LAST CALL

Joseph Weber

PROLOGUE                                                                

My name is Joe and I’m a…. I’m not sure what I am. I can tell you what I used to be. I was just a guy who wanted to get along. I was just a guy who wanted to do in life what he had to do. I had a wife and a couple kids a really good job and everything was going ok you know. Sure there were some problems in my marriage and it seems as though the last few years I have been getting some bad breaks at work; mostly with asshole bosses but on the whole everything was okay. I enjoyed going for a few after work with the boys and having a laugh. Is that too much to expect? A little pleasure in an otherwise boring and practical existence! I work hard and I provide and all I ever wanted was a little space to unwind at the end of the day. All I ever wanted was to be left alone. Well, I guess I got that last part. I am alone.

I am staying at this guys place at the moment because my wife has lost her mind. She has pretty much always lived on the edge of two worlds but now, now she has stepped completely over into the abyss. I blame those wack jobs she has been talking too, the ones who are telling her she needs to kick my ass out. The ones who say some crazy shit about detaching with love. Well I can tell you that I was not feeling a whole lot of love in the room when I was detached. She tells me that I crossed a line. She says she can’t deal with the uncertainty I bring into her world. I guess she means the uncertainty that comes with every pay cheque I bring home, every bag of groceries my money provides, every gallon of gas she puts in the car, I PAID FOR, while she is shopping for her spring wardrobe! She also says she is sick of my sarcasm and my anger. She may have a point there, about the anger I mean.

I told her she would be angry too is she were me. If she had a boss who did not appreciate her or for that matter a wife who didn’t! If everyone on earth depended upon her for their existence she may take a drink once in a while as well. But she did not buy any of that, even though it is the truth. She only uses the truth to hurt me and to blame me because she is jealous of my life. I have friends and people who like me and respect me! I am going places in my life I can tell you that for sure! This thing at work, just a temporary set back, just some bad luck with a bad boss I know it will blow over after the suspension. Anyone would drink for a couple days after the week I had. I told her I didn’t see any line let alone cross over any but she kicked my ass out anyway, typical.

I’m lucky I got to know this guy at work Bill. Well I don’t really know him all that well. He only comes into the bar with the guys once in a while and never stays too long. A real up and comer you know what I mean. Kind of a dick really but he told me I could crash at his place while he was out of the country. I was kind of surprised that he was so concerned to be honest. He has probably been screwed over by a wife as well.  Maybe he is not such as dick head after all is said and done. But none of this really matters! This is not about me it is about the call. It is about the guy on the other end of the line.

You don’t know me and I doubt we will ever meet. I’m not even sure why I am writing this down. When I awoke this morning and realized that the bits and pieces of what I was remembering was not a dream but an actual event I felt compelled to put pen to paper and relate what I could remember of it to the best of my ability.

As I have said, I am uncertain why I need to record the event, for I did not know the man. The fact is we had never met and I spoke to him only the one time, quite by chance or fate, if I am to believe in such things. Since that night I have come to understand events occur for a reason; building blocks in the plan of some greater power or higher intelligence; steps on a path to the end of a journey. But I am not so sure. Perhaps there is nothing more than fate, blind luck, and happenstance. That is what this feels like. As I have said, I am uncertain.

Yesterday when I awoke, I felt I knew who I was and where I fit. This morning the parameters are not as clear, and I question if perhaps I have been living outside the lines. I don’t know whom I am writing this for or if it will ever be read by anyone but me.

   Perhaps I am not writing it for him, as he asked, but instead for me, so I can understand, at least in part, what happened to him. I spoke to him less than an hour, on the phone. I did not know where he was or even if he was in the same city as I. I only know I was to be the last call.  He was 52 years old and he told me the story, of his life. Fifty-two years summed up in less than an hour. How could that be? How could one man, given the same opportunities as another, end up so alone and in less than an hour, equate his life to fifty cents in a pay phone. It has left me cold; it has left me frightened; and it has left me uncertain.

And so I write. For you, for me, for him, for anyone who’s life adds up to more than fifty cents. He wanted to cleanse himself, and in so doing he has stained me. Colored me with doubt and uncertainty; made me question my self and my way of life; helped me to understand there is so much more, to everything.

 I do not know if I was able to help him, I doubt it because I never really tried, but I know that he has helped me, and for that reason I will tell the story                

 POWERLESS

Tommy Boy woke with a groan and a foul taste in his mouth that was not unknown to him. As his head cleared, he focused on the red digits of the clock radio on the bedside table of the Main Street rooming house. His brain recognized the dim glow of digits: 6.45. Another groan and a quick shake of the head allowed the hour to register, but was it morning or night? There was really no way to tell here, in this hovel he called home. There was no news paper from which to take the date, there was not a television to tune in the morning or evening news, there was not much of anything. There was an abundance of nothing. He threw his legs over the bed, and prepared for the dizziness he fully expected as his feet landed on the filthy carpet. His head swam and his stomach heaved, as he struggled up and over to the tiny bathroom.

 In what had become a daily ritual, he crossed the tiny room from door to toilet, with a fluidity of motion which seemed somehow out of place to the events which were about to occur. He inserted a finger down his throat, lifted the seat and vomited into the bowl. For a moment, he simply stayed in place; his head slumped over the toilet, his eyes clamped tight, as though this would close out the reality of his world. Slowly he spit, then coughed, then waited; waited for the second heave which would come surely as the first had. For a moment, he marveled at the beauty of the floaters and sparks of light which lived behind his eye lids. It was as though there was a world of constant celebration behind his eyes; fire works and laughter just a blink away but always out of reach, forever fleeting, forever floating.

Then it came. Violently, convulsively, he emptied the liquid remains of his gut in a final stream of bile and mucus. He spit, he coughed, he gagged and then he looked. It was part of the ritual, as though he were a soothsayer or an ancient Egyptian High Priest prodding the intestines of a sacrificed chicken. Each day for the past many months he would, upon waking, lie with his head hung over the bowl and study the spilled remnants of his gut. He really did not know what he was looking for, perhaps some meaning, some answer to the riddle which had been his life, some prediction of better days ahead. But there was none; not yesterday, not today, not ever.

 He tried to read what looked like wet coffee grounds floating atop the greasy film in the bowl and it was then he realized he had vomited up some blood. This was new, an added attraction in the ritual of the waking and in it he read the future. He was dying, slowly and from the inside out. He closed his eyes, sighed deeply and flushed.

That is how easy it was for him to deny the reality of what he had become and where he was going to end up. It had always been that easy, just another drink away from happiness. Just another drug away from peace of mind and just another shattered relationship away from blessed isolation. Just another flush and it was all gone.

In a single movement that was more desperate than graceful, he pushed himself to his feet while reaching for the dirty mirrored door of the medicine cabinet. Pulling open the door with his left hand, he instinctively reached for the three fingers of vodka left remaining in the final fifth of the last binge. In a single motion he spun the top off the plastic bottle and gulped the vodka. Gagging it out of his rolling stomach into his waiting mouth and swallowed hard again. It would stay down this time. It always did. He breathed blessed relief as he watched the tremor subside in his hand more than he felt it, and then finished the bottle; ritual complete.

He leaned over the basin now as the throbbing in his head slowly dissipated and splashed cold water on his face and tried to control his breathing. Cautiously he stood erect; more steady now but never certain of his equilibrium, he leaned heavily on the basin. He closed the door of the cabinet and stood staring at the reflection in the soiled mirror. He examined every feature of the face he owned, comparing it to the face he had once owned, the one he remember that was the face of his childhood, the face of his adolescence, the face of the young man starting out in life full of hope and ambition with dreams still intact. That face was gone; gone forever.

The face in the mirror, the one he did not recognize, was one of defeat. The man who owned this face had been used up. The eyes were vacant. The nose broken too many times; there was a scar on the lip, another on the forehead, both of unknown origin. There were teeth which appeared loose and too large for the jaws in which they resided; teeth which would no longer be able to chew even the most tender of steaks. His skin was turning the colour of the nicotine stains on his fingers. The skin on his face seemed to hang like a mask, hiding the visage which once had been. This face filled his heart with fear, for this face he did not know. This was the face of a man who would steal and cheat and lie with no regret. This was the face of a man who had loved and lost, and had nothing left to give. This was the face of a man who carried such shame that life now seemed intolerable. This was the face of the dammed and the doomed, the dying and the dead.

Tommy Boy pushed away from the mirror and the truth he could no longer bear. Walking back into the other room of this self imposed hell, he scanned the contents, the remains of a lost life. There was little left. The majority of his stuff, such as it was, now resided at Louis’s East End Pawn. His grandfathers watch and ring a television from his brother, his prized record and CD collection. All had been pawned and repurchased more times than he could recall.  There was the collection of books his Mother had given him. The classics she so loved and they had shared together when he was a child, they were gone as well. He could no longer recall the stories themselves, though he was certain he had read them. There was so much of him gone, so many memories which were gray and faded. His thoughts seemed wet and slippery. So much had been lost forever. Indeed, there was little left.

As he pulled on his cleanest dirty shirt he smiled wryly thinking of his Johnny Cash Classic ‘Sunday Morning Coming Down’ sitting on a shelf down at Louis’s East End Pawn. Who could have known he would live the song? Who would have guessed he would be standing in a hovel not sure which day of the week was “Coming Down”, not knowing if it was morning or night, not caring. He scooped up the busted clock radio, pulled on his tattered jacket and left the room. On the landing at the top of the stairs he stopped and turned back to the door. There, under the number 12, written in magic marker, some one had scrawled his name, Tommy Boy. For a moment far too brief, he stared at the black scrawl and it was in that moment he knew what must be done.

He moved down the filthy stairway with caution. The bulbs were out and the possibility of sleeping vagrants was always present. In the pecking order of the declining world in which he lived, Tommy Boy had not yet descended to vagrant status but it was without a doubt to be the next swirl in  his downward spiral.

 He smelled the man before he saw him on the step and instinctively raised a hand to cover his mouth and nose. The man’s face carried a growth of several years. It was gray and stained with spit and food and vomit and tobacco. It was a tapestry, a testimony to the tragedy of this man’s life. His clothing was tattered, and a dark stain seeped out beneath the filthy fold of his trench coat.

 Tommy Boy stepped over the man lying in his own shit and felt a deep sense of disgust. It passed through him like a shiver and left him with a feeling of cold arrogance. He felt it deep in his gut like a stone and as he maneuvered past this waist of human skin he could feel his jaw set tight and his loose teeth begin to grind together. There was no pity within him for this unknown vagrant. There was no compassion. What he felt was relief. Relief that even in the declining state of his body and soul there was someone who was worse than he, someone to whom he could feel superior. A sense of relief and hope, hope for his future, hope that maybe he was not all that bad, hope that  maybe he could turn it all around and maybe it was just a run of bad luck ran through his mind. Slipping back into that lying zone, Tommy wrapping himself in that familiar quilt of denial as he spit on the vagrant, “Fucking Bum”, he muttered to no one, and pushed his way out the door and into the waiting street.

The sounds and smells he walked into assaulted his senses and filled him with an irresistible excitement, just as it had done so many times before. He closed his eyes and tilted back his head and let it fill him, let it wash away his pain. He smelled hotdogs and urine and humidity and a million other things which he could not categorize. He heard sirens and garbage trucks, brakes squeal and horns honk. The street quaked as the overhead A train raced by. He heard the whore on the corner calling out to the johns in their cars at the stop light, “Wanna party honey”?  “Let me show you a good time”, “I can take you round the world sweet thing”. He heard the light change to green and wondered if that was even possible. A dog barked, a baby cried, a pan handler sang Amazing Grace and he just stood. His head back, a smile emerging on his tired face. He felt the compulsion begin to grow in his body he felt the obsession in his mind. He drank up the sounds and smells of his addiction and he knew it was evening. He knew he had to get ‘right’. He left the stoop, turned west and headed toward Louis’ East End Pawn.

Tommy Boy moved with new conviction as he headed down Lexington toward Baker Side Road. He passed by the whore without a second look, paying no heed to her salutation. There had been a time not so long ago when she was another aspect of his addictions, but his desire for her and the special gifts she offered had faded with his increasing need for booze and drugs. He told himself that this was a simple matter of practicality, that there was not enough ready cash for her and his true love, Vodka and crack, but the reality was that his ability to perform even the most basic sexual acts had  long since left him. In fact the thought of being physically in contact with another person had become revolting to him. Intimacy had become collateral damage in the war he had been waging against his body and soul.

 He told himself it was his choice and that he was better than the rest of the johns she blew for forty bucks. He told himself she was just a crack whore and he could do better, maybe meet a nice girl and try a new relationship. He felt he was on the cusp of change, big change. It was all going to turn around. All he needed was a break. All this he told himself, and all this he believed.

Her name was Rhonda and she was a crack whore but that never used to matter to Tommy Boy. They did their crack together most of the time, she paid all of the time, they fucked some of the time but that had not happened for a long time. As he walked by tonight she called out to him and he looked the other way, like she didn’t exist, like she was not even there. She wanted nothing from him. In fact, she had come to understand there was nothing left within him to give. She only needed for him to acknowledge her, to see her, to let her know that she was still there, and that once they had been friends. “Go fuck yourself”, she screamed at his back as he melted into the crowd. “At least I got a fucking job.” A car pulled up to the curb, a window went down and her next bag of crack sat behind the wheel. She looked west as she got into the car and watched Tommy Boy turn onto Baker Side Road. “Good Bye Tommy” she said quietly to herself and for just a moment she thought she would be able to cry.

Tommy Boy weaved his way through the supper crowd on Baker Side Road keeping an eye open for Trip. Trip was his boozing friend, and Trip owed him money. That made Trip harder to find. He would be around in one of the shitty bars on this shitty street or hustling a buck in the pool room, or snatching a purse, or doing whatever he needed to do to get the cash for a night of drinking.

 Trip was a true blue Alkie and made no apologies for it. That was what Tommy Boy liked about him. Like himself, Trip could philosophize his way through a 40- ouncer of cheap Vodka in a few short hours, making more sense with each passing drink.” There’s nothing wrong with being a drunk if you accept it as the truth”, he would say. “The only alkies that are truly unhappy are those who try not to be alkies, the ones who go to AA and shit like that. They are not being true to their nature.” He waxed on, “I know a hell of a lot more old drunks than I do Old Doctors”, Trip would slur and Tommy Boy would laugh.

Tommy Boy would laugh hard like he did long ago. He would laugh long like he did when he was a kid. He would laugh like there was still something in this world worth laughing about. He would laugh until he broke into a bout of coughing and choking and nearly passed out. Trip made Tommy Boy laugh, and that’s why he loaned Trip money.

It was the single most intimate act he had partaken of with another human in a long time. The act of lending out his drug and booze money to another Alkie was akin to a Brother giving a dying Sister the kidney she so desperately needed. There was every reason to believe the Brother would get on fine with the remaining kidney he possessed but there was also the possibility that the Brother would find himself in a hopeless situation years down the road with no back- up kidney to see him through his dark time.

It required a great deal of trust and trust is the first lost quality of the practicing addict. Trust is a luxury ill- afforded in the world in which Tommy Boy lived and many died. Many died because they trusted the wrong person for the wrong reasons. Tommy Boy had felt his world growing ever smaller and on the night when Trip asked for the twenty bucks, it seemed as though that simple act of trust could save some portion of his life, could somehow make it normal.

With great trepidation he reached into his dirty jeans and pulled out the twenty. He held it tightly and looked long and hard at Trip. Tommy Boy stared at the shit eating grin of rotting teeth, green on the top, yellow on the bottom. “Great,” thought Tommy Boy “The Grinch who stole my fucking twenty.” “Come on, hand it over, crack head” says Trip. “You know I’m good for it, a week Wednesday is my welfare check.” A week Wednesday had come and gone. Tommy Boy had found himself in his own hopeless situation, entered his dark time and had no back up. He was no longer laughing.

 He had made his way to the bottom end of Baker Side Road with no sign of the last person on this earth he would ever trust. Trip would have to wait. There was business to be done. He looked up at the flashing neon that read “Louis’ East End Pawn”, and the excitement he had felt growing in his gut as he had left his front step was quickly turning to anxiety. The certainty he had felt in his mind was turning to obsession and the tremors he had quieted with Vodka were beginning to stir.

He pushed open the door to Louis’ East End Pawn with all the bravado he could muster. The bell above the door rang as he pushed his way through. All eyes turned towards Tommy Boy as he made his entrance into the little shop, not because his appearance commanded attention but because his mustered bravado had leaned too heavily into the door, pushing it into the stopper and flinging it noisily back into his face. Muffled laughter ran through the patrons of Louis’ East End Pawn, but rage ran through Tommy. “Fucking door”, he muttered to no one as he weaved through the shelves of busted power tools and old computers. He passed by the smirking onlookers without a glance and found his way to the counter.

“Hey Louis…how’s it going?” The big man behind the counter looked at Tommy Boy and did not reply. “Louis…what’s up man, come to do some business.”

“I ain’t Louis.” He said and began to turn away. “Whatever man, how bout you give me some attention here?  I come in to hawk this fine Digital Alarm Clock.” The big man turned back to Tommy Boy with a puzzled look and extended his hand to take the clock.  He rolled the clock over in his hand once, then once again, examining the faux wood finish on the Admiral Time and Tunes Digital Classic Clock. “Where’d you get this?” he asked.

“It’s mine man, it was a gift from my mother.”

“Bullshit, you steal this”

“No, no… I’m telling you man it’s not hot. I paid sixty-five bucks for that just a few weeks ago”

“You paid sixty-five bucks; it was a gift from your Mother. Lying fucking junkie. I need to see a receipt. Without a receipt, I can give you ten bucks.”

“Ten bucks! What you call me? You call me a fucking junkie? What the hell kinda way is that to do business man? You don’t even know me, man, and you calling me a fucking junkie! What kinda shit hole are you running here? I tell ya Louis, I got a good mind to haul all my shit outta here and take my business across town.”

“You got no shit here, and I told you, my name ain’t Louis.”

“Whatever man whatever. What you mean I got no shit here? I got all kinds of shit here, ring watch, albums, appliances.  What you mean I got no shit here? I’m your best fucking customer.”

“Look at your stubs asshole. The time on your shit has run out. It is on the shelves in the back, sold or about to be. Your shit is now my shit because you been too busy getting high and drinking your alcoholic ass into oblivion to come pick it up…I’ll give you ten bucks. Take it or leave it.”

“No way man! Come on there is obviously a mistake. It has only been a month since the last time I pawned, when I got my last disability check.”

“Don’t know about your check, don’t care, your shit has been here 121 days and that makes it my shit, now you want the ten bucks or not?”

Tommy Boy stood motionless and stared past the pawnbroker and to the shelves in the back. He was confused. He was suddenly disoriented and uncertain of what was transpiring.

 The other patrons in Louis’ East End Pawn had stopped smirking and were now trying to get further away from what was happening at the counter. It was as though they sensed the danger that could erupt from this situation. They knew that Tommy Boy might snap. They knew that his things were gone and more than that they knew he would not be getting what he needed to get right, since there would be no cash. Some made their way to the door and quickly exited to the street. Others stood watching at a distance, unable to look away.

Tommy Boy was playing out the scenarios in his head as quickly as his damaged brain could. Had it been four months! Is that possible? He knew he occasionally lost track of time, usually when he was with Trip and they were grooving , but four months,  no way, not possible. This fucking Louis was pulling a fast one, trying to steal his shit. He had to do something but the best course of action was not clear. A fog of uncertainty was enveloping him and holding him. His senses were dull and his fear was at fever pitch. He was filled with conflicting emotions and the panic was growing out of his gut and spreading to his limbs about to spill over into this room.

Tommy Boy was sick. He was sick and he was in need and the man behind the counter was neither. Louis was a big man, bigger than he had noticed before and he was getting angry. Physical altercation was not going to work. Even if he got his shit back, he would be picked up in a couple hours by the Police and he knew he could not spend a night in the bucket, not in the shape he was in, not without getting right.

 But he was smarter than Louis. He knew he was. He had been in jams before and he always got out. He could figure things out and people liked him. He got off on the wrong foot here, that’s all. He had to start over. No need for brawn when you had a brain. Hit and run, smash and grab shit, that was for the street punks not for him, not for Tommy Boyle,

“Look, Louis” he began contritely “I’m not sure what I did to piss you off man, but I know we can sort out this mix up about the shit in the back. We’re adults right, but how about a show of good faith to an old customer? Man, you know the clock is good for at least thirty, what do ya say, Louis?”

He had been standing behind the counter with his arms crossed, his chin resting on his chest just above his forearms. His arms uncrossed  in a blur and his hands slapped so hard down on the counter top that Tommy Boy swore he saw the glass bend and spring back and he wondered if that was even possible. Some of the patrons jumped in surprise, a woman let loose a short scream and two more men left the shop. When he spoke his voice was low and hissing and there was spit accentuating every syllable.” I have told you” he said “my name is not Louis.”

“Well where the fuck is Louis, man…I want to talk to Louis…maybe he can sort this shit out, why am I even dealing with you?”

“Louis is DEAD!” he screamed so violently it pushed Tommy Boy a step back. “He has been DEAD for a MONTH. I bought this place off his widow. She told me he went home one night, locked himself in his garage, slipped a 38 into his mouth and decorated her lawn furniture with his fucking brains. She said it was something about depression and anxiety and that his medication was off but you want to know what I THINK. I THINK he just couldn’t stand the thought of coming back down to this shit hole end of town and dealing EVERY FUCKING DAY with drunken, low life, wet brain, fucking losers like you.”

There was drool running down his chin and hate brewing in his eyes and Tommy Boy had enough street smarts left to know he was very close to a situation which would not go his way at all. How did this terrible misunderstanding get so far out of hand! It was not his fault, but the situation was not lost, he could pull it off and walk out of here to get ‘right’.

“Shit man, relax, what did you say your name was? Doesn’t matter. Look the clocks gotta be worth at least twenty right, so let’s just call it twenty. Now I know! You are the big boss; I can tell there’s no way to dicker you down man, so lets just make it twenty and really…sorry to hear about Louis but I‘ve been out of town working for a while man, there was no way I could have known, just no way man, I mean you haven’t even changed the sign right?  What a horrible thing, I’ll have to send some flowers to his wife.  What was her name? Doesn’t matter, I have it written down back at my place any way, so what about it man, we good on the twenty for the clock?”

The big man just stood and looked at Tommy Boy and said nothing. His head slowly sagged and his stubble covered chin came to rest once again on the barrel that was his chest. His jagged breathing slowed and became rhythmic and he began to regain his composure. The few seconds the big man took to let go of his anger seem an eternity to Tommy Boy who looked on with uncertainty. The big man raised his head and leveled his gaze on Tommy Boy and Tommy could see that something in the man had changed. There was no anger left in the eyes of the pawn broker, no animosity, no contempt. What Tommy Boy saw was pity, nothing more, just pity, cold and empty.

   It was a look he had seen once before, a look which left him cold. A look that took him home, back to his Mother’s kitchen and the last time he had seen her. Tommy Boy had to look away, to divert his eyes from that look of cold pity, from that look of finality he had seen in his mother’s eyes and from the knowledge that she had come to a place of emptiness in her feelings for him. He had crossed a line, and could never go back. He had seen that look before and like it had then, it now left him cold..

“Jack” the big man said. “My name is Jack”

 “Ya right, Jack.” Tommy hesitated, “so what about it Jack?  Twenty, Right?” Jack looked on in silence for a moment then leaned himself over the counter top and motioned Tommy Boy to come in closer. The other patrons of the late Louis’ East End Pawn shop had had their little show. They had seen Jack lose his cool with this pathetic little man, they had their cheap thrill and now it was over. Jack would not allow it to go on. Tommy leaned in with extreme caution as Jack began slowly,

“What’s wrong with you man? You need to get a grip; you need to get some help. You’ve crossed a line or something.  I don’t know, but you need to call somebody or something”

Tommy looked at Jack in confusion. “What the fuck you on about Jack?  I told you I was sorry man, about the confusion over Louis. I was out of town you know, working.”

“You were in here two days ago Tommy! We had this whole conversation then. Don’t you remember any of that?  I mean shit; you don’t remember my name, that Louis is dead, none of that are you putting me on or what?  Here is twelve bucks Tommy, it is really the best I can do, take it and get some food for a change, you look like death and please….you need to get some help!  Now go on, get out of here, we are done!”

Tommy Boy found himself in the street in front of Louis’ East End Pawn and knew he must have walked out but had no memory of doing so. Was he in shock, or were the black-outs becoming constant? Were the snatches of memory now the anomaly and the black outs the norm?  He didn’t know and he didn’t care. All he knew was that Louis was right, something was wrong. Something was changing and he didn’t like it. He was scared and he was confused.

 He stood there feeling empty and full at the same time. He was full of despair and full of fear and shame and still, in that hopeless state, the voice in his mind, the voice of his addiction, cried out.  “This is not your fault. If Trip would have paid you the money you never would have been here in this place today. You never would have been in the situation you were in. That guy, Louis never would have been able to steel your shit. If only that fucking Trip would have held up his end, if only he would have paid you back you’re twenty.

In that moment Tommy Boy came back to himself. He became aware of his surroundings, of the fact he was standing on Baker Side road, looking lost, holding twelve bucks in one hand a pawn ticket in the other. He felt the stares of the people as they passed, and knew he had to move on. He had been here in this spot too long and people were noticing.  It would only be a matter of time before there were police and questions. Questions he had been asked before. The usual questions that came from the cops, the ones riddled with sarcasm and contempt. The ones they used on people like him.

 In the past he had been able to field these questions and deal back the appropriate amount of sarcasm and contempt, just enough to feel superior but not so much as to get run in. After all, how hard was it to get one over on a bunch of dumb ass cops walking a beat and acting like they were something special? They all knew Tommy Boy was smarter than they were and that was why he was harassed. But today he had no time for such encounters. There was business to deal with, time was short and Trip was slippery. He had to be found, he had to be dealt with, and he had to know he fucked around with the wrong guy when he ripped off Tommy Boy.

It was getting harder to focus as time moved further away from his last drink of Vodka. The tremor in Tommy Boy’s hand was taking on new rhythm and slowly spreading through out his body.  He was soaked from head to toe, hot and cold simultaneously, and it felt as though a low level vibration was in every organ. He had to get a drink and he had to get it soon. His addiction was in pain and when his addiction suffered it made Tommy Boy suffer right along. He had twelve bucks in his ass pocket that would get him a fifth. That would dull the pain and slow down the assault the disease was launching against his body. That would get him what he needed to stop the tremor and the vibration, to help him think in a straight line.

But if he could just hold on, hold on until he could find Trip; get the rest of his cash. Then he would have thirty two. With thirty two bucks he had more options. If he could just hold on, he knew his luck would change. If he could just find Trip. He turned and headed back East on Baker Side Road, away from Louis’ East End Pawn Shop, away from the man called Jack who seemed to know him, who had stolen his Grandfather’s ring and watch and everything else he had left in this shitty world. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind he knew he would never be back this way again.

His stride took on new purpose as he made his way up Baker Side Rd. He was now a man on a mission, full of focus and determination; he scanned the faces in the crowd as he moved further along the Street.  There were no residual thoughts or feelings from his encounter at Louis. There were no more feelings of fear and shame over his pathetic appearance and performance in front of the man named Jack or the strangers in the Pawn Shop. Fuck them, they were history, he would never see any of them again. Who were they to judge him any way, they would be far worse than he had they ever gone through the shit he had! There were no more concerns over the apparent loss of time, the black-outs, they were all but forgotten, like they never happened. No, those thoughts and feeling were for lesser persons, losers and whiners, not guys like him, not Tommy Boy.  He held his head high and his eyes darted from face to face, shoulder to shoulder, back to back looking for a familiar gesture or garment, looking for a tilt of the head or a tuft of dirty grey hair, looking for Trip with an intensity he could not have mustered on his own. An intensity provided by his need, his pain, his addiction, his silent lover.

He had walked and searched for 35 minutes when he saw Trip coming out of the alley across form Baker Side Road and the corner of 12th Avenue. Tommy Boy knew by the grand gestures and ear to ear grin that Trip was drunk, drunk on Tommy’s money and instantly he became infuriated. He watched from behind a post as Trip, with an entourage in tow, made his way across 12th Ave. and headed directly towards Tommy Boy. It took all the remaining control Tommy possessed to stand in wait for Trip. Every fiber in his body, all the strength of his addiction was willing him to bolt out and attack; to cross this ground and take back what was rightfully his. He had been pushed around for too long and now the time for him to fight was at hand. Trip had crossed a line. Trip had taken him for a fool like so many others had for so many years and judgment day was nigh. There would be no charm, there would be no con, there would only be aggression and if the cash was not forthcoming there would be violence, swift and brutal.

Tommy Boy watched as they drew closer and in his mind’s eye he could see the altercation. He would confront Trip. Trip would see he was deadly serious. The young punk on his left would begin to move forward and Tommy Boy would drop him with one punch to the throat. Trip would plead for calm and claim friendship while holding out Tommy Boy’s twenty. Tommy would take the money, turn to go then wheel around and lay one square into Trip’s gut. Trip would gasp and puke up his rum and as he hit the ground he would know without question that he would never again screw with Tommy Boy. Then the nice looking blonde flitting along side would look down at Trip, slowly turn and take up with Tommy Boy as he headed for his connection. Ya…that’s how he saw it happening, that’s the way it would be. His luck was turning. It was all going to come together.

But that’s not the way it went down.

Trip approached just as Tommy had seen it happen in the hallucination. Trip was laughing and happy and seemed to not have a care in the world. The punk beside him looked eerily like Trip and seemed to hang on every word that slid from the drunk’s lips. The blonde looked up to him with an expression in her eyes that Tommy’s mind could not identify. It was a far away look which was vacant and focused at the same time and Tommy remembered wondering if that was even possible. Later, much later he would know. It would come to him. She was looking up to him with love in her eyes. Tommy would remember that look but the memory would come too late.

 Just as it had been in his mind’s eye Tommy Boy jumped from behind the post impeding their forward progress. Trip and company stopped up short but did not looked frightened or alarmed. On the contrary Trip’s smile widened even further and Tommy remembered wondering how that was possible.

“Where’s my money you Mother Fucker?” Tommy spit the words out with such violence that it caused him physical pain and he realized that while in hiding he had been grinding his loose teeth so vigorously that one had come dislodged from his jaw and had been spit out with his words. All four of them looked down at the tooth for what seemed like minutes but was really seconds. Trip slowly looked up from the tooth to Tommy who was standing with spit and blood streaming down his chin in a redish froth.

“What the fuck Tommy Boy!” “What has happened to you, you look like shit man.” Trip had genuine concern in his voice and for a moment Tommy was confused. But the addiction spoke to him and told Tommy to be wary. Trip was slippery, Tommy boy knew that. Trip was only as genuine as any lying fuck alkie could be. Trip was not his friend.

“Never mind me, Trip, and don’t think you can bullshit your way out of this, I want my money and I want it now!”

The young man took a step forward just as he had in the hallucination but he was not stopped by Tommy Boy’s quick punch to the throat as Tommy had imagined it to happen. Instead, Trip slowly raised an arm in front of the young man’s chest and stopped his approach.

“Easy son,” Trip said. “There’s no need for any trouble like that here today. This is my friend. His name is Tommy and he looks like he is in a world of hurt. We got some kind of misunderstanding going on here but I know we can straighten it all out. Isn’t that right Tommy? These here are my kids, Tommy, remember I spoke of em? Haven’t seen ‘em in 10 years or so and never thought to ever see ‘em again, but here they are. Come and found the old man they did, we been catching up some here for a couple days. I guess that’s kinda why I haven’t seen you about for a few days.”

“Bull shit,” Tommy screamed and the young girl shrunk in fear.” I want my fucking money, Trip. I need it now. I need to get right, I need what’s mine and I intent to get it no matter what you say, I’m done with your lies and your bullshit man I want my fucking money!”

Trip raised his arms in the air, palms forward, in a, “I surrender” gesture and for a moment Tommy Boy had thought he had won. But as Trip began to speak his hopes faded rapidly.

“Just hold on Tommy, take a breath and take it easy. You got it all wrong partner you gotta trust me on this. You are making a big mistake, having some kinda psychotic episode or some shit like that man. Take it easy. I told you, how many times I told you to stay off the shit, the booze is hard enough on guys like us man but no you gotta go mix it with that crack shit now you’re all fucked up, you don’t know what’s happening.”

“I know what’s happening man and you are not going to get away with it” Tommy was trying to be loud but his voice was losing authority. It cracked and broke as he spoke. His lips were dry and he tasted blood in his mouth and did not understand why. “I trusted you man, I lent you my twenty and you said you would give it back, man, and now I need it and you are trying to fuck with me. People been fucking me over my whole life and it is stopping here today. I WANT MY MONEY!”

“Is that what this is about man?” said Trip with that familiar lilt in his voice that Tommy hated. “The twenty you lent me two weeks ago. What the frig man; are you shitting me, are you that screwed up?  I gave that back to you last Wednesday, when I got my cheque. I gave it to you at Hank’s over on Lexington and then we drank it up together at happy hour.”

Tommy Boy stood frozen in time. All the mayhem around him stopped and for moments he was surrounded by stillness. Suddenly he was watching this comedy of errors unfold before him and none of it was funny, He was confused and frightened and did not have the ability to know what was truth. His capacity to understand what was real and what was hallucination had evaporated. He was flying through turbulent airspace without navigation and his crash was imminent. He was seconds from collapse when he heard the voice, the voice of his lover, the voice of his addiction. It came to him soft and soothing and it whispered to him the words he needed to hear. The words that would dislodge him from the cement in which he stood trapped and propel him into action. “He’s lying she said”, so soft, so seductive, “he’s laughing at you, they are all laughing at you, you need to show them who you are, they need to understand.”

Tommy Boy heard the words and Tommy Boy understood. As quickly as he had gone under he climbed back into the reality of what was happening. There stood Trip, arms in the air, palms forward slowly shaking his head from side to side. To his left was the punk holding his ground but looking ready to step forward if needed. To his right and slightly back was the young girl, the look of fear intensely on her face. Tommy Boy’s glazed-over eyes fell upon Trip once again and tried to focus. Trip was speaking, but the words could not drown out the bidding of the lover. Trip’s face carried no fear, anger or hostility as Tommy Boy had expected but there, all over the face of this lying alkie, was pity. “Is that even possible?” Tommy Boy thought as he looked into Trip’s eyes. “Is it possible for this low life alkie to pity me? I am twice the man he ever was and I will never be as bad as he is, he’s just a damn dirty alcoholic.”

 At that moment Tommy Boy lunged forward. Palms up, elbows locked, arms straight out in front of his cleanest dirty shirt. Tommy Boy crossed the three feet between them with remarkable speed. The young man barely had time to move, the young woman barely a chance to scream. Tommy Boy made contact with incredible force delivering a staggering blow into the chest of Trip.

The pity left Trip’s eyes as he fell back into 12th Avenue and into the path of the Up Town Bus. In that moment, Tommy Boy’s life was changed for ever and Trip was set free.

CAME TO

Some hours later Tommy Boy came back to himself. He immediately realized he was sitting in the alley behind Lucky’s Last Stand.  Lucky’s was a dive on the north end of town where a guy like Tommy could get a cheap drink and a quick fix. The only rule at Lucky’s was the fixing got done in the alley out back the alley where Tommy Boy now sat, where he had sat many nights before. In his left hand was the bottom half of a fifth of vodka, in his right was the familiar charred glass tube which had been his lover. At his feet was a shining black woman’s hand bag with a broken strap, its contents spilled out on the ground. His eyes floated over the spilled contents not focusing on any one thing but registering it all, lip balm, glasses, house keys, change purse, used Kleenex, pennies, mints, one peanut and one piece of ID.

He focused on the ID and saw his hand reach out and pick up the driver’s license with the picture of the nice looking girl. She had long dark hair and piercing hazel eyes. Tommy Boy thought she was perhaps the prettiest woman he had ever seen and he found familiarity in the photo.  As he looked on he found himself remembering this woman. Her name was Petra and she resided at Madonna Mission over on Queen and Lexington, a long way from here.  Tommy knew Madonna House. There was a mission there and he had in the past found himself in line waiting on a bowl of soup. Not because he was in need, just because it was free and who would not go in for a free bowl of soup. He had been there and he had seen this woman before and he knew her to be a Nun and he knew her to be kind. She was Sister Petra and she was kind to all the low life, and Tommy Boy remembered wondering if that was even possible. They were bums. They were drunks.  They did not care about her or her religion. They just wanted soup, just as he just wanted soup. It was free, and she was kind.

Tommy Boy felt the confusion growing in his mind and the top half of the fifth of Vodka warm and soothing in his belly. He thought hard about this woman and this purse. In his heart he knew how these objects, these belongings of Sister Petra, had come into his possession. In his heart he knew because he had come upon other people’s property before. This was not the first time he had done the bidding of the lover and through violence had attained the resources he required to feed the love. This was however the first time he had no recollection of the act. No remorse, no feeling of guilt for the theft, nothing. He felt nothing because he remembered nothing. She had been kind, and deep in his heart, perhaps his soul, perhaps the only human part of him left, he had hoped he had not hurt this woman. This Nun was kind. This Nun had treated Tommy with respect. This Nun had asked for nothing in return. This Nun had been a victim of his crime.

He looked down at the possessions spilled on the ground and began to gather them up to place back in the purse. Regardless of how he felt about what he may have done he understood there would be consequences were he to be found here, in this alley behind Lucky’s holding on to a Nun’s purse and ID. As he picked the bundle of Kleenex off the ground he saw there beneath the Kleenex a small circle of wooden beads attached to a crudely carved wooden crucifix. He had seen this rosary before and as he rolled it over in his hand he recalled the times he had watched Sister Petra walk her slender fingers over the beads, her lips mouthing unspoken words to her God. Wishing health, happiness and freedom from despair for those to whom she served up soup. He remembered listening in as she told the story of how she came to possess the small rosary. He remembered the serene glow of her hazel eyes as she told the disheveled old bum about being in France after she had left the Convent and going to Assisi to pray at the shrine of St. Francis; to pray for direction to understand her calling.

As she kneeled there, deep in prayer, a man approached who had fallen on his luck. He was wearing tattered clothes and speaking a dialect of French which Sister Petra could not understand. And though she was able to discern only a few words of the rapidly speaking man she had gained a sense that this man was in desperate need. Something awful had befallen this man and he wore his despair like a cloak. It covered him from head to foot.    

 Tourist and locals alike had come here to worship at the Shrine of St. Francis each with their own burdens, each with their own pain, each seeking the miracle of relief. Some huddled in small circles of prayer while others stood off by themselves, seeking solace in silence, and all, all of these good people turned away from the approaching man. They diverted their eyes, they turned their backs and they filled the courtyard of St. Francis with their shame.

Lord, make me an instrument of Your peace!

Where there is hatred, let me sow love.

Where there is injury, pardon.

Where there is doubt, faith.

Where there is despair, hope.

Where there is darkness, light.

Where there is sadness, joy.

O Divine Master, grant that I should not so much seek

To be consoled as to console.

To be understood as to understand.

To be loved, as to love.

For it is in the giving that we receive.

It is in the pardoning that we are pardoned.

It is in the dying that we are born to eternal life.

These were the words of the Saint. These were the words of Francis of Assisi.  This was the courtyard in which the Tourist and the locals had come to ask for the intervention of the Saint and this is the place where they turned away from the man; the man with tears flowing across his stubbled cheeks; the man speaking gibberish and stumbling from one turned back to another, hoping to be noticed, seeking to be acknowledged and needing to be consoled.

The moment was electrified! There was no other means to describe it!

The air was filled with a filament of panic and foreboding as the man careened off an obese woman from Arkansas wearing a flowered hat and a billowing sun dress which floated about like a sail.  Her very girth made it impossible for her to move in time to avoid the collision and the already stumbling man bounced off this huge woman and came to rest mere inches from the kneeling Sister Petra.

The man lay in a heap and sobbed. He sobbed as though his tears would cleanse the world of all its sin. He sobbed as though it were the only thing he had ever done in his entire life. He sobbed as only the dying, the weary and the hopeless can sob with an intensity that cannot be outdone. This man was beyond speaking. The garbled French dialect he had previously been spouting was nothing more now than sobs and moans.

 Sister Petra looked down upon this man from her knees and knew not what he had suffered or what he had done. She knew not where he had come from or where he would end up. She knew only that he was here, with her at this moment. The very moment when she was seeking direction, the very moment she was looking for purpose in her life and in her vocation.

Slowly she extended a hand and let it rest upon the sweating filthy brow of this man. The moment her hand lighted upon the head of this anguished soul Sister Petra understood the sorrow within this man. She understood the loss he suffered and the void in which he had lived for this man had lost himself. He had given over his being, his soul, to addiction.

For ten minutes they stayed in this position, not a word was exchanged between these two unlikely companions. They remained where they were, she on her knees, he in a fetal position by her side. Slowly the sobs faded into silence. Those looking on looked away, uncomfortable with the power in the meeting of these two souls, ashamed in the lack of compassion they had shown.

She began to pray, her lips moving in unspoken words of worship to God extolling gratitude for the epiphany. The man at her side began to stir and slowly they both rose to their feet. In silence he reached into the pocket of his tattered dirty pants and withdrew a small circle of wooden beads attached to a crudely carved wooden cross. He extended his hand to Sister Petra and nodded for her to take the Rosary. As she took the Rosary in hand she began to walk her slender fingers over the beads, as would become her habit. She watched the lost man as he turned and walked straight and erect through the crowd of those who had turned their backs on him. She knew then that her God had spoken. She knew then she would give her live in service of those who needed to find their way back to themselves. She had found what she had come to find.

Tommy Boy stuffed the last of the possessions back into the black purse with the broken strap. He studied the Rosary for a moment longer and then reluctantly stuffed it into his pocket. He really had no idea why he was keeping this Rosary. It was evidence that could link him to the Nun but he felt compelled to hold on to this artifact of St. Francis. He scanned the area behind Lucky’s Last Stand and spied a stack of wooden liquor cases in the corner beside the locked dumpster. Over the top and in behind he tossed the purse.

 Looking around to ensure he was still alone Tommy Boy tried to slide the cases into the gap between the wall and the dumpster to conceal the purse. The cases proved heavier than Tommy Boy could have imagined and he prepared to give a little extra shove. Palms up, elbows locked, arms straight out in front of his cleanest dirty shirt. Tommy Boy crossed the three feet between himself and the stacked crates with remarkable speed. As his locked arms made contact with the wooden crates his mind made contact with the memory of what he had done. Trip’s startled eyes filled his vision and Tommy Boy fell to his knees gasping.

 “Dear God” he cried out.” Oh my sweet Lord, What have I done.

There is nothing to describe the hell which descended upon him at that moment. He saw it all in his mind’s eye and he knew it to be true. He saw Trip fall back in surprise; he saw the uptown bus carry him away in a flurry of ripping cloth and flesh. He heard the brakes and the daughter screaming in desperation and he saw the blood drain from the face of the young man who looked eerily like Trip.

 It had all happened so quickly. It had all been so final. One moment Trip was in front of him concerned for Tommy Boy but happy in the reunion he was enjoying with the lost children. These children had looked on the situation with worry but looked to Trip with love and forgiveness in their eyes. Tommy Boy had seen this and Tommy had been confused. After all he had done to them in their lives. After he had abandoned them in their youth and chosen the bottle over them and their Mother, they had forgiveness in their eyes! Was that even possible? Then, in an instant it was all gone. In a moment of madness and insanity he, Tommy Boy had stolen their past, their present and their future.

There was a silence which fell over the entire block as the screaming of the brakes and the daughter came to a halt. For a moment no one moved.  The passersby looked on, frozen in terror. The bus driver looked white with shock and the young man who looked eerily like Trip began to turn and look to Tommy Boy.

The love and forgiveness Tommy had seen earlier in the eyes of this young man was gone. It had been snuffed out with the man Tommy knew as Trip and the man this boy knew as Dad. It occurred to Tommy at that moment and out of the blue that he had never really known what Trip’s real name was. How was that possible? After sharing every intimate detail of their lives over uncountable cocktails, how could he not know this man’s name?  This man who had been a friend to Tommy and a mentor, this man  who had held him when he was sick and consoled him when he was in depression, this man whom he had trusted enough to lend his last twenty bucks. This man who had paid him back the twenty over at Hank’s on Lexington at happy hour. This man he had just murdered.

The young man who looked eerily like Trip slowly began to turn and in those eyes Tommy Boy now saw a hate he had never before witnessed in a human. He saw the wild hate that lives in the eyes of fighting dogs and caged or cornered animals.  He saw the need and felt the desire to hurt, destroy and kill. He saw what Trip must have seen in the eyes of Tommy Boy as he was thrust into the path of the last bus Trip would ever catch. Tommy could clearly see his imminent death at the hand of the man who looked eerily like Trip and he knew he had to run.

And run he did. Tommy Boy had run plenty in his life, from responsibility, from relationships, from truth and honesty and from himself. But he had never run for his life. He had never run as though his life depended upon it. He had never run so hard to get away from something so horrible. At first he ran out of sheer panic and desperation. He had to get away. He had crossed an unseen line into an unknown world and inflicted violence he had never before imagined possible. The consequences of his actions flooded him in simultaneous visions of court rooms and jails, lawyers and judges, lethal injections and a shame that only death could revoke.

His flight became the focus of the gathering crowd who were only too happy to turn away from the vision of blood and mayhem in the gutters of 12th Avenue. Two good Samaritans began to remove Trip from beneath the under carriage of the Up Town Bus, and many in the crowd, turned away as Trip was removed in pieces.

Voices were raised in alarm, arms were raising and fingers where pointing as Tommy Boy bounded through the crowd. Those agile enough stepped aside to avoid collision and those unable to move, were bowled over by the fleeing mad man. An old woman lay slumped in a heap over her walker, a bone protruding from her forearm, her just purchased bag of oranges spilled on to the ground. Fresh blood oranges rolled into the gutter and mixed with the freshly spilled blood of Trip.

 A young mother veered her carriage into the street and a speeding taxi squealed to a stop inches from the screaming mother and wailing child. The world around him was exploding in madness, the world within him filling with fear and confusion. He had to run! He had to stop! He had to hide!  He had to go back! He had to explain! But there was no explanation.

All these thoughts swirled through his mind and his head began to ache with the insanity. He was operating at fever pitch and about to succumb to the madness when she spoke to him. She spoke with a calmness which was inappropriate to the situation and a certainty which was not of his mind and he remembered thinking-was that even possible.

        “Tommy, you need to slow down now. Tommy, you need to think. What is it you need? Where is it we have to go now, right now? You need to get it together and fix us and then, then we can figure this thing out. It was not your fault. It was them. They were attacking you, they were laughing at you,  they treated you like a nobody. It was self defense. You had no choice. You need to slow down and think about us. WE NEED TO GET RIGHT.”

Tommy Boy could hear his jagged gasping breath begin to slow and take on a steady rhythm. The events around him went instantly from fast forward to slow motion and he could see it all unfolding. He could see his path to freedom and the road to the lover.  A burly man in an Oakland A’s ball cap stood his ground twenty feet ahead of Tommy. The man’s feet and jaw had been set as if in stone. He was ready to catch the fleeing murder. He was stooped forward at the waist; his arms held out in front and arched to the sides, as if he were ready to pick up a whiskey barrel. Tommy Boy could see the sweat glistening on his cheeks and the muscles rippling in his big arms. In the eyes he could see hate, hate and determination. This man was about to be a hero and was enjoying the though of catching and crushing some street scum.  This was his moment! This was his chance to set the record straight. He was about to chalk one up for every hard-working Joe in this country who paid the welfare checks to these bums and addicts only to have them laugh at society and push a man in front of a bus. Well enough was enough! It was going to end here and now. Or so he thought.

