Safe Home
A short story
Sean Butler spent a penny or two the previous night, but not correctly. His soiled pants had already dried as he cracked his flurried, snow globe eyes toward the dawn. The light hurt too much, especially that morning, turning instead to the bridge’s dark shadows he had slept under. A few ducks glided along the stream that gently trickled on past the former, now emptied factory buildings. Yet even on the idyllic morning, every sound thundered erratically in his ears, pulsing through his searing eyes. He cursed, barking at the ducks through grumbled, unintelligible grunts.
He had not remembered how he ended up under the bridge; but the sore head indicated he must have remarkably survived falling the distance from the bridge to its foundations below. There was no energy within him to move — even to cup his hands for a drink of dirty stream water — though he thought about it. Meanwhile, a lingering stench from his trousers pierced his nostrils that were as wide as manhole covers.
Coincidentally, the night before, on St. Patrick’s Day, he nearly fell to certain injury in an open manhole while crossing Brewster Street to McDougal’s Bar. Tottering on pennilessness, he aimed to swindle another pint from a witless stranger by harnessing his self-perceived charming gab. Somehow his once youthful nimbleness returned, juking to avoid the pit in the road. With one eye closed to clearly see his antagonist, he stared down into the darkness while rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. He grinned and a tear streamed down his dirtied cheek. Without much coaxing, he laughed heartedly, smacking his bloated belly several times that ballooned from immense joy and duplicitous courage. He felt a sensation of derring-do, and proclaimed his slurred victory speech to the sounds of annoyed windows shuttering and undetectable shouts from on high. A few car horns angrily blazed, though Sean imagined them as the trumpet blasts honoring a Roman general’s victorious return, as he once studied in grade school.
A neon Coors Light sign on McDougal’s Bar reeled in the inebriated man, whose feet erratically flopped like canoes in a storm. He was on a war path with the intent on welcoming any noise in place of the rattling radiator at home or rumbling plastic factory where he worked. While gripping the zinc door handle covered in fingerprint residue, he composed himself to keep his intoxication hidden — or at least, as hidden as it could reasonably be. “Have a little class,” Sean whispered with debonair flair. The soaked breath fogged the door glass as a mist over low-tide.
He flung the door open to a working-class rock tune often a staple of his younger years. With confidence, the man puckered his lips, trying to whistle along, but they were too dry. He wiped the spittle with his right hand, hoping no one noticed.
“Charlie!” Sean shouted to the bartender, a younger bearded man in his early thirties. A disinterested demeanor fell across the young man’s face, as a gate closing against invading forces.
“Again, my name isn’t Charlie —”
Sean paid no mind. He leaned all of his weight against the bar, surveying the beer on tap. With squinted, flurried snow-globe eyes, he managed to detect the various brand handles glowing beneath glass bar light. A dry tongue licked the ripples lining the roof of his mouth, while his upper lip curled as though in deep contemplation.
“How about a shot of Jameson for the Irishman in me,” he ordered as though discovering a scientific phenomenon. While the bartender reluctantly tended to the order, Sean scanned the few patrons dotting the dimly lit watering hole. In the back corner, near an electronic jukebox sat an older man, dressed in a business suit, sipping a Guinness, most likely curbing the mental hardships of a long day. His face was partially illuminated by another neon sign shaped as a moon, though it flickered sporadically. “Must be a lawyer,” Sean thought, “but what does he know about work?”
A couple sitting in front of the taps gossiped about former classmates. Through the daze, Sean caught wind of the woman begging the man to never divulge the secrets she had spoken a thousand times before. With a grin, the man promised by holding his pinkie skyward — as if the gesture would advance his envisioned ‘good night.’
The bartender returned with the shot. The bright auburn liquid tremored in the glass, the meniscus dangling at the top preventing spillage. The Adam’s Apple beneath his scrawny neck bobbed with anticipation. Quickly now, he said. His head violently threw backward, a burn shot down the throat, and a light, empty tap tickled the bar as he presented the glass for another round. Within moments, he felt the uncomfortable burn again, then stood erect, composing his bravado. He belched into his fist as he approached the couple. Showtime, he thought.
With outstretched arms, he imagined himself as a swan, while wrapping the pair under his soft, paternal disposition. The two, meanwhile, gave him a perturbed glance.
“Hello to new friends. I haven’t seen either of you around here before.” The hot, whiskey breath pounded the woman contorting her face into writhing pain. “My name is Sean, mayor of McDougal’s — how abouts we grab another drink? I see yours are nearly empty.”
The woman, like a hostage, rapidly darted her discomfort toward the man, hoping Sean would be unable to detect the signals. The man noticed, and was equally disturbed, for the drunkard’s swaying grip interrupted his luck.
“No, thanks. We’re just leaving. It’s getting late.”
