more chapter 6

4.

The climax may have already occurred when Callahan found out his wife was pregnant, and that his son is the father.

But at this point I envision another confrontation, this one finding Callahan with too many martinis in tow, and perhaps an ancient maybe-working pistol in his pocket.

5.

The year is 2004. Many taboos of old have been obliterated. Sex with one’s mother, whether biological or not, is probably still a taboo. Divorce is common. Premarital sex is the standard. Producing children out of wedlock is common practice. There is a war a lot of people don’t agree with. There is a president narrowing the gap between church and state. Callahan is enjoying this president’s benefit-the-rich tax plan.

6.

Will approaches his apartment door, in his arms is a large package containing maternity clothes for Margeret. His father is sitting next to the door. He’s asleep, and smells like martinis.

Will: Dad.
Callahan: *sleepily* Don’t call me that.
Will: What do you want?
Callahan: I don’t know. Somehow I’ve having a heard time forgetting that you were once one of my sperm cells, and that now, my own sperm cell has created his own sperm cells, and used them to impregnate my wife.
Will: I don’t expect you to forget.
Callahan: What do you expect me to do?
Will: I don’t know. Something dramatic. I imagine you’ve spent all morning in front of your liquor cabinet. And that you’ve made significant progress towards emptying it out. I imagine you picked that old civil war pistol out of your desk drawer. I imagine you came here with the intention of threatening me with it, and then shooting yourself in the head with it. Sounds like a bad play to me Dad. Something some pompous creative writing major would churn out, thinking it's grand theater.
Callahan: *pulls pistol from coat pocket* You always were perceptive.
Will: Go home Dad.
Callahan:*points pistol at Will* Don’t call me that. And making fun of me isn’t improving your chances of not getting shot.
Will: That gun doesn’t work.
Callahan: Worked for the confederates.
Will: How appropriate, you using an instrument built to keep slavery alive.
Callahan: I don’t know what that means.
Will: You’re a slave driver. You would have fit right in on a plantation.
Callahan: So you hate me.
Will: I’m past those kind of extremes with you Dad.
Callahan: I don’t care if you hate me. I hate you. I hate your mother and lover. Which is the same person I might remind you.
Will: My mother has been dead for twenty years. You might remember her.
Callahan: smartass.
Will: Dad, I’m tired, are you going to do something with that gun, or are you going to go to a bar.
Callahan: Maybe I’ll do both.
Will: Well, please, I’m tired.
Callahan: I killed Margeret.
Will: What? *suddenly filled with anger, pain, hate, everything* You…you…
Callhan: *hearty laughter* No, I didn’t. Not yet anyway. Who’s to say what tomorrow will bring…