Tommy moved with a speed which was hard to imagine and a grace not of his own. Without hesitation he charged toward the stooped, angry man. Without a second thought, he leveled his maniacal gaze into the hate filled eyes. With no thought of the outcome he raced on towards a collision which would be inevitable. And then he moved. One quick feint to the right and a step left, and he was by the behemoth, leaving the burly arms grasping nothing more than air and the dying sent of street scum. Ten more yards down 12th Avenue and Tommy Boy ducked into an alley adjacent to Hin’s Chinese American Diner and was gone.

He ran at breakneck speed for blocks. When he was certain no one followed he slowed to a fast walk, his breath tearing out his lungs as he laboured on. He stayed close to the walls and away from the illumination of the street lights He knew he would look tattered and suspicious. He knew they would be looking for him, hard, and they would know who he was. It was only a matter of time till they found his place. He could not go there. His body ached and was slick with the sweat of a sprinter, and yet he shivered in the night air cold and clammy in withdrawal from the stinking lover, the scent of her exuding from every pore.

 Her soothing words had pushed him on but she was now silent. Searching for her with darting eyes and hungry veins he moved forward, panic replaced with caution. She had told him what to do and he must obey. Later he would work it all out. There would be a way.

He moved along from block to block, alley to alley ever moving farther away from the judgment he had leveled upon Trip. He entered into an alley of Pine St. which emptied out over on Park and stopped to catch his breath. His body was quivering with the craving and he felt as though his sweat contained millions of ants streaming down his body. The panic was growing once again within his tortured mind, and it took all that was left of his will to hold on. Just a while longer just till he was sure he was clear. Just till he knew he had eluded his pursuers.

Tommy Boy breathed deeply and began to jog towards the light at the end of the Alley. Once he was on Pine Street, he would head to the north end of town, a place called Lucky’s where he knew he could get some action. The thought of getting that far revitalized him and his weary legs began to pump harder over the littered pavement. Once there, once he could think clearly, once he had communed with his ‘love’ he would go on the lamb, try to get out of town, disappear.

This was the plan formulating in his sick mind as he approached the end of the Alley and the glow of lights from Pine St. He came onto Pine faster than he had expected and cut quickly into the Street. Turning right and hugging close to the wall, he collided with all of his forward motion into someone walking South on Pine. The impact was staggering and both Tommy and the person he had collided with were knocked backward with a resounding thud. Tommy smelled fresh strawberries on the breath of the person he ran into as their wind was thrust out of their lungs in a whupping sound and he remembered thinking, is that even possible? He stumbled back several steps before catching his balance and steadying his feet. The person with whom he had collided was not as lucky and was quickly back pedaling, arms waving in great circles as if in some vaudevillian stage show. Completely out of control now, this person crossed feet at ankle and solidly crumpled in a heap on the cement sidewalk of Pine St.

Tommy looked down upon the person and then quickly surveyed the scene. For the first time since the point of impact Tommy Boy realized he had run into a young woman. She lay splayed out on the sidewalk, one sensible show lying beside her, her long dark hair concealing her face. Scattered about her on the dirty sidewalk were a number of books she had been carrying as well as a small supply of just purchased groceries. Bread, cheese, some apples, a small container of milk, a modest but substantial supply of food was revealed. Among the books were some travel magazines, a Captain America comic book and a copy of the  King James version of the New Testament. Tommy remembered thinking in passing that it was an odd collection of reading material, a collection of books he himself may have been found with in another life, at another time when his life held some purpose and meaning.

 Tommy’s brain registered all that was strewn about him in seconds with a clarity he had not been accustomed to in many months. He looked again at the food stuffs and then the books as his eyes rested momentarily on the sensible shoes which some how did not fit with the shapely legs of this young woman. The dark skirt was hiked high from the awkward fall to the ground, but was of a modest material and a conservative cut. She wore a navy blazer and there on the ground at her side was a veil of sorts which had been dislodged in the collision. The hair which had been tied back and concealed by the discarded veil was a deep chestnut brown and hung like a mask over the face of the young woman. The hair was healthy and cared for. The colour reminded Tommy of the Otter’s which were in the ponds on the farm where he had grown up.  It was a place he had not let his mind go to in many years, a place full of good memories too painful to recall.

  Snapping back into the reality of his situation, he quickly swiveled his head left to right, north and south up and down Pine St. No one was in sight, no one watching or running to help the woman. Maybe his luck had changed! Maybe it was time for Tommy Boy to catch a break.

 Tommy’s eyes came to rest upon the shinny black purse still amazingly hooked over the arm of the woman. She lay very still as though unconscious her back rising and falling almost imperceptibly as she drew in breath. The purse lay half under her twisted body. In that moment there was no doubt in Tommy’s mind that he would rob this woman, she would wake, he would be gone, it would all work out.

 He stooped slowly to her side, all the while surveying the surrounding neighborhood, ever watchful for evidence of interlopers. Slowly he began to straighten her arm and ease the shinny black purse out from under her crumpled body. With a steadiness of hand any surgeon would envy, a steadiness not in keeping with the ravaged state of his nervous system he eased the black strap off the shoulder of the young woman, slowly down her forearm and over her wrist. He was inches away from retrieving what he now considered his property, seconds from continuing his escape on to Lucky’s and the rendezvous with his “lover”, moments away from the next event in his crime spree, when the woman began to stir.

She moaned almost imperceptibly. She raised her head slightly and groaned. Tommy Boy saw his moment escaping and quickly pulled on the strap of his shiny black purse. Her reflexes were remarkable for a woman who had only just regained consciousness, and just as the strap was about to clear her hand and become firmly entrenched in Tommy Boy’s, her slender fingers closed around the smooth leather with a grip that was deceiving for this tiny woman. It was a grip that was firm and used to hard work. It was a grip that would shake any hand with confidence and surety. It was a grip of the righteous and God fearing, and as she turned to face her adversary Tommy Boy realized it was the grip of Sister Petra of The Madonna Mission.  

“No.” She said groggily. “What is happening? This is my purse; no you can not take it.” And she held on.

Tommy pulled harder and she held more firmly and once again Tommy felt it all going wrong? Why did this keep happening to him, why did it always go wrong? Why was she going to make him hurt her? Tommy waited for the scream, but the scream did not come.

Tommy pulled again with all the effort he could muster, but to no avail. He pulled to free himself and his shinny black purse but all that resulted from his efforts was that he eased the way for Sister Petra to rise to her feet. In an effort to gain her balance and settle her spinning head she leaned forward, slumping into Tommy’s chest and gazing into his troubled and desperate eyes.

 For the briefest moment, the type of moment only God can provide, she saw there, in Tommy’s tortured eyes, a man she had met some years before. The man who had started her on her vocation, the man who was in desperate need the man who wore his despair like a cloak that covered him from head to foot.  In the eyes of Tommy Boyle Petra recognized the man from the Cathedral of Assisi.

“I know you” she said as her head began to clear,“ We have met before, at the mission.” There was no fear or panic in her voice. She had regained her sense of where she was and was aware of what was happening, but she exuded peace and calm. She had not screamed out for help. She was not looking for a passerby to lend a hand. She leveled her gaze on Tommy Boy and in her eyes there was compassion and love, kindness and understanding.

“You’re Tommy aren’t you? My Lord Tommy, you look very ill. What has happened Tommy? What can I do to help you?”

“Help me?  Help me? You want to fucking help me?  Let go of the fucking purse!”

“I can’t do that Tommy, and you don’t really want me to. I know where you ARE Tommy.  I have seen others where you are, and there is a way out. There is hope for you Tommy, let me help you. Whatever has happened I can help you fix it, just clam down and talk to me.”

“Talk! You want to talk! There is no talking anymore. I need to get right. I need to get out of this town, and I need your fucking purse so let go, don’t make me hurt you.”

“You don’t want to hurt me, Tommy. You won’t hurt me, you are not that kind of person I can see that in your eyes. You just need some food and some rest. Come with me to the mission Tommy, there are people there whom we can talk to, figure it all out.

“Not that kind of person! You don’t know me! Don’t act like you know me! You are all the same. Come on, Tommy, you can trust me, come on Tommy we won’t hurt you, we can fix things; it’s all bullshit! Don’t act like you know me. You don’t even want to know me. I don’t want to know me or be me anymore. I just want to get out of here. I didn’t mean to do it! I didn’t mean to hurt anyone!”

“It’s ok Tommy. You never hurt me.  It’s not too late to fix things let me help you. It’s only a couple scrapes and a bump on my head, that’s all. If you stop now it will be ok, I promise.”        

She didn’t know. She did not know about Trip. How could she, no one knew, not yet. Only those who were looking for him knew. Only those who were there to witness what he had done and were trying to catch him knew. Only those who wanted to see him pay for the heinous crime he had committed knew. He looked down into her hazel eyes as she firmly held onto the strap of the shiny black purse. He looked down into her hazel eyes and for a moment he saw there the compassion and love, the kindness and understanding that was Sister Petra of The Madonna Mission, but only for a moment. Then he heard her. The “lover” spoke and the “lover” spoke the truth.

“Look at her,” she whispered. “She does not even respect you enough to be frightened.” Her voice was calm, and her voice had always spoken the truth. She was the only one who saw him as he was; the only one who cared. “How can this woman help you? This Nun! How can this woman be truthful to you? They have always lied to you in the past. Nothing is different now Tommy, she is trying to deceive you as is their way! You need to listen to me now Tommy; I have told you what you must do!”

“I don’t know” Tommy muttered half weeping half slobbering, his words coming out in unfamiliar tones. Sister Petra did not understand. She had no way of knowing Tommy no longer spoke to her, no longer heard her soothing loving words. She had no way to know Tommy had lost himself to the lover, his return unlikely.

“I know Tommy, I know you are confused. You are not alone, there are so many who are like you, so many who have found a way out of the life, so many who are waiting to help you, come with me now, let me take you home to those who will love you till you can love yourself again.”

But the lover was relentless.

“Do you hear Tommy, do you hear her words? Tell me Tommy what is it you think you hear, do you think you hear compassion! Love! Perhaps understanding! Is that it, Tommy? Is that what you think you hear? Shall I tell you what I hear Tommy, what I see? What I see for you, because you are so weak? I hear her pity! I see her pity! I feel the pity of all those who would keep you down! All those who think they are better and smarter! I hear her lies Tommy and I hear her plotting to capture you and take you away from me forever!

“No, NO, You Can’t!’ Tommy sobbed. “You can’t take me away”

“Yes, yes I can.” replied Petra with love but without understanding; without the understanding of to whom she was speaking and without the understanding of the inner voice to which Tommy was replying.

It was quick, it was violent and it was final. With strength not his own, Tommy pulled on the strap of the shiny black purse. Sister Petra held her grip, but not her ground. The sudden unexpected move of Tommy flung her with incredible speed in an arc from the edge of the side walk to the side of the building. Flesh met brick in the sickening sound of smashing bone and cartilage. First Petra’s nose splayed across her cheek in a spray of blood. In less than a second her orbital socket was shattered, hazel eye ball being squashed like an over ripened grape. Her cheek bone on the right was next to go, then the lower jaw. And still, she held on to the purse. Was that even possible? Tommy Boy reached into her long dark chestnut hair with a fist guided by fear and hate and addiction. He grabbed up a fistful of the hair and pulled her broken face away from the bloodied brick wall. With all the force of evil Tommy slammed the face of Sister Petra once more into the brick wall.

 Her last thoughts in the conscious world were of her teeth. She had taken such care to keep them in good condition all her life and now they were gone. As she slid down the wall and from consciousness she felt the strap of her shinny black purse break, the small leather strap slipping easily through her slender fingers. The last sound she heard was the escaping footsteps of Tommy. Her last thought was that she had remained true to her vocation, her calling, her life long work. There was no fear. There was no anger. There was no uncertainty. There was only peace. There was only love for life, for God and for Tommy.

Tommy remained on his knees, sobbing in the alley behind Lucky’s Last Stand. With the taste of crack cocaine still in his throat and the warmth of the bottom half of a fifth of Vodka still in his guts, it had all come back to him with incredible clarity. It had come back to him with the full weight of reality. There was no justification for what he had done. In five hours his life had gone from bad, to worse, to irresolvable. He had never imagined this would have happened to him. He had not seen himself losing ground as he had. He was not a violent man. He sobbed as he reflected, and he called out for help.

The “lover” was first to respond to him. She came to him from the deepest part of his tortured mind and she told him the truth. The truth he had come to wait for. The truth as he wanted to believe. She told him it was not his fault. “All the Nun had to do was give you the purse. All the Nun had to do was let go of the strap. You never wanted for her to be hurt. That was her choice not yours! And Trip! Well Trip had it coming; had it coming for a long time. You probably did a lot of folks a favour in the matter of Trip. Now, now you just need to concentrate on getting away. Tommy? Tommy? Do you hear me Tommy?”

Tommy heard, but for the first time in many months Tommy did not believe. For the first time in longer than he could recall, Tommy knew what he had done was wrong. Horribly wrong. For the first time in many years he knew he was lost. He knew he was no longer Thomas, Tom, Tommy. He was no longer his Mother’s son or his Father’s pride and joy. He was no longer a brother or a friend or a lover or a person of any value to society. He was Tommy Boy; grifter, thief, druggy, drunk, murderer. He was lost.

He sobbed and he cried out for God to help him, and for the first time in many years the voice of the “lover” fell silent. She had gone from him leaving in her wake a shattered life; leaving in her wake only death and destruction. She had used him until there was nothing left of him to use and then she was gone, blessedly gone. He lay there weeping, his sorrow unimaginable. The reality of his living hell was more than he could bear. There was no going back for him, there was only going forward. What had to be done was clearer to him than anything had been in longer than he could recall. There was only one way for him to repay society. Only one punishment that would count for the lives he had taken and damaged. Only one thing he had left to offer that might square the deal. An eye for an eye, a life for a life, his life for their lives.

 It had occurred to him many times before, and many times before he had been dissuaded by the “lover”, by the need to feed his craving. He had a plan; he’d had a plan for a while now. It had occurred to him again this very night as he left his shitty apartment. One step off the bridge by his place and into the A train and everyone’s suffering would be over; all problems solved by public transportation.

He pushed himself to his feet and for the first time in longer than he could recall he felt steady there, on his own two feet. He knew at that moment the “lover” was gone forever, inexplicably gone. He dropped the bottom half of a fifth of Vodka and heard it smash on the filthy pavement in the alley behind Lucky’s Last Stand-a fifth purchased with money from the purse of a beaten and left-for-dead Nun. The last fifth of Vodka he would ever purchase, and he remembered thinking “Is that even possible?” and for the first time ever there came a reply “Yes, yes it is.”

UNDERSTANDING

Tommy walked out of the alley behind Lucky’s Last Stand and into the beginning of the end of his life.  He headed south in a slow and measured walk towards his neighborhood. There was no panic in him or fear. There was instead, a sense of calm which he had never experienced.  Tommy felt no regret for the life he was about to take for it was not really a life at all. The life he once owned, the person he had once been had died years before. What was walking around in this body of Tommy Boy was unrecognizable to him. This thing he had become was capable of an evil that Tommy could not comprehend, an evil he could not live with. An evil wrought with consequences he could not endure.

A light rain began to fall on Independence Avenue and brought with it a surreal glistening to this shabby end of town. Years before this part of the city had lived in splendor and Tommy wondered as he walked what had happened to bring these streets down. A little at a time, the neighborhoods and burrows had slipped into decline. The Mom and Pop stores had been replaced with big box stores. The Dry Cleaner and Garden Grocer turned into a Money Lender or Cheque Casher. Pawn Shops and Liquor Stores popped up on every corner like billboards to drunks and thieves and slowly, these unsavory businesses began their conquest of the intercity communities.

Slowly the element of those drawn to these unsavory businesses had driven out the nice families. The butcher and baker shops sold out only to become pool halls and neighborhood bars. The stately five and six bedroom homes that once housed the families of the community had been bought up by developers and holding companies and turned into cheap apartments and rooming houses.  Without notice by or to anyone, the conquest had been completed. The neighborhoods crossed an unseen line of decline and became the haven of prostitutes, street people and drug addicts.  These quaint little neighborhoods, where people had once lived as a community, families helping each other prosper and grow, had now become the wrong side of the tracks. The city had moved on and left these neighborhoods behind to fend for themselves.

By comparison Tommy’s personal decline had been much quicker but equally devastating. He had fallen into ruin-physically, mentally and spiritually. He had become part of the virus living within the community and was beyond any type of urban renewal or spiritual redemption. “The solution lies in the path of Public Transportation,” he thought, “a means to and end.”

His body ached all over as he slowly made his way south on Independence. He had been running for hours on adrenalin and addiction and he was crashing hard. The combination of the physical activity he had not endured for years, and the realization of the havoc he had wrought, was leaving him weary. But he moved on with a certainty he felt through out his ravished body. As he turned off of Independence and into the Alley which would take him to Pine he was at peace with his decision, and the voice of his addiction remained silent.

He was nearly through the dark alley when he saw movement coming from Park St. Illuminated from the street lights off Park, a pair of elongated shadows were filling the small entrance to the alley and getting larger as the owners of these shadows came nearer. The shadows moved in jerking distorted movements merging in an out of each other and Tommy assumed there was a couple walking arm in arm and heading his direction. He had no way of knowing who had heard of his crime spree but he imagined the gravity of his crimes would have warranted some television coverage and that his face and name may have gone out on the  local news wire. There was  no place in his plans for being identified by some passing stranger and no adrenalin left in his body to provide another rapid escape. Tommy found a nearby darkened door way and pressed himself into the cold steel of the fire door. He stood very still and inhaled deeply.

To confirm his suspicion a couple wandered into the dimly lit alley. As they approached arm in arm it was impossible to tell which was leaning more heavily on the other for support, but Tommy suspected that the man in the couple was in a worse state of drunkenness than the woman. He giggled and groped the woman and she in turn protested, though half heartedly, like an actress reciting lines in a play in which she was disinterested.

“Ooo now honey, you stop that!” she said. “You are so bad’ she continued. “You make me so hot honey baby!” The phrases seemed rehearsed but unpolished, as though from a B movie at the drive-in theater.

The closer they came to the place he was hidden the clearer they appeared to Tommy and the more of their banter reached his straining ears. There was something oddly familiar about this woman to Tommy. Perhaps it was the timber of her voice or the vacancy he heard in the way she spoke to the man. Or was it the absence of emotion he sensed in her. He could not be sure.

For a moment he was certain they would pass by without noticing him, like so many had done through out his life. He was about to breath out when the couple suddenly and awkwardly came to a stop.

“Ok lover, this is far enough” she said and Tommy knew it was Rhonda. Tommy knew because Tommy had heard this before. He had heard the silky voice which was all for show. He had heard beyond the words and understood the need. Tommy had watched Rhonda work before and he had enjoyed it. Rhonda had two lovers and she would do anything for them. She would stop at nothing to please them and so she worked. She worked for the drug and she worked for the man who needed the drug. More than anything she wanted the man to love her as well because she knew in her heart the drug never would. She believed in her heart that maybe, some day, the man could love her. She hoped in her heart that he could, and the love would save her. But she was wrong. The man, Tommy, had lost his ability to love. He could not even love himself and so he stood and watched as once again Rhonda was going to work.

His heart sank and for the first time in many months he had a genuine feeling. He felt compassion for this woman who like him, had lost her way. She had crossed a line into a world with no boundaries. She had become enslaved and in so doing she was willing to do things she had sworn she would never do. She was not always a crack whore. Tommy knew that for sure but he could not tell you what she had been before. He didn’t care. He never took the time to ask. She was just another means to an end for Tommy. From the beginning she had been nothing more than a short cut to his true love. She had been nothing more than access to funds which were previously unavailable to him.

When they met she was a young girl with a young habit who had been mistreated for so long she was looking for anyone who would treat her right and Tommy did. He did just that. It was easy. He said all the right words and did all the right things and when she fell in love with him he introduced her to his true love. The two became quickly acquainted. Soon it was the three of them, all the time. Every night they found the escape they were seeking in the drug and in each other and all the while Tommy had the plan. The plan he had heard from Trip, his mentor, his murdered friend. All the while he knew there would come a time when her need for the drug and their need for money would be met by the need for Rhonda to turn a trick. Just as Trip had predicted, that time had come and Rhonda went to work.

At first she was outraged at the suggestion. Angry at the thought Tommy would ask her to do such a thing. How could he ask this if he really loved her she wondered and Tommy was quick to explain.  It was because he really did love her that he could let her do what they needed to do for the drug. He said he would always be there for her and she believed it because she wanted to. She believed it because she loved him even though she had no way of knowing what love really was. She believed it because the voice in the darkening part of her mind told her it was OK. It was no big deal. Do it for Tommy. Do it for me. Just try it, just one time.

That was over a year ago now and Rhonda had become quite accomplished at the trade. She had become a crack whore. Rhonda could not recall the last time she felt shame or guilt for what she had done or what she had become. She could not remember the last time she was shocked by the bizarre requests she often received from her clients. She did what she had to do. At first it was for Tommy, then for Tommy and her, now just for her.

Now on this night in this alley Tommy Boy looked on from the shadows and felt the tears well up in his eyes. He felt the knot grow in his gut and fought to contain the sobs in his throat. He had done this to this girl. He had done this and had been proud of what he had accomplished. What kind of a monster could do such a thing to another person he was asking himself but there were no answers within his tortured mind. There was only remorse and pain and withdrawal and an urgency to end it all, to make the pain subside forever.

“You know the drill, Honey” Rhonda was chiding. “Forty for a blow job, Eighty for a fuck, One Twenty  for the whole package, anything fucked up or weird is Two Hundred and the cash is the first thing that’s going to come in this alley.”

The man was laughing as he fished out of his wallet and handed it over to Rhonda. The man’s sweat was glistening in the dim lights of the alley and Tommy could hear his rasping breath as he began to work his belt and fly. He went to lean back on a dumpster and misjudging the distance he fell back landing heavily against the bin. His head flopped back into the dumpster and from the dark of the alley came a sound as though some one had struck a Buddhists gong.

 From deep in Tommy’s mind came a line from a book he had read with his Mother. “Ask not for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee^[1]”. He had no recollection of the book or the story it told but the line resonated in his mind and acted as a catalyst to him. Without his awareness his feet began to move forward and in that moment, Tommy Boy emerged from the shadows into the dim light of a filthy alley. For the first time in longer than he could recall, maybe for the first time ever, he knew what the right thing to do was and he knew he would do it.

He approached Rhonda from her back and walked very slowly into the dim light. The man saw him immediately and was instantly taken with fear. Rhonda was unaware of his presence and continued to prepare for the task at hand. As she deposited the Hundred and Twenty into her hand bag and began to search for the condoms supplied to her by the local health unit, the man spoke. The lilt had gone from his voice and was replaced with a cautious and suspicious tone which Rhonda did not understand.

“What the hell is going on here?” he began, “Is this some kinda shake down or what?”

Rhonda looked at the man in confusion as his hands began to fasten what had been undone and his belt was quickly buckled up. He was pulling clumsily at his fly when Rhonda sensed movement behind her. A she began to turn the man encircled her neck with his free arm and roughly pulled her into his chest as though she were a human shield. Rhonda felt the panic begin to rise and her mind instantly filled with the dozens of stories she had heard from the girls on the street. Stories of those beaten and raped; stories of young men and women found dead in alleys just like this, and stories of the ones never found at all. They were stories of near misses and narrow escapes and Rhonda wondered which of these stories would be used tomorrow to describe what was about to happen to her.

 The fear and panic was quickly building and about to overcome her, as a figure emerged from the shadows moving slowly and deliberately. As if in a trance the person came into the dim light of the alley and in amazement Rhonda found herself looking into the eyes of Tommy Boy, into the eyes of the man she had loved and hated; into the eyes of the man she was willing to die for and into the eyes of the man who had brought her to this lowly place in her life. The eyes of the man who had created a crack whore and then walked away from her in disgust.

She looked deep into Tommy Boy, but what she saw there was different from what she had seen there before. What she saw was not the Tommy Boy she had come to know. That Tommy Boy was predictable and unpredictable at once, filled with anger and angst, paranoia and mistrust. The eyes she was looking into now, here in this alley, were the eyes of the real Tommy. Deep in those dark eyes Rhonda saw sadness and an emptiness that left her cold. There she saw all the hurt and fear that had consumed so much of his life, and there behind the hurt and fear she saw that which was most telling. She saw surrender. The Tommy Boy who had schemed and stolen and put her to work on the streets in order to keep his addictions fed was gone. The Tommy Boy who cared only for himself and would stop at nothing to “get right” had vanished. In the place of that Tommy Boy stood the real Tommy, frightened, scared, alone, beaten, finished.

Rhonda was filled with fear. But the fear was no longer fed by the situation in the Alley in which she had founds herself. It was as if there was no man standing against a dumpster in disheveled clothing with an arm tightening around her neck. The fear that now filled her was the unspoken message she was seeing in the eyes of Tommy. Tommy was going to die.

“Get the fuck back!” The man spit out the words quickly in a slur which in another place may have been comical. His voice was breaking and high pitched, which was an indication of the trepidation which was filling this man. The situation could make the man dangerous. The instinct to survive would make him rash and unpredictable. He was a big man and he had an ever tightening grip around the neck of Rhonda.  She was not unfamiliar with the dangers of street living and she trained her voice to be calm and cautious. She could get out of this alive, but she needed to be very careful.

“Calm yourself, Honey,” Rhonda began. “This ain’t no shake down, you ain’t about to be rolled or nothing like that. This here is my friend Tommy. He is not going to hurt you. Isn’t that right Tommy?”

Tommy took a step closer and the big man tried to back deeper into the cold hard steel of the dumpster instinctively tightening the grip on the neck of Rhonda.

“Back the fuck off” cried the man with unconvincing bravado but Tommy calmly walked forward.

“Let her go.” said Tommy. “Let her go and go home. Go home to your wife and kids.” Tommy stopped three feet from the man and waited. He said nothing more. He just stood.

The alley was filled with a quiet tension. It felt like a bad Clint Eastwood movie where the camera pans from eye to eye to eye of the actors in a three-way stand off. All while the audience waits for someone to flinch, for someone to make their move that will allow the showdown to begin. But there was no one who could make a move. The man was pressed so hard into the dumpster he would be able to see the BFI logo in his ass for a week. Rhonda was firmly held in the ever tightening grip of the terrified man and Tommy just stood, calm and oddly distracted.

He stood and he looked on the situation but he observed the unfolding events as if he stood beside himself. He watched it all as a spectator, disembodied, like his spirit looked on and waited for the chaos to begin.

He watched his hand rise up and push the hair away from his bleary eyes. He watched the man bite down hard on his lower lip as the sweat rolled burning into his widened eyes. He watched Rhonda as she watched Tommy, looking dismayed at this man she loved. He saw no fear in her face for her own safety. He only saw the concern she felt for Tommy. The worry displayed on her face showed Tommy for the first time the depth of love this woman had for him. For the first time ever, he actually considered this woman, Rhonda. He wondered if he had ever loved her or ever could. He really did not know. There was a great hole within him. A crater existed where there once had been a heart and soul. A cavernous space he had tried to fill with booze and dope and had succeeded only in filling it with despair. No, he did not love her, he could not love her but he would not see her hurt. Not like this, not tonight. There had been enough pain already.

Slowly and without thought his hand slid into the pocket of his tattered jeans. As he withdrew the hand his fingers began to slowly walk there way around the small wooden beads attached to a crudely carved Crucifix. Tommy began to speak.

“Please, let her go. She has not done anything to hurt you and neither have I, nor will I. I just need you to leave now and I need you to let go of Rhonda.”

The man mistook the calmness in Tommy’s voice for a reluctance to engage in physical altercation and the misconception served to give him a renewed courage. After all, he was a big man, he told himself, and after looking closely at the man in the dim light it was evident to him that this stranger was used up.

“She’s got my money, man, and I will want my money or my action before I go anywhere. You got that junkie! You think I’m some kinda up town mug that can be suckered into an alley and rolled by a couple crack heads? Well you got another thing coming. Why don’t you just fuck off man and let me and the little lovely here conduct our business, then later, when I have had my one hundred and twenty bucks worth, you and she can have your little meeting.”

“Let her go, do it now. I am not going to ask you again.”

“OR WHAT? What are you going to do you dirty used up little piece of shit. Maybe I will just take my hundred and twenty out on you. That might be a little more fun that this stinking whore.” The man quickly shoved Rhonda aside and as she stumbled to her knees amongst the garbage and discarded bottles in the alley the man stepped forward and glared into Tommy’s eyes.

Tommy remained calm, perhaps calmer than he had ever been in his life. It was amazing to him that his ravished body and tortured mind remained so clear and so still. The influence of the lover had left him. His edge, or what he had for so long considered his edge, had fled, and still he was not feeling panicked or obsessed. He looked deep into the eyes of his erstwhile opponent and he spoke from his heart. As he spoke, his fingers moved rapidly over the small circle of wooden beads attached to the crudely carved Crucifix and his words came quickly and with an ease that was unaccustomed to him.

“I have killed two people tonight and I have done so brutally. Neither of them had done anything to provoke me, neither of them had ever done anything to hurt me. I think they were both my friends. They wanted to help me and I killed them. I am not even sure if I am really sorry about it, do you know what I mean? It has been so long since I gave a shit about anything that I don’t even know if I care. I didn’t want to kill them and I don’t want to kill you, and not so long ago I don’t know if I could ever have done such a thing, but now, now I could kill you in a heart beat and not even bat an eye. Look at me man; you think this is dirt on me?  This is the dried and stinking blood of two people who tried to help me and died. I think on the TV show they call it splatter. You are standing six inches from me and you think you can scare me? Are you so blind you can’t see a man who has nothing to loose when he is only six inches from your nose, six inches from killing you? Now go. Go away from here and go home while you can, there’s been enough killing tonight.”

The man stood for a moment in silence. He looked deep into the eyes of this fifty-two year old used-up junkie and tried to see if there was a lie in what he had just been told. He looked hard and he understood. He understood that the lie did not exist. He understood he was standing six inches away from the man who would kill him quickly and brutally without regret. For the first time in many hours the man thought of his wife and children, his nice house in the suburbs and his car, three blocks from here. Slowly he raised his arms, holding his palms out in front of him in an ‘I surrender’ gesture and he began to back away from Tommy and towards the mouth of the alley. When he was five feet from the calm murderer the man turned and began to run. He would continue to run till he reached his car or his abused heart gave out all the while swearing he would never return to these haunts or habits of his, all the while knowing it was a lie. He would get to his car and he would go home. There would be no calls to the Police; there would be no explaining how he came to be in the presence of this killer. Tommy’s whereabouts would remain unreported and the secret life of the man would remain unrevealed.

Tommy slipped the small circle of wooden beads back into his tattered jeans and turned to where Rhonda had been thrown to the ground. He looked at her in silence for a moment and slowly began to smile. It was an unnatural, forced smile and absolutely inappropriate in the wake of what had just transpired. His skin hung on his face like an ill fitting Tommy mask and there, caked in the lines of his loose flesh was the dried blood of innocent people. He was missing a tooth in front and this added to the hardened look of this fifty-two year old man who could easily pass for 70.

Rhonda looked on in horror and amazement. Uncertain of what had just transpired and not trusting what she believed she had heard, she could only stare. It had been a month since she had been with Tommy. A month since she had been close enough to stroke his hair or kiss his cheek. Only a month and she barely recognized this man. Oh, she had seen him from a distance, as she had tonight. Him off on the hunt her standing on the corner, always from a distance, always ending with her saluting his back with a single digit. She had been so angry, so hurt by his dismissal of her she had never considered the possibility that Tommy Boy could have fallen so completely so quickly. She knew him, she loved him and now she had no idea who he had become.

“Hello Rhonda,” he said, and his voice was empty and full of echoes.

“What did you say?”

“I said Hello”

“NOT TO ME! What did you say to him, to Clayton?”

“Was that his name, Clayton? It is a nice name, but I don’t think he was such a nice guy you know.”

“You were joking, right, about killing those people? You were just trying to scare him, right, trying to protect me. Well you don’t need to protect me Tommy, no sir; I can take care of myself. After all, I haven’t got much choice anymore do I, there ain’t no on else is there?”

She was shifting now and trying to gain her feet and balance on top of the rubble where she had landed. Tears were beginning to escape the barricades of her eye lids and streak their way through her dark mascara and down her sunken cheeks. She breathed in deeply and tried to gain control of her mounting fear and confusion, her anger and her tears. She could not allow herself to cry. She had not cried in so long. She had kept all those tears locked within the chambers of her damaged heart that to let then loose now would be the beginning of her end. Her defenses would be down and she would once more be vulnerable. She had given it all to Tommy. Her heart, her love, her dignity and self respect and she had been cast aside. All that was once her was now gone and she would be damned if she would now give this little man the satisfaction of her tears.

Tommy looked down at the pavement where he stood, the false smile now gone, “No.” he said.

“No, NO! That’s it, that’s all you got to say to me after all this time- NO! Well your damn right there ain’t no one else and there never will be again I am through with….”

“NO! Rhonda, no, I wasn’t kidding. What I said was true. I killed some people and I am on the run. I did it, I know now, but when it happened, it was like I wasn’t even there I just don’t know, I am so scared and confused and sorry…I told Clayton I wasn’t sorry to scare him but I am, I am so sorry I can’t live with it and I won’t, not for much longer.”

And Tommy broke into a quiet sob. Unlike Rhonda he did not try to hold back his tears. The sobs came from his gut and up through his throat in a guttural primal tone but the tears would not come. He wanted to cry, he tried to cry, convinced that this one act of shedding a tear would confirm there was some humanity left in him but his sadness was empty, his sorrow long ago had run dry.

“Oh Tommy no. Please tell me no, It can’t be true Tommy I know you, I know you could not have done this.” And then she let the tears come. She crossed the littered space between them and she took Tommy in her arms and she cried into the blood splattered sleeve of his cleanest dirty shirt.

“Tell me what happened” she said and Tommy did. He told her all that he recalled. He spoke of the swiftness and brutality of his actions, the extended periods of blackness and unaccounted for time and the realization of what he had become. Finally he told her of the strange calm that arrived with the acceptance of that truth and his knowledge of what he would do.

She listened to it all in silence, holding tightly onto this man she could not stop loving. She listened and she cried and she thought ‘if only I had stayed with him. It would have all been alright. None of this would have happened, if only I had stayed’

 In her denial she changed the scenario completely, ignoring all that Tommy had done to her and the fact that he had left her in disgust. In her need to love and be loved, she had assumed the responsibility for the heinous act of murder. As in all things through-out her life this was her fault, more guilt to stoke the fire of shame, more justification for a life of hiding from reality in the blue haze of the smoke from the crack pipe. But at least, she was not as bad, as her Tommy.

For a long while they simply stood there in each other’s arms saying nothing; wanting nothing more than the simple comfort of human contact, wanting nothing less than the safety of familiarity.

A passing stranger observing the scene in the alley may have walked on with a smile, having believed he had witnessed a moment of new love between a couple who had just discovered each other. Feeling a renewed faith in mankind and going on with his evening plans, he may have been just a little kinder to the waitress at the restaurant or perhaps thanked the bus driver as he left at his stop. Life is built on perceptions and kindness often stems from our inability to see the awful truth. We are unprepared to witness the grim reality of two lost people holding to two lost dreams in a filthy alley, unknowing or unmindful of their tragedy.

As Rhonda stood immersed in her fantasy of the way things could have been, Tommy’s last words echoed in her mind, something about a ‘strange calm, coming with the knowledge of what he must do.’ Rhonda suddenly felt it all melting away and reality once again taking control.

“What do you mean you know what you must do Tommy?  What are you thinking?”

“I can’t live with it Rhonda. It is all too horrible. There is nothing left, nothing I want to go on for.  I just want to be quiet.  I want the voices in my head to never come back and there is only one way I can be sure of that.”

“You can’t be serious! You can’t mean that. You want to kill yourself is that it? Tommy think for a while, you are sick, people will understand. We have to go to the Police now. I know a cop over on the Lexington beat. His name is Bob Gideon and he has always been good to me Tommy. We could go to him. He would help us.”

“It’s just too late for that Rhonda. Don’t you get it? I killed those people, for a couple bucks to get high and drunk with. No one is going to help me.  I am dirt, worse than dirt. I don’t know if I would even want help if it was there.”

“Don’t you say that Tommy!  You don’t know. Not all people are bad, maybe there are some who could help you and me maybe they could help us! After all, Trip was a dirt bag anyway, everyone knew that and the Nun, well that was an accident and she knew the chances she was taking living down here anyway. People will understand.”

“No Rhonda. They won’t. I don’t understand myself. How can I ask forgiveness of others if I can’t forgive myself?  There is no death penalty here Rhonda. Did you know that? Can you see me living out the rest of my days in prison, always looking over my shoulder, trying to stay alive and clean! I can’t do that Rhonda, I won’t do it.”

“Tommy please what about us. We can have a life together. We can run away! I can help you Tommy, I can earn more, just let me try to take care of us! We can get away and start over, just you and me.”

“Rhonda, no! Listen to me now. It is time you heard. There is no you and me. There is no us, there never was. I don’t love you now and I never loved you ever. That is not because of you, Rhonda. It is because of me. I am an addict and alcoholic and I spent most of my life only loving me, and then, then I stopped that as well. I don’t know love. I only know using people and stealing and lying and I can’t go on. I can’t change and it is too late for me to start over. This life I have could have been a good one, but I ruined it. I wasted it. I destroyed it and everyone I came in contact with. Look at what I have done to you Rhonda. Look and for once, see! I turned you into a whore, a prostitute! I let you fuck pigs like Clayton and blow them so I could get crack. Who does that Rhonda? Would some one who loved you do that? I am sorry Rhonda that is what I want you to know. That is all I have to give you, an apology for taking your life. Please Rhonda, listen to me and believe. There is another guy just like me out there on the street and he will find you just like I did. And you will spend the rest of your life bending over for bastards in alleys and then you will die! You need to hear me, Rhonda, for tonight I have seen both of our futures. Mine is very short but yours doesn’t have to be. Go to the Mission. There are good people there and they will get you the help you need. You are a nice kid and you deserve something out of this shitty world.” And with that Tommy turned and walked out of the alley. He heard her cries and he heard her sobs and he hoped he had hurt her for the last time.

He walked slowly and in the shadows for another twenty minutes. He moved south on Pine and with each step moved closer to the place he had savagely beaten the nun. When he was a block away from the alley which would take him back to 12th Avenue Tommy slid into a bus shelter and leaned against the glass in the corner as though he were waiting for the bus.

Trying to appear casual he scanned the Street further down for any signs of Police activity. Though he could not be certain he felt as though the Police would be looking for him further afield.  Had he been assigned to investigate the savage robbery and murder of a local Nun, by a local low life he would naturally assume that said low life would have fled the scene posthaste with no intention of returning. Were he to encounter the Police at this point in the night he doubted greatly that he would have the initiative to escape and the idea of capture was impossible for Tommy to accept. And so he moved forward, with extreme care and heightened awareness of the street ahead.

As he walked down Pine toward the mouth of the alley his hand slid into the pocket of his jeans and slowly his fingers began the run over the small wooden beads. With each step he counted a bead and each time he reached the 12th he began again, ever drawing closer to the place where he had lost all that he had ever been. Without knowing his lips began to move in unspoken words and for the first time in many years Tommy was praying. At first the words first came to him in short spurts and broken sentences but quickly, as though he had never stopped this form of worship the memory of the prayer returned, and Tommy continued on.

When he was twenty feet away the first sign that there had been trouble here at this intersection of the Street and the alley, came into view. There, left hanging off a sign post was three feet of broken and left-over Police tape. The scene had been cordoned off while evidence had been collected. To the right there were signs of discarded medical packaging where, Tommy assumed, the Paramedics had done their best to repair the broken Nun. In his minds eye he took in the mayhem of the scene. When he was ten feet away he could see that, in spite of the light rain, there were still large stains of blood on the side walk. The falling rain made the blood appear wet and fresh and it looked to Tommy as though the streaking blood on the brick wall was running red in tiny waterfalls.  Tommy felt his stomach roll but continued on at a measured pace. When he was two feet from the entrance to the alley his eyes dropped to the corner where the side walk met the brick wall. There, wet with rain, reflecting the soft light of the street lamps was a perfectly formed and glistening white tooth. Tommy stopped abruptly in his tracks, looked over his shoulder and on ahead from where he stood. When he was satisfied he was alone and unobserved, Tommy bet down and picked up the tooth. As he turned into the alley he slid this relic of Sister Petra into his jeans pocket.

He passed slowly through the alley he had raced through earlier. It was nearing midnight when Tommy turned onto 12th Avenue and the pedestrian traffic was heavy with night time clubbers. Tommy was pleased to see the crowds and quickly made his way into the middle of the streaming traffic. It would be easy for him to go unnoticed here in these crowds but as he got closer and closer to his own turf the odds of him being see by a drinking buddy or one of his dealers would increase. He would have to be careful.

He passed by an open fronted Donair shop with a long lineup of patrons waiting for their order of mystery meat. As the young girl; behind the counter turned to call in another order Tommy slipped in through the queue and made his way down the hall to the dirty little washroom in the back. He was relieved to find the door standing open and quickly entered and turned on the light. As the incandescent bare bulb threw a harsh light through the little room Tommy squinted and leaned into the mirror. What he saw frightened him. His hair was wet and slicked down to his head but despite his walk through the light rain there were obvious areas of dried blood in his hair. His face was filthy and the lines on his neck and cheeks all carried the evidence of his violent acts. He turned on the cold water and leaned over the basin throwing water up onto his face. As he dropped his hand he could see the skinned knuckles of his right hand and he remembered how he had driven the face of the Nun into the brick, breaking his own knuckle on the back of her head. He closed his eyes and he breathed deeply.

Tommy prayed to God then. He asked God, whoever God was to help him make it all right. He knew what he had to do but he needed God to get him to where he had to go to make it right. Just five hours ago all his world depended on ‘getting right’ and now, just five hours later, he only wanted the help to make it right. For the first time since he came to himself he felt safe. Locked here in this dingy room, he would be safe, at least for a moment.

He opened his eyes and saw the blood splatter on his shirt and jacket. Quickly and without thought he removed the jacket and put it in the garbage can. He then pulled of his cleanest dirty shirt and flipped it inside out. Washed the rest of the blood of his face and hands and headed out of the washroom and back out onto 12th Avenue.

He passed quickly through the crowd and back out on to the street. Just as he gained the curb side of 12th Avenue the uptown bus came screaming to a stop at the shelter. Tommy looked at the people getting on and off the bus and wondered if any of them knew about Trip. If any of them cared that just a few short hours before a bus that looked just like this one had carried a man to his death. Life goes on, for everyone that is except for Trip and Petra and soon Tommy…soon Tommy.

He moved quickly down 12th now without incident, and glanced only briefly toward his shitty little apartment as he crossed over Lexington. He would head to his neighborhood, where he would be recognized at the end, but he would do it from the alleyways and backstreets where he had lived for so long and where he would soon die. As he walked he could not shut off his brain to the last words he had heard thrown at him as he fled the alley, away from Rhonda. “What about me?”she had cried out, “You were not even going to say good bye!”  And she was right. Had he not happened upon Rhonda, with her latest effort at self employment, in a dirty alley, quite by chance, he would not have sought her out for a fond farewell. He had felt a need to apologize to her for his part in her decline but the notion of doing so in a ‘making my peace’ kind of goodbye had not occurred to him,

As he moved on, ever aware of those he passed on the street, careful to avert his eyes or study his shoes as they passed, his mind began a self diagnostic program, which he could not shut down. He thought of all the people whom he had been close to throughout his life, his parents and siblings, his friends and his lovers. He thought of those whose lives had affected him and those whose lives had been affected or infected by him. Incidents and events he had not thought of or considered for years began to flood his racing mind and he found himself one moment smiling and the very next full of sadness.

 He wanted this process to stop, but it went on. It went on with a will of its own and in so doing revealed to Tommy some truths he had long ago discarded. It was all his fault. He was the only one responsible for the station in life to which he had descended.  For so long now he had placed blame on bad luck or shitty fate, more often than not squarely on the backs of his parents or siblings.  He looked to the authority figures in his life, the teachers and the clergy, especially the clergy, and he had found fault in them all. It was no wonder his life was a ruin after how he had been treated! No wonder he was unable cope, to deal with all the situations in life which had left him baffled and full of fear. It was no wonder.

 But it was all bullshit! All of it, all of it was delusional. All of it was fantasy and suddenly all of it was clear to him. A moment of clarity which years earlier may have changed the path of his life now fell upon him like a weight he could not bear. Suddenly he yearned for a kiss on his brow from his Mother. He could feel her lips there and the caress of her fingers as she pushed a lock of hair from his eyes, he could hear the solid and assuring timber of his Fathers voice as he said “That hair will need cutting soon, son”, he could feel his firm hand shake as he wished Tommy ‘good luck’ at the ball game.

His life had not been bad. His Parents had not been monsters. His authority figurers had not been sadistic. He was the problem. If only he had been open to that thought so many years before, how his life could have been different. Sadness enveloped his as he walked this unhappy road to his end but there was no anger. Even in the realization of his active role in the ruination of his world there was no anger. There was peace. Peace that came with responsibility. Peace that came with accountability and peace that would come with finality.

Tommy’s end was in sight but this new realization came with the knowledge that he must say goodbye. He must tell them all that they were not at fault. They were so old now, his parents, and they had lost hope that the Tommy they knew would ever return to them. He had to tell them that he was back, even though it was only going to be for a short time. He needed to let someone in his world know that he was leaving this world in an effort to make right all he had made wrong. He needed to let someone know he carried no animosity or anger in his heart at the end, only a remorse that he could not live with.

Tommy’s hand went to the pocket of his tattered jeans as he entered the Alley off Baker Side road which ran in behind Louis East End Pawnshop. He removed the small circle of wooden beads attached to a crudely carved Crucifix and slowly began to run his fingers around the circle. The repetitive motion slowed his mind and his thoughts began to shift from the losses of the past to the reality of the present. In his breast pocket he discovered the remaining cash that once belonged to Sister Petra. Six bucks, it would be enough, enough for the calls he had to make. There was a phone booth by his house, close to the place where he was intending to catch a train. There he would make his last goodbyes. His plan was now complete.

INSIGHT

Jack Corbett sat behind the disorganized oak desk in the back office of Louis’s East End Pawn and stared down a full bottle of Johnny Walker Red. He had been shaken by the events of the day and the foundation of his short lived sobriety was crumbling. Tommy Boy had been in his shop today. He had been many times in the previous weeks, but today he had been clearly delusional. The state he was in was distressing to Jack and a frightening remembrance of a life which was not so far in his past. He had told Tommy he had crossed a line and that he needed some help. He knew this to be true for Jack himself  had been where Tommy was. He had stood in those same shoes and he had lived the same wretched life in which Tommy was now imprisoned.

It had only been five years since Jack had put the plug in the jug and got himself sober. There had been no treatment centers or programs for old Jack Corbett; just some good, old fashioned will power had done the job. He had been sick, and he had nearly lost everything when his moment of clarity arrived in the form of a six month sentence for disturbing the peace, public intoxication and assaulting a police officer. Jack dried out in County Jail and it had been the first break that had come his way in a long time. While he was inside, he listened to the Chaplain and he attended some of the meetings of the inside AA group, and he learned how to get sober.

 He learned to live in the moment and to let go of his anger and that all those AA alkies were spineless whiners who needed to be led. Seemingly, they were led by what they called a Big Book and a set of principles they called steps, plus a belief in a power greater than themselves. But Jack Corbett was never one to be led anywhere.  He knew the booze had got the best of him once and he knew that it would likely get the best of him again. It was this realization that carried Jack to his “Spiritual awakening”. The booze was the higher power and all he needed to do was to respect it at arm’s length and he would attain sobriety.