“Oh no! Stay! By mayoral decree —” he saluted. However, the pair slid off the stools, as if pulled by a magnetic force toward the door. The man dropped cash that he failed to count, leaving the bills soaking in a half-circle beer ring on the bar. A miniscule click emanated from the door, as if the pair were worried someone would notice their escape. Sean glanced around the bar, wondering if anyone watched the brief encounter. To him, no one batted an eye. He looked at the bills thrown on the bar, then at the bartender — who was washing glasses at the other end. His dried hand eked slowly toward a bill, delicately retrieving one while not making a sound. “Looks like they bought me a drink anyway,” he thought, clutching the clothy currency in his hand.
“Hey Charlie, how about one more for the road?” he enthusiastically yelled. “A nice wheat beer, s’el voo plate.”
Rolling his eyes, the bartender ceased cleaning glasses and tended to Sean’s order. The foam was white as snow, while the suds enchantingly rose up to its underbelly; and the light golden tint blazed underneath the lamp’s aura. It was almost too beautiful to drink — almost. Sean took a gulp, the taste reminding him of his first beer, when his old man treated him to his first, legal drink. Prior to then, a younger Sean stayed away from parties in high school, worried if he partook in the activities, he would be the unlucky bastard pinned for a crime or underage drinking. Now, there was no such worrying. What was there to worry about when we all end up in the grave, he rationalized years later. Though it was an empty philosophy. And even that moment became scarred — for his father died the next day.
Another song Sean recognized from his younger years came on the jukebox. With his full chest, he sang along, though he was unable to formulate the right lyrics in their correct order. Nevertheless, he unabashedly sang on, the words streaming like a hollowed plea. He took minute breaks for more gulps. The bartender slightly turned down the volume, hoping it would quiet the inebriated man, but to no avail. He felt the urge to throw him out; but waited.
As the song ended, Sean greedily took another gulp, finishing the drink. The fleeting happiness evaporated like the suds disappearing at the bottom of the glass. “Been a long time since that song came out. I was much younger — and look where I am now.” He poured the suds into his mouth, trying to savor every last drop.
“Hey friend, how about another one?”
“No,” the bartender said, keeping his attention on cleaning glasses. “You’ve had enough.”
“Oh come on, one more for the road—”
“Listen, when you’re able to actually pay for your own drinks, maybe I’ll serve you, but until that day, I think you better leave.”
“Who says I don’t pay,” Sean stated, the drunken ire rising within him. The bartender nearly broke a glass after placing it in plastic tray. “You’re a drunk, trying to steal drinks, and I’ve about had it with you coming in here.”
The whiskey and beer bellowed in Sean’s stomach like a furnace, emitting a gaseous smoke that spewed from his chimney mouth. He wiped the spittle from his mouth, and curled his hands into fists ready to strike. The daze cleared momentarily as he positioned himself for a fight, though his vision quickly reduced to a fog bombarded by streaks of neon lights.
“His tab and next round is on me,” said a voice from nowhere, yet everywhere. It spoke with quiet command. Both Sean and the bartender paused their imminent actions — the latter returned to his post disgruntled; he didn’t aim for a fight. Sean, meanwhile, pulled his collar as though he wore a tie, a subtle defiant act like he was, once again, victorious that evening.
His eyes were more glossy than before as he tried to discover whom the voice belonged. He belched into his fist once more, the agita from the near-fight escaping in a cruder, less painful form.
“Over here,” the voice spoke again, coming from the corner of the bar. It was the suited man. His index and middle finger were raised, but the drunken man couldn’t tell if it signaled peace or two more pints. Maybe both, he wondered. His canoe feet stumbled over; and he plopped himself into the adjacent stool. His face scrunched into a wide smile often indicating superficiality, while patting the suited man on the back with a heavy, loose hand.
“I’ve always depended on the kindness of strangers,” he said imitating a southern belle. The impression amused him greatly and he let the suited man know it with soaked laughter. Another brew appeared in front of him, seemingly out of thin air — and temptation sucked him in.
“You’re alright friend,” Sean stated after taking a gulp. The suited man sipped his Guinness silently for a moment, the neon moon sign half-showing his face. He had gaunt, worn features, and every breath looked as if stones pressed on his chest like the medieval torture. His eyes flickered bright blue, then to black pits as deep as the ocean’s depths — and ancient thoughts and fears dangled on his mind.
“Are you an angel or the devil, I wonder. Late to be working on a holiday like this — and it’s too late for a funeral.”
“Or too early,” the suited man stated. A Guinness mustached foamed on his utter lip, which he gently vacuumed by cupping his lower jaw.
“I can fight my own battles, friend. Though I appreciate the drink — so are you my angel or a devil,” he jokingly said.
“Depends on you.”
The gulp lodged in Sean’s throat, as if he ingested a rock rather than liquid. With all the strength in his neck, he forced the beer down — but the comment left him perplexed wondering on the man’s identity. He once more squinted his eyes, but still couldn’t totally register the face. The sporadic light mockingly played with his fantasy and stupor.
“Well, with the beer, I’d say an angel.” Sean indulged himself in the drink, trying to keep the mood light — and maybe squeeze another round before closing time. The suited man, meanwhile, picked his nails’ cuticles with his thumb, while taking another sip. He needed the liquid courage to speak, yet he stayed silent like his lips were weighted. A searing sensation suddenly flowed through Sean as the man’s eyes gazed at him, unmoved, a mixture of guilt and retribution. He nervously sipped his beer, often slightly raising it as a sign of thanks; though the man remained still — a sharp pain emanated from his being.
