The Last Inning

The cable had been cut for three days when Marcus finally noticed the silence. His father's house, normally filled with the drone of sports commentators and soap opera dialogue, now echoed with the clock's rhythmic ticking and his own reluctant breathing.

Marcus stood in the doorway of his father's study, where a pyramid of unopened bills teetered dangerously on the mahogany desk. The room smelled of old paper and something sadder—decay disguised as stillness. His father had been gone six months, and Marcus was still discovering the quiet ways the man had been letting go.

In the corner, near the window that overlooked the overgrown backyard, sat the goldfish bowl. Its sole inhabitant, a rescued carnival prize named Babe—after the baseball player, not the pig—swam in lethargic circles. Marcus had assumed the fish would die within weeks of his father's passing. Instead, Babe seemed almost defiant, surviving on whatever biological stubbornness kept things alive when they had no business continuing.

"You're wondering why I haven't flushed you," Marcus said to the fish. Babe surfaced, mouth opening and closing in silent judgment.

On the wall above the desk hung a sphinx his father had bought in Egypt during his navy days, its limestone face chipped, its painted headdress faded to something like dust. Below it, framed photographs captured moments Marcus had half-forgotten: Little League games, graduations, the rare fishing trips where his father had actually smiled. In every photo, his father stood apart, watching rather than participating, his expression unreadable as any riddle.

Marcus had come to sell the house. That was the practical thing. His father had left no instructions, just this house full of things and a bank account that would evaporate within a year if Marcus didn't make decisions. But every time he tried to call a realtor, he found himself standing in front of the goldfish bowl instead, watching Babe survive through what seemed like sheer spite.

"Dad never watched baseball alone," Marcus said to the empty room. "He just pretended to."

The truth was, his father had been waiting for someone to sit with him. Marcus had always been too busy, too wrapped up in his own life, too convinced there would be time later. Now the cable was cut, the bills were unpaid, and his father was never coming back to ask if Marcus wanted to watch the game.

Marcus picked up the phone and called the cable company. Then he sat in his father's chair and waited for service to be restored, Babe swimming beside him in the gathering dusk. Some things, he decided, could still be fixed.