The day Jack had repaid his debt to society he walked out of the county jail and into the first liquor store he came across, where he purchased a bottle of Johnny Walker Red - a bottle that would become his daily companion tucked away in his desk drawer through the day and sitting in a place of prominence on his dresser at night. Johnny Walker Red had become Jack’s higher power. With the seal unbroken and the cap spun tight, the evil liquor could not get out and destroy Jack’s world. Every morning he talked to Johnny Walker telling the bottle his will power would keep the bottle unopened and every night he told Johnny Walker that he, Jack Corbett, was in control and had survived another day.

He took his meals with Johnny Walker, watched his television shows with Johnny Walker, and often late at night as he sat by himself Jack told all his problems to Johnny Walker. As it had been in the past, Johnny Walker was always near by when Jack lost his temper and screamed at the newscaster every evening at six.  He was there, too when Jack would fly into a rage after being cut off in traffic, disrespected as he drove by some white haired old lady who treated Jack as if he were not even there. As it had been in the past, Johnny was always there and Johnny was always beckoning, but because Jack had gained control Johnny was never allowed out into his world. Jack had gained control over Johnny Walker by keeping him locked away in his bottle like an evil genie in a lamp. Because of that, the television was never smashed, and the white haired old lady arrived home alive, unencumbered by a rage and a hitherto whiskey-filled Jack. Johnny Walker was under Jack’s control, and as a result the world never had to deal with an out-of-control and delusional Jack, insane with alcohol and consumed with hatred.

He and Johnny Walker had become inseparable, and after a time, Jack simply referred to the bottle as his friend, “Red”.  He took Red everywhere he went. When he drove to and from the pawn shop, Red took his place on the front seat of the car tucked safely out of sight in his brief case, but near enough that Jack could confer, should he need to vent. When he was at the shop, Red was always just under the counter where Jack could keep an eye on him. Often, as a customer would leave the store, Jack and Red would have a laugh over the state the loser had been in or make inappropriate remarks about the young women who were selling whatever they could to make their living on the streets. Red was always there under Jack’s watchful and obsessive eye and just an arm’s reach away.

Though he remained aware of the slow and gradual transition, Red soon assumed the power once more over Jack. The control Jack thought he asserted over this unopened bottle of Johnny Walker Red, was simply another delusion provided by the amber liquid. All the while Jack was rebuilding his new found life of sobriety and quasi-legitimacy his nemesis, Johnny Walker Red, lay patiently and deadly beneath the sealed, red tin cap of the bottle.

 Jack bounced back onto his feet quickly in his new found life as a sober, slightly shady character. He had discovered he could end up on the upper end of most his crooked deals with the drunks and druggies and he was always ready to capitalize on their weakness, and only too happy to share a laugh about his good fortune with Red. As he was the sober one in all the schemes he had undertaken over a space of a few years, he had earned enough ready cash to go legit. When Louis Barbour of Louis’ East End Pawn decorated his wife’s lawn furniture with his brains, Jack immediately saw the opportunity in the tragedy and purchased the establishment from the grieving widow; some would say for a song.

But legitimacy was a hard go for Jack, and slowly he began to work as a fence for some of the small time petty thieves in the area. He seldom asked for the required proof of ownership, always paid below current value and often sold pawned items before chits were expired. That’s what he had done to Tommy Boyle. That’s what he had done to this little shit addict who was delusional and had left his store and thrown Trip beneath a bus. He had sold most of his stuff before its due time.

The rumors of Tommy’s rampage were running rampant and were most likely highly exaggerated, but the fact remained that Tommy had been here in Jack’s shop just before he attacked Trip. The cops would put it all together and they would come and Jack would be exposed. He had to get rid of the rest of Tommy’s gear, and he had to do it tonight.  

        Jack sat at the desk with sweat beading on his heavy brow and slowly running into the corners of his deep-set eyes where it burned his vision into a blur. He stared at Red with hate and in his mind he could see Red staring back at him with contempt. He reached across the desk and with his left hand he grabbed hold of Red by the neck and he recalled all the other relationships which had ended in just this manner with Jack a hold of someone’s neck. As his right hand moved to the cap there was such familiarity that Jack began to salivate at the thought of the sweet tasty burn of victory he would have over this adversary, this higher power.

Slowly with his right hand he applied pressure to the cap and as he felt the very slightest turn of the cap in his hand he was flooded with such ecstasy that for a moment he believed he would achieve an erection. And then he stopped. Jack knew deep within his gut that were he to open this iconic bottle, here and now there would be no fixing the problem of Tommy Boyle’s property, not tonight. He had to get out of here and he had to do it now! Jack quickly stood from the desk, tossed Johnny Walker Red into the box that contained Tommy’s stuff and headed out the back door of Louis East Side Pawn, certain that he could hear laughter coming from beneath the lid of the box.

There was movement in the alley ahead of Tommy and he slowed his pace. He tried to duck into the shadows but the man ahead had seen him and had come to a stop in his tracks.  “Who’s there?” the man in the alley barked and Tommy recognized the voice of Jack, the new proprietor of Louis’ East end Pawn. He stood close to the wall and tried not to speak.

“Who’s there?” he demanded “I can see you there! You oughta know I am armed and I am in a pissy mood so if you plan on rolling me count on getting hurt. Now come into the light where I can see you and don’t try to fuck with me!”

Tommy moved very slowly into the light and stopped ten feet from the back door of Louis and 10 feet from Jack. Jack was bending over and placing a box on the hood of his car, squinting hard to see who or what was coming at him from the shadows. This was turning out to be the worst day Jack could recall. He could not imagine how it could get any worse when here, out of the dark, walked Tommy Boy.

“You” he said “It’s you. That’s far enough, you keep away from me man, I got no money on me, the store is locked up and the alarm is on. What the hell are you doing around here man? Do you know that half the fucking city is looking for you? I can’t believe you are here!”

“It’s OK Jack. I’m not looking for you and I don’t want any trouble “I was just passing by.”

“Ok! It’s ok? Are you shitting me? You don’t want any trouble! It’s a little late for that Tommy. I just seen the eleven o’clock news and they said you pushed a fucking guy in front of a bus and later attacked a Nun. They said it was Trip. Is that true Tommy? I thought you and him were fucking tight. You say you’re just passing through, like you’re going for a soda or something. Are you for real or what?”

“Jack! Look, I just want to get past here and be on my way. I don’t want any trouble, with you. Think about it, I never expected to see you down here this time of night. I just got something I need to do and then it will be all right Jack.  I promise you man, I just want to keep going by. I just need you to forget you saw me, just for a while till I get down the road a piece.”

“Forget I saw you! I want to forget I ever met you! What you think I am doing down here at this time of night? I am getting your shit out of my place before the cops show up. They said on the news that they were at your apartment and they were canvassing the area. That means it is just a matter of time till they turn up here and start asking questions about you and me and my business. Maybe start looking to close at some of the shit I got in there. I always tried to help you out, Tommy. I always tried to treat you fair. Lots of times I gave you cash for stuff I knew was hot, and that loses me my license man. Ya, I’ll forget I saw you and as soon as I throw this box of shit that belongs to you in the river I will be out of this shit hole end of town and when they catch you, and they will, you just forget you ever knew me. How’s that sound sport?”

“That’s my shit? You said you sold it all.”

“No, I said I sold some of it and the rest of it was in the back, but your tickets were due man, and that’s how I make a living. The rest of it is here in this box, and I am getting rid of it, tonight!”

Tommy moved forward slowly in an effort not to startle Jack into violence. He did not want to hurt this man. What Jack had said had been true. He had always treated Tommy fair. Even today, as Tommy’s mind broke under the strain of the lover, even as he ranted in his madness, Jack had done his best to be kind to Tommy. He looked into Jack’s eyes and there he saw fear but under the fear Tommy thought he saw compassion. Compassion, an emotion which could not thrive here in these alleys, an emotion that until this very evening Tommy would have taken for pity.

 Here, in this alley, Jack stood looking into the eyes of a violent offender and under his fear, what Tommy had mistaken for compassion burned a deep obsession and a strong desire to survive. Jack didn’t belong here, in this neighborhood, in this jam and he needed to get out. He was not cut out for this level of crime he was just a petty crook trying to get through life without hurting anyone. He told himself he was a good man, who found himself in a bad spot.

Tommy stopped four feet from the front of Jack’s car and for a moment just stared at the man. Jack was shifting uneasily from foot to foot. Holding his hand in his jacket pocket, Jack’s fist gripped the revolver that Tommy was certain was a comb or a pack gum. The sweat was beading on Jack’s forehead and about to roll down his heavily creased brow and into his eyes when Tommy spoke.

“I’m sorry Jack. I am sorry that I have put you in this situation. I think you are a nice guy and I don’t even really know what happened tonight. That’s the God honest truth. I know what I did, but I don’t know what happened. I don’t expect you to understand. I know I don’t, but whatever happened, it has changed me. I aint the guy you been seeing around here for months.  I don’t even know who that guy is, but I do know I gotta do something. I gotta get something done because I am afraid that the other thing might come back, here inside my head, and I don’t know if I can fight her off. I am tired and sick. And I am sorry; I mean it. You don’t need to be afraid of me Jack, and I got no right to ask anything of you but I am going to. I’m going to ask you Jack if I can have a look in the box. I’m asking, please.”

Jack stood solid on his feet and his breathing slowed to a steady rhythm. He looked at Tommy Boy and he knew what Tommy had said was the truth. It was in Tommy’s eyes. There, under the exhaustion, there was something Jack had not seen before, acceptance. Jack withdrew his hand from his jacket pocket, wiped the sweat from his brow and shot a couple of Tic Tacs into his dry mouth.  He had liked Tommy, he wanted to believe that Tommy could not have committed these crimes but he had seen this man tonight. He had seen him and he understood that the person he had seen was capable of anything. He did not know what had caused this change in Tommy but on some level Jack felt responsible for the events of the night. He had tried to live his life by an ‘Always cover your ass’ motto and he knew that when he let Tommy Boy walk out of his shitty little pawn shop that evening at supper time, he had missed the mark. Slowly Jack slid the file box across the hood of the car towards Tommy.

Tommy moved to the hood and popped the lid off the file box.  He rummaged through some books that had been given to him by his mother, moved aside a bottle of Johnny Walker Red and his busted clock radio, picked up the Johnny Cash, ‘I walk the Line “ album and there, under it all, was the small green velvet covered box he had hoped he would find.

Tommy picked up the box and held it to his nose, inhaling deeply. Instantly he was sitting on the front porch of the family farm, slowly swinging back and forth on the swing his Father had made as the evening sun stretched long and golden fingers over the rolling meadow. His Mother sat knitting a sweater he would take with him to College, while his Father was reading the Saturday Evening Post, mumbling to himself about the state of the world. Tommy would be leaving soon to start the next phase of his life a life that would be wonderful and full of good fortune. A life too good to be true! A life that would prove it was too good to be true. He was taking in this vista, one last time. He would never see another sunset like this one in all his life somehow he was certain of that and he was saddened and thrilled all at once.

He hadn’t noticed his Father slip away until he had returned and took a seat once again beside his Mother. As he settled himself in the swing his Father rolled a Green Velvet covered box in his hands. After a moment Tommy heard his Father clear his throat as was his way before he began to speak on issues of importance.

“Tommy, Tom, I need to tell you a few things, Son” he began slowly. “Your Mother and I are very proud of you Tom and we love you a great deal. It is a big deal for her and me that you are going off to College. You know neither of us had the opportunity and we always hoped one day our kids would be able to go. Well, you’re the first Son. There were times over the years when I wasn’t too sure that would happen but here we are, just a couple days away from you setting off on your new life. It is a great opportunity Son and we know you will do well.” Tommy’s Dad sat quiet for a moment as though he were struggling with the words. He was a man of few words and putting his thoughts together properly was of great importance to him.

“There is something I want you to have, Tommy. This here was given to me by my Pop, after I come back from the war, when your Mom and I got married. He said he got it from his father, my Grand Dad and that he wanted to give it to me before I went to Europe for the war but his Dad, my Grand Dad, told him no. He said it was not the right time and he was to wait till I come home from over there to stay. My Pop he said to me on the day we got married, he said “You’re a man now Son and I want you to take this pocket watch and ring.” Then he explained to me how he got it from his own Father, my Granddad, and how his Father told him it would be our family legacy, to hand that ring and watch down from son to son. Well Tom, you are a man now and I would like for you to take it.” Tommy’s Father opened up the faded green velvet covered box and there inside was a silver watch on a short chain. “This here is a simple watch Son but it has never missed a beat. To tell you true I never had much use for a pocket watch, but I kept it wound full and I looked at it there in my dresser every morning when I got up and every night when I lay down. There is something to be said for the comfort I found there knowing my Dad and Grand Dad was always that close to me.”

He leaned forward and set the green velvet-covered box on the table and as I looked up from the box I saw a tear rolling down my Mother’s cheek and I don’t know of another time when I saw more love and pride in her eyes and in her face. She put her hand on my Dad’s knee as he continued to speak.

“No I never had much use for a pocket watch but this ring, this ring here hasn’t left my finger since the day my Pop took it off his and put it in this box. Now it’s time for me to give it to you. I want you to take it and I want you to know that in so doing you are taking the pride of three generations Son. And that’s something that’ll get a man through anything”

With some effort he removed the ring from his finger. In the fading light of summer Tommy could see the line on his Fathers finger where the ring had been, the callous on his palm where the ring had left a testimony to the hard work this man had seen in his life. Slowly, and with some regret his Father slipped the ring into the green velvet covered box and handed it over to Tommy.

Tommy opened his eyes and looked at Jack, he had never thought he would see this watch and ring again. This legacy which had been entrusted to him and which had been lost to drugs an alcohol had some how found it’s way back to him. As he held the green velvet covered box in his hand he felt the closeness of the three that had gone before him and in that knowledge he found the strength to move on. The pride of three generations, that’s something that’ll get a man through anything. He snapped the box shut, turned from Jack and walked away from Louis East End Pawn.

As Jack Corbett watched Tommy Boyle slip into the darkness of the alley he reached into the box reached past Johnny Cash and found Johnny Walker. He broke the seal and spun the top and began the journey that would end of his life.

CAME TO BELIEVE

As Tommy left the alley behind Louis East End Pawn, he was overcome by a horrible sadness. His mind began to drift uncontrollably back over the events of his life since he had left that farm house so long ago. He was fifty-two now, he had left when he was sixteen, and in all those lost years he could find no happy memories. All that he ever was and all that he could have been had been lost; given up in the chase of a quick high or that one drink. That one drink that he had looked for from the time he had taken the first. That one drink he was never able to find again. The drink that made him feel whole.  

      Tommy’s life had always been fragmented from the times of his earliest memories. He had left bits and pieces of himself behind in every corner of his life, never being quite able to pull it all together or to carry on as others had. And then, then he had that first drink and he had become whole. All that was uncertain to him in his world had become abundantly clear. All that he had feared seemed insignificant. That one drink had pulled him together, only to begin to tear him apart. The first drink led him to the last drink, and the road from beginning to end was littered with those with whom he had come into contact. Some were innocent bystanders, others were willing participants, and all were equally devastated.

The panic had begun to build in Tommy’s head and the knot was growing deep in the pit of his stomach, and Tommy knew what would come next. He had been here so many times before and had hoped against hope that it had all ended with Trip and the Nun. But the tremor was beginning to rattle his hand and if he listened closely he could almost hear the seductive whisper of the ‘lover’. If he listened to her now he would be lost forever. He tried to focus on the plan but his mind was drifting. At one moment he was on the beach with his folks the next at the drive in with his first love, then in the alley with Rhonda. It all came to him at once and out of sequence and soon the hallucinations put him in the alley smoking crack with his mother, and looking into the surprised eyes of his father as Trip thrust him in front of a bus. He felt himself loosing the small grip he had on reality and the fear of going back to the hell from whence he had come, descended upon him like the weight of the world.

“No” he screamed “I can’t! I can’t go back there!” Tommy was over-come by a deep loneliness now which seemed to emanate from his very core. The loneliness he had experienced before in his life paled in comparison with the pain which he suddenly felt. Oh, he had been alone, even been lonely, mostly by choice or design but this feeling he was now enduring cut him like a knife. It was a physical pain induced by a mental realization of the state of his life. He was alone, truly alone. It was then, at that moment, he understood the pain which must fill his Mother’s heart each day as she wondered if her Tommy still lived and breathed,  the torment which must fill his Father’s mind wondering if Tommy lay broken in a hospital or dead in a morgue. It was at then that he understood that the pain his parents felt did not come in the knowing but rather in the not knowing. Tommy suddenly understood that the stark reality of any given situation was much easier to bear than the fear of the unknown. The anxiety which comes with the waiting for bad news had taken the spirit of his parents and left them old and unhappy.

He had stolen their lives. And he had stolen any opportunity his brother and sister and her children may have had to enjoy a normal relationship with their parents and grandparents. Tommy had lingered on the edges of all their lives over all the years. He was in every conversation, though his name was seldom mentioned. He was remembered in prayer at every family dinner and all recollection of childhood events ended in, “Do you remember when Tommy did this?” or ‘Do you recall when Tommy did that?” He was always there, just under the surface. Just under their skin.

 In his selfish act of self destruction he had insinuated himself in all their lives and in so doing he had sentenced them all to a life of addiction pain and loss.  His brother and sister who had once loved him deeply now held an equal amount of contempt for him. He had not only destroyed himself, he had destroyed their family.

This all came to him in an unwanted epiphany and Tommy was overwhelmed at the reality of his situation. All that which he had eluded throughout his life with the aid of the alcohol and the drugs, had come home to roost. All he had run from had overtaken him and Tommy slowly went to his knees and sobbed. The tears came now. The tears came in great sobbing and wet sighs and would not stop. He saw them all again in his mind’s eye. He saw all of his family and they were framed in love; framed in the love he was unable to express, the love which had filled him with a fear he no longer understood.

He sobbed and he sobbed and in between sobs, he tried desperately to catch his breath and he began to speak, first a word; then another; then another; and then the sentence. Quietly, clearly, without hesitation and for the first time in thirty-five years “God, please help me find the way to the end, oh God, please help me.”

His hand found its way into the pocket of his soiled jeans and his fingers walked swiftly over the small wooden beads attached the crudely carved cross. He knelt; head bowed and calm came over him. Once again the lover fell silent and the tremor grew still. In his other hand he felt the smooth green velvet box. The power within it seeped into his heart and he understood that the love and pride of three generations could carry a man through anything.

Tommy rose to his feet, wiped the tears away with a soiled sleeve and crossed over Baker Side Road and into the alley which would take him to Lexington Avenue and the “A” Train. He choked down his pain and pushed back the attacking memories and walked toward his destiny.

 His father had once told him he was bound for great things in his life. He had told Tommy that he would witness wondrous sights and go on great adventures. Well what Tommy had seen fell well short of wondrous, his adventures something less then great. But tonight, at this very moment, he had determination.  The closer he came to the end of his journey the greater the panic was becoming, but he had determination and that was something new. That was something different and the lover had not found a way yet to battle this new found quality in Tommy. But time was his enemy and given time, he knew, he would succumb to her. That simple fact pushed him on and Tommy went forth with purpose in his stride.

As he had crossed over Baker Side Road, Tommy glanced quickly east in the Direction of Louis’. There on the North side of the street and walking away from Tommy was a Cop on the beat. Tommy crossed Baker Side Road quickly then paused in the shadows of the alley looking towards the officer to see if his crossing had been observed. Tommy knew by the silhouette of the patrolling officer that his movement across the street had remained unseen. He also could tell by the stature of the man that this was Constable Bob Gideon on the job. He was the Cop that Rhonda had mentioned and he had a reputation of being fair.

 Officer Friendly as he was known as among the crack whores; who worked his beat, Bad Bob among the gang bangers, and Buddy Bob among the in- betweens. The in-betweens were the ones too young to be whores; the ones not yet recruited by the gangs as strikers or drug runners. The ones living for the most part on thee streets. These were the ones that could still be saved, given the right opportunity and shown there was another road. It was an idealistic attitude but the only attitude that gave Bob Gideon the inspiration to get up for every shift to walk these sad streets.  It was a cruel twist of fate that found put him here working these particular streets. Perhaps it was meant to be, perhaps there was one kid who needed saving, some good to be done. This is what he told himself every shift as he readied his mind and body to go do battle against crime and society on the same streets he grew up.

This neighborhood, his beat, had not always been this way. Bob Gideon remembered these same streets in the inner city as a child, vibrant working neighborhoods with thriving businesses. Everything a person needed to live in those days could be found in a five square block area. And everyone in that area was a neighbor. Not necessarily a friend but a neighbor. Even back then there were areas cut out of the neighborhood for certain gangs of kids and from time to time there were scuffles amongst them. But not like now, not like today, back then the worst you walked away with was a black eye or bloody nose.  Today, if you walked away at all, you could count yourself among the winners. No, back then there was really not hate or animosity; it was more like a game, a bunch of clubs with posturing kids acting tough while being scared. There was no turf really, no drug trafficking areas to protect, no it was just kids finding themselves and each other, like a rite of passage.

As he walked along checking doors and chatting to the whores and punks hanging out on the corners he could not help but reflect on the passage of time and the decline of the area. It all seemed so simple to him to fix and yet the Bosses, the ones with the bigger brains kept fucking it up. The City Council and the Federal Ministers with their entourage of Social Workers and Psychologists kept coming up with new policy and improved programs to ‘Integrate’ the youth into ‘Polite Society’. They had no clue. Everything they did just made it worse down here. Everything they did was counter productive and viewed with suspicion and cynicism by the people in the area.

The old ones, the ones left trying to hang on to their businesses or homes because it was all they had, had no voice in the destiny of their neighborhood.  Their influence politically had been severed by the box stores. The tax base they represented did not contribute enough into city coffers to enable them to effect change of any substance and so they were left to their own devices. The Walk-in Shelters and the Harm Reduction Policies of the City did nothing to curb the crime among the small businesses which tried to survive. Needle exchange programs did not stop the mugging of old ladies trying to get from the bus stop to the security of their triple dead bolted homes. It just wasn’t working. All the money being spent to save these inner city neighborhoods was being wasted on justifying the existence of a bunch of bleeding heart liberal assholes. They may as well have built a fence around the five square blocks and said job done.

And that is why he stayed. Maybe it was ego, maybe a fear of success, maybe it was fate, but in his heart he felt he was all there was to serve and protect the good people that remained. The lives of the ones that were left behind and the lives of the ones that may be saved rested in the hands of Officer Bob Gideon. They were on his beat, they were his responsibility, and he would not let them down.

He could have moved up in his career long ago, in fact he had become a standing joke among the other officers on the force. His colleagues viewed his long standing beat as a punishment meted out by the bosses. They assumed he had been left behind in the pursuit of advancement because of incompetence or insubordination and so they joked and jibbed and slowly, over the years he had become a loner. He had no partner or close friends on the force. There were a couple sergeants over the years who tried to move him up in rank but he always resisted.  There was the cop shrink who was concerned that Gideon’s long term ‘Exposure to the Criminal Element’ would have a ‘Lasting and devastating effect on his personal life and judgment’, he had been right but Bob was still here; on his beat, doing his job.

For the most part he loved it. Even when the shit got bad and the gangs were killing each other he had always been able to see beyond the trouble and focus on the goal of bringing something back to these fine old streets. He had developed a network of people down here who trusted him. They were among the only friends and it was often the only place he felt connected to the world, his network, his friends. Tonight he would call on them all. Tonight he would test the working relationship he had developed with the street. There was a man that needed to be found, his name was Tommy and he knew he was in the area.

 The bosses were looking further afield. The bosses were convinced this Tommy was in the wind and on the run. But Bob had a feeling, a hunch, a burning in his gut. He did not know this Tommy well but he knew of him. He was small time, a druggie and a drunk, for a while he ran a whore named Rhonda but Bob was pretty sure that was in the past. This guy would not run because this guy had no where to run to. He would turn up here, on Gideon’s beat, sooner rather than later. He would be hurting and he would need a fix and Gideon would find him. Slowly and with a smile on his face and a picture of Tommy in his breast pocket he approached a group of working girls on the corner, the hunt was on.

Tommy turned away from Officer Bob Gideon thinking just another dumb ass flat foot, and continued his journey through the last alley en route to his destination. When he emerged from the other end of this particular alley he would be on Lexington. The point of his final departure from this earth was to be an open air subway where the A train passed thrice daily. The train was almost always on schedule and Tommy used to joke about how he could set his need to get a fix by the train. He was either just starting to’ Jones’ for a drug, or drifting through that first cloud of beautiful blue smoke from the pipe as the train went by and shook his shitty little room creating a ripple effect in his tall glass of cheap vodka…no ice. It had, in an odd way, become the only source of stability that had remained in his shattered life and Tommy took great comfort in knowing it would always be there, three times a day, like clock work. It seemed somehow fitting to him that this train would carry him to the great beyond, and free him from the life of bondage to which he had succumbed.

As he neared the end of his last alley Tommy saw feet sticking out from under a sheet of cardboard, and looked down upon one beaten and tattered blue Adidas and one nearly new looking red Nike. He knew immediately that he was looking upon the feet of Armist. There could be no mistake; there was no other rummy in this end of town with this same mismatched footwear. Armist was a drunk. Tommy thought this with no malice or judgment; it was just a matter of fact.

Armist was an old man with the misfortune of having an overly grateful and patriotic mother at the end of the Second World War He was conceived ten minutes before his Father boarded a ship for Europe and he was born 9 months later as the clock struck twelve midnight on what would turn out to be Armistice Day. His Father never knew the war was over when the German tank annihilated the farm house in which he was pinned down. His Father never knew that almost at the precise moment of his death the son he would never know had entered this world. His Father could not have know that in his zeal to make the world safe from tyranny he would leave a mourning young girl whose mind would never be the same and an orphaned baby boy destined to go through life named Armist.

Armist was a professional drunk and anti-establishmentarian. There was no shelter he would go to in the dead of winter and when he begged money it was always for booze, never coffee. He would never steal from another who lived on the street for he lived by a code and never, in all his years, was he ever ashamed of whom he was or what he needed to do to survive. He was the son of a war hero he never knew.

 His mother’s mind had been lost for ever as she waited for the return of a lover who would never arrive. The very day his mother was taken to the asylum, Armist was declared a ward of the courts and the two of them were thrust into a system of care which was horrific in the late forties. The mother never survived, but the son did. With each whipping he received, with each instance of sexual abuse he endured, he had become hardened and cynical and when the opportunity arose, he ran. Armist escaped to the “safety” of the streets and the anonymity of the people who resided there, they had welcomed him as one of their own. He had found a family, and no one would ever put him in a building again as long as he drew breath.

And now here he was. The son of a war hero and a mad woman, sleeping in the alley he had called home for over fifty years. He was sixty-four years old, his brain was wet, his body was deteriorating but he was free and he was proud.

Tommy knew Armist had something which he needed. Tommy knew that there, under the cardboard, Armist slept in a Second World War parka with a funnel hood. There were five blocks of open street Tommy needed to cross in his neighborhood. He had to walk past the Mission as well as the front door of his shitty little apartment to get to where he needed to go and he was fairly certain he would be seen and identified. Tommy felt sure he could cover the distance between here and the phone booth, (which was his next stop) unobserved, if the people on the street thought it was just Armist on the prowl.

 He knew he could just take the parka from this sick old drunk without much of a fight, but he also knew the code and would not violate it. Tommy had no stomach left for fighting or violence. He had wreaked havoc on the world this night and would have no more of it. He would not steal from Armist but he knew if he asked for help, Armist would not refuse. And so with caution, he gently pulled the cardboard aside and kicked the red and blue clad feet of the sleeping Armist.

With a swiftness that took Tommy by surprise and one which seemed unlikely from this tattered and decrepit old man; Armist was on his feet, a small blade extended in front of him, crouched and ready to pounce. There was a look of confused readiness on his face and a mixture of fear and anger as Armist surveyed the area. He was the son of a war hero and had survived over fifty years on the mean streets. He always awakened ready to face any challenge and was more than willing to fight to the death for the meager belongings he called his own. How he came to be in possession of the articles around him was irrelevant. Through thievery or trickery they had all been acquired, but once in his possession they belonged to Armist and if you were of a mind to take them, you had better be ready for a fight. You had best be prepared to die.

Tommy fell back a step or two to ensure he was well out of the range of the blade which sparkled in the flickering light of the alley.  He had been amazed and frightened by the graceful and deadly stance of the older man and was angry at himself for the lapse of judgment in the manner in which he woke Armist. It could have been a fatal error and though Tommy was in preparation for death, the actual event was not meant to take place here in this alley at the hands of a drunkard. Tommy had lost so much control in all aspects of his life that the thought of controlling the event of his death had given him some perverse sense of freedom. Knowing he would end it on his terms in his own way made Tommy feel as though he had regained some power in what was otherwise a powerless existence. He was so close to the end now, so close to the calls he had to make and so willing to overcome the fear and pain that was brewing in his mind, that to be knifed here in this alley would be a cruel injustice. He had asked for nothing and expected nothing for so many years but now, near the hour of his demise he reached out for help from a power he did not understand, and one upon which he had never relied. “Dear God,” thought Tommy, “don’t let me die at the hands of this old man, help me to calm him.”

“Whoa, WHOA!  Armist! Take it easy old boy it’s me, Tommy. Look at me now, wake up and look. You know who I am; you know I would not hurt you.”

“Fucking right I know who you are. Trip knew who you were too when ya shoved him in front of that bus. You stay the fuck back man, I ain’t one to go so easy, you hear me? I am sick and I am old but I got some fight left in me and I won’t be done in by some piss ant druggie on some motherfucking rampage! That’s what they are calling it on the news. I saw it on the TV at Louis’ pawn! That TV says you went on some kinda rampage! I don’t know exactly what a rampage is but I don’t like what it sounds like and I don’t intends to get anywhere near you if you are taking one. And I knew that Nun, she was all right for one of them kind, and what you did to her was chicken shit man. My old man was a fucking war hero, kid, and I got some of that shit in me, so you just come ahead with your rampage and see what you get! Just come on ahead a little bit and old Armist Hancock will do everybody a favour and be a fucking hero like just like Sergeant Lester Hancock was before he was kilt by that German tank.”

“Armist; listen to me. I am not on anything Armist. I am straight and sober. I sure as hell ain’t on a rampage Armist, swear to God man. Put the knife away, I won’t hurt you. I never meant for anything to happen with Trip or that Nun. Something happened, like to my head, I don’t know man I can’t understand it but it’s over. I am ok for right now and I need some help from you. There’s something I got to do that will make it right. Armist I need your help, please put down the knife and let me talk to you. I don’t have much time and I have stuff I got to do. Please, just hear me out.”

With great reluctance Armist began to rise out of his attack stance. Slowly he straightened his posture and Tommy was surprised that he had never before taken note of the great height of this man. In the dim light of the alley Tommy let his eyes roam over Armist from the dirty knitted hat on his head to his blue and red shoes.  He was a big man and his countenance carried the scars of a lifetime on the streets. There was a jagged scar on his right brow where years before a busted bottle had been the deciding factor in the disputed ownership of an eight by ten piece of turf in another alley. His sunken cheeks and distended nose were littered with thousands of burst and healed over blood vessels, creating a road map of misery, abuse and hard living. He was weathered from head to foot and Tommy realized suddenly that he never appreciated the extraordinary height of Armist because Armist was always hunched over. He never stood his full erect height and that was a mechanism which allowed him to go unobserved by the Police and general public and underestimated by potential adversaries.

It was a street wise maneuver and Tommy smiled to himself in appreciation of the years this man had survived in the war zone. He was a hero of a different sort. His right hand had been smashed in a fight years before, and without the benefit of medical attention the bone had healed misshapen giving the appearance of a talon rather that a hand. There he stood and Tommy admired him.

 Tommy understood that the circumstances of the life which Armist had endured created the person that he had become. He was destined for a hard life from the moment of his birth. The streets the boozing the fighting and the surviving were like Armist’s birth right and Tommy saw a picture of who and what Tommy would become were he to continue on in this life. The difference was that Tommy understood the person he would become would be as much a monster as Armist was a hero.

Tommy had no excuses. Tommy had been given opportunities to have a real life and Tommy had chosen not to participate. Where there was a sort of twisted honor in the life of this old man, there was nothing but dishonor in Tommy’s. Tommy never made the best out of a bad situation dealt to him by life as had Armist. Tommy took a good life and wasted it. Tommy had been a failure. In that moment of clarity Tommy could hear the echo of the words his Father had spoken during their last phone conversation.  His Father had attempted to reason with Tommy. His Father had attempted to inspire Tommy to find his way out of the rut of his existence. He had told Tommy that, “Failure is not forever, son, and success is fleeting at best.”  His Father had been wrong. For Tommy, failure was forever and success would never be realized.

Armist stood erect and out of attack posture but not fully relaxed. He could be back in the defense or offence mode in seconds and Tommy had to proceed with caution. “Armist, will you help me? I need something from you and I don’t have much to trade. But if you will help me I can get you some stuff that will help you out.”

“What will make it right?’ asked Armist suspiciously. “ You said you could make it right, how you gonna do that?”

“Huh, what are you talking about? Never mind all that right now, Armist, I need some help. I need your coat, man. Can I take your coat?... and your shoes? Armist, I need those shoes as well.”

“I want to know what will make it right after what you done. You gonna run away or something, you gonna tell everyone you’re sorry or some shit like that, I want to know how you think you can make it right.”

“I don’t know Armist; I don’t mean to make it right for them. I know I can’t do that. I know what I did was horrible and I can’t live with it so I know what I gotta do to make it right. I don’t want to say any more about it. It is best you don’t know.”

“You gonna kill yourself, is that it? You gonna make it right for YOU, you mean; that’s all. You think that is somehow gonna make what you did ok. You are chicken shit man, you always were, fucking druggie whiner, that’s all you are, now you gonna kill yourself and you can’t even admit you are just gonna do it cause you’re chicken shit. You make me want to puke; I oughta do you right here and right now in this alley but I ain’t no killer. Not lest I has to be. You ain’t no hero that’s for damn sure.”

“I know I ain’t no hero Armist.  I am chicken shit, you’re right. I won’t make it in jail man. I know I won’t make it in there locked up the rest of my life. I know I fucked up, for a long time. I just want out man. I just want some peace. I just want to stop fighting and I need your help. I need your coat and your shoes.” Tommy reached into his back pocket and took out the key to the apartment door, the one with Tommy Boy written in black magic marker crookedly across the mid section.” This here is the key to my place, Armist. It is right around the corner from here. There ain’t much left in there Armist but inside the closet there is a good winter coat. It is about all that is left that I didn’t hawk. Guess I always thought I may end up out doors one winter down here with you Armist, so I kept that good coat. And there is a quilt too Armist. It is a real good warm one! My Grandma made that quilt for me a long time ago, I never could get rid of it at Louis, and I guess I kinda wanted to keep it. I sure wish you would do me a trade, your stuff for mine. And you can have these shoes I’m wearing. They are a bit big for me and should fit you, both the same colour, Armist. Those damn kids won’t laugh at you no more if you got both the same colour shoes. What do ya say Armist.”

Armist stood still for a moment and slowly with his good hand he folded the knife shut and slid it into the band of his pants. His talon hand came up with slow deliberation and began to stroke his chin. “What else you got” asked Armist. “It ain’t enough. A coat for a coat, shoes for shoes, I ain’t coming away no better off than when I come in to this here negotiation. I gotta take your word for it ALL on top of that. And we both admit you is a chicken shit so there has got to be more. The quilt won’t do it. You need my help to get kilt then you gotta show me some more.” Armist stood quiet and waited.

“There is no more Armist, I swear.” As Tommy spoke his hand found his way into the pocket of his tattered jeans and swiftly his fingers began to walk around the small circle of wooden beads attached to the crudely carved crucifix. He had been sure Armist would help him and now his plan seemed to be slipping away. His mind was racing and his thoughts were turning to the green velvet covered box containing the ring and watch of his ancestors. It was all he had left of his past and though Tommy had not planned to take them with him to catch the A train; neither was it in his plan to leave it in the hands of Armist.

As he worked the beads his lips moved in unspoken words and once again reflexively he was speaking in his mind to a God in whom he had no belief or faith. But still he spoke on in silence and asked this higher power to show him the way. At that moment a thought occurred to Tommy and without conscious thought he extended his arm out to Armist and opened his hand. There in the center of his palm lay the small circle of wooden beads attached to the crudely carved crucifix.

 For a moment the both men stared down at the tiny rosary in silence. Everything in the alley had suddenly become more pronounced. The dim incandescent lights over the dirty back doors of the alley all seemed to team light into the space between them  and Tommy could count individual hairs on the back of  Armist’ big hands. Electricity filled the air between the two men. It was a power they both sensed and feared in unison. The silence lasted only for a moment but the understanding which was born between these two men would last for all time. They both had been touched throughout their lives by all things physical in this world; both good and bad, but here now in this alley and for the first time for either of them they were in the presence of divinity and their lives would never be the same.

“There’s this” said Tommy,” It’s” he paused, searching for a word “special…it’s special.”

“It belonged to the Nun,” said Armist. “It’s got to go back to her. I will do it.” Armist reached out and gently picked the small circle of wooden beads attached to the crudely carved crucifix out of the Tommy’s palm. As Armist placed the small rosary into the pocket of his army pants; the misshapen arthritic fingers of his talon-like hand began to walk around the circle of wooden beads and his lips began to move in unspoken prayer.

Gideon had done the big circle and was just turning on to Lexington Avenue. He had not had much luck in his pursuit of Tommy. Along his route he had stopped and talked to all the regulars on the streets at this hour. He had flashed the picture of Tommy the Detectives had found in his apartment and he had made it know that this man must be found. There was no question that one of them, at some point in this night would make contact with Tommy and when they did, they would call him, or wish they had. He had worked all the main Streets and his plan was now to start working the alleys. There was a whole other world in these alleys after dark and the pursuit of Tommy in them could be dangerous for a man on his own but that was how he worked and that was how it would go down.

As Gideon began to walk down Lexington a hunched over and shadowed figure emerged from the alley that connected to Baker Side Road, turned south and headed in the direction of the “A” train Terminal. Bob Gideon had a trained and professional eye, and knew the inhabitants of his beat as though his life depended upon it and often it did. In the dim light he could see the funnel hood of the world war two parka and if he squinted at just the right time, as the figure passed under the street lights, he could see one red and one blue shoe. Who would be on the prowl on a hot night wearing a parka, one red and one blue shoe thought Gideon “Only Armist would” he answered himself out loud and with a short laugh, “Crazy old war hero bastard.”

Armist watched from the shadows as Gideon watched Tommy as he strolled hunched over down the Street. The funnel hood and multi coloured shoes shone in the glow of the street lights, and Armist was filled with an eerie sort of déjà vu as he watched himself walk away. The fingers of his deformed hand slid easily over the well oiled wooden beads of the tiny rosary and Armist was filled with a sense of purpose which he had not experienced for many, many years. Not since the days forty years prior, when he was consumed with the idea of escaping the county orphanage had he felt so certain of what he must do. This rosary which began changing his life the moments he laid eyes upon it was indeed special. Many fingers had worked these beads in the hundreds of years this rosary had existed, and many through the ages had claimed ownership of the small circle of beads attached to the crudely carved wooden crucifix but none had understood so quickly the power contained within these beads. Armist knew his life would never be the same as it had been. Armist knew that though he was not looking for redemption, redemption had found him. The thought of parting with the talisman filled Armist with dread but it was, he understood, not to be kept by him. Something had filled his heart and mind and Armist understood that this small circle of beads, attached to a crudely carved wooden crucifix must be returned to the mission and must find its way to where the Nun named Petra would rest. Nothing, on this earth would stop Armist from completing this mission which had befallen him and as the reality of that thought registered and set within his mind, Armist moved out of the alley.

Armist stood his full six foot three height and walked out of the alley with his head held high and shoulders thrown back. The street looked different to him from this higher vantage. Somehow things appeared sharper and more defined. It never occurred to Armist that he was suddenly seeing the world from a new perspective which was not related to his height. He felt different and in many ways it left him uneasy. There was work to be done this night and he would see to it. It would mean involving himself in the affairs of Tommy Boyle, a fugitive on the run. It would mean not minding his own business and breaking the code he had lived by for better than forty years. It would mean he would have to change, and change to Armist was neither wanted nor easy. Change meant uncertainty, and uncertainty always meant danger when you survived on the streets. He felt apprehension, but not fear. He was experiencing clarity of thought which was unfamiliar to him but with it came confidence and an understanding that somehow things were going to turn out for the best.

Armist looked south down Lexington just in time to see the slouched figure of himself fade from the light of a street lamp. Tommy had done a convincing job of imitating the old street urchin and sadness was building inside Armist as he watched what had been himself walk into the shadows. All of his life, for as long as he could recall, Armist had been retreating into the shadows. Always on the run, always fending off or searching for had been the sad story of his life. Five square blocks in a downtown core had been his world. He never ventured beyond it. He had no notion of any other world than that which he had created for himself, down here in these alleys. He had never loved anything or anyone other than the memory of a war hero he never met. There had been no time for love. Survival is a twenty-four hour a day job. He had no recollection of the mother who could not be there for him. All his memories were of chaos. As he watched himself slip into the shadows, he said good bye to the man he had become and was filled with hope for the man he would be.

Bob Gideon watch as old Armist slip out of the light and into the shadows on his way to where ever Armist went during his night time prowls. He did not know and did not want to know about the activities of the old man. Armist was a fixture down here, had been since Gideon lived on these streets as a kid. He knew the story of the war hero and the survival of a young orphan on the street and believed some of it. Street legends are a requirement of the inhabitants of these slums and alleys. It gives hope to the disenfranchised. Hope that they too will find a way to exist and be safe in the mayhem and chaos of street life. Armist provided hope and never caused Gideon much trouble so he let him be.  As Armist faded from view Gideon noticed movement down the street, at the mouth of the Alley leading to Baker Side Road. There was a man leaving the alley. He was a big man and Gideon did not recognize him as one of the regulars on his beat. He stood tall and confident, and was walking with purpose. There was no skulking, no darting eyes and swivel neck viewing of the street, and from his body language Gideon assumed he was not a person for which he needed to be concerned. It was a dangerous assumption to make on a dark night on Lexington but there was other business which needed tending to this night and Bob’s focus could not be diverted. There was a man on the loose who needed to be located. Gideon took one last glance at the tall man. Satisfied with his gut instincts, he turned west into an alley where he hoped he would find some answers.

Tommy was close now, close to the place it would all play out. He was colder than the night should allow for, as his body was becoming painfully aware that it was long past feeding time. The tremor in his hand was returning, though it was slight.  His shiver was more of a minor seizure than reaction to the cool night, but his mind was clear. There would be no reprieve from the physical addiction on this night of his departure, but Tommy was grateful that his mind remained remarkably clear. The pain he felt throughout his ravaged body served as inspiration for him to move forward. He could no longer exist this way; a slave to a body and soul which craved to be fed the substance which would ultimately destroy him. A slow and hideous death was all that lay ahead for Tommy, it was better to be quick and clean and on schedule courtesy of the “A” train.

As he limped along, head looking down upon the red and blue shoes of Armist, he allowed his mind to wander to the calls he was about to make. He was filled with dread and calm simultaneously, at the thought of speaking to the people on the list he was forming in his mind. It had been so long since he had spoken to his family, and there were those among them who had requested he never call again. It would be easier to go forth and complete his task without the calls or possibility of confrontation that would result from them but that would be wrong. He marveled at the notion that he, Tommy Boy, would have any idea whatsoever as to what would be right or wrong. He had spent the majority of his life in uncertainty, never knowing what the right thing to do was, always guessing and usually getting it wrong. The wrong action, the wrong words, this had been Tommy’s experience in life. This had been the fear he had walked with for as long as he could recall. His guidance system was fueled by fear and uncertainty and eventually denial and avoidance. He avoided confrontation through using and now here he was, on this dark and cool night, on Lexington Avenue; walking toward a destiny he would control and a phone booth he did not fear. Rhonda was right. He had introduced enough pain and anger into the lives of those he loved. He could not do what he had to do, unless they understood, that it was his choice. It was not their responsibility.

Tommy had walked in the shoes of Armist for two blocks, unaware of his progress. He stopped on the corner of Fifth and Lexington, just outside the range of the last street lamp he had passed through. Safely in the shadow of darkness he turned his attention to the distance he had covered from the alley. He could see the form of the flat foot Gideon turn west into an alley and Tommy was certain he had been seen by the cop. He smiled to himself in the knowledge his Armist ploy had worked. Across the Street and several blocks closer he watch a tall, confident man walking with a long and purposeful stride towards the front door of his little apartment. Tommy was amazed that this was Armist. Amazed that this man of the street had transformed before him and Tommy began to believe for the first time that miracles did exist in this shitty world.

Instinctively Tommy’s hand reached into the pocket of his jeans for the small circle of wooden beads attached to the crudely carved crucifix. Just as his mind recalled that the talisman was in the hands of Armist, his fingers fell upon a small hard object in the bottom corner of his pocket. Tommy removed his hand and in the midst of the pocket lint which had gathered lay a single white glistening tooth, rimmed with dried blood. It was the tooth of Sister Petra from the Mission. The tooth he and a brick wall had savagely removed from her mouth.

 Tommy was filled with remorse and shame as he gazed upon this disturbing trophy. He had no idea why he had taken this tooth from the wall. He actually had no memory of putting it in his pocket and yet it was here in his hand. The distraction of the tooth was immediate and incredible. Tommy’s focus had shifted completely to the tooth. He was transfixed by the simple beauty of the tooth with its smooth and perfect lines. The small rim of dried blood and flesh which clung to its edges was brilliant red in the light of the Street lamps. It glowed like an aura and Tommy became convinced that this is what he was seeing. The spirit of Petra, had some how altered this simple tooth. Just as the tooth was a trophy of evil and depravity which Tommy had succumbed to, it was also a relic to the goodness which had been Petra.

Tommy began to feel uneasy under the weight of the tooth. The clarity of thought he had been experiencing was slipping from him with remarkable speed. He found himself questioning the plan, he found himself listening to the fear of the unknown which had been lying in the back of his mind and for the first time he began to falter. He imagined the moment of impact as the A train swept him away in a blur of sparks and screaming brakes. There would be pain; there would be doubt at the last second, when there was no option left to act upon the doubt. Tommy rose up his arm and readied himself to fling the tooth into the Street. Its power was overcoming his reason and the sickness in his brain was beginning to stir. Just as he was about to launch the tooth into the center of Lexington Avenue, Tommy’s eye’s leveled upon the Large Cross perched on the pitched roof over top of the mission which had been home to Sister Petra, the mission where she had given food to Tommy and hundreds of others like him.  Here she had given food, love and compassion freely, never expecting anything in return, never preaching or judging; just being there, to help, as she had been called to do. Just showing the enduring love of Christ her savior and being present for those who did not yet know Him,.

The gravity of what he had done slowly began to rise in Tommy’s mind and as it did his arm which had been cocked and ready to throw fell to his side. The warmth of the tooth traveled through Tommy’s palm and up his arm, it settled in his heart and removed the feelings of remorse and self pity. The warmth of her love the extension of His love left his heart and traveled to his addicted brain and calmed his racing thoughts. Slowly, deliberately, clarity returned to Tommy. He understood that his actions had removed this woman from this earth where she had helped hundreds, even thousands of people. She would not be there at the mission to serve soup and love to anyone and Tommy was responsible.

 He crossed the street to the front door of the mission and there he knelt, head bowed, hands clasped together in front of him, a single tooth nestled in the middle. ‘My God, please forgive me, and give me strength,’ was the prayer Tommy spoke aloud as he reached forward and raised the welcome mat of the Fifth Street Mission. There, in a crevice in the cement, Tommy pushed the red rimmed tooth of Sister Petra in the hope that the goodness that was within her soul would somehow remain here at this mission. He blessed himself in the way he had been schooled as a child, rose up and turned south toward the phone booth where he would say his goodbyes to his darkened world.