Sean began searching through his scrambled, unlocked memory, investigating whether he had met the man before, but nothing sprung to mind. He hoped to strike a conversation to restore his blissful vibe before he had to awake the next morning to reality — however, a topic escaped him.
“You looked happy singing that song from earlier, why?” the man suddenly asked.
“It’s a good song. All three minutes or so of it.”
“Well what makes a song good?”
Sean gulped, wondering what the man was driving at. In his state, the question seemed sincere — but he reckoned the man might be mocking him, awaiting to scrutinize the response.
“You know: To forget about life for awhile,” Sean sang in the style of ‘Piano Man,’ avoiding any sense of seriousness, guarding his emotions with a grin. He laughed again. Spittle sprinkled over the man’s suit. Without moving his gaze, the man took a small bar napkin from a plastic container near straws and wiped the spit.
“And why forget about life?”
A chuckle unintentionally escaped Sean while chugging down most of the beer; however, he couldn’t finish all of it as promptly as he desired. A violent indigestion, bellowing from his stomach’s fiery furnace, ballooned throughout his torso, dissipating his appetite and comfortability on the stool. He tried to silently belch, but he verged on vomiting if he forced himself to do so anymore. The flickering blue light permeated in the light golden liquid, morphing the beer to look green. Fitting for the occasion, but not the moment — especially when he wished to leave. Who is this guy, the inebriated man thought with the few remaining rational cells in his brain. He felt chained to the stool, imprisoned by the man — punishment for accepting the free drink.
“Maybe you are a devil,” he laughed while using his fist to hide his mouth. “Well what’s your story anyway?”
The man tentatively leaned back on the stool, bending like cattails in a breeze that indicate an imminent storm. He temporarily clutched his chest — leading Sean to wonder if his present company also suffered from indigestion.
“Tale as old as time itself, I’m afraid. Done some good. Have plenty of regrets like everyone. Many dreams I hoped to achieve, but won’t in this life.”
“Got a wife and kids.”
“Yeah,” the man melancholily drawled. “You?”
“Nope —” Sean tried to discretely belch again, but he nearly spewed volcanic bile instead. His tongue caught some residue before tainting his teeth, yet the burn defiantly clawed its way back down his throat.
“Did you ever find someone?”
Sean’s Adam’s Apple bobbed like a martini olive. His throat singed, bubbling bitterly as his hazy eyes stared — with a thousand mile stare — into his memory’s cavernous recesses. Truth be told, Sean did find someone. Her name was Maureen. Like her foremothers, she had blazing red hair, though not aflame from temper, but with — what her family believed — the Holy Spirit, as if God kissed her forehead on the day she was born. And she acted with grace, cherishing her lot in life as a girl in a dying factory town could. Even though her appearance was distinguishable, she never sought attention, humbly performing her daughterly duties to both her parents and heavenly Father. Once, when he still attended Mass with his father, Sean heard her muttering prayers, “But Lord, I know it’s worse for others. Look after them before me.” Her sweet, trusting disposition was reminiscent of Jennifer Jones in “The Song of Bernadette,” a film Sean’s father watched annually around Easter. A force pulled the young Sean toward Maureen — something stronger than attraction alone. A yearning for a beyond he never contemplated for its sheer, debilitating vastness, yet suspected to be true.
He wasn’t sure how or why Maureen said that single word, “Yes” — which echoed in his ears like an ancient, yet youthful song — to his suggestion of roller skating at the now closed rink and sharing a milkshake. He chalked it up to some charm, as though his soul only spoke to hers clearly. But that was another time — ancient history, lost to time for no victors or subjects cared to document their excursions; their love was neither juicy, scandalous, or deadly. It simply commenced and ended, like millions of others.’ They dated for several years, but Sean hemmed and hawed on marriage, preferring not to think of ‘death do us part’ and the ether that lay beyond this mortal coil. On the final day, Sean returned to his apartment after gallivanting with friends on a nightly escapade, finding Maureen on the couch, anxiously combing her fingers through her hair. In the lamplight, he noticed strands of gray falling and twitching on the floor from the radiator’s breeze. Her eyes were swollen — she had already been crying, most likely while rehearsing her farewell to the man she loved. Through quivering lips, she mentioned marriage, his increasing tendencies toward seeing the bottom of the bottle, and disconnect from striving toward something higher. “What are you committed to Sean? Because I can’t wait for you to find out forever.” The words struck like dead piano notes to the impaired man, yet “forever” managed to ensnare him. Everything before him swirled into a pit, as though a black hole ruptured the apartment, engulfing all he knew into oblivion. He walked with open eyes, but saw only darkness.
“I can’t save you Sean,” she gagged, knowing she was closing a door on him, though not wishing him harm. She left, hurrying down the hall and out of the building before Sean could turn. He heard her shoes clicking on the sidewalk below, along with hidden cries. He stood in the doorway, unsure of whether to chase after her — instead he watched the gray hairs flinch and roll underneath the couch. Those were the last words he heard from her.
