, the pages fluttering. "I've read every one of these books." He lays down on top of the shelf.

"Dad, you're going to roll off that. You're going to hurt yourself."

"Why do you think they make it like this? They make so you can lay down, so you can sleep. Why do you think I built this shelf? So I had somewhere I could rest." He grabs the silver crucifix next to him, holds it over his face as though he were examining it intently, thinking it over. He lets it drop to the floor. "Strongest bookshelf in the world," he says, taking a swig from the bottle.

"Come on," I say, grabbing Georgie and the twins and pulling them towards the front door.

"Are you going to be ok?" asks Georgie.

"Probably not," I say. The twins look at me but don't say anything. Georgie opens the door and they step outside.

"Now I know why she left," I say, holding the door open, the cold air drifts into the house behind me.

Georgie claps me on the shoulder. "Happy birthday, Oyster." I close the door behind them and watch from the window as they walk away, their breath turning to silver smog in the air. At my feet is a headless ceramic owl. I turn out the lights, go to my room, and lock the door.