ARRIVALS AND DEPARTURES

Armist slowly climbed the three steps to the stoop in front of the apartment which belonged to Tommy. As he stood before the door Armist could feel the panic rising in his gut. His heart was beating at an accelerated rate and his pulse pounded in his ears like a kettle drum. Next would come the numbness and tingle in his arms and hands and then, then would be the full blown panic attack. The panic had been with Armist for as far back as his memory could stretch; never any worse, never any better, always the same. His panic was constant; predictable and unpredictable at once, and in the panic Armist found an odd sense of comfort.  The panic was the only thing that had been with him his whole life. It was his ‘fight or flight’ alarm system and had many a time over the years been all that kept him from harm. The alarm bells were ringing loudly in his ears as he reached for the door knob, and every fiber of his being was telling him to run. This was not his business! Not his fight! Not his shit! He watched his knarled hand clasp the knob and turn it without hesitation, and in defiance of the fear, he stepped through the threshold.

The hall inside was dark, lit only by a single bulb one landing up. Armist was scared; he was never good indoors, not since he was a child. The closed in darkness of the hallway carried him back through time to the closets of his youth where he was kept in punishment for days on end. The orphanage to which he had been sent was an evil place run by evil people. Those old and dark memories lived in the deepest parts of Armist’s mind and had not surfaced in many years. He had trained himself to forget. Armist had chosen a life outdoors and in the alleys as a mechanism to keep his most feared memories at bay, and it had worked. He had vowed he would never be constrained again by any man or any institution, and he had lived by that vow. But here tonight, in this dark and filthy hallway, those memories had been loosed and Armist felt a tremble in his legs as he moved forward.

The smell in the hall was over powering in itself, and instinctively Armist moved his hand up over his nose. The stench was unmistakably that of human waste and as Armist’s eyes adjusted to the dim of the hallway, a shape appeared, spread across the bottom two steps of the stairway. As he approached the sleeping figure, Armist saw the tattered filthy overcoat and long white beard, stained with spit and nicotine. Lying here in this horrible state was Gustav Kaminski; know to the younger of the street dwellers as “Gutter Gus.” Just as Armist was a legend to the latest generation of vagrant Gustav was a legend to Armist. He had been here when Armist arrived as a young man some fifty odd years ago. Their first meeting had not gone well for Armist and without thought his hand rubbed the jagged scar over his right eye where years before a busted bottle had been the deciding factor in a dispute over an eight by ten piece of turf. Poor old Gutter Gus. He was on his way out and Armist doubted he would make the winter and part of him hoped he would not. They had started out badly all those years back but had become friends, or at least as close to friends as is allowed on the streets.

 Lying on the ground at his side was an empty family size plastic bottle of Purell hand cleaner, the top cut off and a plastic spoon sticking out. This was the quick road to oblivion for the old rubby who did not have the strength left to beg or steal a proper drink, but still had the need. The need was as strong as it had ever been. Every clinic, mission or welfare office in this part of town had hand cleaner at every door and desk, all easy pickings for  wily old street drunks and truth be told it was not just the old ones taking part these days; the young ones too, but it made them old quick

Armist poked the toe of his new trainers into the chest of old Gutter Gus with the appropriate amount of caution. An old sleeping dog was still a dog and there could be one more bad bite in this man who survived seven generations on the street. “Gus, that you Gus? This is old Army here, you alive Gustav?” Armist kicked just a bit harder and a groan came from deep within the sick old man. It was a groan so mournful and desperate that Armist took a step back in surprise and fear. Gustav was surely dying from the inside out, lots of him was already dead judging by the smell and slowly Armist raised a leg to step over Gutter Gus. “ You sleep well, Old-timer” said Armist as he hoisted his bulk over two steps at once, “You sleep well and long and soon we’ll take a meal together over my way, one for old time sakes eh, Gustav, one for the good old days.” Gutter Gus gurgled and farted long and loud as Armist made his way up the stairs and toward the door that said Tommy Boy.

Lying in wait inside the darkened apartment of the felon Tommy Boyle was Sergeant first class Jimmy McCaskey and rookie Johnny McFadden. McCaskey was five minutes from the end of his shift when Tommy was smashing the face of Sister Petra into a brick wall on Pine Street; five minutes away from the locker room and the shower he would take before meeting his wife for dinner to celebrate their tenth wedding anniversary; which he had missed two weeks ago.  He was just five minutes away from an evening of trying to convince his wife of ten years and two weeks that making him choose between their lives together and his life as a Cop was not fair. The conversation he had played over and over in his head all that day would never be required because tonight he was here, just as he always had been, putting the job ahead of the life and wife.

 He had never met Tommy, had only seen a photo of him they had found when they tossed his apartment earlier that evening, but he hated the man with all his heart. This man was the ruination of all that McCaskey had worked to achieve and this man would pay dearly. Nobody cared about the con man named Trip; just one less grifter on the street. But the moment that this low life had littered Pine Street with the teeth of the nun, the Commissioner of Police went ape shit. Tommy had become high profile, a person of interest! A druggie on the run! The media had descended like locusts on the station house, all running the same angle about the Sister of Mercy, bludgeoned by the very scum she had dedicated her life to saving. Not a one mentioned the bum Trip. The bums could kill each other all day long without notice, but off one Nun and the six o clock news team was at the door.

All units had been called in, all shifts extended to overtime; all-points bulletin in place and a man hunt underway. The Commissioner promised to have the man in custody by midnight, and that was two hours ago. And so here he was, with a nervous rookie, at two in the morning seething with anger, and praying to every God he can think of, that this piece of shit Tommy decides to come home for clean underwear.

The place was a dump and McCaskey was amazed that after all these years he was still disgusted and surprised at the way these people lived. The no-star hotel across the street on Lexington had‘No Vacancy’ flashing neon and every 30 seconds the little apartment was flooded with the green glow of neon gas. Every thirty seconds McCaskey caught a glimpse of the rookie McFadden and every thirty seconds the boy looked that much closer to loosing it. He was new, brand new, and this was his first stakeout. This was the real thing, the big time, and the kid was cutting his teeth on some serious crime. All these facts made this kid as dangerous to McCaskey as the scum bag they were waiting for. He would need to be careful this night.

For four hours now they had huddled in the dark, the rookie with a litany of whispered questions; McCaskey trying to keep him calm and now there was movement in the hall. McCaskey had agreed with the bosses that this junkie was on the run and would not return to his hovel but all the bases needed to be covered and so they waited in the dark. The seething pit of anger that McCaskey had been building in his gut was transformed into a calm professional demeanor. It was show time and his years of experience rose to the surface. McCaskey was born to be a cop and truth be told, he was willing to lose his wife for it.

The kid had his face pressed into the filthy door looking through the peep sight. He was breathing hard, short breaths, too fast and too deep. He would hyperventilate and be of no use if things went bad, McCaskey needed to slow him down.

“Ok, son, this may be it. Remember the procedures. They work if we do what we are supposed to do; now what do you see.

“I can’t see shit Sarg! To dark! But there is someone moving down there and talking. I think I hear some muffled talk, wait, ya, he’s comin’ up.”

In the dark, between the surreal green flashes of neon, McCaskey heard the leather hammer strap unsnap on the holster of the rookie’s service revolver.

“McFadden!” McCaskey whispered as loudly and harshly as the circumstance would allow. “This is a junkie here, not some punk hopped up on PCP. He has been on the run for over 6 hours now and there is no doubt in my mind this man has needed to get high in that time. He is scared and stupid enough to come back here, if it is even him! I’m guessing this boy may even be ready just to give up and take his due. We sure as hell won’t be using any revolvers up here in the dark unless he starts shooting first and nothing, I repeat NOTHING, gives us the impression that this man is armed. Snap up that revolver, constable and get ready your baton! No one is getting shot up here in this shit hole tonight, least of all me. You got that, rookie? Take up your position behind that door, slow up your breathing and calm your ass down. This will be over quick and if this is the perp we will be back in the house having coffee in twenty minutes. Be calm! Remember your training!”

Armist reached the top of the landing and looked for a long twenty seconds at the scrawled name of Tommy Boy across the dirty door of apartment number twelve. All the hair on his body was on end and Armist could feel the danger that existed in this mission he was beginning. They would have looked here for Tommy earlier in the day and there was a chance they were still watching the building though he never caught sight of them as he entered and Armist had become something of an expert in spotting cops over the years. He reached into his pocket and took out the rusted key which nestled there beside the small circle of wooden beads attached to the crudely carved crucifix. Slowly, with extreme fear and caution, Armist opened the door to the apartment of Tommy Boy.

The door swung open two feet on un-oiled hinges and stopped up against something which lay on the floor behind it. Constable first class Johnny McFadden caught a breath in his throat and held it there in silence as the apartment door came to rest on his size 12 Police issue beat walking boot. He was not fully in position, if he moved now the door would swing again and the suspect would know they were there.

Armist stood on the threshold of the one room apartment and strained his eyes to look inside. In the flashes of green neon Armist could see the disarray inside the apartment. Clothes and papers were strewn all over the floor, dirty dishes were staked high on the small table in the far corner and a foul smell drifted into the hall and mingled with the smell of the dying and the feces of Gutter Gus. Armist was reaching the peak of panic and tried to slow his beating heart and racing mind. Was this something he had to do? He needed a coat and he could use the quilt but mostly he had to deliver the Rosary. He could forgo entering this dark apartment with all the implication attached to it. His presence there, were he to be discovered, would be hard to explain but he had made a deal; the coat and anything else that was in here and useable was now his property. He had to collect it as surely as he had to breathe so slowly with a mixture of caution, panic and fear Armist moved two steps into the apartment.

        The smell was worse in here and Armist tried with all his power to gather his senses and calm the thunderous roar of the pulse in his ears. Slowly he reached into his pocket for the Rosary and the calmness it would bring.  He smelled dust and mould and dirty laundry. There was a combined scent of tobacco and pot and the deadly blue smoke of crack cocaine hanging on the furniture and in the curtains and Armist was sure this smell would be carried on his newly bartered coat and quilt. He would have to air out theses articles in his Alley before they would be useable. He breathed in deeply and identified week old Kraft dinner caked and drying on a plate in the sink. The buzz of flies replaced the quieting thunder in his ears and Armist was certain that when the lights were thrown on there would be the scurry of hundred of cock roaches to their places of safety. Armist understood the cock roaches and their need to remain unseen and protected.

 He could smell cheap vodka everywhere in this small space and he imagined drunken and stoned Tommy spilling vodka on the carpet as he wandered from wall to wall in this drywall cage, pacing in his insanity and addiction until he passed out in his own vomit and piss. The smell of the piss was everywhere and Armist, a self admitted Alcoholic and street urchin could not understand how any man could live like this. In this filth and in this mire lie the dreams and ambitions of something that had once been human, but was no longer, and Armist felt compassion for the beast which had been Tommy.

Armist stood there unflinching, letting his nose be his eyes and sensing the lay out of the apartment. He was about to walk to the street side of the building and draw the curtains so he could turn on the lights unnoticed when his well tuned nose for danger picked up yet another scent; a scent which did not fit here in this hovel. He breathed in deeply and his nose and feet began to work in unison. As he took his first step backward toward the dimly lit hall he registered the disturbing scent in his keen mind. English Leather Cologne!  The type worn by the smarmy arrogant prick that worked at the welfare office. The guy who Armist occasionally relied on for some food stamps in the dead of winter, the guy who had always looked upon him with contempt. That was what he smelled; here amongst the smells of despair and that did not fit. There was someone else in this shit hole, someone who did not belong, and Armist turned to flee.

Constable McFadden knew he had been made the moment Armist began to turn. With reflexive speed his size twelve boot kicked the door towards the jam. The forward motion of the fast moving Armist was what actually slammed the dirty door shut as Armist barreled into it with all his weight. Armist bounced off the door just as McFadden moved forward to subdue the unknown perpetrator in the dark apartment and the two collided with tremendous force. The wind exited the young constable in a single gush on the impact of these two big men, just as it escaped from the tired lungs of old Armist. But as the young Constable’s knees were buckling on his descent to the dirty floor the old bum’s knees were locking into his fighting stance. Armist swung hard with his talon-like fist and connected solidly onto the chiseled chin of the rookie cop.  McFadden continued his descent to the floor with no air in his lungs, and stars behind his eyes. Just as consciousness was about to slip away, the room was filled by the green glow of neon and McFadden got an eerie glimpse of the man who had just ended his first stake-out. An old man, with a crippled hand holding a small rosary had bested the young Constable. As darkness began to fill the eyes of Constable McFadden, the room was flooded with light. As he lay with his freshly shaved, English Leathered cheek on the filthy carpet of the filthy apartment, he watched in amazement as hundreds of cock-roaches passed his fading vision running for cover.

Armist spun around to face the center of the room in time to catch the working end of Sergeant McCaskey’s service issued expandable baton in his solar plexus. Armist was still short on wind from the collision with the other cop, and this last jab to the gut was leaving him weak. He threw a left punch which hit only air as the older and more experienced cop had struck quickly and then fell back. As Armist’s fist swung through the air in a wide arc, the Sergeant brought the baton down across the upper shoulders and lower neck of the old street fighter. Armist went down. He lay crumpled over the unconscious young cop with pain generating down his spine, but Armist began to struggle to his knees.

 Sergeant McCaskey called out a warning for the old man to stay down but Armist was no longer functioning with any logic or reason. He was reacting to the situation, just as he had his entire life. He let his panic fuel his limbs and his fear direct his punches. There would be no surrender here, tonight there could only be defeat. McCaskey had been around. McCaskey knew the type of man who was now in front of him; struggling to his feet. McCaskey knew there would be no surrender here tonight, so he swung the baton with all his strength, connecting solidly with the forehead of the old scrapper. A nasty purple welt sprung instantly from the jagged scar above the right eye of the old man, his eyes rolled back into his head and he gracefully fell to the floor behind the body of First Constable Johnny McFadden. “There.” said McCaskey, and as he looked down upon the situation he could not suppress his smile. He took out his cell phone and snapped a shot of the old bum spooning with the young constable. “That one will make it to the locker room bulletin board,” he laughed to himself as he cuffed the old man, and began to shake the rookie back into consciousness.

Tommy huddled in a door way, kitty corner to the phone booth which stood two blocks from the overpass of the five a.m. “A” train. His entire body was coated in a film of cold sweat and the tremor in his hand was worsening. He held his left hand with his right to try and slow the shaking, and he hummed softly under his breath trying not to listen to the voice of the “lover”. She was back in his head now and she was beckoning to him; softly whispering her lies. Tommy had hoped she had gone but the reality was that she had only hidden, as she had done so many times before, allowing him to believe he had some control. His skin crawled with the feel of a thousand tiny insects and Tommy knew what was happening to him. He was detoxing.

The pain of a thousand different names; DT’s, shakes, withdrawal, climbing off the horse, on the wagon, it mattered not what you called it or how you described it, it was pain, plain and simple. It was the death which needed to occur so one could live again, clean and sober. It was the beginning of life for those who had the strength to go on and the end of life for those who did not. Tommy was the latter and understood he was too weak to live through this period of pain. Tommy had not gone a single day in over a year without using crack and booze and now his body was letting him know the time for repair had come and gone. It was the wake-up call his “lover” was only to happy to deliver, and one which Tommy had never failed to heed, till this night. He was weak and he was sick, but the knowledge that this would all be over in a few short hours gave him focus. He knew he could fight her off long enough to see her die, once and at long last. She would be dead forever; dying in the body, soul and mind of Tommy, dying with Tommy.

His hand slid into the large pocket of Armist’s parka and withdrew the small, green velvet case which carried the legacy of the men in his family. He rolled it over a time or two in his shaking hand and then opened the case to look upon the jewelry inside. Looking at the ring and watch brought forth memories of his father and grandfather and the stories they passed to him of his great grandfather. All these three had been good men; from good stock and hard working their whole lives. Each of these men seemed to go through their lives with an instinctive knowledge of what needed to be done. They always knew the next ‘right thing to do’ and they always did it, regardless of the outcome to themselves. Their lives had been long and full and the love they felt for each other was never hidden behind fear or regret. All they had they offered up to each other and all they had learned about living they had passed down to Tommy. It had all been there for him to embrace and somehow, he had missed it.  All of that knowledge, love and heritage had gone up literally in a puff of blue smoke and a snort of cheap vodka.

As he slipped the ring onto his finger, his father’s words rang in his ears as though he were there beside him in this dirty door way and Tommy supposed in some ways the man truly was here. ‘The love and pride of three generations can carry a man through a lot, son.’ The words echoed and hung in the chambers of Tommy’s mind and heart and he continued the thought aloud, “If you let it Pop. It can only carry a man through a lot, if you let it.”

He took out the old pocket watch and wound it full. In the darkness of the doorway the luminous digits of the old watch shone out to him as a beacon. It was 2.15 in the morning and time was running out for Tommy. There were people he needed to contact and the necessity of making that contact had become paramount to Tommy. Making these calls had, in his mind, become a path to atonement to some of those in his life who had tried to love him and failed. The failure was not in the way he had been loved by others, but in the way he had misinterpreted and received that love.  It was he who had traveled throughout the most part of his life with a distorted and delusional perspective on the world and he hoped he could let those who had loved him know they had not been at fault.  They bore no responsibility in the end result of Tommy’s life. He held the watch to his ear and was soothed by the steady ticking of the mechanism. The precision of the Swiss would ensure he did not miss his final appointment.

The obsession with the calls was all that kept his focus now, and he was thankful to Rhonda for helping him to realize the need. Her pleading farewell to him as he left the alley rang in his mind. “What about me?” she had pleaded “You were not even going to say goodbye.” And she had been right. He was not even going to say good bye, not to anyone. What had he become?

Armist and Johnny McFadden reentered the waking world within moments of each other.  The Rookie cop awoke groggy and groaning, but the old hobo came to, alert and ready to bolt. He quickly discovered he had been hand-cuffed and he rolled up onto his knees with remarkable agility, his wary eyes surveying the room and seeking escape.

“Just calm down there, old timer,” said McCaskey as he made his way over to the younger cop

 “Let your head clear a wee bit before you think yourself into more shit. Sorry I had to smack you as hard as I did but you and I both know it was the only way. That was quite the hay maker you laid on the chin of my young friend here! I bet it’s not the first knock out punch you ever threw in your life and as much as I do admire it, it is still assaulting an officer and that my friend is bad news for you. We are sure as hell going to have to take you in and you sure as hell are going to spend a night in the can before you get to see a judge. But we are going to take a few minutes here, just you and I and this young Constable. We are going to let his head clear and maybe while we wait you may want to explain to me how it is you have come into possession of the key to the apartment of a wanted man. Who knows, maybe you help me and I can help you, after all. It was just a little bump on the chin. Isn’t that so Constable?”

“Right Sarg,” muttered Johnny McFadden as he slid his butt across the dirty carpet and rested his back and wounded pride against the dirty apartment door, “Just a bump on the chin, no harm done.”

Armist’s eyes darted quickly around the room as his mind calculated options. They seemed few at this moment and Armist realized he was in big trouble. He had cold-cocked a Cop and that could not go unpunished unless he cooperated fully. To cooperate fully meant he would have to turn on and in one of his own, and though he felt more disgust than loyalty to the beast which had been Tommy, he understood that Tommy was one of us and the cops were one of them. He knew where he fit in the picture and the picture looked grim.

Armist began slowly, “I don’t know anything that will help you fellars with this guy you’re looking for. I only come here for what is mine, what I got fair and square from the fellar what lives here. A few days ago it was, and I am only just now coming to collect. I ain’t done anything wrong; I just swung in the dark is all. You boys never identified yourselves as Policemen, I just thought maybe I was about to be rolled. Man’s gotta right to protect his self, that’s the way I sees it, any way.”

“And you are probably right,” said Sergeant McCaskey. “Trouble is that no one else will ever know that is what happened. The young fella here found himself a little out of position, and you are a bit craftier that we maybe were ready for, so, when you ran, we had no choice but to stop you. And if in that time some one forgot to holler out, STOP, POLICE, I do apologize and I urge you to accept the apology here and now because you will never hear it again, and it will never get into any report on the events of this evening. It was all done by the book; procedures all in place and you have been apprehended. We clear on that old timer?”

“I suppose,” whispered Armist as he felt the panic build and the room close in around him. He had to hang on and truth be told, he would do all that was required to stay out of a holding cell this night. He lowered his head to avoid the gaze of the cop and his eyes fell upon the small circle of wooden beads attached to the crudely carved crucifix. He took a cleansing breath and the panic began to subside.

 “Lets start over shall we? I am Sergeant Jim McCaskey and this young officer against the door and looking a mite peeked is Constable First Class Johnny McFadden. You may simply address either of us as Officer. We sure would like to know who you are, sir, and we sure hope we can help each other out.  So, if you would like to start talking, this would be a good time.”

Armist was running multiple lies through his brain simultaneously. It was as though his brain were a slot machine and all the different stories were rolling by his mind’s eye, out of sequence and disjointed. He waited as long as he could for the story to stop with three similar segments to lock in place, but it was all happening too quickly and the lie was just out of reach. He sensed the time to speak was now, and he began slowly.

“Look, officers, I am just an old man trying to get by. This guy that lives here, this Tommy guy, he owed me some money and he told me I could come here and get some stuff. Said he did not need a winter coat and such things any more, and I could have what I wanted. I don’t know him real well, but we are brothers in the street. You know what I mean, officer. So, I was supposed to come a few days ago but I been kind of sick, touch of the flu, and so I am just getting around to it. But I don’t know anything about what he may have done or why y’all are here looking for this guy. Truth is I got a bit of a bum ticker and you boys near scared me half to death here in the dark. That’s why I swung on the officer like I did, I meant no disrespect to the uniform no siree, I got lots of respect for you boys in blue. Did you know my Daddy was a war Hero? Died over there in Normandy, so he did, doing his duty, just like you boys are doing yours down here in this war zone. You know if there was anything I could tell you I would, and that’s no crap! There’s no need to run me in for no night in a cell over a simple misunderstanding. Just a bump on the chin right? Just like the officer said and ‘sides which I never been in trouble in the sixty odd years I been down these parts. I hate to get a record now at this time in my life. It might affect my social security or something-who knows. So seeing as I am cooperating like I am, why not just pull these cuffs off and I can go back to my camp and leave you boys waiting here in the dark on this Tommy fella. You can count on me to be quiet and if I see him, maybe somehow I can get him to come on home and then you got him! What do ya say? ”

McCaskey looked on dumb-founded and let several seconds of silence stand between him and the old man before him, in hand cuffs and on his knees in the dirty apartment.

“We can count on you? Are you kidding me?  Cooperating! Is that what you said? You just talked for five minutes and never said a friggin’ thing! You never even said your frigging name, old-timer, so let’s start again. What is your name?”

Armist sat very still with his head down low. He knew there would be no talking his way out. This cop was the real deal and he meant to take Armist in, regardless of what he said. There were no deals to be had here tonight.  Slowly he raised his head and looked McCaskey in the eye. “I truly am sorry officer but I don’t have any information for you. I am asking you now, son, if you will just take these cuffs off and let me be. I didn’t do nothing and I aint involved in any of this business and I can’t spend a night in no cell. I just can’t.”

Sergeant McCaskey looked hard and long at the old and tired man that kneeled in front of him on the floor of the dirty apartment and believed the man was telling him most of the truth. But not all of the truth and that was what McCaskey required. “Constable McFadden, please help Mr. Old-timer to his feet and call in for a squad car. We will discuss this further at the station house over some nice hot coffee.”

“Come on old man. Let’s get it up and get it moving. I personally need some fresh air. We’ll call for a car from out front.” said McFadden as he was assisting Armist to his feet.  

 Sergeant McCaskey left the dirty apartment and entered into the darkened hall followed by Armist and then Constable first class Johnny McFadden. Both men gasped at the smell drifting up the stairwell from the heap of human flesh lying on the steps beneath them. As they moved down the darkened stairway the hands of the policemen rose instinctively to cover their noses and Armist grimaced as his hands were cuffed behind his back.

“My God!” said McFadden “What kind of low life bum could ever smell so bad? Someone ought to run him in for violation of the clean air act!”

“Never mind, son, just keep walking and let’s get out of here. Besides, it is not our place to judge or scorn these people down here. They have fallen hard and that could just as easy be you or me lying there in our own shit. Lots of us on the job are just a pay cheque away, don’t ever kid yourself. We are just here to do a job. Serve and protect that’s all, so keep moving and shut up.”

“No way Sarg.! Guys like you and me would never end up like these disgusting low lives. They make me want to puke. Waste of skin and a drain on society, that’s what I say, man. They serve no useful purpose, just a damn dirty bum.”

Armist stopped in his tracks three steps down, and half turned to face the young Policemen. “He ain’t no waste of skin! He’s just old kid. We all get old, someday you too. His name is Gustav Kaminski and he did the best he could with life. Sometimes we don’t get it right, that don’t make us bad, just makes us down on our luck. I can tell you he never in his life hurt no one didn’t need hurting, and he never took what wasn’t his unless he had no other way. He had a wife and a kid one time, mother and father I expect as well, but he ended up down here, like the rest of us and he did the best he could. You oughta respect that.”

“Ya whatever old man. Just keep walking. I expect you are only a couple years away from this one down here any way, right?”

McCaskey turned quickly and spoke with authority. “Well, well; would you listen to Mr. Old-timer? All of a sudden he knows all about the people down here, including the sleeping Mr. Gustav Kaminski, but he does not know jack about our missing Tommy, what a surprise! Constable McFadden, I have been trying all this night to show you the way we do things because I know you are fresh and new. I have been trying all night to get it through to you that not everything you need to know to make it out here on the job, is in the Procedure Book. There are some things you just need to feel. I don’t care to hear your theories on how these gentlemen ended up living the way they do, and I resent your judgments on them. I have a grandfather lived just like they do, and I know he was not a bad person. Some may say he was sick, and even that is not up for me or you to decide. You get that? We are on this job to serve and protect everyone. That includes this gentleman we are escorting to the station, and also Mr. Kaminski down there. When you learn that, you will be on your way to being the kind of cop that will make a difference. Now proceed and show these men some respect!”

The three turned and began to make their way slowly down the remaining stairs in the poorly lit hallway. In single file, they approached the bottom steps and the still form of Gutter Gus. In the dim light they could see the rise and fall of his filthy jacket moving in time with the low wheezing which was now audible in the hall. The closer they got the more intolerable was the smell of the sick old man, and McCaskey quickly stepped over and steadied himself on the landing below. He turned and raised a hand to help steady Mr. Old timer who was cuffed and moving unsteadily on his feet. Both McCaskey and Armist had settled on the landing when Constable first class Johnny McFadden began to step over the sleeping Gustav Kaminski his hand raised to cover his nose as his stomach rolled, nearly loosing its contents. He gagged hard twice, and his head was swirling as he began to speak.

“My God!” he exclaimed in disgust, “I don’t know about all you said Sarg, I only know that this is not the way people I need to show respect to, smell. This is the way swine smell. Pigs at the stock yard lying in their own shit! This is a human pig, man.  He is worse than that; this guy would gag a maggot!”

McCaskey was the first to see Gutter Gus move.  In a single movement that was fluid from years of experience, McCaskey unclipped and released the telescopic baton with his left hand, as he physically moved Armist off to the side and behind him, to the right. As the six-inch blade of Gutter Gus glinted from the single incandescent bulb in the dingy hall McCaskey swung down hard with the baton.  

The young constable was oblivious to the movement behind and beneath him, and his eyes widened in surprise as Sergeant McCaskey turned and released his baton, swinging it hard in a descending arc toward him. In the next second his eyes slammed shut in surprise and pain as the six inch blade of Gutter Gus pierced through the cotton uniform slacks, broke the skin and lodged firmly into the left ass cheek of Constable First Class Johnny McFadden. The young officer screamed in pain as he crumbled head on to the landing below Gutter Gus, the downward swing of the baton skimming his right ear as it passed en route to the old man on the step.

“Run, Armist, Run!” were the words falling from the lips of the sick old Gustav Kaminski as the Telescopic Baton of Sergeant James McCaskey fell across the bridge of his nose shattering, the bones filled with stenosis, sending shards through the thin membrane around his brain and killing him instantly.

Sergeant Jim McCaskey was an expert with the baton. He could take a man down instantly, or flick the smoldering end off of a cigarette as a warning. His precision with the baton was legendary, and his touch could be gentle or lethal. When Sergeant Jim McCaskey leveled and swung his baton in defense of a brother officer, his touch was always lethal and Gustav Kaminski (Gutter Gus as they called him down here), was dead before either he or McCaskey realized what had happened. The swing of his baton had been instinctual rather that intentional, and in that moment when action was required, McCaskey had reacted with extreme prejudice as he had been trained. He was at close quarters. His forward swing with all its momentum brought him down on his left knee as the baton found its target across the bridge of the nose of gutter Gus.  His face only feet away from Kaminski’s on the point of impact, their eyes locked together, and in those eyes McCaskey saw a multitudes of emotion. There in Gustav’s eyes, as he cried “Run, Armist, run” McCaskey has seen the glean of victory. There in his eyes, as the baton fell with all its force, he saw the surprise of the seventy year old man. And there, in those eyes, at the moment of his death, McCaskey had seen joy, peace and relief. Whatever had been the circumstances in this man’s life, held no bearing in his death. The jaundiced eyes of Gutter Gus had cleared to a pristine white in that last millisecond and McCaskey would swear for the rest of his life that Gustav Kaminski had smiled, as though he could see where he was going, and it was far better than where he had been.

The spirit of Gustav Kaminski had left, but the ruins of the body he had inhabited here on this earth remained, and instantly let loose of all the foulness and evil which had filled this old man. A black bile oozed out of his mouth and his bowels let loose in a long and drawn out flutter. The stench that had previously filled the small entrance had been a welcome smell in comparison to what was now filling the landing. The death rattle was still underway in the body of Gustav Kaminski. As the body shook and convulsed in death, it rolled off the step on which it had been precariously perched, sliding down the two steps below, and onto the squirming body of the injured constable first class Johnny McFadden.  McFadden had been writhing in pain trying to pull the six inch blade of Gutter Gus out of his ass. The blade had found bone and lodged deeply into it.  McFadden was in great pain and as Gutter Gus rolled on top of him; oozing bile, shit, vomit and blood, McFadden puked violently and for the second time in ten minutes, fell out of the conscious world.

Jim McCaskey sat on the floor of the dirty hall way and looked down upon his young partner and the man he had just killed, and for the first time in a very long time, he wished he had gone to dinner with his wife. He looked up from the tangled men on the floor and out the front door of the building, in time to see a six-foot-three handcuffed man running into the alley of Lexington and he thought to himself, “Armist - what an odd name.” His hand came up and keyed the shoulder mount radio.

“Unit twelve requesting immediate back-up at the stakeout location of the fugitive Thomas Boyle. I have an officer down and a civilian casualty. I am requesting paramedics and the coroner on the scene. Please issue an all points bulletin for a material witness who has escaped custody. Six-foot- three, in his sixties, hand cuffed, and goes by the name of Armist, last seen heading North of Lexington. Be advised, this man is not being sought for the assault on an officer. He is wanted for questioning only, in the matter of Thomas Boyle.”

As McCaskey leaned back on the step and waited for the backup he looked once more upon the empty body of Gustav Kaminski. He felt an emptiness growing in his gut and tears begin to well in his eyes. McCaskey pushed himself slowly to his feet, exited the building and drew in a lung full of outside air. McCaskey looked down his arm and saw there in his hand the bloodied baton, and felt a new hate growing in him for Tommy Boy.

Armist ran as he had not run in twenty years. Fully erect, cuffed arms pumping lungs sucking in huge gasps of air and legs moving in large circles like a garden wind catcher. He felt the night air as it whipped over his forehead and through his hair and he knew he could outrun the panic. This night was far from over for Armist, and trouble was bound to come looking for him again, but for now he was outside. For now, there was no more threat of a night in the slammer. For now, he was free as he had been his entire life. As he rounded the corner into the alley off of Lexington, he turned back to see if the tough old cop was following and to catch a quick breath. He could see McCaskey standing on the front stoop of Tommy boy’s apartment taking in huge breaths of air but making no attempt to follow. As Armist turned away into the Alley he spoke aloud into the night “I guess an old sleeping dog is still a dog, eh Gus? One more bad bite in that old dog and one that young punk copper will remember every time he wipes his ass!” Laughing, Armist Hancock slipped off into the night.

The steady ticking of the pocket watch in Tommy’s ear had been like a tonic to him and for the first time in many years, huddled in this darkened doorway, Tommy fell asleep. Without booze or drugs, he had drifted into the deep sleep his body and brain had been craving for so many months; the healing sleep that the body knows it needs but the addiction refuses to allow. He lay unmoving, slouched against the door way in the dark. A passerby may have thought him dead as his breathing was barely perceptible, and the rapid eye movement associated with the dream he had fallen into was not visible in the darkness.

In his dream, Tommy was at home, on the farm, and his Mother was busily canning vegetables in the kitchen of the rambling old farmhouse.  Tommy sat in the seat at the end of the shining maple harvest table. From the chair that belonged to his Father, Tommy watched as his Mother moved through the cupboards with practiced precision adding salts and spices into the brew which was bubbling upon the old wood burning stove and filling the house with the aromas of Tommy’s childhood. The smells flooded Tommy with the memories he cherished. The Christmases spent here with brother and sister, mother and father; the birthdays and anniversaries, but mostly with just the regular days. Everyday here, in this house, was magical and special and Tommy was filled with a sense of completion as he sat here, in his Fathers chair, filled with love.

As the tears welled behind his eyes, Tommy’s mother turned from the counter to face him. She started in surprise at Tommy and shrank back into the counter in fear. The Mason jar she had been preparing to fill with the string beans from the garden fell from her hand and shattered on the well-worn floors in front of the cupboards. The shards of glass found their way into the hollowed out portions of the ash floor boards. Indentations which had been carved by his mother’s feet through miles of loving journeys from sink to stove. The evening sun beamed through the big window above the sink and was drawn to the glass like metal shavings to a magnet suddenly filling the room with an abundance of rainbows.

Tommy looked around the room in amazement and was struck at the differences he observed there. He had sat at this table hundreds of times in his life and looked upon this room but somehow, here in the late afternoon of this fall day, it all seemed unfamiliar to him. The rainbows hung on every object and lingered in every corner, and though rainbows had held Tommy in fascination throughout his life, the rainbows which filled this room were different. Something ominous danced within the rainbows and Tommy was beginning to be filled with dread. Tommy tried desperately to hang on to that feeling of peace and completion which had filled him only seconds before, but the struggle seemed in vain and he felt himself fragmenting. In a way which was beyond his comprehension, he could feel his life falling to pieces around him, broken and fragmented like the mason jar and scattered string beans on the worn ash floor.

As his eyes traveled about the room desperately following the dangerous rainbows, Tommy found himself gazing at the woman who moments before had softly hummed as she lovingly canned preserves to feed her family through the coming winter. She was stricken with fear. He had seen his mother in many situations over the years and knew her moods well. When she was angry, her brow furrowed like the rows of potatoes in the garden. Her eyes would grow narrow and then, then you knew, you were in trouble. When she was sad, she became very quiet and often her lower lip would tremble slightly, she would cast her eyes toward the ground and her sadness would fill the room. But when she was cheerful, which was most of the time, her presence was like wildfire. Her joy was infectious and the light in her eyes would overpower all the negativity in the room. She made you feel as though you were the most important person in the world, and there was no problem too large to overcome. Yes, Tommy knew his mother well. He knew her looks and her smells and her touch, but he did not know her abject fear.  

He had never seen this look of terror on the face of his mother before, and it filled him with fear. He tried to speak, but words would not come. He wanted to reassure this frightened woman, but each time he opened his mouth a rainbow escaped into the room. But the “rainbows” which were coming from the inside of Tommy were not red and yellow and pink and green, these rainbows were brown and black and grey and slate. These rainbows exuded sickness and disease and as they drifted into the colorful rainbows which danced on the ceiling and walls, their brightness and joy were transformed into darkness and sorrow. Tommy watched in awe as the light was slowly absorbed and the room grew dark. And then his mother screamed.

The scream was other worldly, and seemed to emanate from the entire body of this small woman before him. Like a pin prick to a balloon the scream instantly shattered the rainbows and mingled colours of red and blue and black and brown, crashed to the ash floor; a shard slicing through the sleeve of the army jacket Tommy was wearing and cutting deeply into his forearm. Tommy looked down upon the wound laid open by the deadly rainbow and was shocked to see open flesh but no blood. He could see his veins pulsing inside the arm but rather than blood being carried in the vein there seemed to be a dark and thick substance, the smell of which began to permeate the room, replacing the pleasant odors of his life.

The screamed traveled through the board walls of the old farm house and was carried on the wind to the fields beyond the barn where Tommy’s father was busy bringing in the hay. In the distance Tommy could hear the engine of the tractor as it was turned off and incredibly in the next second the door of the farm house kitchen was thrown open wide and there stood Tommy’s father. Except it was not really Tommy’s father. The man here was too large to be the father Tommy had known. Tommy’s father was of average height and in good shape, farmhand shape. But this man in the doorway was at least six foot six and two hundred and fifty pounds of chiseled flesh, and he was filled with a frightening anger which engulfed him in a dark hazy aura. The veins at the temples of this man were exaggerated and pulsing wildly, giving him an even more sinister and foreboding appearance. And then as the man spoke he transformed into a closer image of Tommy’s father. He was and was not Tommy’s father at once and Tommy was left in a heightened state of fear and confusion, and all the while his mother continued to scream.

Then, as quickly as it had begun, the screaming stopped. In an instant the room was silent and the man that was and was not Tommy’s father, stood in the doorway, staring directly at Tommy.

“What’s going on in here, mister? What are you doing in my house and what have you done to my wife?”

“He’s not done a thing to me, John. It’s just I turned and there he was, just looking at me in a funny kind of way. I never heard him come in or nothing at all, he was just there and then something happened to the light and I screamed.”

“Wait” started Tommy “Mom, Dad it’s me, what is the matter with you can’t you see it’s me!”

“I can see just fine mister” said Tommy’s father “just fine indeed. And what I see is a torn down low life sitting in my chair! What I see is someone I don’t know calling us Ma and Pa and scaring the life out of my wife. Now how did you get in this house and what is it you want!”

“I don’t want anything Pop. I just wanted to come home. That’s all I ever wanted but I never knew how. I just want to stay here Pop and have it like it was.”

“Listen Mister, I can see you are in a bad way and we are Christian folks here so if I can help you I will, but I need two things from you right off. I need you first to get up from that table and come on outside so we can talk about what is best for you and I need you to stop calling me ‘Pop’. You understand that? I have three children, only one of em ever called me that, and I have not seen that boy in better than ten years. So don’t call me that again and it is the only time I will tell you.”

Tommy looked on in horror. The form of the man in the door was once more growing and the anger was seething inside this man though the words he spoke were calm. Something was wrong with them! They were afflicted with some delusion and could not see it was Tommy here in front of them, at long last finding his way home!

“Pop, Mom it is me. It is your Tommy! I come home finally. I am so sorry I have stayed away so long but I lost my way Pop. I could not find my way back here to the farm.  I’ve been in trouble and done some bad things, Ma, and I need you to help me now.  I don’t know how to get back to my life.”

Tommy’s mother began to weep. Her sobs began slowly and jaggedly but very soon became powerful rhythmic sobs which she could not control or stop. Slowly; Tommy’s Father crossed the worn ash boards between them and took her in his arms. He rubbed her hair softly and whispered soothing words into her ear; words which this man had whispered so many times before on so many dark nights. This man; who was destined in life to be the strong one; this man; who had done his best these last many years to console his wife, trying to keep life normal when life was so far from it; this man; who had to pretend every day that his heart had not been broken by his first born child, his Tommy.

Tommy’s father looked over the shoulder of his sobbing wife and stared sternly at the man in his kitchen. When he spoke his words were quiet, eerily so, and they fell from his lips with hate.

“I don’t know who the hell you are, or what the hell you think you are playing at, but what you just did to this woman is beyond my capacity to forgive. You understand what I am telling you! I want you out of my house this minute. I won’t call the law on you, Mister, but I will hurt you, just as sure as I am standing here if you don’t go NOW!”

“But Pop! It is me! It is Tommy, what the hell is wrong with you? Look. Look here, I got the watch. The pocket watch you gave me. Three generations, Pop, you remember! I got the watch damn it!”

A silence filled the room and darkness filled the heart of Tommy as he watched the man in front of him grow back into a frightening version of his Father, the man whom he had loved. When the apparition spoke the words were raspy and threatening and Tommy felt the urge to run building in his chest and legs.

”Where did you get that watch! That watch was my Grand Dad’s and my Dad’s and mine and now it belongs to my son Tommy. If you have hurt him I will kill you. Do you understand that? If he is hurt you will pay!” He began to step out from behind Tommy’s mother who continued to weep with her back turned to Tommy. As he moved toward Tommy, Tommy began to back away. He had to run and he did understand that. As he turned to flee, the watch fell from his hand and crashed to the floor amongst the coloured and broken rainbows.

Tommy ran as he had run a thousand times in his life; from the law, from the dealers, from the people who owned the purses he had snatched, but mostly as he had run from himself. He left the kitchen and entered the living room of the house he had grown up in, but the room was no longer there. There was a vast and dark cavernous hallway off the kitchen, with thousands of doors leading into thousands of unknown rooms. Tommy was filled with fear and panic and though he could see no one following, he was certain evil was on his trail and if he slowed his pace he would be consumed and lost forever. He had to run, as he had never run before. There seemed to be no end to the hall which stretched out before him and just as Tommy was about to be overcome by the hopelessness which had been building in his soul, he heard the voice.

 At first it was soft and gentle and Tommy was not certain he had heard it at all over the rasping of his own breath. Then it came to him again-sweetly and seductively. It was a voice familiar to him. It was the Lover. She was there, just ahead in the corridor. This hallway which moments earlier seem to stretch on into infinity was coming to a fork. The voice, which was stronger now and more pleading than it had ever been was coming from the left fork in the hall way. “Come this way, Tommy,” it implored him, “come back to me and all of this will go away. I am the one who loves you, the only one. I will take care of you and give you what you need. Come to me now Tommy Boy. Come home to me, it is the only home there is for you now.’

The words were sweet and the words were true. So many times in these last many years the Lover had spoken to Tommy but never before as she has spoken tonight. Not since the first night they had met, that first night he had partaken of the Lover and knew he could never leave her had she spoken so clearly. That feeling of contentment which he had sought for so many years lay just ahead and to the left of the path.  As he approached the path to the left he began to sob. Tommy was nearly there almost taking the path to the left when he heard another voice. “Tommy, Tommy! Come to me now, Tommy. You have been there with her for so long. She cannot help you any longer, Tommy. She has hurt you. She has made you do the horrible things you have done Tommy. Come to me now. Come to me where we can help you to make it right. Come to Petra, Tommy, as you had planned.”

At the last second Tommy veered away from the left path and took the right road at the fork. But as he turned right, there before him opened a vast void. A nothingness which fell away forever and screaming in fear Tommy ran into open space.  He fell over and over for what seemed an eternity when suddenly Tommy saw the bottom of the pit as he sped toward it. Fear and relief filled his body as he raced toward the bright light below and for the first time in so long Tommy felt rested, like he knew where he was going and just then….

Tommy awoke in the darkened doorway with a start. The pocket watch which had been on his knee was lying broken on the cement step at his side. His breathing was jagged and forced, and he coughed three or four times from the depths of his chest. His lungs hurt as though he had been running, running for his life.  His head flopped forward and Tommy began to weep.  The place he had been had been so real to Tommy and the image of what he had become was clear in his mind. He knew the truth of the dream. He was unrecognizable. He had become something other than Tommy Boyle. A beast which had no longer the right or the will to live was all that was left of the young man his parents had loved. The answer, the solution lay with Sister Petra. He must go to the place where he had sent her. She would be there, behind the light at the end of the tunnel, and he would know peace.

Tommy rose up, looked up and down the darkened street, and walked across the street and entered the phone booth on the corner. With the Green Velvet box he reached up and smashed the single bulb in the booth so as to remain unseen. He reached into the large pocket of the army jacket and took out six dollars and fifty cents in change, lined it up on the top of the phone and prepared to make his first call.

1. ATONEMENT

Tommy stood shivering in the darkened phone booth. The night had turned cool and the rain had transformed into a light mist which seemed to permeate his entire being. As he stood with his eyes closed he could imagine all of his internal organs as they shivered, sending small earthquake like tremors out to the edges of his body. He could feel his fingers and toes vibrating, and he was certain if he spoke at this moment his voice would sound eerily similar to Katherine Hepburn; shaky and weak, like an old man, like someone who had been used up.

He took hold of the edges of the old army parka and pulled it tightly around his shaking body. With all the will which was available to him he tried to think himself warm. He thought of hot summer days full of hard work and good fun; back on the farm surrounded by family and neighbor as the hay was brought in for the winter months ahead. He thought of the dusty hay maw they had worked and played in as children, and the wonderful smell of old and new hay mixed together. The thrill of falling through the air after jumping off the highest beam of the barn, and quickly sinking out of site in the depths of the old hay about to be covered over by the new fresh bails.

The happiness which came with these thoughts filled Tommy with the warmth he craved. Slowly, deliberately, he imagined his organs warming up. First his liver; then the spleen; then the stomach and kidneys and eventually the lungs and soon, the trembling was gone. He leaned onto the glass wall of the darkened phone booth and marveled at the control he had over his own organs. Maybe, thought Tommy, just maybe; I am not as bad as I have thought. Maybe it was just a really bad day. Maybe just a spot of bad luck, after all I am not as bad as Trip.

At the same moment the thought occurred to him, he saw the image of Trip as he was thrust in front of the uptown bus. Tommy gasped aloud in the dark space in which he huddled and was appalled at the reality which struck him. He had forgotten what he had done! He truly was a monster! He truly was a person so self-absorbed that he was blind to all which transpired around him. He had lived in oblivion! Oblivious of his own shortcomings and defects and oblivious of the needs of every other person he had known. He was so shaken by the disturbing dream which he had and so equally elated with the thoughts he had invoked of his childhood, he simply forgotten the heinous acts which he had committed this very night. Just that quickly, and just as he had done throughout his life, he moved those thoughts to that dark spot in his mind. Into one of those many frightening rooms that stood off the never ending hallway which had come to Tommy in his dream. The rooms into which he dare not venture, for within these rooms resided the truth of who he had become and who he had once been. These rooms were the warehouses of his grief.  Here he stored all the bad memories of his life, all the deeds which needed to remain secret.

Tommy looked up at the coins on the top of the pay phone and knew the time was now. There was no further delaying of the action he was to undertake. His swan song, his farewell to this shitty world and the few people in it he cared anything about. He would start with his sister Beth.

Beth was the baby in the family and had been quite young when Tommy had left the family farm. She was a child which had come to his Mother and Father late in life and had more to do with the passion which his parents felt for each other than the good family planning which had been preached to them with great vigor by Father Mike, their Parish priest. The birth of this child had been difficult for Tommy’s Mother and like her labour, recovery was slow and painful. Something had changed in Muriel Boyle with the birth of this child. A darkness which had lived deep within her and had been kept at bay for so long had now risen to the surface, and for many hours of many days she simply looked upon the worn floor boards of the kitchen floor and slipped deeper into depression.