He wondered if she were still alive — perhaps with a husband and a couple of children: cooking them meals, attending their sporting or scholastic events, teaching them how to read or perhaps hugging a youngin after scraping their knees, reassuring them “It’ll be alright,” as only a mother could. And how the soft-hearted gal would more than likely kiss her doting husband — for how else could the gentleman act — every night before the lights went out.
He often envisioned himself in those ‘what if’ scenarios now; they were typically the final images torturing his mind before passing out — yet he never imagined the storms Maureen most likely weathered. There were already too many he veered her into.
Or maybe, he bitterly thought, she died alone with only a priest and nurse at her bedside. “Maybe her dying words were of me and for the Lord to save me.” A bottle of bitters glittered in the neon light, bringing him back to the present. He sunk into his stool. He wished he could dive into the liquid courage.
“Almost. Didn’t pan out. As the French say, ‘c’est la vie.’” He finished his glass. “Oui?”
The stool screeched against the floor as Sean prepped to leave, but the suited man grabbed his arm in order to stay. Even through blurred vision, the man pained, continually squeezing a clenched left fist.
“I don’t know what you’ve been through son, but listen, when you’re close to the end, you won’t want to forget about life — even the sorrows.”
The suited man finished his drink as well, motioning to the bartender for another round. With a swift, wordless motion, he pointed to a tap as if to ask, “Which one will you have?” But Sean was confused by the man. More and more, the suit appeared restrictive — like a boa constrictor killing its prey — yet the man put up no fight, as if he found peace in his current condition. His features became more gaunt, though they decayed. A terror rattled in Sean’s mind and he wished to go, but the man still grabbed his arm.
“Do you believe in mercy?” the man said reaching for the next Guinness.
“What’s mercy got to do with me?”
Taking another sip, the man leaned back in his stool. Beads of sweat began oozing from his forehead. In the light, the drops looked like blood.
“I hope it’s true,” he said. A white foam mustache formed on his lips, which he wiped off with a napkin. Sean realized no one held his arm any longer; but he gripped the bar. He wondered if he actually kept himself there.
“You’re a funny man,” Sean nervously laughed. “You are a devil.”
The suited man paid no attention, taking another sip followed by wiping another white foamed mustache. The man moved like a scratched record.
“Perhaps,” the suited man calmly spoke. “My children have thought so once or twice — at least when they didn’t get their way as youngsters. But I think they know now I am simply a man. Just flesh and blood like you. My grandchildren though believe I’m fun.” For the first time, a flash of levity moved through his eyes, like a shooting star in light-polluted sky. Yet a distortion soon fell on the man. The shadows and neon light cloaked him into an otherworldly form — appearing as Sean’s father to the drunkard. His senses must have failed him, Sean reasoned, but his eyes saw a dead man. Shocked, ice poured through Sean’s veins seeing the apparition. He wavered in his stool, falling to the ground producing a deadened thud.
“Alright, enough. You’re gone,” the bartender coldly stated dropping the wash towel on the bar. Using the bar as a lever, Sean pulled himself up on his canoe feet and dashed to the door without saying a word. His mouth felt glued, while his teeth verged on cracking. As he turned back, the neon light swayed, partially illuminating the suited man’s gaunt facial features. The beads of sweat and constriction returned, but he continued sipping the Guinness — enjoying the drops like he were a man on death row and that his final meal. He glanced at Sean, with eyes not his own, peering into the drunken man’s feeble anxieties. With a gentle, sincere grin, he raised the glass.
“Safe home, my friend,” the suited man quietly said, as though he gave the last of his love on earth to his temporary friend.
Sean burst through the doors wanting to taste freedom — but he stumbled onto the eerily silent streets. A light dewy mist shrouded Main Street, as well as the clock tower nearby. On the town green, the bronze figure of a Civil War veteran stood at attention, gazing forward into almost certain death. Sean tried to cobble together his bearings, but the ice continued piercing every nerve, further clouding his feeble judgment. He felt trapped in a story he couldn’t outrun. The manhole in the road widened, as if drawing in a breath — the darkness ever expanding. No laughter came this time; only acidic shrieks lodged in his throat like a traffic jam. He turned back toward the neon light in the window. The craving dried him as a fish on land gasping for breath.
His feet moved, though he wasn’t sure where. Every crack in the sidewalk protruded forth like feet intent on tripping him. His head pounded. He could only see the suited man’s transfigured form, gently speaking and smiling — though the man also appeared constricted by an unknown entity, and pained to live through the night. Sean wiped his forehead, trying to push the suited man away from any conceivable thought. “He must be a devil. Tempting me into something.”
