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Ash clenches his fist and paces the room. "Where do I even begin?" he asks.
"How about by telling me what year it is," Clyde mutters as he runs to the liquor cabinet to pour himself a drink.
The house is magnificent, but it's pretty obvious that the man's mind is in disarray. As I examine more closely, I see the rows of empty whiskey bottles that line the counters. Half-smoked cigarette butts are scattered all around the living room. He's not in good shape.
Ash walks over and takes the bottle of whiskey from him. "You mean, you don't know what year it is? How is that possible?"
His father looks at him with the utmost offense. He tries to take the bottle back, but Ash holds it away from him. "You're no fun. Do you know that?"
"I've been called worse," Ash says. "Now, tell me what the hell you're doing down here. It looks like you're planning for the apocalypse."
Clyde waves his hand through the air as he explains, "I did my part. I did what I was asked. Made the damn angels for everyone to enjoy."
His tone is mocking.
Ash angrily groans. "Mom is dead."
Abruptly, Clyde collapses against the counter. He slides to the cement floor, and strained tears roll from his eyes. "Did you come to torment me for what I had to let happen? I am no devil. I'm not a monstrosity. I was just an artist who fell in love. I..."
His voice drops as soon as he realizes we don't believe a word of what he's saying. Seeing the anger on Ash's face makes me furious for him.
"Get up," Ash says, lending him a hand. "Sit down at the kitchen table. You're going to tell me everything there is to know."
"Then will you let me pour a glass of whiskey? I am so awfully parched," he says.
I sigh, but Ash reluctantly nods his head. "Fine. If you help us, I'll let you have a glass."
Clyde sits and hunches over the table. "Okay, yes. Where do I start?"
"You owe it to your son to start at the beginning," I say.
I never wanted any children," he says, eyeing all of us very carefully. "I don't say these things to be rude. Really, I don't. I'm saying it so that you can understand. I was an artist who fell in love. But that love was soon stolen from us. A stranger visited our home, and everything changed."
"Visited," Ash says. "Who visited you?"
Clyde starts to recall everything in slow fragments of detail. "It was a shit day. A boisterous and alarming day. There was enough rain to flood the neighborhood," he says. "I thought I might take a trip to the store, but the roads were washed out. With the flood building around my boots, it soon became clear that I wasn't going anywhere. I turned away for one moment, called out to my wife to tell her we'd have to wait, but someone caught my eye. It was a man with a cane. He was using it to balance in the middle of the water, but it looked like it might fail any second."
"Odin?" Heimdall asks.
"Don't interrupt," Clyde snaps.
"Sorry," Ash says.
"Of course, I had to help him. The man could have drowned otherwise. I carried him all the way through three feet of rushing water. When I got him inside, he collapsed into my arms. He whispered something into my ear. It was something strange."
"What did he say to you, dad?" Ask asks.
Clyde raises his chin and stares into the sky. "A miracle brings a curse upon your name."
"You're drunk," Loki says.
Ash glares. "Shut up, Loki. Let him talk."
"I... saw things," he says. "When he said it, visions flashed before my eyes. I saw everything, even this moment."
He leans forward and starts to cry as a drunk might, emotional, yet far from understanding how to control it. Despite the hurt that Ash probably feels, he consoles his dad by telling him that it's all going to be okay. Everything is just going to be fine.
But it's not okay, and the whole damn civilization feels like it's balancing on a moving trapeze.