From the darkened doorway leading to the family room of the rambling farm house Tommy had observed his mother; her eyes cast to the ground in sadness and somehow came to believe he had caused her pain and sorrow. Tommy never understood what it was he had done to take the joy from her world but he had become convinced it was he who was responsible. His father was so vexed by the state into which his dear wife had fallen that he too was behaving differently from how he had ever behaved before. This man whom Tommy looked to for strength and direction, was moving through their home in uncertainty. Not knowing what to say; not knowing what to do; for the first time in his life unable to fix his family, unable to be the man.

 His father was frightened and Tommy had seen that fear and made it his own. Tommy was not to blame, but Tommy needed to be blamed. For reasons he would never understand throughout his life, Tommy took on all the pain of the family. Took on blame in a situation where no blame existed, and in that moment he began to over compensate in his behavior. He began to seek acceptance and approval from his mother and most especially from his father, by caring almost exclusively for this new child, this new addition to their family, this child who had changed their world.

It was a defining moment in the young life of Thomas Boyle.  It was one which a therapist or psychoanalyst would seize upon and declare “This is it!” This is the where when and why of what you have become! The origins of the alcoholic, the birth of the addict, the rising of the ugly head of co-dependency; this is it!

 But none of that mattered to 12 year old Tommy Boyle. None of that was even considered. All that was important to the young Tommy Boyle was that he had discovered a way in which those whom he loved could see him. He had found a means by which he could earn the love he no longer felt he deserved from his mother. He could make it right with her by doing more for her. His father would see him take control and love him for the strength he was displaying.  It was a false courage however, designed to conceal the growing fear and anxiety which was descending upon his world.

All of these mistaken ideas came to Tommy in a flash and were in truth, the beginning of the lie which would become his life.  If the Tommy Boy who now stood huddled in the darkness of a phone booth, on a wet and filthy inner city street, thought long and hard enough, with an honesty he did not possess, he would understand that this moment long ago was the first time he had heard the voice of the ‘lover’.  Quietly, lovingly she had nudged him toward the lie and helped him to justify an ingenious act with a favorable outcome. On that day Tommy had become a liar.

And so Tommy began to care for Beth. His dear Mother had slipped so deeply into a post partum depression she was able to do little more than feed the child and Tommy was left to do the rest. He dressed and bathed Beth. He rocked and walked her when she had the colic, and he sang her to sleep when the young baby was wailing so long and loudly for the love of her Mother, that Tommy’s heart nearly broke. Through two seasons of tilling, then planting, then harvesting, Tommy’s father worked the fields. There he found an escape from a situation he could not control, and left Tommy to maintain the house to the best of his ability. There was help from neighbors through the days when Tommy was in school, and the walks to and from St Jude’s elementary with little brother Billy, the invisible child, had become a time of refuge for Tommy . He could escape the dysfunction of his once near perfect home life on these walks to school, but he could not escape his mind and the voice that lived there within it.

He had developed a deep love for this child Beth. He had formed a bond which exists between a mother and child; a bond borne in nurturing and care, and one which rarely develops outside the maternal relationship. He had moments where the love he felt for Beth was so over whelming that it seemed as though it would burst from his heart and fill the entire world but there were other moments when he was filled with resentment and hate for the child.  These were the times when he would hear the voice, and these were the moments when the voice spoke the truth. ‘It was not working. His plan had failed. His Mother was not getting better and she did not love him more for the role he had assumed.’ Neither was his Father filled with pride for the courage Tommy had displayed in filling the family breach. In fact, his father had become more distant than ever as the years had passed.  His mothers depression and his father’s despair had filled their small world and left Tommy as the caretaker, Billy the lost child, and Beth the unwanted baby; all of them victims of life.

The voice told him he deserved better; that he, Tommy, would one day show them all. He was fourteen now, and soon he would be gone from this family. The thought of leaving became so real to Tommy that he could close his eyes and see himself walking down the road, bag in hand, heading for a better life. A thought that a couple years earlier would never have occurred to him because then he could not have imagined a better life than the one he had. His life and mind were so constantly filled with conflict and contradiction, a battle between love and resentment, compassion and contempt that the young man who had been Tommy Boyle slowly began to disappear and the man who would be Tommy Boy was beginning to form. There, within the dark places of his mind, a creature was coming to the fore. This was a creature that thrived on fear and anger, fed on resentment and cruelty. A creature that would remain in the shadows speaking softly to this confused young man while luring him into a world of pain and selfishness. Taking him from the painful reality of his world as it existed and transporting him to the world of fantasy which he craved. All the while filling him with a false sense of entitlement, a sense of entitlement which made it unlikely for Tommy to even consider the possibility that the life he had once cherished could ever return to him.

And then it did. Just as quickly as Tommy’s world had vanished, it had returned. Without warning or explanation, Tommy’s mother had climbed out of her depression and rejoined the family. It was a beautiful October afternoon and Tommy had been rushing home from school with Billy in tow. Beth would be waiting, a toddler now, she had become accustomed to their schedule together. Tommy would come home and together she and Billy and he would have a snack, then a walk down to the river, and then a story before the evening meal. Tommy could not be late this evening for Mrs. Tilley, the neighbor woman would be in a hurry to get home to her own children and start the family supper.

 As Tommy crested the hill and began his way down the lane to the farm below, he knew there had been a change. There below in the valley, with the waning October sun shining down, Tommy could see his mother hanging out the wash.  Every few seconds in amongst the flapping sheets on the line, Tommy would catch a glimpse of Muriel Boyle, the woman whom he loved with all his heart. She was hanging wash on the line and that meant that she must have had to do the wash, and that was more than Muriel Boyle had done in one day in over two years. Tommy stopped short in his tracks and Billy walked into the back of him with a thud and a groan and together the two of them looked on in silence.

A passer by, seeing the expression on the faces of these two boys, would have guessed they were watching a Lunar eclipse or that perhaps Barnum and Bailey were parading the herd of circus elephants down the long lane to the farm below. Such was the expression of awe on the faces of these two young men as they watched their mother hanging their father’s long johns on the line, the legs flowing out to them in the wind. There at her feet sitting in the laundry basket and looking up with love sat Beth, a smile on her face larger than Tommy could ever have imagined. Beside her and stretched out on the ground, chin supported by a calloused hand and beaming with joy was Tommy’s father. Tommy began to cry in sadness and joy simultaneously, and Billy began to run. Billy ran and yipped and laughed as he had not done in two years. Billy ran to his family and Tommy stood on the hill looking on. Looking on alone and full of fear; looking on from the outside as he would from this day forward.

As quickly as it had begun, it had ended. All of their lives resumed the path they had once taken; all but Tommy’s. His parents had been full of love and joy and their lives had been wonderful.  They simply picked up where they had left off, as though it had never happened. They never discussed it after that. It was as though his Father was fearful that the acknowledgment of what had happened would bring it back, and his Mother was filled with a guilt that could only be tolerated through denial. And Tommy was left with no place to put his fear and his anger. These unresolved feelings of guilt, shame, and responsibility were left to fester and burrow into the mind of this young man and on that fall day Tommy Boyle set out on his life long journey of denial. There was no fanfare; no fond farewells to the young boy who had lived an ideal life; there was only a growing emptiness which would one day fill his world.

Tommy slowly walked down the hill and over to the wash line where his family had gathered.  He stood in silence in front of his mother and in the fading fall light he saw a single tear in her eye as she watched him approach. Muriel Boyle took her son in her arms. The son who had raised her only daughter these past two years without complaint the son who had filled the breach in their family without understanding how or why the breach had occurred. She held him close to her for a few moments without speaking. Then in a moment which had become surreal to Tommy she laid a slender hand on each cheek and she looked deep into the eyes of her son. The warmth from her hands flowed through him, and in that moment, Tommy felt the closeness to his mother that he had craved for so long. The October sky behind Muriel Boyle had become aglow in the dying moments of the setting sun, making it difficult to see the features on his mother’s face. And as Tommy strained to see the love that he hoped was there in his mothers eyes, he sensed she was about to speak.  He waited in hope and silence; waited for the words she would speak to make it all okay. And as she began to speak, the child at her feet, Beth, began to cry.

She cried out first for Tommy, then for Mommy and as they both bent to pick up the crying child their eyes met once again. And for a moment Tommy saw there, in the eyes of his dear Mother fear and panic. It was a panic that was difficult to explain and impossible to describe.  It was as if the basic instinctual need to mother this child, a need which had been lost for some two years, had filled Muriel Boyle in an instant. All the strength of nature which had been kept at bay by this horrible depression that had insinuated itself into the family suddenly came to the fore, “No!” cried  Muriel Boyle as she aggressively pushed Tommy aside and took the girl Beth up into her arms, holding her tightly to her breast.

The swiftness and aggression of the moment took all of the family by surprise and for a moment they all looked on in silence. Tommy straightened and took a step back from his mother as Tommy’s father rose to his feet.  Billy stood to one side looking on and slowly began to move away from the gathered family; finding his safety and comfort by putting distance between himself and them. Tommy’s mother held the child tightly as a tear rolled down her cheek. She was equally astonished by her actions and saw the hurt and fear on the face of her first born.

“Oh, Tommy” began Muriel, her voice breaking in a sob,” Tommy please forgive me, I am so sorry, I don’t know what came over me.”

But Tommy never heard her words. Tommy had shut down upon seeing that look in the eyes of his mother and he knew at that moment, he had been abandoned. By his mother by his little sister Beth by them all. His father came up behind Tommy and as he circled Tommy’s shoulders with his big arm, his calloused hand gently resting over Tommy’s heart he spoke quiet soothing words. The words where meant to comfort but they did not. The words were meant to reassure but they fell short. The words were meant to reaffirm but they fell upon damaged and unhearing ears.

“Tommy. Its OK son! Your ma did not mean anything by it. This has been a long hard time for us all son, but now it is over. Your Ma is back and we will all get back to normal. There’s no need now for you to work so hard taking care of the wee one. No need for you to give up all your time, you can go on now and play ball with your friends, get back at studying hard for going to college and such. We are going to be ok now Tommy, we are all back together. We are going to be okay.”

It was a declaration from his father. It was a statement of fact. ‘We were all going to be okay’; whether true or not because dealing with the fall-out of the past two years was more than any of them could bear. From that moment on, they all moved through life as though none of it had happened. From that moment on, the little girl Beth, who had been in a very real way like Tommy’s own child, never left the side of his Mother. And from that moment on, Tommy Boyle allowed resentment and hate for this little girl whom he had loved as his own, to grow and to grow.

Throughout her life Beth had tried to love Tommy. The bond that had been established between the two had never left the heart of the young child as she grew into an adult. She had reached out, she had helped out. She had done all she could do to save her big brother Tommy and in return he had stolen from her. He had embarrassed and insulted her and her family and he had physically abused her. Through all these many years, Tommy Boyle did all he could to drive his sister Beth away, and through all these years she had continued to love him without condition. He could not make her hate him as he hated himself and here now, tonight, in this phone booth at the end of his tether Tommy Boy finally realized he had never stopped loving this girl Beth, his little sister. He had never stopped needing her love. He had only moved it to a place where it could never hurt him again.

She had done nothing to Tommy, she was a little baby when he was damaged, but for all her life he had made her pay. He had made her the object of his anger and now was the time to set the record straight, while there was still time. Slowly and with great trepidation, Tommy dropped the first quarter into the pay phone.

 ARMIST

Armist sat trembling in the dark on the cold cement floor in the emergency exit stairwell of the boarded up Odeon Theatre.  The tremors were not from the cold, nor where they from the fact he had not had a drink in over two hours.  He did not tremble and shake from the anger he felt toward Tommy Boy, though the anger was there. Tommy Boy had drawn him into a situation which left him in danger and on the run, and for that Tommy would have to pay; when the time was right and if the opportunity afforded itself. He did not shake and tremble from the exhaustion he felt in his limbs, though his limbs felt rubbery and numb. It had been many years since Armist had run so far and so hard for so long. He tingled all over from the run and his chest ached as the phlegm which had settled comfortably in the bottom of his lungs had been super heated and forced to move through the organs. He was trembling with such intensity that were he not hand cuffed he believed his arms would flail away from his body, being propelled by some unseen force.

He looked down in the dim light of the adjoining alley and could see the welts where the cuffs were coming close to rubbing through his leathered skin and he considered all the reasons why he might be trembling. He considered them all and dismissed them in turn as his eyes fell upon the small circle of wooden beads attached to a crudely carved crucifix hanging on the ring finger of his left hand.  Here it had hung since he scooped it up from the dirty carpet of Tommy Boy’s hovel. How could it still be there? After the fighting and the running and the hiding, how could it still be there? He looked upon it and he understood the talisman to be the source of the trembling and he was at once filled with fear and apprehension. Armist could feel his blood boiling and the panic rising to the surface, and he focused all his attention on the small circle of wooden beads; trying desperately to regain some composure. There were things he needed to do and this place would only be safe for a short time. He needed a plan and he needed it quickly. Now was not the time for him to fall apart.

With great resolve, Armist willed his two huge hands together and removed the talisman from his gnarled talon like finger, clasped it firmly between his two hands and slowly began working the beads through his fingers. He felt a calmness descend upon him and though his heart rate slowed, his mind had not. Armist was filled with conflict. There, deep in his gut, was the knot which Armist had spent a lifetime interpreting.  Armist’s knot was there often but always subtly different. It was there when he was frightened or panicked. It was there when he was criminal or violent, and it was there to tell him when to run or when to fight. It was there often and it had come to be an accurate gauge of events and feelings for Armist. But this night, here in the cold dampness of this concrete haven he could not discern what his knot meant him to do, and it filled him with uncertainty.

Thoughts flooded his mind as he sat alone in the dark of the alley. He was angry and confused. This talisman was his. By right of the street he had acquired it in a fair trade. It was all he had to show for the trade as his encounter with the cops had screwed him out of the rest. To not keep it as his own, was contrary to everything Armist and his family had lived by for some six generations. It was his,  even as these thoughts of ownership and right entered his mind so too did the thought of getting rid of this charm. This small tribute to a God that he did not believe in or trust; a God who had never done him any favours in his long life, had only been in his possession for a couple of hours now and in that short time it had brought turmoil into his world.

He was in trouble and he was not running away from it. He was running toward it. At this very moment, he should be heading out of these five square blocks which had become his world, and going to a place where he was not known and where he would not be found by the cops. The very thought of moving to a new district filled Armist with dread. He was known here and he had his territory which would never be disputed. In a new part of town he would have to scratch and fight out his spot once again, and he feared he was to old a man for such a new beginning.

        His thoughts turned to old Gustav, lying dead in the stairwell and Armist was filled with sorrow. The old man had died for Armist. “Run, Armist, Run!” were the last words Gutter Gus would ever speak. Gustav was too old for the life and he knew it. He was dying the death of all street men, slow and dirty and without dignity. Gustav knew he would not make the winter and Armist was happy that in the end, Gustav was able to go down fighting. The legend that Gutter Gus had been, faded with the life force of the old man, and he had become a joke among some of the newer residents of the back world. This act of courage, defiance and street freedom would echo off the filthy walls of dark alleys and linger on the lips of bums huddled around open fires and drinking wine. Gutter Gus had cemented his place in their night time tales and Armist was glad for it. But still in all, Gustav was gone, and Gustav had been a friend.

Armist tried to control his wandering thoughts but the faster his fingers worked the small circle of wooden beads the deeper his mind receded into his past. His life and the memories that it consisted of were not pleasant. There were no dreamy long ago moments of mother tucking him into bed and reading a bedtime story. No memories of riding high on his father’s shoulders and reaching for the clouds. None of the wispy, foggy thoughts of normal childhood applied to Armist. His mother had gone mad, and his father had been killed almost at the moment of his birth. The chaos of those early years, before his Mother had been committed, had only led to the brutality of his years in the state’s care, and it was during these impressionable years as a ward of the court,  that Armist developed his philosophy of life. Those twisted and horrific years had misshapen the heart and mind of a young boy. He had grown into a cynical and sometimes cruel adolescent. The adolescent had become a cagey and dangerous man. The dangerous man had become a tired and failing legend, sitting hand cuffed and hidden in a concrete stairwell.

Armist looked down at the talisman and was consumed with a red hot hatred. These intrusive thoughts were long ago put to rest and their resurrection was not welcome. He had become so proficient at burying his tragic past that the he had been able to create a new reality. In his mind his reality was the truth, and contained no pain, no loss, and no fear. He had managed to come to a comfortable place of denial in his world that allowed him to function and survive. But here tonight in the dampness and cold of his buried thoughts, Armist realized that his present was indeed defined by his past, and that he would never be able to run far enough away to leave it behind.

Armist raised his bonded hands to his brow and let the talisman dangle there in front of his eyes, and for the first time in fifty years Armist began to cry. He wept tears of sorrow and fear and pain. He cried for his mother and his father and the life of which he had been cheated of. He cried for Gus and Trip and Tommy. He cried for the Nun, and he cried for himself. The tears fell from his open eyes onto the lap of the soiled army surplus fatigues he had worn as a testimony to a fallen soldier. All the while he gazed at the small circle of beads attached to the crudely carved wooden crucifix. Each falling tear cleansed a spot in the hardened heart of Armist, and as this river of regret flowed from within him he began to feel a comfort which he had never before experienced and did not recognize. He did not know how or why, but he suddenly knew with certainty that he was going to be okay. There was something more in this world for him to do. He would not perish here in these five square blocks. He would not die the undignified death of the street, dirty and cast out. He lowered the talisman to his lips and held it there as he breathed out the last breaths of despair and hopelessness. Slowly Armist raised himself to his feet and walked out of his concrete tomb.

Bob Gideon had reported in to dispatch, and then went to radio silence as he entered the alley west of Lexington. He had a big area to cover and he counted on a quiet arrival at the places he needed to go. Showing up unannounced by Police radio and taking the streeters by surprise was a good tactic. It did not allow them time to concoct a tale and often yielded truth quickly. The down side was being left alone and unaccounted for in the dark of the back alleys. It was not standard procedure and the bosses would take a dim view, but Bob was confident in his ability to get the job done down here in the war zone.

He had made a sweeping search of the back world in the five square blocks that were his beat. Working in concentric circles from the outermost boundaries into the center of the zone, he had covered every back alley and doorway which he knew of. Along the route he had come into contact with about eighty of the local residents most of whom he had known, and some new faces for him to get to know. He had gone in hard on some, soft on others, called in favours, made threats and gathered no information. If any of them had seen or heard anything of Tommy Boyle they were not talking and for the first time this night Gideon began to doubt that he would find the felon.

 As he approached Lexington from the East, finishing up directly across from where he had begun his canvas, he switched on the audio of his radio. There was lots of chatter on the line and Bob was slowly piecing together the events which had just occurred. As he emerged on Lexington, a block north of Tommy Boy’s residence, an ambulance raced past him. Lights flashing and sirens screaming, the ambulance was carrying the rookie McFadden to County hospital. Further down the block in front of Tommy Boys place stood the Coroners van, on the stoop leading to the rundown apartment was Sergeant James McCaskey.

McCaskey sat, arms dangling, head nodding as two Officers from the Special Investigations Unit stood on either side and asked their questions. With reluctant cooperation he recounted the events which had led to the death of Mr. Gustav Kaminski ‘who had a wife and a kid; a mother and a father at one time as well I expect’ but now lay dead and oozing in the back of a Coroners wagon. He had been put down by the cities finest, dispatched by the book. No one liked the SIU, but everyone knew there would be questions and now was the time to deal with the details.

As Gideon approached the stoop, the SIU detectives crossed the ‘T’s’ and dotted the ‘I’s,’ and turned to leave.   Sergeant Jim McCaskey raised his head and looked into the eyes of the approaching Bob Gideon and there in the eyes of McCaskey, Gideon saw the sadness that filled the man. McCaskey looked old and tired.  It was nights such as these that took an Officer to the bottle and often to the grave. Nights such as these, when a life had been taken, left an Officer alone with no one on earth to talk to, no one on earth to offer up comfort. Bob knew the look and he ignored the look because that was just the way it was.

“Evening Bob,” said McCaskey, keeping his sorrow just beneath the surface, “Hell of a thing went down here Bob. Sure could have used you here instead of that damned rookie. At least he isn’t dead, but he will have a good ‘remember when’ every time he wipes his ass, fucking rookies will get you killed quicker than the plague if you’re not careful.”

“I hear you Jim. At least it is one of them and not one of us under the sheet. What the hell happened? Did you have Boyle in custody, and who is lying in the wagon?”

“No, not Boyle, some other guy comes into the apartment, a big guy. We got the drop on him but he had made us, and went to run, cold cocked the kid and I took him down with the baton, managed to get him cuffed. Tried some reasoning but the big old guy was not in the talking mood. He was plenty scared though, not really sure of what, we didn’t have much on him except he had a key to the place, and assaulting an Officer. I am sure he knew more that he was saying. The guy under the sheet, unrelated as far as I can tell. I just don’t get it really. He was just an old dirty, tired bum having a sleep on the steps one minute, next he is coming up swinging a knife. He didn’t leave me many options you know what I mean. He’d already stuck the kid when I popped him. They knew each other though, him and the big old guy. Big guy said the old man was called Gustav.”

“Gutter Gus, I’ll be damned! He’s been living around these streets since I was a kid down here. A bit of a legend you might say. I am surprised to hear he came at you like he did. He’s been really sick; I’ve been looking to find him dead in an alley every night now for a couple months he’s been in bad shape, really fragile.”

“Well that might explain why he checked out you know. I didn’t think I delivered a lethal blow just quick and hard you know, reflex. I still don’t get why he came at us though. The kid was bad mouthing him all the way down the stairs and the big old guy defended him a bit but still in all Mr. Gutter Gus must have been used to being called down as a bum. He wouldn’t try to stick every one who said he stank. Maybe it was about the other guy. Maybe he was going after him, I just don’t know, Bob.”

“Did you get an ID on the big guy?”

“I did. I put it out on an APB. You must have been off air. I got his name, but not from him. I got it from the dead guy as he was swinging the blade. They were his last words, a funny name too. ‘Run’ he yelled, ‘run Armist run.’ And run he did! Last time I saw that old boy he was rounding the corner into yonder alley about 30 miles an hour, arms and legs pumping to beat the band.”

“Armist; are you sure about that?’

“Yup, pretty sure; does the name mean something to you, Bob?

Gideon looked up and down the street and slowly played back the events of his night. “Well ya, the name does mean something, but I can’t put it together with the description you are using. There is an Armist been living down here in this neighborhood for his whole life, but he is not a big man as you described. He is kinda hunched over and feeble looking, drags his left leg a bit like Bella Legosi.  He sure as hell would not be running like you described. Maybe someone using his name, but what the hell would a fella use the name of a street bum for? I can’t imagine we have two Armists living down here. That would just be too weird.”

“Well, it isn’t your run of the mill name I’ll give you that, but I am pretty damn sure I got it right. I can have them check with McFadden at the hospital, see what he heard. What I do know is that I’d really like the chance to speak to Mister Armist one more time tonight, but for the moment, I’m going in for paperwork and questions, you know the drill.”

“Something just isn’t sitting right Jim. I am going to go do some checking around. You say you saw this fella running north into the alley but I recall not an hour ago watching old Armist limping down the road heading south. He was wearing a red shoe and a blue shoe, that’s his calling card the last few months. Two different coloured shoes; you remember the shoes he was wearing?”

“Well Bob, to tell you the truth I don’t remember the shoes; but if he was wearing one red and one blue and I didn’t notice it, then the soon to be ex wife has got it right and I need to retire. You will call me should you find this fella with the peculiar foot wear right? I’d like to stay in the loop on bringing this Tommy Boyle in. Maybe make some sense out of a dead guy named Gustav Kaminski.”

“You’ll hear from me first Jim, count on it.”

McCaskey walked down the three steps to the dirty pavement and slid into the back of the unmarked cruiser with the two SIU detectives, pulled away from the curb and headed toward the station. Officer Gideon stood atop the stoop and looked down over the small crowd which had gathered. He looked north, then south, then back over the crowd. One of them knew where Tommy Boy was and he was even more determined to set things right.

Armist emerged from the depths of the emergency exit stairwell of the Odeon theatre a different man than had entered. Just as he had physically transformed from the hunched over unassuming figure on the edges of society to the tall and powerful man he truly was; he had transformed mentally and spiritually. He was no longer the man who had walked into the apartment of Tommy Boyle looking for a good quilt and a warm coat.  The change in him had come about quickly and miraculously, it had occurred through no desire of his own. Change to Armist was an enemy he had managed to avoid throughout his existence and now, here in this wet and dank alley, it had been thrust upon him. And it had not come without a price. It had come with the shedding of tears and the realization that his life to that point had not been great, but his life was not over. Even at his age there was opportunity to find some peace. All he needed to do was move away from the past.

 Armist felt cold all over and oddly foreign in his own skin. He was no longer who he should be. A new person had taken residence in his soul and this person was calm. This person whom he had transformed into had somehow taken a lifetime of anxiety, fear and panic and banished it from his mind; a task Armist himself had been unable to achieve. Armist moved toward the end of the alley slowly, uncertain of his steps, uncertain he was comfortable with the new calm that had descended upon him. In the state of agitation in which he had lived for so long there had been a certain comfort. Comfort in the chaos. He had always known how to proceed; how to act or react because he was directed by his fear. Now that the fear had left him, he moved forward, not with uncertainty, but with caution. He was experiencing clarity of thought which was new to him. He was being led by his heart rather than his mind and it was an organ he had no experience in trusting.

But he knew he must go on. For the first and only time in his life his path was clear and unbending. He must and would do the right thing. The talisman must be returned.

 Armist made his way to the far end of the alley into which he had fled and now stood in the shadows beside an abandoned truck. He watched the street traffic for fifteen minutes searching for anything irregular, anything that would signify danger. When he was satisfied that the street was clear Armist moved out of the alley and half way down the block where he entered a darkened doorway that stood across from Polly Ann’s Parlor.

Polly Ann was a not-so-young woman who spent the better part of her life on the wrong side of the law, and on the wrong end of a needle. She had worked every aspect of the sex trade throughout her life in order to feed her addiction and eventually ended up doing some long term time in a Federal Penitentiary. She had endured the hard life, but while she did her five year bit she got clean. She was smart enough to use the programs that were available to her inside and after a time, the yearning for heroin left her. She had the help of many good people in and out of the prison system and one day at a time she built a new life for herself; did some small business training and upgraded her education to a post secondary level. Her new found lease on life had reunited her with an estranged extended family that were more than ready to help Polly Ann build a new business when she reentered society.

Yes, Polly Anne had changed her direction but she never forgot the road that brought her to this new way of life. She knew where she had come from and she knew where her talents lay. There was money to be made in the misery of those who lived in the darkened corners of our world and Polly Ann was intent on making it. Sex had been her trade when she was sick and sex would be her trade now. Polly Ann’s Parlor was a sex, piercing and tattoo shop. She was located mid block on a full block of biker bars and strip joints and she enjoyed a thriving business. She rented porno videos, sold sex aids and she would snap a ring or punch a hole in any part of the human body without hesitation; had even done up a few piercings on dogs and one time punked up a Parakeet. She had a wide range of tattoos and a couple of good artists working all night taking the drunken dollars off tough guy bikers and the women who loved them. Just so long as you had the cash and the request was within the law, you could get what you wanted at Polly Ann’s.

Armist watched calmly from the alley as a couple of men left the store with videos in a brown paper bags. The after-bar rush had not started and Armist could see Polly Ann through the front window of the shop talking to the Tattoo artist working the night shift. After a brief conversation the man grabbed his jacket and left the store, probably going for coffee or a sandwich before the crazies came out to play. He let a couple more minutes pass and when he was certain she was alone in the store Armist began to cross the street.

 Polly Ann was down here in these parts for her own gain and the pay off to her had been good; just as she knew it would be. The financial rewards had been the reason she entered willingly and cleanly back into this dirty world. It was her only driving force in the beginning but after a time she had come to know some of the people who still lived down here in this hellish region. It had never occurred to her when she rented this location that there were people living here, mostly drunks and druggies, all down on their luck but people just the same; just as she had been, just as she was.  She had become friends with some, enemies with others and a friendly ear and voice to anyone of them who wanted to hear her story. Anyone who wanted to believe there was a way out of the life they lived could find a sympathetic heart and a point in the right direction at Polly Ann’s. This den of iniquity had become Polly Ann’s ministry to the street and her way of giving back.

 Armist was one who had become a friend. Polly Anne was the only woman Armist ever spoke to and the only woman that had ever shown him any kind of compassion or respect. He could always count on a warm cup of coffee, a sweet smile and a quick joke from Polly Ann. She had become one of the few people on this earth that Armist would trust. Every time he turned up he was greeted, and every time he left he was told the same thing. ‘You ever need anything Armist, You come see Polly Ann.’ She always said it with a laugh and a wink and Armist never quite knew if she was saying it like it was or just having him on. He had always wondered about that and as he pushed open the door to Polly Ann’s Parlor he figured he was about to find out.

Armist entered the store to the sound of an electronic bell and immediately heard Polly Ann call out from the back room “Be right there”. He took up a position to the left of the door, away from the big front window and behind a chest high rack of porno movies. Armist tried to avert his eyes from the movie covers displaying all sizes of women in all stages of undress performing all manner of unspeakable acts. He had spent a lifetime disliking and not trusting women, ignoring and avoiding them at all costs, Polly Ann being the only exception. But try as he might Armist could never completely ignore or avoid the stirrings he felt when looking through the window at these raunchy displays of raw sex.  Having never been with a woman or in a healthy and loving relationship Armist mistakenly took what he saw on the shelves as the truth of lovemaking and intimacy, a truth which left him uncomfortable. Armist closed his eyes tightly and held the talisman between his big bonded hands and quietly waited for Polly Ann.

Polly Ann walked out of the back office with box of double ‘A’ batteries in one hand and a two headed electronic dildo in the other. As she looked up from the device her eyes registered surprise, then glee then flashed to concern as she saw the looming form of Armist she stopped dead in her tracks.

 “Armist! Oh my God what is wrong?”

“Wrong? Why should there be anything wrong?”

“Well jeez, let me see. Three years now I see you every day at some point for a cup of green tea. Rain or shine, cold or hotter than the hubs of hell it is always out there on the side walk. You have never come through the door of this shop and now here you are, half way through the night standing there pretending not to look at the porno movies. Inside! You don’t do inside Armist, remember! So it makes me think there is something not quite right.”

“Well I suppose, when you put it that way. And I am not looking at these here pornos.”

“Armist, why are you so big, you standing on something back there behind that rack, you look different all over, what is going on?”

“Well I suppose this is how I really look, when I am being me, which ain’t often I guess.  I need some help Polly Ann and you always told me I could come here for it, so here I am and I am hoping you are true to your word.” Armist slowly raised his cuffed hands and rested them on the top of the video rack.

“Oh my God, what’re you into. There has been a lot of sirens and activity going by here to night. Is that about you? Armist I know I said to come here and I will help if I can but you need to be straight with me, man. Is me helping you somehow going to get me in the shit? You know that flat foot Gideon has been in here a couple times tonight already looking for that loser, Tommy Boy. Please don’t tell me you are somehow hooked up with all that. And there was an ambulance went screaming by here not half hour ago. Have you hurt some one? You need to start talking Armist, what is going on?”

“Polly Ann, let me talk. I would not be here except I need something quick and then I will go. The ambulance was for old Gus. He’s dead. Not me, the cops done it. Yes, the cops are looking for me and it is about Tommy Boy, but I ain’t involved! Not like they think, I only did a trade with him for some cloths and now they are trying to run me in for questioning. Old Gustav he helped me to make a run for it and they kilt him for his effort. I don’t want any trouble for you or for me and there is something happening to me that I can’t really figure out yet. It is to do with this cross I got from Tommy. It is making me feel different and think different and I know there is something I am supposed to do. It belonged to that Nun, the one Tommy attacked. I think I got to give it to the people at that mission, I want to get rid of it and I want to keep it all at the same time. It makes me scared. But I got to get these cuffs off and that’s why I come to see you. I know you sell these things here and I was hoping you had a key.”

“Well Good Lord Almighty, Armist. That’s more words that I have heard you speak at on time in all the while I have known you. You surely do seem different. You better come on into the back away from the street and we will see about getting those police issue cuffs off of you. Lucky for you I only sell the best and I got a master key.”

        Armist followed Polly Anne through the store and into the crowded office. He looked uncomfortably around at all the surfaces which were covered in various types of sexual devices, for none of which Armist could imagine a use. As they reached the desk, Polly Ann turned quickly and thrust the two-headed dildo into the cuffed hands of Armist. “Hold this,” she said, and Armist let out a shriek any school girl would have been proud of, dropping the two flopping rubber dicks to the floor. Both Armist and Polly Ann stood in their tracks, looking at the dildo that lay abandoned on the floor between them, and then Polly Ann started to laugh. As she laughed, her eyes lit up with the glee Armist had noticed when she had first seen him in the store. It was a look the old girl wore well, and the goodness and beauty which was deep within her escaped through those eyes and entered into him.

He began to laugh. It was a laboured laugh at first, but it was real and honest laughter, and as it spilled out of the bottom of his belly Armist could not recall the last time he had laughed. The tears welled in his eyes and there was a snort or two as it continued.  It rolled out of his stomach unobstructed and it filled the room. Armist was a big man, and he had a bellowing laugh that the world had not been given the opportunity to enjoy for a long time. His laughter came unobstructed by his knot and suddenly Armist realized the knot he had lived with, the knot he had often relied upon, was no linger there in his stomach where it was meant to be. He could laugh again at last.

Polly Ann ‘s head had leaned forward into Armist’s chest as her laughter subsided, and through her child like giggles she said” Oh my Armist! How I do love you!” And he stopped laughing. It took a moment for Polly Ann to sense the change that had come over Armist, and slowly she lifted her head from his chest and looked up into his eyes. Set deep in the creviced and scarred face of Armist Hancock was a set of indescribably blue eyes. They were the blue you could find deep inside of an iceberg, and they seemed timeless. Polly Ann saw in those eyes the sadness that was deep within this man who had fended for himself for more than fifty years and she saw in those eyes the child Armist had never been allowed to be. And there was something else; something different, something new, and Polly Ann could not define this change that she was witnessing in him.

 “Armist, I am sorry, I didn’t mean to laugh I did not want to upset you I know you are worried it’s just that it was funny the way you screamed is all.”

“It’s ok, Polly Anne. It felt good to laugh. It’s not that. It’s just that no one has ever said that to me before.”

“Said what, Armist?”

“No one ever said they loved me before not even kidding like, no one, ever.”

“Oh Armist, I am so sorry. That is terrible. Everyone should have some one to love them. And who says I was kidding! I been watching you a long time, Armist, and I don’t talk to every fella living on the street in these parts either. But I always had a soft spot for you Armist  and the truth is there is something going on with you. I can see it! For one thing you seem to be a foot taller than when I saw you this afternoon. But it is more than that Armist.  I can see it in your eyes. You have changed! I want to know all that has happened to you  and I want to help, but first let me get those things off your hands. They really don’t suit you.” Poly Ann turned to the desk and opened the top drawer. She rooted around a second and turned back to Armist with a single, silver key in her hand. “Stretch em out, big boy. Old Polly Ann is about to set you free.”

They sat and talked for a short time in the office of Polly Ann’s Parlor. Armist retold the events of the evening to the best of his recollection and Polly Ann listened in silence; all the while watching as Armists big hands worked the small circle of wooden beads. She watched him tell the tale in complete calm while sitting in the small confines of the cluttered office, and she knew she was witnessing the steady transformation of Armist Hancock. She knew beyond any doubt that she would help this man, regardless of the possible repercussions to her, because she understood it was not every day a six foot five miracle walked into your life. She had entered into hell in her time and walked out the other side, on the path to a clean and sober life by the Grace of God. She had witnessed the miracle of rebirth in many people but none as quickly and dramatically as what was unfolding here in front of her this night.

“Armist, let me see if I understand what you are saying,” began Polly Ann, picking her words carefully.  “This Talisman, the one you are holding now, the one you say is making you feel funny, it belonged to the Nun from the mission, is that right?”

“That’s what Tommy said to me. I know he was telling the truth because it changed him too. He was not a punk so much anymore, and he seemed like he knew what he had to do. Then I did too. I knew I had to give this thing back. I know it sounds crazy, but I can’t find the right words to explain what it is.”

“It is okay, Armist, it does not sound crazy and you are not crazy. I can see that. And I can see you are different; it’s just if Tommy told you he had killed the Nun, how is it you are supposed to give it back or who is it you are supposed to give it to?”

“I don’t know Polly I am getting so confused and scared. I aint smart at figuring things out like you are, and I was hoping you could help me, sort of tell me what’s best or if I should run away or what!”

“Armist, I don’t think you can run away from what is happening to you. I think we have to see it through and just trust it is going to be okay. You have not really done anything that wrong yet, withholding evidence, hitting a police officer, fleeing a scene. It sounds bad, but I know cops. What they really want is Tommy Boy, and you are incidental to that. I think I know a man that can help us if you will trust me. At this Mission, the one the Nun worked at, in the basement there is a group. They meet there every night after hours. After the bars close at two am. They are friends of Bill, and I sometimes go there. The man who opens and closes the basement also lives and works at the mission. He is a good egg and I trust him. He will know what we do and he should help us.”

“I don’t know Polly Ann; I only have but two friends. One was Gustav and the other is you. I don’t know this Bill you are talking about but I know he isn’t a friend of mine, so why would he want to help old Armist? And how would I get over there anyway? Have to go right back past the place they killed Gus. They will be looking for me there for sure.”

Polly Ann began to chuckle, but quickly cut it off as she saw the look of despair drawing over the face of Armists like a curtain. “Oh, Armist, I am sorry. I am not laughing at you it’s just Bill ain’t that kind of friend. He is a friend to all of the folks like us; people who are down on their luck, whose lives are out of control. There ain’t really a Bill there; it is just the name of another guy who started these groups to help us. The fella at the mission, his name is Hank, and he will help. I will go with you. The cops are looking for a big old boy wearing hand cuffs. Not a tall, handsome gentleman out walking his lady! We will go together and together we will figure this thing out.”

Armist raised his big hand to the scar above his right eye. The scar was hurting him. The scar always hurt Armist when he could not figure out what he should do. He could think quickly when he was fighting over his turf or facing down some new adversary but at times like these, times when he needed a good plan, all he ever got was a head ache. He used to listen to his gut, but his gut was not talking. As he looked up at Polly Ann, he knew in his heart that she would help him and for the first time in his long life, Armist turned his fate over to another and suddenly he was no longer alone.

It was two in the morning when the people from the After Hours Friends of Bill meeting, emerged from the basement at the Mission for cigarettes and fellowship. There were five or six regular members and two newcomers. The two newcomers were so new they could barely stand and as some of the old timers tried to make head way with the younger of the two, Hank, the night time pastor of the mission, was trying to convince the older drunk to come in and sleep it off, maybe stay a couple days and get some warm food into him. Armist and Polly Ann watched from the shadows as two by two the crowd walked off into the night, heading toward their homes. As they passed by Armist heard the young one telling one of the sober members that he would be back the next night and in the distance he could hear a litany of curses ending in, “Go fuck yourself,” as the older drunk ambled by, knocking over a couple garbage cans and closely missing a head on collision with Armist and Polly Ann, whom he did not see.

They had crossed over to this end of the neighborhood unseen just as Polly Ann had predicted. She had brushed Armist’s hair, put a ball cap on him and a leather jacket that belonged to her night-time tattoo man, she hooked her arm through his and away they went. “Just like an old married couple,” Polly Ann had said, and for the twenty minutes it took them to cross over that’s just how Armist imagined it to be.  Being part of something had been an exercise in imagination for Armist all of his younger years, but as he grew older Armist had trained himself not to dream or wish for something he could never have. But for twenty minutes tonight Armist pulled down the wall and allowed himself to dream. The fantasy of being ‘an old married couple’ felt real and good to Armist, and as he huddled in the shadows with Polly Ann, he may have been happier than he had ever been in his sixty years of life.

Slowly they emerged from their shadowy lair, as Hank was picking up the cans with smoldering cigarettes butts in them. Hank was bending to pick up the next can as they broke through the darkness. He paused cautiously and directed his attention to the pair coming into the light.  After a moment he recognized the woman in the alley and a smile came to his tired face.

“Polly, is that you there? Hey it is great to see you! You are a little late though we’ve finished up the meeting. Who’s your friend?’

“Listen Hank, I have brought this fellow here because he is in a bit of a bind. He needs some help and he does not trust to many folks around here. I told him you were a good guy and that you may be able to give some help or advice or something. I know it is late, but can we talk to you Hank?”

Hank squinted in the dim light, and looked hard up and down Armist. “Do I know you, friend? There is something familiar about you, but it is kind of hard to say out here in this alley. Why don’t we all go in for a while? It’s warm inside and there is still some hot coffee in the pot. We can talk a while, and then the pair of you can help me clean up for the night; that sound okay?”

“Sounds fine,” said Armist, and they followed Hank into the Mission.

For the next half an hour Hank quietly sipped on a bad cup of coffee while Armist recounted his tale. He told of his encounter with Tommy in the alley where Armist lived, and he told of his struggle with the police and of the valiant death of his friend Gustav Kaminski. The words came from Armist in the form of confession, rather than an accounting of events. Each word Armist spoke was spoken clearly and earnestly. It was as though each and every word was of sacred importance, and each and every sentence carried him closer to freedom and redemption. There had been many testimonies given in this basement over the years but none had ever been so spell binding. None had ever been delivered so quickly and honestly. This weathered and street beaten old man was child like in his countenance, and though he had sinned in his life, he had not lived a sinful life.

Armist was not comfortable in this low ceilinged basement haven, nor was he comfortable in the presence of this man Hank, but he continued. When the panic was building in his chest, he tightly squeezed the small circle of wooden beads attached to a crudely carved crucifix, and when he could not find the right words, Polly Ann squeezed a little tighter on the big left hand she held onto, never letting go. When he was done there was silence in the room. Armist looked uncomfortably from Hank to Polly Ann, both of whom had bowed their heads and closed their eyes and Armist realized that they had been praying.

Hank was indeed in prayer. He had been ten years at this mission, seeking his own redemption. He has been an ordained priest who had fallen from grace and had been removed from his order. Such was his addiction to alcohol and sex that even his church, which had become proficient at covering up and hiding away errant priests, would no longer tolerate Father Hank Quinn. He had been called to the church in grace and had been asked to leave in disgrace.  The God that Father Hank had been taught to know, the God his studies revealed to him at the seminary, was said to be a God of wrath and punishment. But the God that Hank was led to know through the addiction which had brought him to this mission, was a God of love and understanding, patience and forgiveness. It was this God that protected drunkards and fools, who made Himself known to addicts through other addicts, to whom Hank now prayed. Hank had witnessed many life-changing events in his ten years of work and recovery at this Mission but he had witnessed many more lost and failed lives. There were people who would die for fear of reaching out to embrace the Spirit of something they could not trust or understand. But here tonight in the childlike innocence of an old man, Hank was witnessing the Spirit at work. Hank was witness to the transformation of a soul. He was overcome with love and hope as he spoke his silent prayer of thanks to God for bringing him humbly to this place and allowing him to be of service. ‘For God so loved the world.....’

Hank looked up at Armist and smiled. He set down his cup and stretched across the table taking both Armist’s and Polly Ann’s hands in his own. “Bless you,” he said “Bless you both.”

“Well thanks, Hank, but I was hoping for a little more than that. I was hoping you would tell me what the hell I should do!”

Hank laughed softly and looked deep into his eyes.  “The blessing is really all you need Armist, but I do get what you are saying. What exactly do you want from me? How can I help?”

Armist uncurled his talon-like hand and let the Talisman fall to the table between them. “This here cross; it ain’t mine. It belonged to her, your friend the Nun. I want it and I don’t want it if you know what I mean. It has some power or something, and it makes me feel different. I knew from the moment I took it from Tommy in the trade that I had to give it back, but I don’t know who to give it back to. Polly Ann said you could take it because you knew her, the Nun. That’s where I gotta start and then I don’t know. I need to get away from the cops because they want to lock me up. I ain’t so sure I can handle that Hank, not even now, after all that’s happened.”

“Her name is Petra, the Nun you are referring to, and she has been a friend to me and this mission for a long time now.” Hank reached down and picked up the small circle of wooden beads attached to the crudely carved crucifix. “These beads, they do not really belong to her, Armist. They do not belong to anyone really, they just belong.  She told me the story of how she came upon these beads and how it affected her life. God alone knows how they affected the life of the one who owned them before her, and God alone knows how many fingers have worked these beads or for how many years. Armist, these beads are symbolic of something deep and mysterious and beautiful, but they are not magic. They are just beads.  They are very old and they hold within them the essence of all those who have offered up prayer with them, but the power you describe Armist is not from the beads.

The power you feel, the power of the Spirit which you say makes you feel different, that power comes from God, Armist. It is within you just as it is within me and Polly Ann. It is the power of love from God. It is a gift we all have, but a gift that not all of us can find. Sometimes we find this gift when we are not looking for it, just as you have, Armist. Sometimes the gift finds us and for those who are blessed enough to be found when not seeking, the gift is powerful. Your life will not be the same as it has been, Armist. That much you must accept. There are many things from this day you do not know or understand. Many things that Tommy also does not know or understand, but you and he must find strength now to change the thoughts and ideas you have lived by. These beads are yours now, Armist. They are yours until they will be another’s. These beads can give you comfort. They are a real thing you can touch and see, but make no mistake; the power is not in the beads it is within you, as I have said. Trust in your heart and you will know what you need to do. Do you understand, Armist?”

 There was a pause and a short sarcastic laugh as Armist began to speak. “No, I don’t understand! All that stuff you said, I ain’t smart like you and Polly. I am just a bum lives in an alley, not someone with some gift. Everything I got fits in a box. That’s all I am and that’s all I got and it’s all I want. I just want to be left alone. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do! You are supposed to tell me!”

“Listen to me Armist. What you have and where you live mean nothing. We are all the same inside in here.” said Hank clutching his chest. “You need to believe Armist. You spent fifty years out there on your own, living a hard life, fighting and drinking. How many men have survived that kind of life as long as you have? Not many, I know Armist, I see it here every day. You think you were lucky all these years but the truth, Armist, is that we all have a purpose. There is something we are all given in this life to do. You have been given the gift of survival all these years, you say you are not smart, Armist, but you are! Look at how you have lived! You are wily, that’s what you are. If what you have told me is true, then Tommy Boyle is about to make the biggest and last mistake of his life. I don’t think God wants Tommy to die at his own hand, Armist. I think he wants Tommy to live.”

“I told Tommy his dying would not fix things but tell you the truth, I kinda feel like it maybe would not hurt things either. You think I got some gift but it don’t feel like a gift to me. You got me wrong. I spent my whole life running away from things and I ain’t fixing to change the plan now. No offense, Hank, but you are not giving me the help I was looking for. Big fancy words are just getting me more confused, and now I’m feeling kinda mad even.” Armist looked to Polly Ann in frustration. “Polly what do I do? I am scared.”

She looked into his blue eyes and she saw that he was scared and that he did not know which way to turn. She got it. She understood what Armist was saying. She understood what Armist was feeling. She too, had spent a life time running and avoiding the next right thing because it was usually the next hard thing to do, and she had not been good at the hard stuff. Armist was a simple man who had lived a life of simple needs, and suddenly it had all changed. He had not asked for the change and he did not welcome it. Just as she and Hank had not willingly embraced a new life style, neither would Armist. He was older now, but he was still in good shape and there could still be a different life for him, just as there had been for her. Polly Ann had been mentored by another person, just as she suspected Hank had been. She had been walked through the first days of her new life just as she suspected Armist would need to be. As rough as it had been for her, she knew the road which lay ahead of Armist would be rougher. She had always been told her time would come to give back what she had been given, and tonight the time had arrived. She took both Armists hands in hers and she looked deep into those piercing blue eyes.