A red light glimmered a short distance away, powering through the mist to reach Sean’s eyes. Without realizing, his pace quickened, stumbling toward it. His grayed hair dampened from the mist with beads trickling down his face. Wiping them away, he looked at the droplets, which glowed as red as blood — like the suited man. He couldn’t comprehend the moment. “Why am I being tortured,” he began screaming — expecting a reprimand. He received none, which only compounded his torment. Suddenly, he realized the red glow careened toward him, flaring like a spewing foundry. Maureen. The cries. His father. The void. He jumped out of the way —
Then he woke up underneath the bridge. He clenched his frozen fingers, shivering, curling his body inward for warmth. The night before flushed into his mind. Wiping his forehead once more, the droplets were dried blood, no doubt from the fall — although he did not know. He surveyed for the ducklings, but they were gone.
He lumbered to his feet, and crawled forth into the unforgiving sun. With the mist gone, he journeyed home — though his eyes remained cloudy.
***
“You were late again. This is the last time, Sean.” The terse statement begrudgingly came from behind a tiny office’s makeshift desk overlooking the factory floor. Sean’s manager Pete rocked back in his chair, stroking his brow in anguish, while twirling his glasses in the other hand that dangled near the floor. Sean stood before him in silence, viewing his old friend through bloodshot, ignoble eyes.
“You’ve been a good friend for a long time, but your work —”
“I know I’ve made mistakes —”
“Yes, we all do. Lord knows I have and still do,” Pete leaned further back, staring at the ceiling tiles, forming different patterns in the various markings. Offering a silent prayer, he wanted to choose his next words carefully. “But you can’t expect making the same mistake over and over will get you anywhere — or true forgiveness from me.”
Pete leaned forward. The chair creaking burrowed like a drill in Sean’s ears. After waking up underneath the bridge, he had managed to make it to his apartment, which had been static ever since Maureen left. He even imagined her gray hairs still hiding underneath the couch, but he dared not look. Her leaving was years ago, yet only three days passed since his fall off the bridge. Recovery sluggishly doctored his drunken escapade, but the suited man’s grin lingered, infecting every thought he managed to form through the headaches. However, standing before Pete, he braced for those words no worker with any self-respect longs to hear. He could practically see them oozing from Pete’s lips — but nothing came. Only a sigh.
The manager stretched his legs, slowly pacing toward the window, observing the machinery drone onward. As a student with Sean, he never envisioned being in the factory in this position, but it was a good, steady job — and one he worked hard for. Dreams come and go, he rationalized, as long as a man is content on what he gives to the world, then he would be alright. He kept these in his heart.
“Sean, did you ever want to be here?”
Sean silently twiddled a piece of string in his pocket. A burn scratched his throat, preventing him from speaking.
“You can be honest.”
He swallowed. Every neck muscle ached in searing pain.
“Well, I thought —”
“No,” Pete interrupted, turning toward Sean not as a superior, but as a friend. “I remember you didn’t want this life.”
In high school, Sean gravitated towards history classes, excelling in each one he took — often receiving scholastic medals presented at year’s end. His father encouraged Sean to attend college, perhaps to study becoming a teacher or professor of some sort. He made a go at it, but after his father passed away, he dropped out, settling for random work with whoever would take him — until he drove himself away.
Turning back toward his friend, Pete stared at Sean with poignant fixity, whose eyes squirmed to find anything tempting to look at.
“Take my advice, get help,” Pete dejectedly sighed. “Have you eaten?”
Sean’s stomach grumbled, which he rolled inward in an effort to silence any affirmations to Pete’s question. There was nothing in his fridge at home, and he had been unwell enough to go to grocery shopping — but desperate enough to get to work for his pockets were drained of funds. Swirling his neck and twirling the pocket string, Sean figured it best to lie and not worry his manager further. He nodded. Pete knew Sean was lying — the latter looked as if were a Boris Karloff monster. The shadows beneath Sean’s eyes darkened, while the lips were sapped of color into a pale pink by the second. Pete decided not to embarrass the man further.
“Well go home. Get some rest. And be on time tomorrow or I mean it — this is a final warning.”
Sean nodded his head. His spirit felt like a scrunched toothpaste tube, though escaping yet another fateful encounter with the inevitable; but the floor moved underneath his feet, and he wavered like a toddler first learning to walk. “This man should not be so generous to me,” he thought, “Why me?” He felt small.
Meanwhile, Pete returned to his chair, shifting pieces of mail on his desk, feigning to appear busy in front of Sean to avoid any more awkward conversations. He looked at his watch. The hour was late — late enough where he immediately grabbed his coat on the hook behind the door. Sean still stood in the threshold, ashamed. His stomach grumbled again.
“Where are you going?” Sean asked, shocked he said anything.
Pete slipped his arms through the coat sleeves. He gave an elevator glance at Sean, knowing full well his friend longed to change the subject from the reprimand — to ignore the seriousness for a brief reprieve. He wondered whether he should grant him the satisfaction, but the gaunt man’s head pitifully hung low.
“To a wake. Someone from my parish passed away the other night.”
“Anyone I might know?”
Pete shrugged, voicelessly sighing. Sean had not been to the parish since Maureen left — or even prior to that day. He knew Sean would not know; nor did he believe the man, whose head still hung like a coat on a broken hanger, truly cared.
“I’m not sure — does a Mr. Patrick Mulligan ring a bell?”
