The New Son
Just before closing time, she called him in the office. "Scotti is back."
"Scotti is dead, Margret," he whispered into the phone. And louder, "I'm coming home."
When he walked in through the door, Scotti was actually sat on the sofa. His hair shone as black as at his funeral. On this day he stood at Scotti's open coffin and looked into his slashed face. The coroner had patched it together with a thick piece of string. Not even scars of the cuts are back, he thought as he sat down in the chair across from him.
In bed at night, he asked Margret: "Did you know he smokes?"
"I found a cigarette butt after his accident in a tin box under his bed," she replied with a smile.
A few weeks later, the phone rang. Margret was shopping with Scotti.
"Hello," said a very young woman's voice. "We do a customer survey on behalf of the company CCC and would like to know if you are satisfied with your son."
"Yes, very," he replied. "Just..." he hesitated for a moment, wondering if he should say it.
"Hello, are you still there?"
"He, he now smokes pretty strong," he said.