“Armist, you trust me. I know that. You have told me that before, and I believe it. I would not do anything to hurt you, and I have done all I can to help you. But now you are going to have to do some things that maybe won’t sit well with you. You don’t understand what is happening to you or how you fit in all this. Neither do I really but I believe Hank when he says we just have to believe it is all happening as it is supposed to, for a reason. This man, Hank, he has never lied to me. He has helped me lots, just like I am trying to help you. Do you believe that Armist?”

“I trust you, Polly, and I believe you. And I know something in me is different. I can feel that; but that don’t take away the scared. I am still scared, but not so much when you are with me. Will you stay with me and help me?”

“I will, Armist, all the way to the end. I promise you. Now let’s get out of here. I think we need to go find Gideon. He will help us, Armist. With his help we can figure it all out and finish this thing. Then maybe you can come on home with me and have a night indoors.”

Bethany

It seemed as though an eternity had passed in the space between the drop of the last quarter and the first ring of the phone at Bethany’s house. By the time the second ring had finished, Tommy felt a new sweat forming under the old sweat which encompassed his body. As the third ring had begun to chime, Tommy felt a weight in his stomach that he felt certain would sink him deep into the ground beneath the phone booth. The beginning of the fourth ring was the signal for him to lose his nerve completely and the beginning of the questioning of his plan. With the fifth ring came the hope of the answering machine.

Tommy had partaken in many a frank and honest discussion with answering machines throughout his career as an alcoholic and addict. He had difficulty accessing thoughts, words and feelings with actual people, but the relationships he had developed with answering machines in the last several years would have been the envy of any psychoanalyst. He had lived life as an emotional cripple, never able to find the courage to express love or anger or any other emotion in a rational manner. When talking one on one with another human, or when speaking through a telephone to another actual person, Tommy inevitably turned mute. The fire-wall he had built as his protection from the world had also managed to keep Tommy hidden. He had layered himself with years of buried emotion. Repressed fear and anger; the origins of which Tommy no longer even recognized, had conspired against Tommy and had left him unable to express himself in an acceptable manner. In the beginning, the booze and dope had served him well in lubricating his heart, mind and tongue and while they were present, he could speak on issues something more than superficial. But as the years went on, the effect of the drugs and booze also turned against him until he was eventually unable to carry on any type of conversation that held any depth or meaning.

It had become a bit of a game with Tommy. There had been many years before he had been completely altered, when he would try to keep loose contact with his family. Occasional visits turned to occasional phone calls and then to calls when he knew there would be no one home; calls to the machines. Initially his relationship with the machines was quite nice. He knew when his folks would be at church, his sister at work or school and his brother Billy was almost always away with work. He would call and leave regrets ‘Sorry I missed you both, things here are going good, see you soon Dad, love you, Mom’  and the call would be over; his feelings of guilt could be sated without emotional injury to himself .

At the outset of Tommy’s decline he did not want his family to know the extent to which he had deteriorated as a human being. In his messages he tried to maintain the façade of a guy who was just a bit down on his luck, looking for a bit of a break. But with the broken promises and the self imposed isolation, Tommy’s family began to understand the depths to which he had fallen. Soon the requests for a short loan or to help him out with the rent fell upon deaf ears and the money stopped flowing. It was his sister’s husband, Carl, who cut off the cash first soon to be followed by his little brother, and finally his father and mother close behind. Carl had years before witnessed a close friend who had been financially bled by a using brother and was wise to the ways of manipulation. Billy had more money than he could spend, but was easily convinced by Carl, who had filled the gap of big brother, to stop enabling Tommy. Unfortunately his dear parents, who refused to acknowledge the very worst about their beloved Tommy, were the last to accept the horrible truth, but not before they had put themselves into serious financial woe.

When the cash stopped so did the calls, for a while. But Tommy was in steady decline and it was not long before he was resorting to more criminal means to attain the money he required. With each petty theft his resentment towards the family grew deeper and the chasm between them wider. It was their fault people were being robbed and it was their fault Tommy was directed to a life in the shadows and on the wrong side of the law. And then the calls began again. Driven by booze and anger, he would call the machines which now represented to him all the difference between him and his family. They were living high and he was living low and none of them cared. He would spew out his hate, sending litanies of curses and vulgarity over the land lines at his parents who had never done anything but love him. Bethany would be called a whore and blamed for ruining the family, and he would always end with a threat of physical violence to her husband Carl. And for Billy he saved the worst. Poor quiet Billy, who only ever wanted everyone to be happy and to notice him, was an easy target for the vile and twisted mind of an addict.

Eventually the calls to the machines stopped forever. As Tommy sank deeper into the depths of his addiction there was no energy left for the calls. The hate he felt for his family paled in comparison to the hate that he had developed for himself. As the weeks and days became months and years he had all but forgotten them. They had become a distant and distorted memory of a life of which he had once been part; a life he could never be part of again. The texture of the memory was directly related to the state of mind and the stage of inebriation in which he had found himself. At times he thought fondly of Sunday afternoons in the kitchen with them all, and he would shed tears of remorse for a family he had lost. Other times, he would be focused on the perceived wrong doings that had befallen him at the whims of his family members and he would rant and rave in insane fits of anger. And finally, almost magically, he had reached a state of complete dependence on his ’lover’ and in so doing he had become completely numb to all the feelings he associated with his former life. They had all become truly dead to him and he had found in the deep blue smoke of the crack pipe a feeling he would mistakenly identify as peace and serenity. The feeling, in fact, was one of unconditional dependence and absolute defeat. It was here in this state of denial that Tommy had existed, till the events of this very day.

Midway through the fifth ring the connection was broken on the other end of the line. Tommy recognized the groggy, just wakened voice of his brother in law. “Ya Hello.” Carl coughed and cleared his voice and Tommy stood frozen in silence.

“Hello! Is there anyone there? If this is a crank call you can fuck off. It is three in the morning, Good bye!”

 In his mind’s eye, Tommy could see the anger on Carl’s face as he was readying to slam down the receiver. All that Tommy had become flooded into his mind and he understood with no further doubt that the calls had to be made. Regardless of how hard it would be he needed to close out his life in some order.

“Wait! Hello.” He shouted into the phone. Tommy waited for a reply and none came. The silence seemed to stretch on forever and just as he was about to hang up; just as he was about to curse himself for the coward that he was and the coward he had been, he heard Carl.

“Is that you? Is that you, you piece of shit! Tommy Boyle! Have you called to threaten me or call down Beth? You brave enough tonight to talk to me rather than the machine? Or just drunk enough! Or is it just about money or getting out of jail? What the hell reason could a bum like you come up with for calling here at three in the morning?”

Tommy could hear the jagged breath of Carl through the phone and he could imagine the seething anger that would be covering his face like an ugly mask. Tommy was glad he was miles away in a phone booth and not standing on the front porch of Carl and Beth’s home.

“Carl, it is me, Tommy. You are right, but I don’t want anything. Please don’t hang up. I just want to talk for a few minutes with Beth. I just want to say hi to her, hear her voice once more that’s all. I don’t want any trouble.”

“Well Tommy, you don’t have to want trouble to bring it. It is just your nature. Every time you just want to say hi to Beth. Every time you take it upon yourself to call up and leave one of your two minute little hallmark messages on the machine, we spend two months watching her walk around in misery. Did you ever even stop to consider what it does to her each time you call? Did you ever consider what it does to me! Watching her mope around and cry, reading the obituaries and hearing about dead John Does on the street! Why can’t you leave us alone? It has been three good years not hearing from you. Three good years and I will be dammed if I am going to let you change that.”

“Carl, listen please. I know you are angry and I know all that you have said is true. I have been lost for so long and I blamed all of you, for all my problems. I know what I am Carl and I know what I have done and I just want a chance to make it a bit better. I just want to come clean with you and Beth, Mom and Dad and Billy. That’s all I want Carl, just a chance.”

“Are you kidding me? Just a chance! You have been given more chances that anyone on earth and you just keep fucking them up. You are like a virus to this family, a bad smell. Everything you do trickles down to the rest of us and stains us. You could never live long enough to know what you have done to this family so don’t even bother trying to pretend. And don’t you dare call your folks. Your Mom has been sick, real sick. Some days she barely remembers who she is, let alone the rest of us! Those are the good days, according to your old man. Those are the days she ain’t asking about you or crying over you. So no, I don’t think I will let you speak to Beth, Tommy. I think I will just tell her it was a wrong number; after all it really is like that isn’t it, Tommy, you are just like a wrong number!”

“Carl. I am not coming back into any of your lives to cause trouble. There has been enough trouble and I can’t do it anymore. You’re wrong Carl, in what you said. You see I am hoping to live just long enough to know exactly how I have hurt this family and just long enough to try and convince them I am sorry and to let them know it was all me, not them. I know you are mad and as I said, you’ve got every right, but I need to talk to my sister one time. Five minutes is all I want and you will never hear from me again Carl, I swear it. Listen to me, I am as clean and sober as I have been in over ten years. I know you are a good man and I know you have spent your life trying to protect my little sister, protect her from me. I know I have hated you and I know I have done you all wrong. I am sorry, this time it is real Carl; so please just let me talk to Beth.”

A silence grew between them as Carl considered the words he had heard from Tommy. He had heard so many words, so many times, from this man over the years. He had watched Tommy manipulate and steal from his family. He had stolen their money, and he had stolen their hope, and he had quashed their dreams. Carl had always been the one to pull them all back together; to get them all past the latest disappointment and prepare them for the next. He has been immune to Tommy’s cons and lies from the beginning. He could always see the angles Tommy was playing and he always knew that Tommy’s motives were self centered and driven by addiction. But tonight, he had listened to Tommy as Tommy had pleaded and tonight, he heard something different in the voice of this brother in law he had come to despise. Tonight, standing in his boxer shorts at the bottom of the stairs, he could understand what his wife and in laws had held onto for so many years; the hope that one day their Tommy would emerge and come back to them. Carl sensed the emergence of Tommy but doubted that he was coming back.

“Tommy, what’s going on really? Why are you calling here this late? I don’t want Beth upset so just tell me what you need. Are you in trouble?”

“I just need to talk to her, to tell her the truth about something that’s all. Please, I will never ask for anything again, just let me talk to Bethany.”

“Ok Tommy, hang on. I will go get her.”

Tommy heard the clunk of the receiver as Carl set it down on the table in the hall and went to get Beth. He leaned his feverish forehead against the cool of the glass walled booth in which he stood and slowly he began to take deep breaths. He was terrified. He had not spoken a word to this girl in three years, not a civil word in five, and now he was about to ask her to understand and to forgive. He had no right. His legs had begun to tremble so violently that Tommy thought he would collapse in the small booth. His weight, slight as it was, seemed too great for the fragile bones in his legs to support, and slowly he slid down the glass wall and came to rest on his haunches.

He waited in silence and he breathed, somehow keeping the panic at bay. As Tommy squatted in the darkness on the floor of his glass confessional, he cast his eyes to the sky and looked upon the stars with wonder. At first he was convinced he was hallucinating but the harder he gazed into the night ski the more he was certain that the brilliance of the stars was a reality. How many times in his fifty two years had Tommy looked into these same heavens and not seen the beauty which existed there. His thoughts drifted back to the nights of his childhood on the farm he once loved and the wonder he held for the night sky. Not since those dark nights had the stars shone so brightly for Tommy. He had lived in a world without colour or beauty for so long that he had forgotten that colour and beauty existed. All about him had been grey and ugly, his days spent in darkness. The shadow of his addictions had covered him like a heavy woolen cloak. At some point, during this night, Tommy had cast off this cloak of dependence without being aware he had done so, and now, while he looked into the beauty of the night sky, he understood his ’lover’ was gone. There were no voices in his head, there was only quiet. A quiet he knew would last forever, just as he knew ’forever’ would not be far away. Tommy wiped a single tear from his cheek and took in a long, steadying breath as he heard the receiver being picked up from the table in the hall.

“Tommy. Is it really you? Carl said it was you. Are you there Tommy, hello?”

“Hey Bethy, it is me. It is Tommy. You will never know how happy it makes me to hear your voice.”

“Oh Tommy, we thought maybe you were dead this time, it has been so long now with no word.  Mommy never would say so, but Daddy thinks you are dead. He is being strong for Mom because she has been sick but I know he sits up at night looking down the road, wondering where you could be. He is so hurt, Tommy, and he is so mad. I am sorry, Tommy, for whatever it is that has caused you to leave us all. Please tell me it is over. Please tell me you are coming home.”

Tommy chocked back a sob and feared his heart would explode through his chest cavity right here and now in this booth but he breathed deep and tried to begin.

“Beth, listen to me now. You need to hear and know some things about me. You need to understand some stuff that I have come to know in my heart, come to know only this very night. But it is important that you hear. It is important to me and also to you and Carl and those babies of yours.”

“They aren’t so much babies anymore Tommy. They are big kids now both in school and doing well. But there is another on the way. He will be here soon Tommy. I wish you could come here, Tommy, to be with me when I have him. We could talk here Tommy; we can talk all you like here. I can speak to Carl and I will convince him it will be okay. Just tell me you will come.”

“Maybe, Beth, maybe but not tonight. Maybe I will think about it tomorrow, but there is something this night I need to do. Some things I need to set straight. I haven’t been much good at setting things straight for a longtime now, kiddo, and I thought I should start with you and Bill and Mom and Dad.” Tommy paused briefly to consider his words. The things he wanted to tell his little sister had been deeply buried in Tommy for more years than he could recall. He was fearful that the unearthing of these old wounds and hidden resentments might appear to be a condemnation of Bethany and his Mother rather than what was intended, a purging of his soul and a plea for forgiveness for wrongs he had done.

“You are going to have a baby and you know it is a boy! That is great, Beth. Two boys and a girl! Just like Mom. You are a good Mom, Beth, you know that right? And you were a good kid and a good baby Beth. I never ever told you that did I?  It was a long time ago, Beth, but here, where I am tonight I can look up at the stars and it feels just like yesterday when I would rock you to sleep in my arms. Mom was sick, remember? I took care of you Beth and I loved you. I loved you more than I could ever express. Sometimes it felt to me like you were my baby, Beth. I swore I would never let any harm befall you back then when I was just a kid. I loved you more than I knew. Tommy fell silent and lost himself in his memories so completely that as he breathed in deeply he could smell the fresh baby smell of the newborn in his arms. The musty smell of the phone booth was suddenly filled with the aroma of baby; baby powder and baby oil, and just pure baby, soft and smooth and without fault.

“I remember some, Tommy. And Mom had told me the rest and Tommy, I am so sorry. I am so sorry for how you were hurt. No one knew, Tommy. Back then things were different.  No one knew about depression and postpartum things, but we don’t have to let that ruin things today, Tommy. Why can’t we just let it go?”

“I think I can let it go Beth. I think in my way that is what I am doing. But I wanted to tell you I am sorry. I am sorry for how I treated you all these years. You only ever wanted me to love you and I did. I really did. I just forgot how to show you, and everyone else. Please don’t ever tell me you are sorry, Bethany, and please do not feel that way. You never ever did anything wrong. You were just born a beautiful little girl. I swore back then I would never let anyone hurt you and here am I, the only one who ever did. There are so many things about me Beth that you don’t know. So many things I have kept hidden from you, so many bad things I have done. I wasted my life and made a mess of things and I tried so hard to blame everyone else for it. I knew how you felt. I knew how much you wanted to help and save me from myself and I took advantage of it; for money or spite or just to be plain mean. I did it on purpose Beth. I did it to make my sick world seem a bit better, I guess. I hope you will be able to forgive me Beth. I hope you will not hate me.”

“I could never hate you Tommy. I love you, I always have. It does not matter what you have done or where you have ended up, not to me. Tommy. I am not stupid! I know you were using me for money and if not for Carl I would have never stopped giving you money. He convinced me Tommy that giving you money was no different than giving you the drugs or the booze; that I was helping to hurt you! I just could not do that, Tommy; not then and not now. So if you are calling for money, know that I will not give in. I will help you any way I can and I will get Carl to back off if you want to come here with me and together we can try to get back on track. Tommy, I want you back in my life! Mom needs you back in her life. Dad says she is like she was when I was born, but worse. You could help her too, Tommy. Please just come to let us help you.”

“Please Beth. Yell or scream or tell me you hate me for what I have done. I can handle that! Tell me you will never forgive me; that is what I expect to hear. That is what I am prepared for. Don’t be nice to me because it will make it harder for me to do what must be done. You say you don’t care what I have done, where I have ended up! You have no idea Beth. I am beyond redemption on this earth. You are going to hear some things about what I have done Bethany, maybe tomorrow on the news. It is really bad and I can’t run from it. I just wanted you to know, all of you to know, that I am not the person who committed these crimes; not anymore; not tonight. I have had some kind of transformation, Bethany. Something has happened to me which has allowed me to see things clearly. I don’t know; maybe it is God. I only know that I have to try to make you understand that I am sorry for what I have done and how I have treated you and Carl. It is important to me that you understand that.”

“Tommy, I do understand. I have always understood, and I know you are sick. I always knew you never meant the words you left on the machine. I always knew you were lost and just waiting to be found! It sounds to me like you have been found, Tommy. It is not too late! We can all have another chance at trying to get it right, Tommy, together. Please say you will try. You are scaring me the way you are talking. Please come here to my house. Please tell me you are not going to do anything stupid. If you are in trouble; go to the police. Tell me where you are and I will come and take you to the police and we can fix it. I don’t need to forgive you Tommy because I never felt as though it was you who was doing the hurting. You are here tonight. Right now on the phone I hear the words of my big brother, the brother who took care of me and loved me. The brother I have not spoken to in ten years. I want you back Tommy. I need you back.”

“You will get me back, Beth. Focus on those nice years when we had so much love and remember me like that. I am full of shame and remorse but I am physically ill as well, Beth. Right now I am so tired I just want to sleep for a long time you know. You don’t need to worry about me any more. I am done with the booze and the dope and I know I need to set things right. I love you Beth - I never stopped loving you. I just stopped loving me and I needed to blame someone for that. I don’t get why I could not understand that for so long. It seemed different to me, like it was everyone else to blame. I was just down on my luck waiting for a break. Things would be better next week. That’s really what I thought and then suddenly I knew it was all just me; weak and sick and full of self loathing and self pity. I could not stand to look at myself so I focused my hate on all of you. But I’m done with all of that, Beth. I sank to a place I never would have believed I could have gone and now I am done. I surrender. I give up fighting me. I just want some peace, but I know the peace will come at a cost. I believe you would come here and help me with the police and everything else but you need to understand that I need to take care of things on my own. I have taken so much from so many people, mostly you and Billy and Mom and Dad, but there are others as well. All I ask from you and Billy and the folks, is forgiveness. All I ask is that you know I loved you all always in spite of whom I have become and what I have done. I always knew better. I just never knew that I knew.”

Tommy stopped speaking and felt his anxiety growing as a deafening silence filled the line. He waited for Beth to reply but no reply came and as Tommy stood in the dark and damp phone both he began to doubt his plan. His old thinking lurked just beneath the surface. Tommy Boy had lived out in the open for better than twenty years, being the dominant figure for the past ten and it had only been hours since Tommy Boyle had reemerged.  Perhaps it was wishful thinking or just naivety to assume that these people whom had been conditioned to deal with him from a basis of guilt and shame would simply hear his plea for forgiveness; that without thought or question they would let him off the hook. Tommy felt his resolve diminishing and as had been his pattern in life the instinct to run washed over him. He was about to give in to his flight impulse as Beth cleared her throat and began to speak.

“So that’s it? You want to kiss and make up and we will just forget the past twenty years! I don’t need to forgive you Tommy. And I never gave up on you. All that we have all had for all this time is hope. Hope that one day this call would come and hope that you would live till the miracle happened for you. I prayed it would come before Mom and Dad died and from the tone of your voice I think it has; at least in part. You sound like you! Maybe that does not make sense but I can tell there has been a change. But I hear something else Tommy, and it scares me to death. I hear you giving up. All those years you have been lost there must have been something more than the need for drugs that kept you going. In the depths of the squalor you lived in you never ended it all. That is what always kept the hope alive for me. I was ready to hear you were killed by a druggie or you OD’d but I never ever expected to hear you killed yourself. That’s what I am hearing Tommy. I hear you saying stuff like ‘you gotta set things straight’ and ‘you can’t find redemption on this earth’ and it scares me. Tommy, whatever happened to you tonight can be set right without you dying. Don’t you get that? Whatever has caused this change in you, allowed you to see what you have become; that is a gift! Regardless of how horrible the act was that has given you this awareness, the awareness itself is a gift. To lose that now would be just wrong. Wrong for us all, Tommy.”

“But Beth, you don’t know. You just don’t know what it has been like. The shame I feel is just too great for me to live with. What I have done I cannot face. The consequences are too hard for me to accept. Please Beth, I just need you to know I am sorry. Please.”

“You’re right, Tommy. I don’t know. And I don’t care. If you do this thing Tommy, it will be hundreds of times worse than all you have done. I can forgive and forget the life you have imposed on all this family but if you do this thing tonight, right now, I could never forgive that. It is just more running away Tommy Boyle. It is just more not standing up and taking responsibility for your life. It is just more of what you have always done. If you want me to believe you have changed, then prove it. Tell me where you are and I will come and help you.”

Tommy sat on his heels in the dark of the booth and looked up upon the stars. He began to cry softly and his mind was filled of thoughts of Beth. In an instant he recalled all of the times in his life when he could have turned it all around. All the wrong choices he made stood glaringly at the forefront of his mind and Tommy wished he could take it all back. He wished he had made the choices in his life that would not have led him to a darkened phone booth in the wee hours of the morning with the blood of others on his hands. But wishing doesn’t make it so and in spite of the words she had spoken, Tommy knew he could not endure the punishment which would fit the crime. Tommy was alone with his shame and death was the only way for him to find that peace.

“I am sorry you feel that way Beth. I will think about what you said. I know you are right. For now I just need some sleep and tomorrow I will call the mission here. They can help me get some treatment and I can contact you then. I do love you, Beth, at least know that much.”

“I do Tommy. I do know that. I have always known that. I can’t give you permission Tommy to hurt yourself though, and that is what it sounded like you wanted me to do. You have a good plan now, Tommy. Go to the mission and get some sleep. I will come and find you there tomorrow and together we will make a plan. I will tell Mom and Dad that you are going to be okay and getting the help you need. Will you do that Tommy? Will you promise me Tommy?”

And Tommy did. He told her all the things she wanted to hear. He told her what she needed to hear and he did it with the conviction and sincerity you can find in the words of all alcoholics and drug addicts. He had spent a lifetime telling people what they wanted to hear and fabricating lies. A change had come over Tommy Boyle and a new awareness was growing within but the part of him that lived by the lying and stealing code of the street was still functioning. The part of Tommy that steered him towards an easier and softer route was still in control of his guidance system. So he told the lies and he believed the lies though Bethany did not.

Slowly Tommy stretched himself out in the phone booth and as he stared up at the constellation Orion he said good bye for the last time to his little sister Bethany. He told her he would call from the mission and he told her he would love her forever because he knew forever would not be that long. And then with a feeling of selfish relief, he severed the connection. For a moment he stood and listened to the slow beating of the heart in his chest; for a moment he allowed himself to believe the lie and then he began to weep.

Forty miles away in the comfortable home of Carl and Bethany Magellan the simple breaking of a telephone connection took on the same significance as the changing of the millennium. An era had ended! Bethany drew deep wet sobs from the lowest parts of her stomach and the deepest parts of her soul. Gripping the receiver in one hand and her pregnant stomach in the other she slid slowly down the wall to the floor beneath her. Carl was there in an instant and as she wept he held her tightly. His hand fell upon hers as it cradled her stomach and the boy growing in her womb kicked. He kicked and he rolled and Bethany knew at that moment she would name this child Tommy. He would be Tommy Boyle Magellan and he would be loved. He would be loved as she had loved her brother Tommy but this child would know he was loved.  He would know this love would last forever and that would be a long time indeed.

Choices

Sergeant first class Jim McCaskey sat and stared into the half-empty cup of station house coffee which stood on the desk between him and the final report that needed to be filed in the matter of Gustav Kaminski. He had sat with the SIU and answered all the usual questions. He had briefed his command, and he had done the paper work. The official consensus would be that Sergeant James McCaskey has participated in a good kill.  The perpetrator in question had been dispatched by the book and this stamp of procedural approval should have made McCaskey feel better, but it had not.    

A man was dead at his hand and regardless of the state or condition of the man at the time of his death, the simple fact remained that McCaskey had killed him. McCaskey had taken a human life; a job which should be reserved for God.

 He sat quietly now, staring at the coffee and trying to will his mind to stop obsessing on the moment he had shattered Gustav’s skull. He could hear the sound of the crushed cartilage in Gustav’s nose as it traveled into his brain. He could see the look of surprise in Gustav’s eyes as he realized his life was ending, and then the odd look of peace and triumph as his light faded and was forever extinguished.

There was chaos in the station house as all those about him went on with their assigned duties, but McCaskey was oblivious to all as he tried to control his thoughts. He was breathing slowly and steadily, and was focusing all of his will on staying out of the ‘what if’ scenarios. What if he had let the kid, McFadden, lead instead of follow?  What if he had rousted the old bum? What if he had held back on the ferocity of the baton? What if he had not used the baton at all! What if he had finished his shift and gone to meet his wife for dinner? He could have done that! He could have left, but he chose not to, and now a man was dead and so was a relationship. And once again McCaskey found himself staring into a half empty cup of station house coffee and wondering about the choices he had made in his life.

He knew about choices. He often ranted to the scum in the back of his cruiser about choices. He understood people made good choices and bad choices, and he was always quick to counsel or criticize the choices others made. But with all of his knowledge about choices, he consistently made bad choices for himself and his family. Somewhere on the trail of his life there had been a distortion between the rules of humanity and the rules of responsibility. He had lost the sense of what was important in this world and had replaced that instinctual knowledge with a book of rules. Standard Operating Procedures, Criminal Codes, Codes of Conduct and a plethora of manuals to dictate how he should behave as a police officer had become the focus of his life. Jim McCaskey had changed.  He had been a guy who wanted to keep the streets safe for his wife and kids; a guy who always tried to do the next right thing; a guy who wanted to serve and protect, and now he understood he had evolved into a guy who lived by the book; a guy with an over exaggerated sense of justice. He had become a legal technician. Just this very night he had been telling a young officer there was more to being a cop than knowing the rules, and yet he himself had become driven by the rules! A young officer who was at this very moment getting his ass stitched up at County General. He wondered if either of them would learn anything from the death of Gustav Kaminski.

He allowed his gaze to wander to the personalized coffee cup in front of him, reading the words that had been painted upon it, ‘Happy 10th to the man I love’.  His thoughts went to his wife. In his mind’s eye he could see her as she thanked the waiter and said she was waiting for her husband. He could see her checking her watch as she ordered the first glass of wine, then checking again as she looked to her cell phone for missed messages. He could see her begin to bite her lower lip in worry as she ran the scenarios of all the things that could have made ‘the man she loved’ late without calling. He could see the worry turn to anger; the anger to resignation as she finished her second glass of wine and asked for the cheque.

 McCaskey let his chin drop to his chest and sighed deeply as he picked up the phone and began to dial his home. He had no reason to expect her to understand, he had no right to ask her to forgive, and he had no one else on the face of this earth with whom he could share his feelings about the death of Gustav Kaminski. His focus was lost to the tears which were fighting to escape from behind his eyes and just as he was dialing the last digit, he heard his name being called from across the room.

“Hey Jim; I got a lady on the line here you may want to talk to. She is calling about your man Boyle, line two”

With the thumb and ring finger of his left had McCaskey cleared the nearly spilled tears from his eyes and with his right hand he replaced the receiver in the cradle of the phone and once again Jim McCaskey chose to put his job ahead of his life. He knew how to do police work but he was uncertain how to do life, so he picked the phone up again and pressed line two. “Sergeant Jim McCaskey here, how can I be of assistance?”

Forty miles away Bethany Magellan sat on the chair in the downstairs hall. Her husband Carl was at her side and holding her hand. As had been his way for 12 years now Carl had soothed Beth and held her till her tears had subsided. Carl had been a mountain of strength for Beth all through these years and all through her struggles with the guilt and shame she had inherited from her family. He had decided at the outset of their relationship that his legacy to the children he and Bethany would bring into this world was a broken cycle of dysfunction. He had been kind and patient with Beth and over the years he had helped her to understand the shame she carried was a false shame.  

   The underserved guilt she had taken upon herself for people and situations of which she had no control had threatened to destroy her life with Carl. Slowly, with the help of this patient and insightful man, Bethany began to believe that she had been nothing more than a bystander in the events which had shaped her family and in particular the life of her brother Tommy. She was not to blame, and she no longer carried any guilt or shame for the circumstance of Tommy’s life. But it still hurt. It hurt so deeply that she was overcome by sorrow as she allowed all the horrible thoughts of what may happen to Tommy, this night, to overtake her mind. Carl was there as he had always been, and Carl knew what needed to be done. He located the number of the Police station in the borough where they had last heard Tommy was living. He dialed the phone and he handed it to Beth and he told her it would be okay. And Bethany believed him.

“I’m sorry, did you say Sergeant McCaskey?”

“McCaskey ma’am; Sergeant Jim McCaskey; am I to understand you are calling in relation to a Thomas Boyle?”

“Yes that’s correct. Tommy is my brother and I am very worried about him.”

“And what is your name ma’am?”

“Bethany Magellan. You can call me Beth.”

“Okay Beth; what is it that is making you worried about you brother?”

“Well he called here and he sounded very odd. I am very worried he will hurt himself.”

“Do you know where he is right now, Beth?”

“No, I am sorry. We have been out of contact with him for some time now and I don’t know where Tommy lives. He has been very down on his luck, heavily involved with drugs.”

“Beth, I know he is not at his address. Did he give you any idea where he was calling from?”

“Excuse me Sergeant McCaskey. How is it you would know he is not where he lives? Is there something going on here that I am not aware of? I was calling because I am worried my brother may be suicidal. Frankly I was quite stunned when I was put right through to you and not given some runaround about waiting 24 hours. I would appreciate if you tell me what is going on.”

“Beth, the truth is we have been looking for Tommy Boyle for several hours now in connection with incidents that occurred early this evening.”

“What kind of incidents? Tommy said he had done something but he did not say what it was he had done.”

“I am sorry Beth. I am not at liberty to discuss the details of an ongoing investigation. The fact is that Tommy is at large and there are a lot of cops looking for him right now. If you could help me find him it would be the best for all concerned.”

“Officer, please understand, I have no misconceptions about the state in which my brother lives and I am quite certain he has resorted to crime to feed these addictions which have taken him but there was something different in Tommy tonight when I spoke to him. He said he had changed and for the first time since I was very young I believed him. All I know is that he spoke of going to a mission in the morning. He said he wanted to sleep and in the morning he would go to the mission and get some help. I hope that will help you; and now I am asking you to help me. Whatever it is Tommy is accused of; can you promise me you will try to get him safely into custody, get him some place he can get the help he needs. Can you tell me you will find him before he hurts himself?”

“I can tell you Beth that I will do everything I can. This has been a long day and there are lots of people on edge. We need to locate Tommy; the quicker the better. If you give me your number I will make sure you are kept informed. That’s the best I can do Beth, I hope you understand.”

        And she did. Tommy was in trouble; big trouble. She had given her number as requested and had been given Sergeant McCaskey’s extension in return. She hung up the phone took Carl’s hand and went to bed to wait and pray that she would see her brother Tommy again.

McCaskey hung up the phone and dialed the PA at the front desk. “Janis, I need you to find me street locations and indoor locations for every pay phone and outdoor phone booth in a square mile of the address of Tomas Boyle apartment; and I need that information ASAP. I also need to find out how many missions there are down in the District as well as addresses and phone numbers and I need you to find Gideon for me or at least his last point calling in, he may be off radio.”

“Is that it?” Janis asked the question with an extra degree of her usual sarcasm which did not go unnoticed by McCaskey.

“That is it for now, and Janis, thanks.” McCaskey picked up his half empty, half cold cup of station house coffee and drank it down, not noticing ‘Happy 10th to the man I love’.

Bethany sat quietly in the dim light of a bed side lamp and waited. She looked down upon Carl who had drifted off to sleep in spite of his best effort to sit and wait with his wife. He snored softly as had always been his way, and though his snoring was never of a pitch which would waken Bethany, there were many nights when she sat deep in thought and breathed to the rhythm of his snorts and sighs;  many nights when she lay awake, unable to drift off; just waiting.

It seemed to Bethany on this quiet, early morning that she had spent her whole life waiting for one thing or another. She had lived while waiting for her father to show her his love, waiting for her mother to slip completely away from this world, waiting for Billy to somehow engage with anyone in the family, and waiting for Tommy to forgive her for all the pain in his life which he had attributed to her. But mostly she waited for the entire world to find out who she was. She waited for everyone who thought Bethany had it all together, to find out she was a fraud; to finally know she was unstable, and had been her whole life. They all looked to her to be the strong one the one with the answers. She was the one who had it all together and needed nothing to help her cope. If only they knew! If only they understood. If only they were able to listen to her and hear her pain they would have known, the depths of her dysfunction, as Carl had.  They would have understood that the strength that she so openly exhibited on the outside was simply window dressing for the fear with which she lived inside.

And so, once again, she waited. This time she was waiting to hear that Tommy had been killed, and as she sat and waited with the rhythm of her snoring man, she was filled with a sense of calm. So many nights she had spent in fear and anxiety; wondering all the while how and where she had gone wrong. She had wondered why they all hated her so much and how her family could be so different from her; so different from the family she really needed. So much time had been lost to worry and fear and so much energy expended in trying to keep everyone from knowing her pain. She had believed if she could keep it hidden away from the world the world, it would not be able to hurt her, and so she built her walls, and they were well fortified. But her walls held no windows, so there was no chance for anyone to ever see inside. The walls she had built to protect her had become the walls which held her prisoner; the walls which kept her concealed and unavailable to real and pure love. So much time had been wasted; so much of life had been missed because her family could not speak or walk in love with themselves and each other.

Tonight, after she had made her calls, after Carl had calmed and consoled her, and taken her to bed where he knew she would not sleep, after Carl himself had drifted off to the wonderful places his dreams took him, Bethany had lain with her thoughts. And this night, as she had endured the wee hours within the confines of her mind, she was at peace. Bethany Muriel Boyle- Magellan was at last without torment. She was free of guilt and she was without shame. She was not to blame for what had happened to her family. She was not to blame for what was happening to her brother Tommy. She too, had been stained by the effects of the life she had lived, but had not succumbed to alcohol and drug abuse. While she held great love and empathy toward Tommy and Billy, she held no sense of responsibility.

 Her experience of their childhood had been manifested differently in her life from that of Tommy or Billy, but they were all part and parcel of the same illness which permeated their family. She carried her mother’s chemical imbalances and bipolar tendencies. Billy had become as aloof as all the generations of men in their family had been, and Tommy, Tommy who felt too much, had been overcome by his denial and inability to cope. He had inherited the best and the worst of both their parents and had been consumed by the conflicts that raged within. For so long now, Bethany knew all of these things in her mind but here, now, tonight for the first time in her life, she felt it in her heart and she was at peace.

As she carefully slid out of the bed she looked down at the sleeping Carl and smiled. “Thank God for Carl,” she thought, “thank God for this man who was able to see beyond her wall to the shattered and frightened little girl who lived behind it. Thank God for Carl who was filled with goodness and patience and did not exploit the frightened and easily manipulated Beth, but encouraged her and helped her find the path back to reality. Her reality had been forged from years of work and patience; years of therapy and medications and most of all from years of love. Thank God for Carl, who had encouraged Bethany to feel the pain; had allowed her the time she needed to walk through the pain and had been waiting for her on the other side as she had found her way to the love. Thank God for Carl, who had helped her to understand that she was worthy of love.” She smiled down at her sleeping and snoring, receding hair lined prince, as she turned and walked out into the hall and she was at peace.

Bethany walked slowly down the hall passing the photo gallery of their lives. Her mother had always said they took a good picture and the evidence of that hung here on the walls of the dimly lit upstairs hall. She stopped in front of a favorite picture of her father as he sat perched on the steel seat of his red Farmall tractor. His straw hat had been tipped rakishly to one side and his long cherry wood pipe hung easily from the side of his smiling mouth. On his lap sat Billy, when he was only two, and over his shoulder you could see the smiling face of young Tommy as he stood on the far side runner of the tractor. God only knows what Muriel must have said or done to get them all smiling so, and God only knows how many times Bethany had looked at this picture throughout the long years of her self imposed exile and  been filled with guilt and sorrow. How many times had she told herself, that they were all so happy till she had come along? That her birth had stolen their joy! How many times had Tommy told her the same thing?

 She continued down the hall feeling joy tonight in the knowledge that at least for that frozen moment in time they had been happy. She stopped and looked for a long time at the photo of her as a baby in the arms of her Tommy, getting ready to receive the warm formula from the bottle. Fed from Tommy’s hand rather than her mother’s breast, but still eager, the baby Beth’s eyes are bulging, mouth open and gums wet as she reaches for the hand of her big brother. Beth recalled the many times she wished her life could have ended at that moment, filled with trust and unwavering love.

The next frame held a picture of Muriel Boyle. She sat alone in her kitchen, in the chair that had been there for Beth’s entire life and still sat there today. There were fresh cut flowers in a vase beside the chair, so it must have been spring and in the window hung the prisms that her mother so loved. The sun is beaming through the window and the photo, quite by accident, had captured the beam of light in such a way as you could easily imagine the rainbows dancing on the ceilings and walls of the kitchen. This beam of light which only the camera would have seen fell over Muriel and gave her the look of an angel at the window. The photo is quite beautiful and very artistic, but for Bethany, it had always had held so much mystery. The mystery is seen in the eyes of Muriel Boyle. She looks toward the camera but not at it. She appears to be looking at nothing. Her eyes are vacant, and Bethany always believed that these early photos had shown the sadness which existed in the soul of her Mother, and the illness which was growing in her mind. There were people over the years who had assumed Muriel had posed for this photo. That she had been positioned by a photographer at the perfect time in the perfect spot to capture the light and the mystery. Sadly it was not true. It was not a pose; it was a snapshot of a deteriorating mind. Bethany found herself wondering how often today her Mother sat and stared at the same spot in space and what it was she saw there; what it was she had been looking for.

Bethany walked away from the sadness of the picture of her mother and stopped in front of her wedding picture. Both hers and Carl’s family had gathered around them for the photo and there in the picture was the evidence of the difference between the families. Carl’s family stood arm in arm with genuine smiles and open love; happy to be united and easy in each other’s company. Bethany’s parents and brothers wore the same artificial photo smiles that they wore in pictures in every other album. Rehearsed and phony, uncomfortable with the closeness of each other and the required display of love and affection, they stood as if by court order for the photos and when it had been taken, she recalled how quickly they had dispersed. And there in the center of the photos stood Bethany and in her eyes there was the same vacant look which existed in the photo of Muriel. The eyes of each were searching for something which was not there to find.

Bethany moved on down the hall feeling blessed once again that she had been able to join in a real life with her husband and children and feeling a deep sadness for her family of origin. She walked to the open door of her oldest son John, and looked across the hall to that of her daughter Muriel. She let her hands drop to her stomach where her new son, Tommy, kicked and turned in his sleep. She watched them as they slept and she let her love spill over them. Through her eyes flowed a love that she had never known as a child and she swore once again that these children would always be loved and always be aware of love. She stood in the wee hours of the morning and wondered how many times her father had stood in the dark night and looked down upon his children with a love he could not express.  How many times had he smiled down as he pulled covers up and slipped dolls or action figures in beside the sleeping children knowing they would never know he was there?

She turned and started back down the hall of memories towards her sleeping prince and she was filled with thoughts of her father. She imagined he was sitting alone by the fire, as was his way these last couple of years. Alone in his sadness, alone in his guilt, alone in his shame and she determined to call him in the morning and to continue to try to unlock his heart which she knew to be good and kind. Love deferred is love lost, but love unleashed can fill the world. She crawled back into bed with her Carl and she waited.

Bob Gideon had just emerged from the darkness of an alley off Wall St. where he had conducted another lengthy interrogation with a gathering of bums. Another conversation which had started with inquiry, ended in threat, and bore no information. As hard as it was for him to not believe his gut instinct, an instinct which had served him well for more than twenty years, he was beginning to believe the felon Tommy Boyle had left the district. He was tired and frustrated and filled with mixed emotions as the realization that he may not find Tommy sank into his head and heart. These crimes had been a personal affront to Bob Gideon; not only committed on his beat but carried out mere blocks from his actual home. As he began to walk south on Wall Street, he decided it was time for him to back off a while. It was time for him to call in to the station for a black and white to come and get him and to take him to the house for some coffee and an update on the dragnet of Tommy Boyle. Maybe he could discover a fresh perspective if he backed away for a while.

 In his mind he ran over the events of the evening, reviewing all the interviews he had done on the street and considering all the people whom he had spoken to. He had called in favours, he had chatted to some and leaned on others and he had come to the conclusion that they were all being square with him. If Tommy Boy was still in the area no one knew about it at least no one whom he had spoken to.

Still there was something nagging at his mind, something he was overlooking. It was then that he realized he had not spoken to Armist Hancock. He had seen Armist, a couple of hours earlier, but he had opted not to actually speak to him. Armist was one of the irregular regulars down here and as such he had a way of blending into the background. He almost always kept alone and he never drew attention to himself. But there was something else as well! It had been what McCaskey has said about his runaway perp. He had said the guy’s name was Armist, a big man and he remembered questioning that because it did not add up. The Armist on his beat was bent over and arthritic. Officer Bob Gideon was no Sherlock Holmes but he was a smart enough cop to realize that in twenty years on the beat he had never met another man called Armist. This could not be a coincidence; somehow Armist Hancock had become involved with Tommy Boyle and somehow he had failed to make that connection. That now made Armist Hancock the only thing close to a lead for him.

Gideon stopped in his tracks and turned south. With a renewed sense of purpose he began to walk towards the alley which was the home of Armist Hancock. Just as he reached for his right shoulder to key the radio and check in with his Precinct the cell phone in his breast pocket began to ring. The cell was his pipe line to the street. He handed out his card and number regularly to anyone he thought would be of use or would be in need and the practice had often borne fruit. There had been many a time that a person on the street would not talk in the open but would share on the cell rather than end up in a cell.

“ Bob Gideon here, how can I help you?”

“I’m not sure sweetie; maybe it’s me that can help you!”

He immediately recognized the raspy smokers’ voice on the other end of the line and smiled as he responded.

“Why Polly Ann, whatever could you mean? How on earth could you help out and old flat foot on a cool wet night?”

“Well, Officer Friendly, you might be well surprised, you surely might.”

The banter between Bob and Polly Ann was one of those things in life that evolved naturally, was completely consensual and something that both parties looked forward to on a daily basis. It was an interaction which was always extremely witty, full of sexual innuendo, often sarcastic but never mean in spirit. For him Polly Ann Polanski represented everything for which he had become a cop. She was the perk at the end of each day that kept him suiting up for the next shift.

He had first met Polly Ann when she was on the wrong side of the law and on the dying side of heroine addiction. She was a hard girl in a hard spot and in those days she was not one to ignore. She had come from a good Polish family with whom she had long since lost all contact or support, and she would undertake any means to facilitate her drug use. There was many a middle aged business man that took a walk down a dark alley with Polly Ann expecting sexual rewards, who ended up robbed with their heads split open, and wondering how they would explain it to their wives. The calls always came into the station house as muggings. The johns could never adequately explain what exactly they were doing off the beaten trail in the darkened alleys, and Gideon always knew it had been Polly Ann. He knew. She knew he knew; and he never was able to bust her.

 In the end, when Polly Anne was near to death and in more trouble than she could talk or fight her way out of, she had come to him. He had helped her live through her legal problems and stood beside her as she took the sentence she was due. When she started her bit on the inside, it was Bob who facilitated the contact she needed to get clean and sober, but it was Polly Ann who did the work to reclaim her life and reconnect with her family. They had become friends, but that was not his goal or intention at the outset. The help he offered to Polly Ann Polanski was, in his mind, part of his job, to protect and serve. The fact that Polly decided upon her release to come back to the neighborhood and make Officer Bob Gideon her friend was the perk, the perk that brought him the daily assurance he needed in knowing he was in the right business, knowing he could make a difference.

She began slowly, measuring her words with caution and awaiting his responses in anticipation. “Bob, I am in a bit of a spot and I may need to call on a friend for some help.”

“This friend anyone I know, Polly?” In spite of the situation at hand, Polly Ann found herself chuckling into the phone. He had a gift, where Polly was concerned. Regardless of the situation he could always make her laugh and she loved him for it.

“As a matter of fact, Bob, this friend is someone who has helped me before and someone I know I can trust, even if he is a bit of a dick!”

“Okay, Okay, what’s up? Is some one bothering you over at the Parlor?  I hate that you stay open all night, but I know you are too stubborn to talk out of it.”

“No, no nothing like that, I am okay but I have a friend who needs your help. He is in a bit of a spot and I told him if he trusted you, like I do, maybe you could walk him out the other end.”

“This fellow, did he commit a crime?”

“Yes and no, he is kind of caught up in a misunderstanding situation. He is not sure what to do! He is close to high tailing it you know, but I told him there ain’t no running away. He needs some help and he does not trust too many people, especially cops.”

“Jeez, Polly, this is about the worst night ever. I am right in the middle of the shit here in the District. We have a bit of a man-hunt under way. I’ve been pounding the beat all night looking for a suspect. Can it wait till tomorrow?”

“Well Bob, that’s the thing. I think maybe this friend of mine is kind of involved in the same thing you are.”

“Are you friends with Tommy Boyle? Tell me you are not friends with Tommy Boyle! Polly Ann you listen to me! If you are somewhere with Tommy Boyle you need to tell me right now and then you need to get away from him. He is a dangerous felon!”

“No, Bob, no! I am not with Tommy Boyle but I know he is the man you are looking for. I know that and a whole lot more. I want to help and my friend wants to help, but he is scared. I need to assure him that he can trust you; and me for that matter!”

“You know me Polly, and therefore you know the answer to the question. If I can help and if this friend, and you Polly, are not involved in criminality in the case involving Tommy Boyle I will do the best I can. But if you or your friend has crossed a line you know I will have to do the right thing. I am cop first, friend second, always.”

“I know that, Bob, that is why I am calling. There has been no big lines crossed but my friend sort of hit one of you guys and then he took off. He is just scared you know, and a little fragile. I think he would come in or cooperate if he knew you guys would look away from the assault charge.”

“Well, well. I was just wondering not two minutes ago where I might find old Armist Hancock and here it turns out he is with my good friend Polly Ann Polanski! Where is he, Polly? I need to talk to him. He may be the only lead I got to find Tommy Boy. You tell old Armist if he’s done no more tonight than leave a rookie cop with a sore jaw and a bump on his head then I will keep him out of the slammer! If it turns out there is more to it; no promises from me. That’s the best I can do.”

“That’s the most I would ask you for Bob. Just to listen and give the fellow a chance. He is good people inside you know what I mean. I can be back at my shop in fifteen minutes, how bout you meet us there.”

“Fifteen minutes; I will be there Polly.” As Gideon hung up the phone he considered the possibility of calling in for back up and dismissed it just as quickly. Polly Ann had a good head on her shoulders; she had good street sense and she knew people. She was still on parole and she would do nothing to jeopardize that. If she was willing to vouch for Armist Hancock in the matter of Tomas Boyle, that was good enough for him.