The name meant nothing to Sean, but he resigned to stiffen the urge to shake his head. Any movement would perturb his withered blood vessels, reigniting the headache from days prior. His belly ached, and the pocket string reinforced his pennilessness. His red eyes winced, though he kept his head down, lest Pete should see. A force connivingly coagulated within him, like it had for years, demanding he deceive his friend or else — though Sean never contemplated the retribution. Being pulled by the unknown conscience came naturally at this point, and like a beaten dog, he obeyed.
“The name sounds familiar. Where is the wake?”
“Well, they’re hosting the wake at the house on Elm, like the old Irish wakes. The family was about tradition — no more than Patrick.”
“Perhaps I’ll go, and pay my respects.”
Pete moved toward Sean, the latter who still stood near the office door. He moved passed his employee like wind through a sheet hanging on a clothes line. The moment nearly shattered Pete’s hope for his friend’s well-being — the man decayed in his beaten shoes and coat, evaporating into nothingness minute by minute. There was a suffocating spirit that surrendered to suffer its sentence, when it was still capable of resisting. He contemplated touching the man’s shoulder, but stopped, figuring he had only seen the action done in movies. Yet he gave a last look at the disheveled employee; the next time, he worried, might be in the morgue.
“Maybe I’ll see you there then,” Pete hopelessly dropped from his mouth. “If not, get some rest.”
Then he left. Sean stayed in room, finally raising his head to look out on the factory floor. The neck muscles ached, as he had them arched too long. His Adam’s Apple bobbed like a buoy on a stormy sea after he breathed for the first time in awhile; however, as one relief swept in, another ailment materialized. The billowing bile burned his stomach and throat. He needed a remedy — and quickly. His appetites had gone unanswered long enough, soaking him in sweat and burying him in panic. But what to do: he had no money — another pay day wouldn’t come for several more days. And he was not prepared to beg.
Then a plan brewed in his scrambled mind. If traditions held true, then there might be food served. There might even be a ‘gallon of whiskey at his feet or barrel of porter at his head’ as the old song went, he figured. A tickle dripping from the back of his nose soothed his throat’s clawed burning, yet something urged — ordered — him to attend. Time was of the essence. He had to satisfy his cravings that distorted his posture, though he appeared still. With a one-track mind, his canoe feet, once again, carried him out of the office, down the stairs, passed the machinery, and into the open air. He animalisticly hunched over, hiding his eyes from the glaring late afternoon sunlight.
The stomach grumbled — like a dying man’s last words that no one could hear — as he trekked in his worn down shoes toward Elm Street. Coincidentally, the old colonial street packed with Cape-style homes, was adjacent to the bridge — and nestled behind a pond children once swam in. A light drizzle soaked his hair, while tiny puddles seeped through his outsoles, drenching the socks. Every step uncomfortably squished. He felt the toes pruning. “Should I do this,” fleetingly soared in his mind, but the burning and grumbling pushed him on. Any hesitation was momentary. No other thoughts formed.
A line of cars packed the curbs down the street — he had no idea which house to approach. However, his anxiety eased relatively quickly, as several people, dressed in black, got out of a car, somberly approached a door, and were welcomed inside. His reddened eyes rolled over white, while the squishing footsteps hastened. After reaching the house, he decided decorum was of some importance. He looked in a car window, leaning to one side and the other, eventually finding an angle reflecting his haggard condition. The sight nearly terrified him — he found himself unrecognizable. But his wet, gray hair was more pressing. Hastily, he sloppily parted it with his fingers in attempt to be more presentable. He stared another moment at his emaciated figure, examining his work. Strands still clung to his forehead, out of sequence with the others; but the burning boiled — there was no time for perfection. “Who wants to be perfect, anyway,” he thought. “Have some class.” Turning toward the door, he nearly bumped into a couple also heading inside. Putting on airs, he slightly genuflected, deferentially allowing them passage before himself.
“Nope, I insist,” he said with a gravel, yet pleasurable tone.
Following them into the house, he found himself in a line forming in the den, weaving into the living room. A hushed air swept through — but so did a tiny scent of food. His dry, rancid mouth began salivating; his animalistic mission heightened, wanting to simply pay his respects — whatever that may be — grab a few bites, then scurry away before anyone noticed. Yet his presence was already marked. A few people suspiciously glanced at him, then suddenly whispered to one another, intent on being undetectable. He could see their lips move enough, imagining them lobbing condemnations like “What is he doing here?” or “Here comes the town drunk.” They have no pity for me, he thought, why should I care at this rate?
The line inched forward through the middle-class home. The owners, whoever they were, had crystal fairytale trinkets and philodendron plants adorning shelves. On the wall hung a framed map of Ireland. There were illustrations of the country’s rolling hills and pub life — but they reminded Sean of maps he poured over in school, particularly the medieval examples that had monsters and ships traversing the unexplored oceans. He found the drawings fascinating and inspirational to his imagination, but that was long ago. Now, he seldom studied the framed picture. Appetites imprisoned him. He moved forward.
The casket was against the living room’s far wall. He didn’t notice a whiskey gallon or porter barrel; instead, the body was blocked by wreaths. He could not see Mr. Mulligan, nor did he wish to — not desiring to come face-to-face with mortality. But, after a cost-benefit analysis, he rationalized he could suffer momentarily to fulfill his desire. He found it much more crowded than expected. A number of people, presumably family members, gathered beside the coffin shaking hands with attendees. Their faces strained from withholding the grief, yet they stayed composed, while awkwardly thanking people for coming. Meanwhile, a younger boy, dressed in a black suit and clip-on tie, solemnly stood next to his mother. Sean deduced the boy must be ten or younger; perhaps a grandson of this Mr. Mulligan. Beyond that, Sean didn’t pay him any attention. He inched forward toward the casket. “Do a quick prayer. Don’t say much. Grab food quickly and get out.” It was a simple plan. The glares and whispers sustained would last only minutes; yet he could still not see the body as several mourners obstructed his view, while others held up the line to speak with the those who grieved.
“It was sudden,” he overheard, as well as, “Though he hid his pain well. He was a good man.”
Who were these people anyway, Sean wondered, recognizing few faces, but, contrarily, several recognized him. A group dispersed revealing the kitchen. On the counter was piled a stack of cold-cut sandwiches. Sean’s stomach grumbled even louder to the point he nearly hushed himself. Anxiously surveying if anyone heard — and discover his true intent — he saw Pete by the counter conversing with someone. He buried his head into his chest, flipping up the collars of a jacket, hoping his manager wouldn’t notice his presence. He didn’t want to engage in small talk.
Yet one pair of dark eyes never loosened its grip: they belonged to the young boy. A blank stoicism tempered any exuberance innate in smaller children, leading Sean to believe the boy understood the situation — and one truly beginning to grapple with mortality. He detected the intruder like a white blood cell views a virus, but laid dormant, plotting his defensive position. Meanwhile, his pants’ pockets twisted, as the boy balled his hands. Sean nodded trying to make a polite gesture, but the boy remained static.
The boy’s dark fixity made Sean uneasy. He unearthed a geyser of shame within the man’s spirit — as if all of human history, in all its grotesqueness and wonder, condemned him for his actions. The walls enclosed, and Sean gasped, struggling for air, feeling buried alive. All the while, the line moved. Every step, he heard his blood vessels thumping throughout his limbs and head. Then, he reached the casket — the body of Mr. Mulligan spanning out for all curious eyes to behold. A cold sweat — or drops of blood — spewed from Sean’s forehead: it was the suited man.
“My God, I know him —” he whispered. He wasn’t sure if anyone else heard, except for the boy, who seemed to know everything the man thought. Somewhere, Sean foolishly believed the suited man would simply rise, ask for another round, and go about his business. But there he lay — cold. Dead. Forever. His canoe feet slipped from beneath him, and he knelt by the casket shockingly examining the man. Fully illuminated and caked in filmy make-up, the suited man appeared livelier in death — his cheeks were more filled, and muscles relaxed. The shadows at the edges of the man’s lips formed a grin like he experienced only pleasant dreams.
Sean couldn’t believe it. Tears seeped from the corners of his eyes, dripping onto the casket. The floor below swirled, while the sky outside turned as black as coal. He was unsure what to do — of all the elementary scenarios and embarrassments that could have happened, he didn’t prepare for this. The burning seared. The aching intensified. He wished he died that night on the bridge as the low insect he was. But he lived. To see this?
“Why?”
Suddenly, he felt a pat on the shoulder — from the young boy. Sean nearly bolted, leaping up from the kneeler, locking eyes with him. A tenderness, yet stern expression swelled in the child’s face. “My parents say he’s safe at home now.” The man began to weep. The family and guests curiously eyed Sean, like attendees at an exhibit — with intrigue, but no way of penetrating the space around the man. The shame intensified. The bile erupted and singed his Adam’s Apple. With teary eyes, he fled, pushing through the crowd to do so. He thought he heard Pete’s voice call after him — but he was unsure if he imagined it.
The thumping wouldn’t cease, even as he breathed in the free air — yet his breaths were short and cautious, as if he inhaled soot. Remorse bellowed. Sean could distinctly remember the suited man’s smile — and his face morphing into his father’s image. Was he an angel or the devil? Sean wondered. A boiling heat rippled in his spine, while his tongue shriveled. He stumbled from the house, feeling in a worse state than anytime he touched the bottle. The sidewalk cracks opened and waved, preparing to speak to him like a voice from the Netherworld. How could I do that, he wept. Nothing was clear, except for one thing —
The thing he avoided most. The eternal darkness he dared not contemplate sprung into view. It was the only thing he could see now. All of history led to this moment, strapped to his feeble shoulders as he continued on toward the end of Elm Street, toward the bridge. His feet slipped. The puddles caused vertigo, pulling the sidewalk away, yet toward him.
The bridge. That’s it, he thought. This must end.