Fifteen minutes later Bob Gideon walked through the door of Polly Ann’s Parlor and Pleasure Emporium. His entrance was heralded by the digitized door chime which spewed forth a few electronic bars of the theme song from Love Boat. Mike, the tattoo man, looked up from a half finished Japanese character he was imprinting on the half bare ass of a fully drunk young girl. In the corner sat the snickering, dirty looking boy friend of the half-assed young girl.  He was covered in ink and piercings on all the visible parts of his body, and Bob did not want to even think about what may lay beneath the dirty leather and denim he wore. Both seemed oblivious of the fact that a Police Officer had just entered the establishment. They exchanged mindless chatter and seemed only capable of focusing on a single event for a brief moment in time. Gideon wondered, as he often did, how much these kids must hate the lives they lived. It was so sad that they believed another existence could be created; a better set of circumstances attained, or the attention they so earnestly craved, realized with the application of ink and stainless steel. Mike nodded his head toward the office in back and Gideon walked through the Parlor with a feeling of deep sadness for a generation lost.  

He often wondered about this world he had taken an oath to serve and protect. Perhaps the time had come for Bob to think about ending his lack-luster career. Days like this one played harder on his mind than they had in the past. It was his job to do Police work not to have running commentary in his mind on the decline of the world, as was more often than not the case these days. His eyes darted over the racks of pornographic material and the shelves of sexual devices and he felt the anger rise up from his gut and settle. Polly Ann was a dear friend. Polly Ann was a woman who had turned around a lost life and for that Bob held her in esteem, but this business that she had chosen filled him with dread. It was a sign of decline for Bob. It was part of all that he deemed to be bad in this world and it kept Polly Ann on the edges of a world to which she had nearly succumbed. He had done his level best to dissuade her, but she had made up her mind and she was a stubborn woman.

She was Polly Ann Polanski of Polly Ann’s Parlor and Pleasure Emporium and she was in no way ashamed of it. On the outside Gideon displayed moral dislike for Polly’s stock and trade but inside, in the places cops kept hidden from the world, he was only concerned and worried for Polly Ann’s safety and well being.  She was in a tough business in a tough part of town, and if Gideon were to put an end to his career, who would be there to look in on her. He sighed deeply, cleared his thoughts and walked into the small office of his friend Polly Ann Polanski.

She looked up from her desk and she smiled and the room took on a different feel. He could sense some of the tension leave his jaw as he looked down upon her in the ten by ten clutter filled office and Bob smiled back at Polly.

“Well, Officer After all this time and all this effort, at last I have you in the back office”

“I suppose that is true Polly. You have me here, but only for police work, I fear. Where might our mutual friend be?”

Polly motioned toward the door leading to the washroom off the back of the small office. She smiled and she bantered as always, but Bob could feel the tension in her. He could sense her concern and something more. He had known her in the past to make projects out of people she had come to know in the neighborhood. He had seen her get involved and invest the time it took to get a young man or woman off the street. But something in her aura was different tonight, and he suddenly realized that it was possible that a deeper connection existed between Polly and Armist than he may have known. He looked past the over flowing ash tray to a discarded pair of police issue handcuffs lying on the desk. He reached past Poly Ann and picked up the cuffs.

 “I take it these belong to a friend and colleague of mine?’ Polly Ann nodded in silence.

“You will understand if I return them, right? And you do understand that this is aiding and abetting, Polly, right? And that aiding and abetting is a violation of your parole which could ultimately threaten everything you have and hold dear? You get all that right, Polly Ann? It seems to me that you have put yourself in a very bad situation.”

“Yes Officer, I get all that. Can we get past all the cop stuff now and get to the helping a friend stuff?”

“No, Polly. I am not sure we can. It is not easy for me to look the other way and I can assure you in twenty-five years it has only happened once. And that one time made me feel sick to my stomach for ten years. I don’t think I will put myself through that again. Armist Hancock is not my friend! He is a guy that has lived around the corner in one alley or another for as long as I can recall. I have never known him to be a man looking for trouble, but I do know he has always lived on the edge of the law and I have no doubt he has crossed over from time to time. You are my friend. That is the only reason that I have not shown up here with a couple of black and whites and with one cop in particular who would like to have another go around with Armist at the station house. I promised McCaskey I would call him if I heard anything about the guy he lost tonight, the guy who actually does turn out to be our Armist. So, until you convince me otherwise, until I see who comes out of that bathroom and what kind of mood he is in, I will proceed as an officer of the law. You got that Polly?”

“Wow! Big speech! I’ve got it. I had no one else to call Bob and I only want the help you are willing to give, no special favours, okay!”

“Fair enough” replied Gideon not diverting his attention from the bathroom door.

Perdition

John Boyle sat in the dark of the parlor in the farm house in which he had spent his life. The two years he had spent fighting in the Great War had been the only time in his life he had been away from this farm. He had put his own folks in the ground on this property, watched his kids grow and move on and spent a life time with the only woman he had ever loved all here, inside these four walls. These two hundred acres had been the only world that John Boyle required, and all that he had needed to bring him joy. But here, this night, sitting by the light of the open fire and gazing into the glowing embers, he was overwhelmed with sadness.

It was three in the morning and there would be no sleep again tonight. His wife, Muriel, was at rest in the room they had shared for over sixty years and for that he was grateful. The week had been hard and her condition was deteriorating. Muriel Boyle had spent her life in a battle with depression. At times she had succumbed to the darkness that lurked on the edges of her mind, and during those times she had been taken from John. Those times of depression had been hard, but nothing in those times of illness could have prepared John for the devastation that her dementia and Alzheimer’s would bring into his life.

The disease had gone unnoticed by him, and had been well concealed by Muriel for probably a couple of years. Lost keys and missed appointments were laughed off as the onset of old age. But eventually the change in behavior had become so pronounced that John knew there was something wrong.

Muriel was no longer herself John knew this, but as had been his way in life, He chose to ignore it. Then came the day when John had come in from the fields for supper to find the stove cold and the table empty. He searched the house for his Muriel and he had found her sitting in the corner of the room of their oldest son, Tommy. She must have been rocking back and forth for hours when John had arrived. Slowly he crouched to her side and he asked her if she was all right, and when she looked at him her eyes were empty.

“Where is Tommy?” she asked and John looked upon her but he had no words. John bent to lift her to her feet and Muriel cringed back in fear. For the first time John understood that she did not know him. He remembered that day, how he had stood there in silence never feeling more alone in his entire life. John Boyle knew pain and he knew loss. He had been in the Great War and he had seen men die. He had taken lives and he had been wounded.  He had lived through the pain of losing his oldest son, Tommy, to a life of addiction, and his Billy and Bethany to a life of neglect. He knew pain and he knew loss and he survived it all because he always knew he had his Muriel. With her there was nothing he could not endure. Without her there was just nothing.

He turned in silence and left the room. John found himself that evening sitting in his big chair in the comer of the kitchen as the light of the day faded out of the room. The rainbows of light were slowly fading from the ceiling, as the last of the day’s light faded from the sky and drained from the prisms Muriel had placed in the windows. He wept into his pitted and calloused hands as darkness filled the room and the colour drained out of his life. He wept in his big chair as he had never wept in all his days. He wept tears that had no end and sobbed sobs that knew no bounds. As he sat, in the depths of his despair, he heard her voice. “John, oh John  what is the matter?” She had spoken from the darkened doorway and then she came to him and she cupped his head in her arms and drew him into her breast and kissed him as she had done so many times before. Muriel was back, and she had no idea she had been gone.

That was the night that John Boyle’s life would change forever. Up until that point in his life, John had proceeded on a need-to-know basis. He never really needed to know why his wife was angry or depressed, or why one of his kids was acting out or for that matter why one of the milking cows had stopped producing. All he needed to know was how to fix things, just as his father before him, John was a fixer. He was uncomfortable with the knowledge that came from digging deeper into the feelings and emotions of himself or others. He never had a big need to be right. His only goal in life was to get along, avoid confrontation and make things okay for folks. When he could fix things he was happy, and when he could not, he was at a loss.

This distorted philosophy which he had inherited from his own father had served him well in the Great War and helped him to establish good relationships in his business life, but had created a chasm between Muriel and the kids. Just as he had respected his father, his children respected him. His mother had learned to live and love a man who could never become more for her than a loving and practical provider, and so Muriel had learned to live with and love John. It was a good life for John, because he was never forced to challenge the limits of his emotional prison but what he never understood was that it was not okay for Muriel or the kids. It wasn’t that John withheld the love he felt for his wife and kids. He loved them truly and deeply. The simple truth was that he had no way of knowing how to deliver that love. It was something he had never learned from his own father.  The times that he had allowed himself to be emotional, early on in their life together, had left him feeling awkward and uncomfortable almost dirty. When the times were hard, as they had been after the birth of their daughter, Bethany, John just disengaged. If he could not fix it, he could not deal with it, and that was just the sad and simple truth.

So although they appeared a happy balanced family on the surface, the fact was that John Boyle provided food and shelter and Muriel Boyle provide everything else. The love and understanding that John was incapable of providing was delivered two-fold from Muriel to the children during the times when she was capable. When she was not, the children relied upon themselves, and more often than not, on Tommy. The feelings that John could never express in times of joy or sorrow remained unspoken as Muriel rocked him back and forth. She had held his head to her breast as wondered where the man she fell in love with had gone, and tried to understand this man who had returned from the Great War in her John’s body. The emotions that were alive in his heart would die in his throat before they were able to enter the lives of his family as words of love or encouragement. Muriel had always said their family ‘took a good picture’ and John never understood what those words really meant until that night. They had always been a one dimensional family.

That night two years before was the first of many nights that John would sit by the fire and examine the events of their lives together. He was no longer able to go on as though everything was okay, because his Muriel was no longer there to take his share of the pain. She was no longer there to deflect the truth and John began to see his part in what his family had become. From the very beginning, their oldest son Tommy was a sensitive and loving boy. John remembered Muriel often saying ‘He feels things deeply, that one’ and John remembered thinking that he would need to fix the boy.

In those days, John’s father was still working the farm with him and when the two worked side by side they were prone to hollering. It was just their way as it had always been, and both John and his Dad understood that, but young Tommy did not. He would be alongside them in the barn, and as the hollering grew louder, Tommy would begin to cry. The harder John would try to get Tommy to stop, harder he would cry. John’s dad would become angry, telling Tommy he would need to ‘toughen up some if he expected to amount to anything in this world,’ and then he would tell John that he, too, was like that as a child that John too had been emotionally disturbed and had ‘needed fixing.’

 As a result, John took to fixing Tommy. He tried to find ways to deaden the depth to which the boy felt his emotion, and to a degree there was success, at least on the surface. However, John was never able to toughen Tommy up to an acceptable degree to satisfy his own Father, and Muriel was no help. When he would send the boy to his room because he had cried, Muriel would go there and sit with him. She would hold him in her arms and read him her books. She would fill his head with poetry, and dreams of far away places, telling Tommy that it was all right for him to feel. Telling him that it was okay to be the person he was and that his father loved him the best way he knew how. The bond that developed between Tommy and Muriel was deep, but incredibly complicated. They both desperately needed the emotional love of a man who was not capable of giving it to them, and in an effort to ease each other’s sense of loss they created a world of which John could never be a part. The conundrum of their existence had been created in the dysfunction of John but the bricks and mortar of the wall this family would all live behind were laid inadvertently by Muriel and Tommy.

As time marched on and the family grew, Muriel had become resigned to the relationship she and John would have. She understood John loved her, just as she understood he would never be able to adequately express that love. Muriel had settled. She had settled for a life that left her wanting, because it was the easy and practical thing to do. John was a good man, and in his way he had always been gentle to her. She could have done worse. She had reached a place of acceptance, but Tommy never could.

Throughout his young life and into his teen years, Tommy never stopped seeking his father’s love and acceptance. John Boyle had become a hero to the young boy. Tommy had placed him high atop a pedestal where John never deserved or wanted to be. He was just a simple man, who was unable to connect with the emotions that coursed through him like the wildfires of summer. To Tommy, a young man who spent most days in emotional turmoil the quiet calm and steady strength of his father was something to which he aspired. He wanted to be like his father was, solid and in control of his feelings, never showing fear or anger, every bit the stuff of heroes. Tommy did not know of the burden his father had hidden behind the exterior he exposed to the world. Tommy did not know that John himself yearned for the courage to sit with Muriel and his son Tom, to be able to give them his love and to share in their secret world and to be accepted. Tommy never understood the love he so desperately craved had always been there, just beneath the surface, just out of reach.

So life went on! Muriel maintained the best she could and for the most part, in those days, she had an inner light which illuminated the grey that existed on the edges of their world. On his part, with each passing day Tommy learned not to feel. He learned to be the man he thought his father would be proud of, rather than the boy that he was, and John pretended not to notice the problems with his life. Then, in the winter of 1955, came William Boyle the second son of John and Muriel. He was a beautiful Christmas baby and for a time it seemed his coming would herald a new beginning for the troubled family.

 John embraced this new son with a gentleness of heart which Muriel had not seen in him since before the war. She was filled with hope at the expectation of John’s being able to rise over the obstacles of his emotional trauma, and become the man that she had hoped he would be. In her fanciful way Muriel imagined a world in which they were all together, a world in which they lived and loved and grew old in quiet contentment. In her mind this world had become so real that when it was shattered, she lost a part of her spirit which she would never regain.

Tommy too saw the changes in his father, and was immediately filled with confusion. What had this new baby done to garner the favour of this man and to gain the favour which Tommy himself had been unable to attain. He was confused by the mixed feelings of love and hate he had for this innocent new baby. The more Tommy craved to be noticed, the more he seemed to melt into the background of everyday life. John was never mean to Tommy; he never punished him in a way that was anything but fair. As in his relationship with his Muriel, whom he also loved, John merely existed alongside Tommy. John was always fair and he was generally patient but he was never loving and that was what Tommy needed. So when John started showering this new child, Billy, with affection and actual physical contact, Tommy had become jealous, then resentful, then angry. Those feelings which grew in Tommy’s heart, and which were incubated in neglect and sorrow were in no way the fault of the new baby but would remain with Tommy throughout his life.

John was suddenly seeing all the truths of what he done to his family. Throughout the long hours of his sleepless nights the memories assaulted him and led him to the horrible reality of what he had done what he had become and what he still was, a man unable to express a single emotion for fear of releasing a lifetime of suppressed emotion. He remembered the children when they were new, and he remembered how he would cleave to them when they were so small and so helpless. He remembered how Muriel would be filled with hope because of his attentions, and he remembered how slowly, as the children grew, he would withdraw. When these sweet and innocent babes began to turn into actual humans with personalities, John would close up his heart. When he felt they were able to expect his love rather than just accept his love, John knew there would come a day when he would disappoint them; a day when they would see him as he was a man who was shattered and full of fear. That was a day that John would never be able to live through, and so he pushed them away.

Just as he had turned his relationship with Tommy into a practical arrangement, he had done so with Billy. Therefore, just as Tommy would spend the rest of his youth and a good deal of his adult life seeking love from his father, so to would Billy. Muriel, whose hope had been allowed to blossom with the birth of their second child, began to experience long episodes of depression as she realized the fantasy life she had created would never come to be. And so they all moved forward, all hurting, all seeking and never finding the balance between love and life. The patterns of their lives had been set on an unstoppable journey of denial and a never ending cycle of dysfunction. And they all began to endeavor to survive in a one dimensional world.

And for a few years it all went along not too badly, the boys played and studied and worked the farm along side their father and Muriel kept a fine home and offered the two boys a dimension to life that John was unable to give them. Tommy was bright and never stopped trying to please, and Billy followed along, never causing any trouble, never expecting anything too good. John was a man who could plan out his crop rotations and livestock requirements a year or two ahead but when it came to his personal life John never lived beyond each day. In the case of John Boyle a ‘One Day at a Time’ philosophy was not founded on serenity or acceptance, but a philosophy that was created out of an inability to cope, and a fear of change. Had John possessed the courage to look into himself, he could have changed the path his family had taken, and on these long nights as he sat by the fire he wished he had been able to summon such courage as this would have required. But wishing doesn’t make it so, and hoping won’t change what has been done. Hope for folks like John Boyle only led to sadness, or so he thought.

So then came Bethany. To say she was unexpected would be an understatement for John. To say she had been unplanned by Muriel, would be naive. Muriel had been slipping further into flights of fancy and then sliding deeper into depression on a more regular basis in the summer of nineteen sixty. John had become worried about her pronounced highs and lows, and being unable to fix or understand her erratic behavior, he had decided to seek counsel from a source beyond himself. The very act of opening up to another on a problem within his family, a family which appeared outwardly to be perfect, was of great difficulty for John. It was the only time in John’s life that he had reached out to another, and that act of reaching was a testimony to the deep and unspoken love within him. It was a love that allowed him the courage to ask for help; the same love he would rely on years later when Muriel began to disappear from his world.

John was not a spiritual man by any common understanding of the word, though when alone with the soil he found a peace and serenity he could not attain in any other location in his world. He was not a religious man in the commonly understood meaning, but he was a man that understood and appreciated religion. It was not the dogma attached or the rituals of one denomination or another that attracted John. It was the very regimentation of the religious organizations that he identified with because it related so closely as to how he conducted his own life.

The only time in John’s life when he felt as though he fit in, was when John was in the military. Even while living in the midst of the horrors of war; living each moment as though it may be his last, John had felt a kind of sense of security and well being. In the Army he knew what he was expected to do. Never in his life did he experience a clearer understanding of who he was and what was expected of him. If he screwed it up he would be told immediately, and more often than not he would be given the inspiration and the tools to fix his screw-up. When he excelled, as he did in this controlled environment, he was rewarded in a brief and direct way with no fanfare and no on-going attention. John enjoyed the army because it fit with his controlled emotional life. The army gave John a place where it was not only okay to be unemotional, it was encouraged. John was able to leave his emotions well buried beneath piles of regimental army procedure and that suited him down to the ground. He was able to fit in; he was able to get along.

It was this same attention to ritual and the same need to be controlled, that attracted John to the church when he returned to the farm. He had attended as a young man at the insistence of his parents and had been involved in the church as an altar boy and later as an usher. The old priest that presided over the flock in this part of the diocese was later understood to be the bottom of the barrel in the world of priests, but as a young man John looked to this Priest, Father Mike, as being all-powerful and full of the knowledge of God. He was fascinated by the control this man had over all his parishioners. He instructed them in his sermons, how, what, and when to feel. He read them the Word and then told them what it meant and how they should apply it to their lives and they all listened. They all listened because they all believed this man of the cloth knew something they did not. He was a man of God and they were his sheep, all willing to be led.

When John returned to the real world after the war, he married Muriel and instantly and gratefully gave up the control of his life to her. She was strong and John was damaged far more than he had been when he went away. He was indeed damaged deeply but in ways that were unseen by the eyes of the world. He was damaged in ways which, in those days, society dictated, needed to remain hidden. However, he was willing to be led and the concealment of the extent of this damage was managed through the well-ordered life that Muriel put together for him. They began to build their one-dimensional family with the birth of their first son Tommy, and carried on with the birth of their second, Billy, some four years after. They were the perfect family with a couple of kids and a good working farm. Their neighbors were close but not so close as to get a good look inside their lives. Fellowship took place in a church that knew them well, but only on Sunday mornings.  It had all been going along so well, and then Muriel began the get ill.

Her depression became more frequent and carried on for longer durations, only to be displaced at a moments notice by a whirlwind of manic behavior which would find her repainting the house or reupholstering a couch. She joined in volunteer activities, at one time even joining in a civil rights march. It was during one of these high points in her illness that Muriel began to talk of another baby. She told John her depressions were caused because she wanted a little girl that the happiest times for her were when she had babies and that was when she and John were the closest to a real family.  She became convinced of the necessity for a new child, and John became convinced that a new child would bring disaster. He felt his world dissolving and he sought council with the only man on earth he felt he could speak to, Father Mike.

John entered the church through the large front doors and stepped into the dim light of ’salvation’. He felt comfortable here in dim light under the high, painted ceilings of the church and slowly he began to walk down the center aisle. It had been many years since he had been alone in the church and he stopped to take in the scents of the incense and the lingering smell of extinguished candles. His eyes followed the progress of the stations of the cross and John searched deeply into his memories trying to connect the images before him and the smells that surrounded him with a happy memory from the years he spent here as a child. He searched, willing for one of the few times in his life to be introspective, hoping to connect to a feeling, but no happy memories rose to the surface. The feeling of comfort he was briefly experiencing left John, and he stood with the grim reality of who he was, a man who would never be at ease, a man unable to reconcile who he was with his perception of what the world expected him to be.

 John sighed deeply, and continued to walk over the plush carpet down the long aisle wondering how many brides had passed this way, how many coffins had been rolled to their final resting place, how many husbands had come seeking solutions to the problems with their wives. As he approached the altar, and the door behind which would lead to the priest’s inner sanctum, he felt a sense of foreboding course through his body. He stopped in his tracks and for a moment felt certain he should not be here in this church seeking advice from a man of the cloth who knew nothing of his world except that which John had allowed him to know. But John had a problem which required fixing, and the ability to fix the problem did not lie within John’s grasp, so with renewed determination John crossed over the altar to the heavy oak door which stood between him and a man who would give direction and take control.

The door swung open on silent hinges and John found himself standing in the vestry behind the altar. He let his eyes roam from cabinet to cabinet, taking in the multicolored vestments which were hanging in wait of the proper occasion to adorn the priest as he offered up mass. He looked upon the neatly stacked boxes of altar candles and the cases of hosts waiting to be blessed and transformed from unleavened bread into the body of Christ. He saw the closet where the altar wine was stored, and felt an unfamiliar twinge of guilt as he recalled the day he and Greg Kuntz had sipped from the left over wine after an Easter Mass service, wine which had been consecrated and turned into the blood of Christ. Father Mike had felt certain the sacrilege would cement their place in hell. He saw the large candle holders and the incense burners hanging from the large chains by which they were swung to distribute the holy smoke, and the large crucifix made of brass and copper, wood and leather which preceded the priest down the center aisle every Sunday. And he saw all the funny hats, sitting on the Styrofoam heads, all so colorful, all so high, all making little Father Mike appear to be larger than life. John was filled with an odd sense of order and control which filled him with calm and blessed denial.

 There was another door located at the back of the vestry which stood ajar and from within that room John could hear Father Mike as he moved inside the church office. He knocked lightly and walked in as Father Mike had just finished pouring three fingers of Johnny Walker red into a tumbler on his desk.  Father Mike looked over his shoulder and motioned John into the room as he spun the cap back onto Johnny Walker and slid him away into the dark confines of a desk drawer with a fluidity of motion which could only be attained through years of practice. Father Mike lowered himself into his chair in a fashion which suggested it was not the first time that day, perhaps even that hour that he had renewed his acquaintance with Johnny Walker.

“John! John, please come in have a seat. It’s a long time since you have been back in this room isn’t that right? You remember John; I caught you drinking the wine with that Kuntz boy. What was his name? Greg, I think. Yes, Greg. He is dead, John, did you know that? Drank himself to death when he was only a young man, I believe, not twenty years old! Tragic really. I remember wondering as I presided over his funeral if it had anything to do with the wine that day, John.  What do you think? No of course not, just the musings of an old man I suppose, eh, John? After all you are still with us John, even after a couple wars, eh? I suppose I am rambling on now. Come and sit, John, and tell me what that has brought you back here after all these years. How can old Father Mike help?”

“Well, Father Mike, I am not really sure how to begin. You know I have never been much good at talking, not really. It is Muriel who always seems to be able to get across to the kids and even other folks what it is I am trying to say. I am only good at speaking plain talk about work and such.”

“John, you can speak to me about anything. Nothing can be so hard, John, that we can’t take a look at it. You don’t need to sit there looking all fearful, John. ‘He that knows no guilt can know no fear.’ Did you know that, John? Phillip Massinger said that, John. Is there something you are feeling guilt over John?”

“Guilty? Well I suppose so, yes in a way. I am having some trouble at home with Muriel, Father Mike, and I am not sure what to do. I don’t do well with problems you know.”

“Have you been unfaithful to Muriel John is that where your guilt lay; in your infidelity?’

“Excuse me! No nothing like that, Father, I assure you! Muriel is sick. She has been getting these bad times of being down in the dumps. Depression, she calls it, and then other times she is like a house on fire, all ready to save the world and paint it at the same time. I just can’t figure it, Father, and I don’t know what to do or what kind of mood she will be in at any given time. I am coming to my wits end, and I need some help. I am feeling guilty because I don’t know how to fix her and I don’t know how to be with my kids when she is not okay. She does most of our thinking and all our caring for. I am just a farmer.”

“You John are a farmer and a husband and a father! You are also a member of this congregation and as such you make a weekly offering which we appreciate. Maybe, John you are over reacting. Although I don’t see you here every week, your pretty wife is here with your boys. She seems fine to me, son. What you are describing sounds like woman’s issues. Now Muriel is far too young for the change so maybe what you are experiencing is just regular women’s problems what come each month. Those kinds of problems can work on a man, John, and that is a fact! ‘In this life we want nothing but facts, Sir; nothing but facts’ Charles Dickens said that John.” Father Mike chuckled at his own wit.

John watched as Father Mike threw back one hand and drained the scotch out of the tumbler while opening the desk drawer with the other and spinning the top off of Johnny Walker again. He poured another three fingers and replaced the bottle in the desk while John was still trying to understand what the Priest had just said.

“Father, I don’t think you understand. This is worse than that regular stuff. I have been near eleven years married to Muriel and a good many years before that when I knew her. I am used to her regular ways and this is something different. I am worried sick about what to do. Now she seems to think us having a baby will fix things, only I don’t think she will be able to handle another one right now. That’s what I came to speak with you about, Father Mike. I think we need to take some precautions, if you know what I mean, because she is sick and all. I think I would like to talk to a Doctor about her getting some of those new pills they got for the birth control.”

“Worried, John is that it really or are you just fearful?  So fearful in fact that you would put your own selfish needs for sex above the needs of your dear wife, above the needs of the child you carry in your seed? ‘Fear is stronger than love,’ did you know that, John? Thomas Fuller said that John and it is so true. Do you think you know better than a woman when she needs to be with child, John? Perhaps your Muriel is not the problem at all. It seems to me she is acting in a way which is responsible and in keeping with the wishes of our Pope John who speaks directly to our Lord God.  Do you presume to know better than the Pope? Better than God himself? John I am filled with disappointment in this attitude you seem to have towards Muriel. Are you suggesting she may be insane because she wishes to have another child?  Did you really think you could come here and get my permission to kill an unborn child with pills sent to this earth by the Devil himself?”

“Father, please stop! You don’t hear what I am saying. I am really scared! You are right, but not because I want sex and no babies. I love babies maybe better than I can ever love anyone. She is sick, Father, and I don’t know what to do! I only know how to work. I don’t know how to take care of kids and a sick wife. I need help. I don’t need you yelling at me. I need you to tell me what to do. Muriel always tells me what to do and now she can’t.  I don’t know how to act a different way, Father; I really don’t.”

Father Mike finished his second glass of scotch and filled his third as he sat glaring at John. His face had become a glowing red and John could see the beads of perspiration on his upper lip and forehead and he wondered if this was an indication of the anger Father Mike was feeling or the residual effects of ten ounces of Johnny Walker Red, neat. He was wheezing in wet breaths and trying to control his breathing, and John could see the good Father was searching for calm before he spoke.

‘Men acquire a particular quality by constantly acting in a particular way.’ Did you know that John? Aristotle said that. Do you know what that means, John? It means you need to act differently. It means you need to summon up whatever courage you can and help Muriel through this hard time. It means you do not need any doctors or birth control pills, but that you must now work from a position of faith. You must trust your priest as well as your church, and care for your wife and the child she will bear. Do you understand that, John? ‘Frailty thy name is woman’ Shakespeare said that John. Do you understand what I am saying to you?”

John began to sob. His mind was running in a thousand different directions at once and the information he was trying to absorb was melting together with Father Mike’s ridiculous quotes from history and John felt himself getting angry. The words he was trying to articulate were lost in the confusion of his mind and he did not understand what this priest was saying to him.

“No, Father, I don’t understand! I just can’t Father. I can’t have another child in our house.”

Father Mike sipped his scotch now and he sat in arrogant judgment of this man who had come to him for help, this man of his flock of many; all so needy, all so sinful, all so annoying, all so small.

“Do you know the story of Solomon and the baby, John? Do you know that Solomon ordered the baby cut in two?  Obviously John, in these enlightened times we would never suggest cutting a child in two. However it strikes me, John, that there is a similarity in your situation. It also strikes me, John, that in this case there are too many babies in a house rather than too few. Mmmm, ‘These are the times that try men’s souls’ Thomas Paine said that, John, and what do you think he meant?

“Huh, I don’t know what he meant Father. I don’t know what you are talking about with anything. It is like you are not even hearing what I am saying!”

“Indeed John, indeed it is. Which of your boys would you like to get rid of John so that your Muriel could have another child?”

“What?”

“Which of your boys, John; be it Tommy or Billy? There is a family over in Odacre who cannot conceive and would truly feel blessed with the child you would abandon.”

John rose up in a fury; the chair he was occupying flying out from under him and crashing on the hard wood floor. His temper rose to the point of spilling over into the small office and John’s heart pounded with the memories of the men he had killed and for a moment he feared for the life of this pathetic and drunken man of God. He stepped forward and he stopped and he understood at that moment the man that had been locked deep within him for these many years must stay hidden. John let his clenched fist open and his arms fell to his sides. Father Mike sat staring in his drunken arrogance and was unaware that he had been moments from meeting his Maker. Moments away from having to atone for a life wasted and for the lives that he had violated.

“You rot in hell and go fuck yourself on the way, Father. John Boyle said that! I think you know what it means.”

 John turned and left the church for the last time. He would never enter it or any other again, nor would he ever allow any of his family to do so while they lived in his home. John drove to the farm and he sat long and alone in the barn. He had gone to the priest for direction and he had returned to the farm with none. He had no action plan so he planned no action. John walked to the house and found Muriel in a good mood that night. He took her in his arms and he kissed her on the lips and they all continued on as though everything was okay, as was their way. Ten months later there was born a beautiful little girl named Bethany. She arrived and Muriel left, and none of their lives were ever the same again.

As much as John had tried throughout his life to pretend none of it had happened, it had all returned to him as he sat on theses nights alone in his penance. They had moved on, he and his Muriel, they had all got past it. That is what they believed, and that is what they had hoped for. But hope for guys like John Boyle just leads to sadness and his sadness led to bitterness, his bitterness to anger, and his anger to hate. He hated that his wife was mostly gone to him. He hated she called out for a son who was lost to him and that he could not find it within himself to reach out to the son and daughter he still had. He hated the priest who set them all on this road to perdition and above all he hated himself for all he had done and more for all he had not.

Their long journey into uncertainty had started nearly two years ago. The spells of confusion were fairly short and regular in the beginning and the moments of complete loss of memory were few, but John never knew when they would come or how long they would last. The doctors had prepared him for the worst, as they had assured him that in the end his Muriel would be gone forever. John had accepted his responsibility as care giver to this woman he had loved inadequately for most of his life, this woman who had always cared for him, the best she could. He was able for a short time to keep the severity of her decline from Beth and Bill and Tommy had long since stopped calling. But Muriel never stopped calling for Tommy. The days she was lost completely were sometimes better than the days she spent calling out and crying for her lost son.

So John Boyle sat by the fire and wore his sadness and hate in silence as a testimony to a love that had never faltered or left him wanting, a love he was never able to return. He looked down at the Stephen King novel ‘Insomnia’ he had just finished reading, and smiled to himself, feeling a kinship to the main character in that novel, Ralph Roberts, sitting alone in his room and missing his wife Caroline. So too was he, unable to sleep, unable to move on, waiting for the little bald doctors to come and take his wife. His oldest grand son had seen him reading Stephen King and had been excited ‘Here, Grandpa’ he had said ‘You gotta read this one, it is really good.’ So John Boyle, at three in the morning, opened the cover of the thin novel and read the first line ‘The man in black fled across the desert and the Gunslinger followed’ and John Boyle allowed himself to flee reality.

Billy

It was six-thirty in the morning when Bill Boyle checked into a day room in the Amsterdam International airport.  Billy had made a night crossing of the Atlantic and was looking at an eight hour lay over before boarding his twelve hour flight to Johannesburg, South Africa. He had not slept much on the plane, he seldom did, and rather than spending the time in the airport lounge with his two colleagues, he decide to sleep the day away. Amsterdam was one of the few airports left that offered day rooms inside the terminal and Billy always was more comfortable keeping to himself.

So after the usual prodding and jeering from his traveling companions and the usual excuses from Billy, he separated himself from the foolishness of their adolescent boozing and sought out solitude in an eight by ten airport day room. Billy was not above the occasional drink, but drinking in excess or drinking for no other reason than to pass the time seemed a foolish waste of time to Billy, and time was a commodity Bill Boyle did not like to waste. From as far back as Billy could recall he was aware of the minutes and seconds ticking by him and had for the majority of his life lived in an agitated state. He could never quite say he was constantly anxious, he never experienced panic attacks as he understood them to be, but Billy always felt as thought he was just a little late. Regardless of where he was or what he was doing he always felt as though he was supposed to be somewhere else doing something else. Billy was a time keeper and a clock watcher, and though this seemed a character defect to him, the reality of his world was that he was a highly organized and efficient thinker. The traits which Billy carried through life from childhood, which made him feel just a little apart from the rest of the world, had turned out to be very useful in his business life.

Bill Boyle was a civil engineer and an accomplished one at that. He had walked off the farm his father had hoped Billy would work for the rest of his life, and had worked his way through University with honors. He had finished in the top three of his graduating class and had a dozen options for employment upon graduation. The day of his graduation should have been a big deal for him, but it had not been. Oh, he was proud of what he had accomplished on his own and he was excited about the prospects which lay ahead,  but as he stood on the platform that had been erected on the football field of his University with fifty-four classmates which he had known for the past five years, he felt completely alone.

 He scanned the crowd for signs of his Mother and Father and did not see them there though in the back, arms waving wildly and standing alongside Mr. Perkins, he could see his little sister Bethany with her boy friend Carl. She was always there, Bethany, had tried always to make their family something it was not. Billy’s dad had called the night before the graduation to tell him that his mother had taken a bad turn, and had been secluded for the past several weeks. John Boyle had told Billy they would do their best to be there but he could not say for sure, and by the end of the conversation Billy knew they would not attend. But still he looked for them and still he hoped, and though he knew they would not be there, he was disappointed. So Billy sat alone in the crowd as he always did, and smiled and pretended he was happy on the day of his graduation.

He had known his mother would not be able to attend because it was supposed to be Tommy. Tommy was the favourite, Tommy was the first in the family who would get a degree, Tommy was the one they saved for and sent all the money to, and Tommy was the one who had let them down. Oh, Tommy went off to school alright and Billy was certain that Tommy had started out with good intentions and had given it his best in the beginning, but Tommy had problems and Tommy had issues and Tommy had begun to drink. Not much at first, probably no more than any of the others in his dorm, but something had changed in Tommy with the onset of the drinking.

 Billy had looked up to Tommy as though he were the first and only big brother in the world and when Tommy had first gone Billy wrote to him every week. And Tommy replied. He had told Billy everything about the University and he had made it all sound so exciting. Tommy had been involved in the debate club and with the student union and he had met more people in one year than he had met in a lifetime there on the farm. He was funny, and he was popular and he was ambitious, but he was not a good student.

It was the little things that went unnoticed at first which in the end finished Tommy’s career as a student. The usual stuff, late papers, missed classes, ridiculous excuses. The stuff every Prof in every University knows to watch for and always calls a student on eventually. But Tommy somehow stayed under everyone’s radar. He slipped through the cracks, and by the time he was discovered it was too late and the first year was lost. The loss of the year in itself was of no great consequence. There has been many a first year student who has gone the same route. Being unaccustomed to the pace of university life and overwhelmed by the new-found freedom that they enjoy, their grades suffer and they fail. These students generally face the music and pick up their socks, swallow their pride and forge ahead. But that was not the route that Tommy Boyle decided to follow.

Tommy was filled with fear and insecurity from the moment he walked off the two hundred acres which had been his world. He had worked so hard for so long to achieve the love his father was incapable of delivering, that he viewed his journey into higher education as the mechanism by which this love would be delivered to him. His father had told him so many times, as he had the night he gave Tommy the family heirlooms, that Tommy would be the first to be educated in university. Tommy was to be the best and the brightest of all the Boyle men and because of that his father had been proud and had reluctantly said so. It was the closest he had ever come to the expressions of love that Tommy so craved to hear, but he had stopped short. His father’s pride was not his fathers love, but it was something Tommy would settle for, something to give him hope, and that made it worth the world.

 John Boyle had saved and scrimped and over the years he had amassed enough money to put the boy through university. It had been his goal for all his children but the simple fact was that there would never be enough money for more than one of the children to go to college and Tommy knew it. So he never told them about that first year. He continued on writing letters and letting them all believe that he was doing well. That was when the lying had started. It was when the cheating had started and it was when Tommy Boyle began his journey away from the family, never to return.

Billy had been the first of the family to suspect that there was something wrong. Over the course of Tommy’s first year, the letters he had written to Billy had diminished and by the time the second year was half way through the letters had stopped completely. Tommy never came home that first summer because he had found work in the city and was unable to get away. He never came home that first Christmas because he had met a girl and was spending the holidays with her family, and he never came home for March break, offering no explanation as to why. Muriel Boyle had entered into a depression which was really her way of signifying that she knew there was something amiss with Tommy and John Boyle began to spend long hours in the fields. Both refused to consider the notion there was a problem, for both lived in their own form of denial on all issues which required confrontation.

 So it was Billy who decided to go visit Tommy to find out what was going on. It was Billy, who had been cared for throughout most of his young life by his older brother, Billy who had admired Tommy and tried so hard to emulate him and Billy who was certain that Tommy had fallen into some horrible misfortune. He imagined all sorts of reason for Tommy’s lack of communication. There could be all sorts of wild scenarios which may have explain what had happened to his brother but none of the reasons and none of the scenarios had been unfavorable to Tommy. Tommy had been such a source of strength and responsibility in the lives of Billy and Bethany, that Billy could not imagine a scenario in which Tommy could be blamed.  It was beyond the ability of the sixteen year old Bill Boyle to imagine his brother, his hero, as anything other than his brother and his hero.

 So Billy took his savings and purchased a bus ticked to the city where he found a taxi to take him to the address where all his letters had been sent. As Billy stood in front of the old stone block house on the edge of the Campus he took in all the activity as it buzzed about him and he was in awe. There were young men and women walking in every direction at once. All walking in purposeful strides, some looking confident, others were looking confused, and still others were looking scared to death. They were on skate boards and bicycles and scooters. Some were jogging and one was on roller skates.  Many were walking in groups and engaged in discussion, while others were walking alone and listening to music or reading while they walked. And some were walking as couples, holding hands and giggling as though they were absolutely alone in the crowd, their new and fresh love absorbing the mayhem around them.

Billy just stood in place and spun in slow circles for as much as ten minutes taking it all in and Billy understood during that time why Tommy had stopped calling and writing. Why would he! Why would he take time out form all of this glorious and exciting activity to touch base with a bunch of hicks on the farm, even if they were family?

Billy understood, and Billy once again found himself envying his older brother and coveting all that Tommy had. For the first time in his life Billy had a dream. He had a dream and a plan and he would see it through regardless of whether his folks accepted his dream or not. Up until that moment his father’s plan for Billy had also been Billy’s plan for Billy. Stay on the farm, work along side his Pa and maybe one day get the recognition he had been waiting for. It seemed a good life for Billy before today but now, now that Billy had seen a small glimpse of what the rest of the world must look like he wanted more, he wanted to be part of it. He wanted to contribute to this world and he wanted to start as soon as he could. He looked around at all about him, and he was filled with happiness for Tommy and joy for himself. He could not wait to tell Tommy about his revelation!

Billy was uncertain just how long he had stood at the end of the sidewalk leading to the stone house which was Tommy’s dormitory, but he suddenly sensed he was no longer alone. As he finished one of the many  three hundred and sixty degree turns he had made he found himself standing toe to toe with a very amused young man sporting shoulder length hair and a huge drooping moustache. Billy took a step back in surprise and the young man began to laugh.

“Hey man, are you out of it or what? I’ve been watching you from the window of my place for better than twenty minutes now while you been spinning in circles, I thought for sure you would have fell over dizzy by now, in fact I bet my buddy Tom, five bucks you would! Guess I am out five bucks eh! Anyway, I couldn’t wait any longer I got to get to class. See you around!

“Wait, did you say your buddy Tom.”

“Yup, my buddy and my roomy Tom. He is bagging off this morning because he did not get the assignment done that was due, fucking geometry man, what a drag! So he has suddenly become sick you know man, bagging off class.”

“Not really.  I am not sure what you mean. What is your name anyway?”

“I am Neville, man, but around here they just call me Devil. You know, man. You know what I mean?”

“No not really. Is he in there now? That is great! Tommy is who I came to see!”

“Tommy is it? Far out! That is hilarious; I always thought he was to cool to go with the Tommy thing. He is just plain old Tom around here or Tom Cat if you get my drift. Most kids just call him Cat or Cool Cat because he is the man!”

“Really, wow that is neat, back home on the farm he was just always Tommy.”

“On the farm! Whatever man, he is in there” Neville, also known as Devil, pointed over his shoulder without turning away from Billy “Room two twelve, second floor, gotta fly man, see you on the flip side.”

Billy watched in amazement as Neville, also known as Devil, in a single motion dropped and mounted the skate board he carried and pushed off down the side walk enroute to his Geometry class. As Billy watched Neville soar across the paved beauty of the University campus he tried to understand why anyone would want to be called Devil.

Billy turned again and took in the image of the dormitory in front of him. It was a large, stone block building with a glistening white wrap around porch, and dozens of large multi paned windows. The building stood a full four stories in height and appeared to be almost entirely surrounded by large roaming flower beds, filled to capacity with perennials and annuals and shrubbery of all kinds and colours. The east wall was covered by a crawling vine, fluorescent green in colour with deep red berries randomly lying amongst the leaf. It had crawled and stretched its way from footing to eave, gaining ground on the craggy stone getting foothold on the porous mortar and cleverly traveling around the large paned windows where it could lay no root. Billy could feel the age of the vine and the tradition of the entire university and somehow he knew that this vine which covered the dormitory represented all that was good here. The vine moved always upward slowly and persistently gaining ground on its goal to be the best, to reach the top. That was how Billy had imagined all the students here on campus pursued their education, with slow determination and great honor, like heroes, like Tommy. His eyes traveled high above the roof of the dormitory to the flag which whipped wildly in the wind, and Billy was filled with hope and pride as he entered the building.

It was quieter inside than he had expected, in fact there was nearly no one about. The grandeur  and heritage which remained on the outside of the building had been lost as Billy crossed the threshold and entered into a large foyer with chairs and couches on both sides. There were tables covered with newspapers and editorial magazines and in the corner a small television was tuned into a documentary on the recent exposure of the pollution in the Love Canal. At the far end of the foyer there was an older man with wispy white hair, wearing a button down shirt with a school tie and jacket, his bifocals perched on his nose as he was immersed in the New York Times.  On the walls were hundreds of pictures of the students who had been part of this residence from its beginning till now. Billy looked on in awe at all those who had come before and his mind went to wondering to what had become of all these men. How many had become lawyers or judges, how many doctors or scientist, how many presidents or philosophers how many great men had walked these halls?  It was almost overwhelming for Billy and he was unaware of how long he had been standing staring at these photos’ when he heard the man clearing his throat.

“Excuse me young man, is there something I would be able to assist you with?  I would love to know where you were just now; it is a long time since I have seen that look on the face of a young man.”

“I’m sorry Sir. I am not sure what you mean.’

“That look, the one which is upon your face at this very moment, that look that comes with knowing the entire world lies before you and your future will be exciting and full of hope. That look, my boy, is what I refer to and what I see there in your eyes. I recognize it for I once held such a look myself, some years ago now, I am afraid. That is why I have returned to my alma mater in these years which are mistakenly referred to as golden, so that I may be around young men who sport such a look in the hope that I can draw on their energy, maybe even gain a few more years of life.

“Well, Sir, I am not sure if I have any look at all and I can tell you I have never thought much about what lies ahead for me. Mostly I have just thought I would work the farm like Pa. Until today that is. Being here at this place has made me think maybe there is something more I could do. I have always been good at fixing things like my Pa is, but it seems to me that has not left him too happy, so maybe I need to do something more; something more important that just being a farmer. I think maybe I could build things too. I think I would like that.”

“An Engineer perhaps or an Architect, all things are possible here in this place if one applies oneself. The possibilities really are endless.  I myself am an Architect! I specialized in bridge design, Civil Architecture, and I have enjoyed a wonderful and rewarding career which took me to all ends of the earth. As I said, I have traveled far and wide but in a huge circle which has found me once again here at this institution sitting at a desk and learning.”

“Learning, what are you learning now?”

“Well today my young friend I am learning about you! Whom do I have the pleasure of speaking to and how may I be of assistance? You seem a bit young to me to be here in a student’s capacity so I can only assume you are on some sort of mission.”

“Well my name is Billy, Sir, and I am on a mission of sorts. I have come to visit my brother and this is where he lives. I have been mailing letters for some time now but he has stopped replying and so I thought I should find out if he is okay. Now that I am here I can see there is so much going on that I am sure he just has not had the time to write. I don’t know if I would either if I was at a place as exciting as this one.  It sure beats all out of farm life I can tell you that.”

“Well young William, it sure may beat all out of the farm but I can tell you that a man should be proud of what he does in life regardless of what it is. I would never be so presumptuous to assume I was in any way better than the man who provides the food I eat. Farming is a skill which few excel at and even fewer understand. It is really quite an organized science of when to plant and where to plant and how to till, harvest etc. I can design and build a one thousand meter long bridge over a ravine a thousand meters deep but ask me to grow one turnip, and I would not have a clue as to where to begin. All things, Billy, are relative one never being greater than another. So what is the name of this young and inconsiderate student you seek?”

“His name is Tommy but I met a kid outside named Neville, who says around here they call him Tom Cat or Cool Cat. He said he was on the second floor.”

“And so he is, Room 212 though I must express my surprise. I consider myself a good judge of character and I see much of it in you young man. All things being equal on the farm which you were raised I can honestly say I have no idea how you and Mr. Tom Cat are brothers. You are a well-spoken and polite young man and Cool Cat is an arrogant and self-absorbed gold- bricker. I have great difficulty understanding how this young man also grew up in the farming culture where hard work is the norm. Please accept my apology young man but I hope you can find and hold a focus should you enter these rooms of higher learning in a way which your brother has not.”

“Excuse me, Sir, but you are wrong. My brother is the one who showed me the way to be polite. He has never been rude in his life and I would appreciate your not saying so. Now if you will excuse me and if it is okay, I would like to go up to room 212 to see my brother Tommy.

Billy brushed past the old man and headed straight to the long curved stairway which led to the upper floors of the Dormitory. He moved up the stairs and down the hall with great trepidation, something was wrong. Both Neville, also know as Devil, and the elderly scholar standing watch in the lobby of the dormitory had described his older brother, his life long hero, as something less than what Tommy was. Tommy had always been there for him all of his life and though he was unfamiliar with the culture of this institution or the ways of city life, he could not imagine that Tommy would be held in such low esteem by an academic and raised to a pedestal by the likes of Neville, also know as Devil.

He made his way down the long hall way which led to the back of the building and Billy took in all that he could of the halls. Each space between each door leading into the dorm rooms held a bulletin board. The boards were covered with announcements of social events to be held on campus, schedules of class, notices from the College administration, want ads and for sale ads. There was art work and photos and petitions and jokes and poetry and Billy’s eyes locked on each item in fascination. Each step down the well lit hall carried Billy closer to the realization that this world of knowledge which he had been unaware of, was the world he would embrace. This is where his future lay and Billy, for the first time in his life, felt as though he had found a place where he could belong. A place where he would be seen and accepted a place where he would never have to live in the shadow of another. In these halls he would be able to carve out an identity for himself and he could control the outcome of his life. His end would be determined by his means. Hard work would be the key and Billy was a hard worker. Here in this place he would never be invisible again.