A mist wafted from the pond, shrouding his path ahead, and the sky darkened after the sun set. The only object he could see was the bridge — it called him like a muse toward the rocks, the rocks he hoped to violently strike. His steps quaked, but his mission remained steadfast. Cars whizzed by, dragging a current knocking Sean to his knees several times. Tears ripped through the pants, while dirt and gravel caked the hems. Blood trickled out of him from the scraped legs. After pulling himself up, he saw the suited man walking alongside him, step-by-step — but the apparition neither frightened or blessed Sean. It was as though the vision were a natural occurrence. Sean paused his mission, turning toward the suited man who grinned. He was clean, lively, yet utterly silent. He made no motions, except to wipe his upper lip with a handkerchief. An ire erupted from Sean, as if he were a conduit for the earth’s core. He wagged a finger at the apparition, right in the suited man’s face, but it didn’t move nor flinched.
“Well now you know if mercy is fact or fiction — so which is it?”
The suited man’s lips were sealed, yet smiling. Sean felt toyed with, like a parent withholding a secret — or a treat — from a child.
“Which is it!” he screamed into the open air.
The apparition raised its right hand and waved, similar to his toast when Sean left the bar. At Sean’s right foot lay a small rock, roughly the size of rubber ball. With the little energy he had left, Sean hucked the stone through the apparition — with both disappearing into the mist. The moment brought no peace, only more shame, suffocating Sean’s heart.
“Devil!”
He collapsed near the bridge, sprawling his disintegrating limbs across the sidewalk. Though he didn’t move, he felt the sidewalk beneath him cave, unable to support the weight. He burst into tears with the liquid hot as steam streaking down the sides of his gaunt face. His eyes were shut, yet he saw the various ghosts of his life walking away from him. Maureen. Pete. His father. All disappointed faces heading toward an unseen horizon, beyond life itself — simply beyond any comprehensible plane. He wished to have never existed. But he did exist. He wept, still laying on his back, choking on his cries.
“Why me?” he thought. “What have I done?”
Several cars drove by, and no footsteps rang out on the sidewalk. He felt hours must have passed, when, in reality, it was only a few brief moments; nevertheless, he thought enough for numerous lifetimes: about his dreams, his father’s passions, an imaginary life with Maureen, a vocation he was proud of — all of it destroyed by the drunken boyish antics, and the shame of attempting to exploit those who grieved or gave a damn for him. Yet all of them led back to this spot. The gravel made him uncomfortable. He rolled over, facing the bridge, now disguised by the mist. His swollen, sorrowful eyes opened, still resolved to complete his mission. To end the suffering.
As he got on his knees, a soft red glow radiated through the mist, similarly to the night after leaving the suited man. He remembered fearing the glow that aimed to engulf him into oblivion. Every instinct yanked on every cell in his body for preservation, but he moved toward the glow like a man through a gale. He braced himself for the impact, raising his arms as if surrendering to the oncoming, unaware behemoth.
“I’m sorry,” he sighed. Closing his eyes, he waited —
And waited —
But nothing came. Cracking open his eyes, he found himself still standing there alone in the road. A car had pulled over, though he didn’t recognize the model in the mist. Yet he heard a familiar sound: the clicking of shoes. The same from the night Maureen left his apartment. “That was years ago,” he thought.
In sheer disbelief, Maureen approached him, her hair as lustrous as before. She wore black, in mourning, possibly for the suited man. Sean suspected his senses failed him, yet he saw no grays, no signs of aging, as if no time had passed. He wondered if she were real, but there she was cautiously inching toward him, a tear rolling down her cheek from her tender, merciful eyes. They beamed with youthful zeal, as only a spirit with complete trust beyond itself can comprehend. But Sean could not comprehend the image. “This must be a mirage,” he reckoned, “but it’s a good one.”
He outstretched his arms, showing — on full display — the decrepit body and spirit to the woman he loved. The dam nearly cracked, gushing out his pain on the street. However, it did not matter anymore.
“Maureen —”
She inched toward him more. Her eyes conveyed a knowledgeable, maternal joy, while begging full trust from Sean. Every experience he had was open to her, and she absorbed them instantaneously like flipping through pages of a biography. Nothing shocked her the closer she came, though Sean discerned Maureen silently prayed for her lips moved. A desire flamed in his heart, hoping to learn everything about her life since their final day; but he spoke not. He basked in her graceful presence, now only a foot away.
“Let’s get you home,” she whispered. Every word purposefully stated, as if she waited her whole existence to utter them. She presented her ageless hand. He debated whether taking it, but a gentler voice he hadn’t heard prior pushed him toward her. But his instincts resisted — and he stood there like in a standoff, waiting for Maureen to remove a gun from her holster. But she was wearing none, and he admonished himself for thinking such.
The sounds of ducks quietly quaking floated from the pond to his ears, which did not pound anymore. Nor did his chest thump. Nor did his throat burn or stomach ache. All of his ailments miraculously dissipated. He had even forgotten about them. It had been ages since they disregarded their wrathful scourging.
A euphoric cry escaped from him. Even through the mist, he envisioned a new path before him. Maureen did not speak, but her tender eyes and luminous appearance drew him closer like a man thirsting for water. It was the happiest he had ever been.
He softly took Maureen’s hand. For the first time in ages, he felt weightless.