He suddenly found himself standing in front of room 212 and he froze in his tracks as he looked upon the door to the room. He had come here to this place with little thought or planning and now as he found himself at the door to his brother’s world he felt as though he were intruding. Tommy’s life was here now in this place and it seemed as though he had turned his back upon his family and his roots. Perhaps being here with these people had caused his brother to be ashamed of his origins and Billy’s presence would be an unwelcome reminder of a life Tommy had abandoned. Thoughts of leaving were entering Billy’s head as he looked at the door which was covered in magazine clippings of bikini clad women and arm flaying rock stars all of which seemed so out of character to Billy. His confusion was growing and his uncertainty quickly disappeared as the door to 212 was suddenly pulled open.

Stopping abruptly as he left the room was a long haired man with a short trimmed beard. He wore only a pair of boxer shorts covered in playboy bunnies and a pair of sandals. On his wrist were several beaded bracelets and around his neck hung a peace symbol and he was obviously shocked to find a young man standing inches from his face.

“Whoa! What the fuck, man, you scared the shit out of me! What the hell are you doing standing here staring at my door? Admiring my calash art or just getting off on the bevy of beauties I have collected here?”

“Excuse me! No neither. I am sorry to have startled you I was just deciding whether or not to knock.”

“Really, that seems to me like an odd thing to be deciding. Like just knock or don’t what could cause decision making in that scenario man, seems a bit odd; you some kind of weirdo or what?”

“No I am not any kind of weirdo. I am looking for Tommy.”

“And you have found him though no one other than mommy dearest has called me that in some time. I am generally known as Tom Cat though I certainly prefer Cool Cat and my close friends just call me Cat. You my little unknown weirdo are none of the above and thus may call me Tom, never Tommy. What can I do for you kid?”

“Well I am sorry sir. There must be some mistake. I was directed here by the man down stairs to see my brother. This is his dorm room, two twelve, I know because I send him letters here, though he has not written back for some time now. I came to see if he was okay. Is there another Tom that lives here, do you have another room mate named Tommy, Tommy Boyle?”

Cool Cat looked on for a moment in silence and then he began to snicker and the snicker became a laugh. But it was not a nice laugh. It was not a laugh that comers from mutual jest or good humor or a nervous laugh or just a laugh of joy, it was a laugh that was filled with meanness and scorn and Billy was suddenly feeling naked and exposed in front of this man he did not know. The meanness of the tone amplified in Billy’s mind as Cat slowly raised his bracelet adorned hand and pointed toward him. Through the snorts and chuckles he began to speak.

“Oh man” he said “you must be Billy. Wow, wait till I tell Devil. I never thought you would leave the farm man. What the fuck! This is too hilarious.”

Billy looked on at this grinning moron and began to feel the anger rising out of his gut. The knot in his stomach had evolved from concern over Tommy, to anxiety over his journey, to out and out fear as he had stood and looked at the door of room two twelve. The knot was quickly becoming anger and the anger would turn to rage. Billy had only lost himself and reached the rage twice in his life and when he gave over to it, he lost control completely. When all the frustration and fear that Billy kept at bay within his mind and soul reached the point of boiling, the spill out generally came from Billy’s fists.

“How do you know my name is Billy, and where is my brother Tommy? I don’t like you laughing at me as you are. It is quite rude, please stop it now.”

“Oh please forgive me Billy, I know that being rude is frowned upon back in the holler right! I know Ma and Pa would probably give you a whooping right.” Cool Cat laughed sarcastically as he backed into the room he had moments before been leaving.

Billy followed Tom Cat into the room and let his eyes take in the chaos which existed there but the only thing that registered in Billy’s mind was the fact that there were only two beds, one for Neville, also known as Devil and one for Tom also known as Cat. There was no evidence of his big brother here in this room and though Billy remained confused he was beginning to be led by his anger and the question came more quickly and more assuredly.

“Where is my brother? What is going on here? How do you know my mane and about my Ma and Pa? You had better stop giggling and start talking you jerk or you will be sorry!”

“I will be sorry! Relax kid. Your brother is not here. Your brother Tommy, also know as the BOYLE is not here. He has not been here since Neville arrive two semesters ago. Sorry, Billy, but I ain’t the Tommy you’ve been looking for; I am the Cat he is the Boyle.”

The Cat’s voice was growing meaner and Billy wondered how such arrogance and spite could grow in the heart of a person who had the opportunity to be here in a place like this. Cat was reaching out to a shelf which was on the wall beside his bed and with a dramatic gesture he swept aside a stack of magazines, the pages of which were full of holes in the shapes of woman. From beneath the magazines he picked up a tattered shoe box and with a grin more evil than Billy had ever witnessed he flung the box on the floor. The box landed heavily at Billy’s feet and as the lid flew to one corner of the cramped dorm room the contents spilled directly out in front of Billy. Billy stared down in disbelief and a feeling he could not identify filled him. He looked down in shock and he saw the letters and he saw the birthday cards and the Christmases cards and the Easter cards. He saw the pictures his little sister Bethany had drawn for her big brother in red and green and blue crayon. He saw the neat penmanship which was his own and which carried all the secrets and dreams he had written down and sent to his brother. He saw the signature of his mother and the little hearts she drew as periods to her sentences and to his dismay he even saw a letter in the hand of his father, a man he never knew to have written a letter.

As Billy looked down upon the scattered thoughts and feeling of his entire family he began to understand why Tommy had not responded to the letters for the letters had not been received. Billy eye’s slowly moved from the scattered mail on the floor to the sneering male that stood before him and he was filled with a sense of violation. He had identified the unknown feeling which had overcome him. He had been violated, as had his entire family, by this sneering fool who was so filled with himself he had no sense of other people or their feelings. The feeling of violation was coupling with the rage to create an emotion which Billy had not experienced and could not identify. He could feel the hair on the back of his neck and hands come alive with electricity and he knew that the option of self control was about to pass. Even though he was filled with hate for this man known as Cat, a part of Billy was praying that the man would speak no more. If Cat would stop now perhaps Billy could turn and walk away. Perhaps he could walk long enough and far enough to leave this dreaded feeling behind. For the first time in Billy’s life he longed to be invisible. But he was not and Cat could not hold his tongue for evil knows no bounds.

“And that little Billy is how I know your name.” he continued “It is how I know about your little sister and you Ma and Pa and your pathetic family. And not just me either! There are a whole bunch of the gang who know about you and your family. Every time a new letter arrives we all gather round for a couple drinks and a few laughs. It is really a blast man. In fact there are some here who never even knew you loser brother before he took a powder, literally. You know it is one thing for guys like me and Devil to waist Mommy and Daddy’s money because, well, Mommy and Daddy have money. But your loser brother got into all the shit with the drinking and drugging and spent all the cash. He just could not fess up to the poor family, again literally poor, so he started trying to be some big time pusher to get the cash and that is when he got caught and they kicked his ass out. Don’t really know where he is or what he is doing and I don’t give a shit.” There now you know the whole deal so get the fuck out of my room.”

The moments which followed seemed an eternity to Billy but in actual fact must have only been a few seconds. He thought of a novel he had read the year before. It was a story about a Pirate and the woman he had kidnapped and then fallen in love with. There was a hero in the novel that would have traveled to the ends of the earth to find and free this woman for he too had loved her. There was a paragraph in the novel where the pirate and the hero met face to face but on either side of a wide canal. They each spoke of their love for the maiden and they each vowed to see the other destroyed. But the pirate possessed the woman and the hero did not. The sentence’s which rang in Billy’s ears were ‘The nobleman looked across the mist which hung over the canal and upon the adversary who stood there in his arrogance and sneered. In that moment the nobleman knew he had been beaten and in his defeat he seethed.’ Billy remembered asking Tommy what it meant to seethe and Tommy had laughed and told him some day he may know. At that moment Billy understood the feeling which he had never before experienced or identified. At that moment Billy understood what came after the rage and he looked upon his adversary and he seethed.

Cool Cat was shocked by the sheer speed in which Billy launched himself into the air and landed upon him. Locked together they fell back upon the book shelf and slid to the floor in a rolling heap of arms and legs. Cool Cat was two years Billy’s senior and twenty pounds heavier but Billy seethed. His rage boiled over and his blows fell in a flurry into the face and chest of the once sneering and arrogant college student. Cool Cat soon realized he was not able to defend against the madness which had taken hold of this young  man and in an effort to minimize his damage he began to curl up beneath Billy to protect his most vulnerable spots. Cool Cat whimpered and cried and screamed out for help and Billy heard none of it for Billy had moved to a dark spot in his mind. He had blanked out and his body no longer responded to reasonable thought. His only purpose was to destroy Cool Cat, were it not for the ensuing intervention Billy would have killed him.

The first realization Billy had as he came back to himself was that he was being grabbed from behind. Arms had encircled his chest and were pulling him away from Cool Cat. As his vision returned he saw beneath him the beaten and bloodied body of Tom Cat and in that moment he assumed the arms around him were those of Neville also know as Devil. Billy began to panic he was not an aggressive boy for the most part and he was not a fighter. As his senses returned so to did his rage leave him and with the rage went the adrenalin rush of strength. Billy feared he now would be vulnerable to attack by Neville and ultimately Tom Cat. He began to struggle against the arms which bound him and with the struggle came the tears and soon Billy was sobbing out of control. His body went limp and he collapsed in a heap upon the beaten student and waited for the blows he was certain were coming.

“William. William! Whatever have you done my boy? What has happened here? Please let me help you up my boy. Do not be frightened I will not allow any one to hurt you though it seems as though I should be making that assurance to Master Tom Cat here.”  

Billy opened his eyes and gazing down upon him was the kindly old gent who had been sitting in the foyer of the McMillan Building when he had arrived. He was confused and disoriented and as Billy was trying to catch his breath between sobs, Tom Cat began to struggle to his feet. He was bleeding badly from his nose and his both eyes were beginning to blacken. As Tom Cat pushed himself to one knee he gasped and held his ribs tightly with his right hand.

“I’ll tell you what the fuck happened. This psycho prick just attacked me! Look what he has done to me Mr. Perkins! Just look what he has done and you let him in. You sent him to my dorm room, you useless old sack of shit. I want the Police called immediately and I will have your ass you old fool. When my father hears what has happened here you will be dismissed. Do you hear me?”

Mr. Perkins slowly bent from the waist and extended a hand to Billy as he cowered in the spilled letters on the floor.

“Please William, get up now, Son, and clean yourself up a bit. Tuck your shirt in and look smart lad.” He smiled at the boy kindly and as he turned to Tom Cat his expression grew stern. “Now, Master Tom, I am uncertain what exactly has transpired here but let me assure you that I very much doubt you are innocent in the proceedings. I take it young William here is not in fact your dear brother and that you and he have had a disagreement of sorts. And it would appear he felt quite a bit more passionately about his point of view than perhaps you did. As for the Police I am sure if you think really hard about it you will not want them snooping about in this room. Regardless of what you may have done to this young boy I am quite certain there are materials in this room the Police would frown upon as well as the Administration of this College, and that would leave you kicked out, young man. What would your Father think of that I wonder? As for having my job well, you see I volunteer here and I also make a sizable donation to the institution annually so I doubt you will have much influence there. Not to mention the irreparable damage to your well honed reputation when word gets out you had your ass kicked, I believe they say, by a boy much your junior. So why not just skulk off and get cleaned up while I escort young William to the front door.”

Tom, holding his ribs and muttering under his breath pushed his way past Mr. Perkins and Billy Boyle and walked cursing down the hall and into the washroom. Billy watched on in fear as he tucked in his shirt and straightened his jacket. Mr. Perkins stood in silence for a moment and then he began to speak.

“William, this is not a good situation, do you understand that this boy Tom could get you in a lot of trouble? If he were any brighter he would understand that he has some rights and choices and would not be frightened by the words of an old man. You must leave here son and do so quickly. I do not know what has transpired between you and he but what I do know is regardless of how annoying Tom Cat may be there is no place in this world for the kind of violence you have just displayed. I told you not so long ago that I am a good judge of character and I believe that to be true. I judged you a smart and polite hardworking boy, not a hoodlum. I believe I was correct in my assessment but you have anger in you that is greater than the sum of yourself. When I came into this room lad you were as if in a trance and I believe you may have killed that young man. You must find the source of this anger and remove it from your soul. It must be banished from your world if you wish to succeed in this life. Do you understand William?”

Billy wiped the tears from his eyes and looked up at Mr. Perkins, “I don’t think I understand much anymore, Sir. I don’t know what has happened to my brother or what is happening to me but I want to learn. I want to be better.” Billy pointed to the shoe box on the floor and stooped to gather the fallen letters. “I will go, Sir, but these letters do not belong here. They are from my family and I will not leave them here for this bunch to make sport of. I will go but I will tell you this. I will be back if it is the last thing I do. I will find my anger and I will turn it into ambition and I will get out of this life I am in and there is nothing, or anyone who will stop me.”

Mr. Perkins led Billy out the room and down the stairs to the foyer below. They stood there for a moment and as Billy was about to exit the building Mr. Perkins took him by the arm and with his extended his right hand began to shake Billy’s. As they shook hand Mr. Perkins pressed a card into Billy’s palm.

“I believe you young William. I believe you will find your way and you will return here. I would offer you my assistance in any way I can when you are sure and when you are ready. Please call me, there is much of me that I see there in you, and I feel you have a lot to offer this world. Good bye young William, until we meet again.”

William left the building and he walked for hours. He walked as though he were trying to walk out of his life and in many ways that day, he did. He walked until it was time for him to get his bus back to the farm and he went to a home that would never again hold any meaning for him. He never told anyone about where he had gone that day or what he had learned. He never told anyone about the letters he had found or that he had lost one hero and found another that day. Mr. Perkins had been there for Billy from that day on and with his kindness and gentle way he had mentored Billy and brought him through those hard years and into this life he enjoyed today. It took Billy a long time to find the anger in his soul and banish it from his world but he had and not without a cost. Little by little over the years, he had removed himself from the dysfunction and disappointment of his family and now here alone in a day room in Amsterdam he was taken by emptiness he felt would never be filled. There had been several failed relationship, hours of therapy, there had been success and still he could not escape the need to be something better than he was. To find some mythical acceptance and love that never existed for him and likely never would, to feel as though he belonged somewhere.

As he did, every time this feeling of absolute isolation threatened to overtake him, he picked up the phone and began to dial his little sister Bethany. She would fill him in on Mom’s condition, on Dads continued isolation, and maybe even she would have some news of Tommy. Mostly she would tell him about young John and young Muriel and this new child she carried in her womb. She would talk about Carl and the love she lived would seep through the Trans Atlantic line and fill a portion of the void which existed in Bill Boyle’s soul. Then perhaps he would sleep

Realization

Armist stood and looked into the small mirror which hung over the sink in the bathroom off the office and store room of Polly’s Pleasure Emporium. He stood and he looked deeply into the ice blue eyes which gazed back at him from the beveled mirror, and for the first time in longer than he could recall, he did not avert his gaze.  He finally saw the truth of the man who looked back at him. He was Armist Hancock, the son of a war hero he had never met, the son of a woman who could not deal with a world in which she could find no peace. The product of a coupling which never had a chance and he was the victim of those circumstances. He was not a bad person. He was not to blame for any of it, and he wondered why it had taken him over sixty years to see that simple truth. He had made his life so needlessly complicated. He had hated everything and everyone, and had allowed the circumstances of his past to define his life. He had fended for himself, had been full of anger, and through it all he had never understood that it was not his fault. Life was just life.

 He reached up and stroked his freshly shaven chin. It was a strong chin and it had received its share of knocks over the years, but it had served him well. He wiped away a leftover dab of the strawberry scented feminine shaving cream he had discovered in the bathroom, and wondered briefly if Polly herself had to shave. That seemed weird to him. She never showed a beard.  He examined the crook in his nose and remembered the big black man that had given it to him years before, but he could not recall a name. Then, with reluctance, he ran his fingers over the jagged scar which lived over his right eye and his thoughts went to Gustav. Good ole Gus. He was a tough one, a hard one, but in the end, he had been one of honour. He had died the hero’s death in the saving of a friend. Armist bowed his head and looked upon the small circle of wooden beads which lay on the basin. He said a silent prayer to a God he never knew, a God he was trying to understand for the first time in his life and a God he was beginning to believe could restore him.  He prayed for the soul and redemption of Gustav Kaminski. He raised his head once again, and peered into the deep set blue eyes of Armist Hancock and for the first time ever; Armist dreamed of a better life and dared to hope that he might achieve it.

He thought of his father and he thought of Gus, and then held his own life under scrutiny. He had always fancied himself a hero, but he was not. He had become a legend on the streets in many ways, but being the oldest of a group of people who existed only to run away from life does not make a man a hero. It just makes him a runner. It had made Armist a better runner than the rest of them.  Armist figured that every one on this earth was searching for a hero, regardless of the circumstances. In a world where the bottom is all around you, Armist’ long survival had in some twisted way made him a hero. In a moment of sudden clarity however, he understood that he was not. He had spent a lifetime running from fear, from responsibility, from social anxiety, all the while blaming anyone and everyone else for his condition. He had achieved exactly what he had set out for in life, nothing. He had no job, no home no family. There was nothing ever to cause him to perhaps live up to the man his father had been. He had lived an invisible life, and in so doing he had nothing to show for it. Those folks, the ones out there who just got by, the ones who held down a job and held together a family; they were the heroes. The people who were willing to take a risk and meet life head on. To do the things that had to be done no matter how scared they were, they were the heroes. Gus had become one of those people at the end. He somehow had found the person he perhaps had once been, and was able to get back there, ever so briefly, before he died. That might or might not be the truth of it, but it made Armist happy to think that it was.

He stood up as straight as he had ever been in all his memory, and looked at his own height in amazement. He moved his fingers over the small circle of wooden beads attached to the crudely carved crucifix and he vowed to himself that from this moment on he would try to live a life which held some honour. He could then remember the sacrifice of an old alky bum and he would remember too, that he was Armist Hancock. He was the son of a war hero, and he would then no longer be afraid to participate in life. Honour was the only gift a man could give to himself, and Armist was ready to do so. He laid down an errant hair on the crown of his head with his big, talon-like hand, took a deep breath and turned to leave the room to face the music with the cop Gideon and he was not afraid.

Armist opened the door and gazed directly into the eyes of Constable Gideon. Though Gideon was in mid sentence, he was not looking at Polly, to whom he spoke. His focus had been on the door to the washroom and his focus now fell fully onto Armist. For a moment, the two stood locked in time neither speaking, neither moving. It was as though the world had stopped, and all that Armist could hear was the beating of his heart and the wheezing in his lungs. But there was no panic. There was no pounding in his ears or churning in his gut and there was no auto-response to run or lash out. Armist held his ground and met the officer’s gaze straight on. He felt the security of the small circle of wooden beads tightly held in the palm of his twisted hand, and he felt himself stand even taller than he had been, as he waited motionlessly for Gideon to speak.

He had stopped speaking to Polly Ann, and all his senses became acutely aware of the giant of a man standing before him in the doorway of Polly Ann’s office. In a way which was in keeping with his training, he quickly assessed what was happening in the small room and he knew his back was to the door which offered him relative security. Polly was sitting at the desk looking apprehensive, and though he never would have considered her a threat, at this moment he was uncertain. He was uncertain because there was a huge hulking man not six feet from him who met his own gaze with certainty and confidence. There was no fear of the police in this man. Gideon could instantly sense it, and that simple fact made this unknown man dangerous and unpredictable. The man was very large and close enough to him that he would not have to be quick to be on Gideon. With just a couple normal strides for a man this big;  the stranger  could be all over him before he could release his baton or his service revolver and Gideon a twenty year veteran of the city’s finest doubted he had the stamina to engage physically with the big man. The man was obviously older than Gideon but he seemed to be in good condition, and Gideon was already thinking about the chewing out he would get from the station house for entering this situation without back-up, or without even calling in. He was on his own with the outcome to be determined.

He chanced a quick glance toward Polly Anne and found her looking at the big man with a familiarity that Bob could not understand. The thought was hurting more him deeply than he wanted to admit, and he was starting to feel as though she had set him up. He steeled himself for the possibility of attack, slowly slid his hand to the grip of his baton and started to speak.

“What’s going on here, Polly? Why have you asked me here and who the hell is the giant?”

“Giant?” Polly began to chuckle and a small smile broke on the face of the big man in the door way. “Why this ain’t no giant Bob! This here is Armist Hancock.!”

Gideon allowed his focus to fall on the man who stood before him and rather than readying himself for imminent danger, Bob began to look at the features of the big man.  His hair had been wet down and roughly combed, and was a soft auburn colour which had grayed at the temples. The army toque which was moth eaten and worn by Armist Hancock regardless of the time of year, was not present on the head of this big man. However, just above the right eye and falling down towards the right ear, was a jagged and cruel-looking scar, one which Bob had seen before. The man before him was cleanly shaven, and from across the room Bob caught an odd scent of strawberries. There was no three or four day stubble on the face of the man before him as was the norm for Armist Hancock, but there was that chin. It was a chiseled, strong chin, the kind of chin you could picture on a war hero or a foot ball star, or an astronaut, and Bob remembered thinking in the past that Armist Hancock would be classically handsome if he were not a bum.

 His gazed shifted to the ground in search of the tell tale red right and blue left runners, and as his eyes fell he noticed the big man had a clenched and deformed left hand. In it he seemed to be holding an odd looking small set of worry beads, perhaps a rosary. The hand when unclenched would surely resemble a large and dangerous looking talon. There was no blue or red shoes, but rather an almost new looking pair of athletic runners, clad the feet of the big man. Bob’s eyes came back up to his face and locked there on the deep set blue eyes which were leveled upon him. He looked deep into those iceberg blue eyes and there looking back at him, he recognized Armist Hancock. Bob could not explain away the great height, nor could he allow himself to believe that for all these years, virtually his entire professional life, he had been conned into thinking this very fit old timer was a crippled and pathetic bum. But there it was, in his eyes the unhidden truth of his identity and Gideon was instantly more wary than he had been moments earlier. For not only was this man big, bigger than Bob could handle, but he also understood at that same moment that this man was very clever. And a big smart man would prove to be more of a threat than a big, stupid one.

“I’ll be dammed.” Bob began “If it isn’t really old Armist Hancock! Maybe not the Armist I am used to but dammed sure the Armist I am looking for. What is your game, Mister Hancock? I’d like to know in which direction this meeting is heading. Are we talking here or are we going to the station to have a sit down with McCaskey? You remember office McCaskey, Armist, don’t you? One of the officers you assaulted earlier this night.”

“Well, I ain’t sure who assaulted who, but I do know the officer you are talking about, never laid a hand on him. Now the other one, that punk kid, he got his due if you ask me, and he got it at the expense of an old friend of mine but when I knocked him out, it was pure self defense. I am hoping you will believe that Officer and that is what will determine how this little sit down will go. I will talk to you and tell you all I know about Tommy Boy. It isn’t much what I can tell you right off. But I am not going down to the station and I aint cut out for a night in no slammer, even though this one is almost over. If that is going to work for you than we can talk, otherwise I am leaving here right now.”

“Leaving are you Armist? What about the police officer between you and the door here? Maybe he will have something to say about who leaves and when. Maybe, you are not running things here. Maybe that job is mine, the police officer. Maybe your job, as the vagrant, is to do exactly as I say.”

Bob looked up at Armist from a distance of eight feet and for the first since his rookie year he was scared. Not scared in the way he had been on many nights in many situations, but scared in a way that made his skin crawl, scared in a way which caused him to react differently from his normal way. Armist was a mountain. Bob was sure that should he try to leave he would be unable to stop him. His fear rolled out in sweat and made its way down his spine, creating a cool space between his skin and the loose cotton uniform shirt he wore. Though it was almost imperceptible, there was a waiver in Bob’s voice and a tremor in his body.

“You going to go all tough guy cop on me, Officer?” Armist smiled down on Bob as he continued, and there was no fear in his eyes. “Well that don’t surprise me none. You cops are all the same. You think you are different or special cause you live down here with the citizens of these fine neighborhoods, but the fact is Bob, you are just a cop like all the rest. You live down here because it makes you feel good like somehow your job means something but the fact is you are nothing to those folks out there. Those vagrants as you say. They are only nice to you to your face because you can take away the little freedom they enjoy. When you ain’t around they all laugh at you Bob. Polly here thinks the sun shines out your ass because you been good to her but you look at me and all you see is a bum; a bum and a criminal. Well let me tell you, Bob, you don’t know me. You don’t know where I have been or what I have been through and you don’t know where I am going. But I do, Bob! I know where I am going for the first time in my life. I don’t know what happened to everyone else on this crazy night, but I know what happened to me! I changed. I am going toward something instead of away from something and there is not a blue uniform anywhere going to change that Bob. I will leave here when I what and you won’t stop me unless you do it with your side arm and I doubt you will. I’m done running, and I’m done fighting Bob but if you think I am going down to the station house for a wee chat with McCaskey you are mistaken, and I am willing to make an exception one last time if fighting is the only way out. So in answer to the question you asked, we are talking here or we ain’t talking at all. You can relay my words to McCaskey, but you will understand if I have no desire to see him or blue justice in this room or any station house tonight.”

Bob was listening to Armist’s words but all the while his attention was drawn to the deformed hand of Armist and an object he was working through and around the misshapen fingers.  It was small and it was wooden, perhaps beads, but Armist moved it so quickly that Bob could not focus on the object. He had the feeling you sometimes get when you almost know a name or you almost recall a dream. Even though he could not give full focus to the object in the big man’s hand, there was something mesmerizing in its movement. There was something comforting and calming in the way Armist held the object, as though it were an extension of his broken appendage. He had seen Armist for years and he knew his habits and possessions. A man on the street became known or gained renown by the things he acquired and the ability he had to hold onto them. Armist was legendary in this aspect of the street pecking order. He had his turf, his shipping crate abode, his army tunic, cap and parka and his red and blue shoes. There was no one in the five square blocks of paupers and squatters who would dare try to separate Armist from what was his. There were those who had tried, and those who had failed, all of whom ended up lying in their own blood or carried into emergency rooms of the local hospitals. None of them were willing to lodge a complaint.

 In the topsy-turvy world of the street, people having challenged a man like Armist and failed, held nearly the same status as having challenged a man like Armist and won.  Provided you kept your mouth shut, and took your lumps as per the unwritten code of street ethics, as a challenger and loser you were able to walk the street with pride. Your scars and lacerations were worn like medals of honour and your name went into the night time lore of those who lived around burning fifty gallon steel drums, and drank their cheap wine or home brew out of paper bags.

And Armist always won. He always held his possessions and protected them with his life like an old bear with a young cub. He never lost, but as he aged the challenges came more frequently. It was only a matter of time before someone younger and harder crossed Armist’s path and only a matter of time before the big man fell. In the falling he would become like Gustav Kaminski, surviving in stairwells awaiting his ultimate demise. If Armist intended to remain upright as he now stood, he would lose a crucial element of surprise which had carried him through many a back alley brawl.

Bob could see that now. He had often wondered how the stooped over and feeble looking man with the crippled hand and the supposedly crippled mind, had managed for so long to be ruler of his domain.  Bob had assumed his edge came from never getting involved with the crack and the heroine which could so quickly sap the strength of the younger vagrants. But now tonight, in this room, Bob supposed Armist was just a whole lot smarter than he had ever been given credit for. He owned his turf, and Armist kept his stuff. That is how Gideon knew the object working through the deformed fingers of the big man was something new.

While Gideon was lost in his thoughts of the object and what it might mean, Armist had moved. He was surprised to realize that seemingly without his knowledge Armist now stood beside Polly Anne who was seated at the desk and watching the two men in silence. On the top of the cluttered desk was a large bowl full of jelly beans, and Armist was picking through with his good hand and finding the black ones, tossing two or three at a time into his mouth. “What’s it going to be Offisure?” said Armist. His teeth had stuck together with the pasty jelly bean which caused his words to slur, and Gideon assumed he had been drinking.

“What is that Armist?” asked Gideon as he looked at the hand held out in front of Armist.

“It’s a jelly bean, Bob, a black one to be precise. I know you blue bellies are all about the details.”

“In the other hand, Armist, what is it you are holding, almost concealing, in your bad hand?”

Armist held his hand out in front of him and slowly turned it over in the air between him and Gideon. “This here ain’t no bad hand, Bob. This here is the hand that has kept me alive a long time now. This here is the hand that taught me when I was just a new boy here in these parts that there was never anyone going to help me out. This here is the hand that never had a chance to be set right after it was broken. Just like all kinds of people down here in this place we call home, your own back yard, Bob. They just never got set right. Oh it has done bad! There is no doubt on that subject, but it ain’t bad. It is just the way it is. And this here,” Armist let the small circle of wooden beads attached to the crudely carved crucifix dangle from the end joint of one of his disfigured fingers in the space between him and Bob, “This here is something I got this very night, that somehow is making me see things different. Somehow it’s making my mind quiet, and maybe my soul too, if I got such a thing, Bob.” Armist reached down and this time took a multicoloured hand full of jelly beans, tossed them into his mouth and began to chew aggressively. His mind was quiet and he had not had a drink in over three hours but his body was feeling a craving which it had never been given the opportunity to experience before, as Armist never went long without a drink. He had a cold sweat living just above the surface of his skin. It was as though the clammy sweat never really made contact with his skin, it enveloped him with only enough space between his body and this cold force field to create a slight, imperceptible shiver which ran from head to toe. It was as though it was at once part and apart from Armist, and he was certain that should the small circle of wooden beads fall from his possession, this imperceptible shiver would grow into a seismic tremor which would send him into a seizure that could render him incapacitated. Somehow he knew this to be the truth but that did not fill him with fear.  He chewed hard on the jelly beans, and instinctively knew that the sweet syrup which he could feel running down the back of his throat, along with the Talisman he had been given by Tommy Boy, would keep the tremors at bay.

“It seems to me Armist that you are full of big speeches this tonight; but very little information. Maybe you are just full of shit and maybe we should just run you in, but something tells me there is more to the story so I am willing to sit and talk. Just the three of us, but you need to tell me everything! You get that? Everything! Start with how the hell you got hooked up in this mess in the first place and we will take it from there.”

A big sigh escaped from the stern face of Polly Ann Polanski of Polly Ann’s Pleasure Emporium, and both men instantly averted their gaze to the woman they had all but forgotten. She was sitting behind the cluttered desk in the small back room office. “Well, Halleluiah!’ said Polly raising her arms in a mock gesture of praise, “You two have finally got to the end of your pissing match and are ready to get to the heart of our situation. What a joy! I was starting to think I was going to have to measure your dicks to see who was the toughest badest biggest man! Men are such assholes!”

Bob and Armist both laughed and both looked to Polly Ann with a different type of love in their eyes. She would be the bridge between their two worlds and the love they both felt for her would enable them to move forward.

Armist told it all to Bob leaving nothing out. When it was over, Gideon sat quietly and considered what the next action would be. Armist sat quietly and finished the last of the jelly beans in the bowl. He felt a peace and freedom overcome him as he parted with the story of the night’s events. He was purged.

Polly Anne brought them all fresh coffee and as Gideon swallowed the hot coffee, he looked over to Armist and pointed to the talisman in his hand.

“Armist, I know you have become attached to that rosary and I know you attribute some physic change in Tommy and in yourself to the beads, but the fact is, Armist, that it is evidence in an ongoing investigation. You are going to have to turn it over at some point.”

“We’ll see Officer, we’ll see. This here set of beads may just seem like mumbo jumbo to you, I know the fellar I spoke to earlier at the mission did not think these things that are happening were because of the beads either and I am starting to know there is truth to that. These here beads are just something being used by something bigger to help me through.  But I know who these beads belong to and I intend to get them back to her some way. They aren’t going to go to no evidence room!”

 “We’ll see Armist, we’ll see. Right now I am more concerned with finding Tommy Boyle before he hurts anyone else.”

“The only other person he plans on hurting tonight is himself, Bob. I can guarantee it. You’ll have to find him to save him or come morning you will be looking for a corpse. I know you boys think he is in the wind, but he ain’t. He is right down here somewheres and if I am still able to walk out of this room a free man, I will do my best to help you find him. He don’t have no idea about what he has done to me Bob. He has given me something to hope for and I sure would like to thank him for it, alive if possible, dead if need be, but I will help find him if I can. You got my word, but you will have to call off McCaskey and all the others out there looking to take me as a trophy. I lived my whole life in these five square blocks, and I never had a mind to go anywhere else. I built a big fence around me and I felt safe inside of it. But I know now that the fence never kept folks out. It only has kept me in. I also know that every fence has a gate. It has taken me some time but tonight, tonight I have come on the gate. Not only did I find it but these here little beads gave me the will to throw it open. Kind of like a key leading me out to a better place.  I know you are looking for Tommy to make him pay for what he done, but I am looking for him in hopes that he will live so I can some day thank him for what he done. Not to those other folks, but to me! Somehow the evil he brought to the neighborhood is going to give me a life. I can’t explain it no clearer than that, Bob, but I also can’t start looking for this new life with a bunch of you boys on my tail. Like I told you at the beginning of this, lying, hiding and running ain’t going to work for me no more.  ”

“Leave it with me, Armist, I am willing to work it like you said, but I may not be able to get McCaskey on board. I am overdue to call in, so I will see what he has to say and get an update on the investigation.

Armist leaned back in the office chair and felt the hot coffee flow down his throat and into his belly. The shiver seemed to be abated and the physical craving he had endured had succumbed to the power of the jelly beans. He looked over at Polly Ann and she smiled, filling him with a new kind of warmth. He marveled at how his world had taken on new colour in just a few short hours, and he said a silent prayer to a God he was beginning to understand, that Tommy Boyle would see the morning light.

Delusions

Clayton Beday sat staring at the televangelist on the TV and drew deeply from the vodka and milk which was in the tumbler he had held all evening. He had refilled the tumbler several times since he had seen the eleven o clock news and had listened to the story about the man who had gone insane. It was a story about a man who had thrown someone in front of a bus and then smashed a nun’s face into a brick wall. It was the story of the same man whom had stood toe to toe with Clayton Beday in a dispute over a skanky crack whore and one hundred twenty dollars.  His stomach burned as though a fiery pit was ablaze within his organs, but he did not blame the vast quantities of vodka he had consumed this night. Nor did he blame the scotch or the beer he had earlier in the evening and over the supper hour. No, Clayton Beday blamed the burn in his belly on the crack whore named Rhonda, and the scum bag fugitive who had been identified as Tommy Boyle. Clayton Beday blamed the burn in his belly on all the people in all his life that had turned him away and caused him to retreat in fear. It was the fault of all the people who had treated him as less than and had never given him his due. It was the fault of all the people who never saw the potential he had within for greatness and of all the people who never even realized Clayton Beday existed.

He had stood toe to toe with a skinny little burned out junkie and he had run away in fear. Clayton was bigger than Tommy and Clayton was meaner than Tommy, but Clayton had run away in fear as he had done his entire life. This self awareness filled him with such loathing and shame that Clayton was slowly being eaten away from within. His ulcerated stomach led to his diseased intestines which led to his inflamed bowel and colon. His liver was swollen and his heart was hidden beneath a layer of fat. His kidneys were acting up regularly and it hurt when he pissed. His hemorrhoids where monumental and it hurt when he shit.  He blamed burning urinary tract on his kidney trouble and not on the fact that his only sexual satisfaction these days came at the expense of cheap whores in back alleys. They were women he could lord over and women who would do as he demanded when he demanded. They were women who saw Clayton for what he wanted to be, rather than for what he was.

 His after work excursions where getting longer each month as his addictions grew more demanding and the need for the women had rapidly outgrown the need for the booze. Clayton’s home life was about to implode. Had it not been for the abject fear in which his wife and children resided they would have left long ago. Long ago Clayton’s wife stopped asking where he was spending his evenings. Long ago Clayton’s children stopped looking out the window till late in the evening wondering when Dad would come home from work. Long ago his wife had stopped wondering why Clayton no longer wanted sex and began to be grateful that he did not. To the people who had loved Clayton Beday he had become a stranger.  He had become that which he had always assumed himself to be and that which those who loved him could never have imagined him to be. Clayton Beday had become the sum of all his fears and insecurities; the personification of all he had despised in men. Clayton Beday was a self-fulfilled prophecy and Clayton Beday was evil.

He had arrived home this evening just before eleven, more disheveled than usual. His shirt was stuck to his overweight body with the cold sweat of fear, and his graying hair was plastered to his head as though he had been doused in a bucket of sweat. Clayton’s breath was coming in short, raspy breaths even after the half hour drive from the area he had come to cruise on a nightly basis. Whether it was a moment of lasting love and concern or hopeful anticipation of an impending and freeing massive coronary, Clayton would never know, but his wife came to his side that evening in urgency. She came and she asked Clayton if he was okay. She asked Clayton if he was sick or injured and then, lost in the moment and caught up in the frenzy that had become Clayton Beday, she asked where he had been.

 Clayton could only remember the first blow he had delivered to his wife, though he was aware there had been several. That first blow filled him with the same sense of power he had felt the first time he had ejaculated in the mouth of a young crack whore as her boy friend stood watch.  He looked down on the woman he had once loved as she laid weeping and bleeding on the floor, and he was filled with the same self righteous indignation he had felt as he looked down on the whore wiping her mouth on her sleeve after spitting out his semen. He deserved so much better than these women who had entered his life. Those he had purchased, and the one he had married. She had never appreciated him for all he could be and she had held him back from reaching his potential. Tonight she had questioned him, and she had paid the price. It was the first time he had lashed out at her physically, but it would not be the last for Clayton had felt alive as his fists left the mark of his cowardice on her face.

Clayton’s wife wept quietly in the upstairs bath, nursing her bruised and battered body and praying for the rapid death of her husband. Clayton’s children cowered in their rooms listening to the distant sobs of their mother and the harsh curses of their father, as he spoke to the man on the television. Too frightened to go to the aid of their mother, too frightened to leave their rooms, almost too frightened to breathe they just cowered. While the shame of their inaction began to leave its stain on their lives Clayton finished another vodka and milk and cursed the world.

He listened to the preacher as the preacher talked about the wages of sin. ‘The wages of sin is death sayeth the Lord´ the televangelist spoke the word with vigor and conviction. Over and over he listened to the televangelist as he spoke of reaping what we sow and Clayton’s mind was filled with death and retribution.  People would have to pay for what had taken place this evening. Just as his wife had been made to see his strength, so too would the whore, Rhonda. She had taken his money and kept his pleasure and that was unacceptable. He would leave the punk Tommy to the cops, but he would help them in their quest to locate him. He had information which was valuable and that made him important. He had seen the fugitive, and he had seen him close to the area of his crimes. The news had said there was an extended dragnet, but Tommy was still close and that was big news for the cops. He would not mention Rhonda or her involvement in the story. He would say that he had been attacked by Tommy Boyle, but had been able to fight the crazed junkie off. He would say he was just out of the car to get a coffee and a newspaper at the corner store. He was on his way home to his family after a long day at work and just ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time. They would want to know why he had not called right away, and they will be angry at that point thinking they could have had Tommy Boyle hours ago. But Clayton was smarter than the cops and he knew he could pull it off. He would tell them that he was afraid to call because he busted the kid up pretty good. Tommy had tried to rob him at knife point but Clayton had overcome him and in his adrenalin induced state he had been over zealous in his retribution, beating the boy pretty badly. He was only calling now because he was a man of faith and was repentive of his acts. The thought of the sick young man perhaps still lying hurt in an alley was too much guilt for Clayton to ingest. They would buy it. After all they were only pawns for Clayton to move around as he saw fit.

As for Rhonda, she would pay dearly for her part in it all, for her insolence. It had not been the first time Rhonda had been with him to the alley. It had not been the first time she had succumbed to his sexual desires. She knew what her role had been and she did not perform as required. She had actually listened and obeyed the junkie rather than Clayton, and that could not go unpunished. Yes, she had been with Clayton in the alley before but never like she would be in that alley tonight. Clayton thought about the rush of heat that had enveloped him as he laid his fists on his wife, and he began to get sexually aroused. He began to understand that the true power he desired would be found in the fear of the women, and at that moment his arousal began to shift from sex to violence.  Clayton was filled with a twisted sense of justice which needed to be served swiftly and without prejudice. Rhonda’s sentence would be meted out by the hand of Clayton Beday, her penance paid in blood.

Clayton looked around him at the broken lamps and over turned tables and marveled at the hue of the room. His eyes went back to the televangelist who was speaking and moving, not quite in slow motion and not quite at normal speed. Clayton had entered the dimension he strove for every day. It was that place you could only reach through copious amounts of alcohol, where the world took on a different look and speed and where Clayton was Lord of all things. He saw his arm reach out and pick up the phone, watched his fingers dial the numbers for information, and heard his voice ask politely for the number of the mid town precinct, number fifty-eight.  Clayton placed the call and thereby Clayton took up the Lords work.

Jim McCaskey had just left a twenty minute meeting with all the bosses, and was returning to his desk. There had been a lot of yelling and cursing and a lot of finger pointing, and some of it had landed on the shoulders of McCaskey. He did not like it, but he accepted it. Shit ran down hill from the Mayors’ office and McCaskey was close to the bottom. The pursuit of Tommy Boyle had not gone well. Though the force had made every effort and followed the book, had thrown all available personnel into the case, their efforts had borne no fruit and the felon had eluded them.  Top it off with a dead citizen and an injured rookie cop, and you have the perfect storm. All the ingredients required to make bosses go ape shit and look for a fall guy.

And McCaskey was shaping up to be the fall guy of the hour. Not for the failure of the dragnet, but most definitely for the injury to the Officer and the demise of one Gustav Kaminski.  McCaskey had gone through the debriefing with SIU and filed his report on the incident regarding Kaminski. McCaskey had shouldered the responsibility. The final determination and report from the Officers investigating the incident would site negligence on the part of the senior Officer, Sergeant McCaskey, in not ensuring the area of the investigation had been properly cleared and secured. It did not matter that they were on stake out. It did not matter that the rookie cop had put them in the situation from the get go,  and it did not matter that Constable Johnny McFadden deserved to get stuck in the ass with the dirty blade of an old Alkie. He was a kid and McCaskey was not. McCaskey was a twenty year plus man and a small blemish on his record would not amount to much, but the same blemish on the record of a rookie cop would impede his career from that day forward. Everyone knew the score. Everyone played the game. Everyone wins, except Gustav Kaminski.

Gustav Kaminski was not the first man McCaskey had killed in his twenty plus years on the force, but he certainly hoped Kaminski would be the last. It was an unnecessary kill. There was no need for a man to have died this night. It was just bad procedure. As all cops do, McCaskey had looked for justification in the taking of a life but he could find none. As most cops do he would just have to live with the event and act as though it was routine, but it was not. He knew the filthy face of Gustav Kaminski would be etched in the back of his eye lids for the rest of his life.  The sound of the man’s skull giving way under the force of his service baton would haunt him on dark, cold nights when he could not sleep. At nights the wind would whisper the name, Gustav Kaminski, adding it to the list of the others whom had been dispatched by ’blue justice’. If there were any consolation to be had it would be found in the report from the coroner and would underline the very high likelihood that the man Kaminski was so full of cancer and so dehydrated that he likely would have been dead before morning. That was something, but it was just not enough.

So they had called it off. The bosses had decided that too much time had transpired since the incident and that the felon Boyle had left the area. All cops on overtime could now check out, go home for a couple hours rest, and be back on regular shifts in the morning. They would focus the investigation on buses, stations, trains and airports and have all highway patrols on alert for hitchers and suspects at truck stops.   It should have been good news to McCaskey, but it was not.  The thought of going home filled him with sorrow as he knew the reception there would be cold. The knowledge did not bring him anger, only regret and remorse. His relationship was another unnecessary kill chalked up to Jim McCaskey and Tommy Boyle this dark night; another incident added to the wind.

As he approached his desk, his phone began to ring. He let it ring twice while he wiped out his coffee cup, a sad smile crossing his face as he read the words there, ‘Happy tenth to the man I love’ and he knew another marriage was over. On the fourth ring he began to grab his coat, “fuck it,” he thought, “they told me to check out.” On the fifth ring an Officer two desks over hollered in his direction, “You going to get that or what?”  On the sixth ring, with a heavy sigh, he picked up the phone. “Sergeant McCaskey here, how may I be of assistance tonight?”

“Jimmy, Bob Gideon here. I am happy to hear you are still in the house. How’d things go with SIU.”

“Well you know the routine, Bob. They ripped me a new asshole and told me I would have an official reprimand. Mostly I think everyone has their panties in a bunch over the Boyle thing and  Kaminski is just an irritation to them.”

“Rookies, eh Jim. They will always land you in the shit. That’s why I do my best to stay on my own.”

“Speaking of which Gideon, where the hell have you been? I understand you have been off air for more than an hour and you know that is definitely not by the book. We don’t need another officer down on this shift tonight Bob, you know.”

“Well I know, but that is how it works down here on my turf. No one is going to walk out into the light and offer up information, so, I need to go into the dark and search out the truth, man. We’re the good guys Jimmy, so we will be okay, right?”

“I don’t really know who is good and who is bad anymore to be honest. It has been a long day and the coffee is starting to turn on me. I was just heading home, so get to the point would you?”

“The point is I am sitting with a fellow you may want to chat with. Big guy named Armist.”

“You found him?”

“He found me Jim, with a little help. We have been talking for a while and I think I may have a development. I thought with all that has gone down tonight I should bring you in first. There is just one thing Jim, I have promised Mister Hancock there will be no jail cell for him tonight, not even a trip into the station.”

“That’s a big promise, the man was present and involved in the assault of an officer as well as the death of a citizen, I think we need his testimony on record.”

“Well Jim, he claims he was innocent on the assault, self defense against an unidentified assailant. As far as Gustav goes, the man was his friend, and with all due respect, it was us got him killed not Armist.”

“There have been some changes down here at this end the bosses are pulling the pin on the local search. They seem pretty sure our boy has flown the coop. There have been some other crucial updates on the victims which you should know about as well. Off the record Bob, perhaps Mr. Armist Hancock remembers tonight’s events accurately. Is his info worth the break he will be given?”

“I think our boy Tommy is still here somewhere. I think you and I and Armist Hancock may be able to locate him, if we give him his deal. Might take off some of the heat over the Kaminski thing”

“I don’t care about the heat Bob. I did what I did. I would do it again but the man is still dead. I don’t care about the heat.” McCaskey took a long pause and Bob understood as only a brother in blue could. All the regulation in the world and all the training would never justify the taking of a life. Sometimes, it was all the heat that an officer needed to keep him human.

 “All right then Bob, your call. Where are you situated? I will be there in fifteen minutes.”

McCaskey took down the information in his duty book and started to pull on his jacket. The night had been wet and long and the dampness which had permeated his bones was beginning to take its toll. Maybe she was right he had thought, and it was the first time in the ten years he and his wife had been having the discussion, that Jim McCaskey had let those words bounce around in his mind. Maybe she was right. Maybe it was time for him to hang up his gun belt and retire. Maybe it was time to let someone else protect this fine city. Let some one else be the good guy for a while, some one who still felt like one.

He holstered his weapon and headed out the door. As McCaskey was opening the squad room door he was hailed by the admin on staff, “Sergeant McCaskey! Can you take a call?”

 “I was just heading out Cheryl, can you take a message?”

“Well I can try but the man seems adamant, says he has relevant and urgent information on Thomas Boyle.”

“I’ll take it at my desk Cheryl, thank you.” McCaskey turned back to his desk and all thoughts of retirement left him as he took the call and proceeded by the book.

“Sergeant McCaskey here, how may I be of assistance?”

“Well Sergeant, I believe the real question is how may I assist you? “

In the surreal light of his broken living room in the suburbs which were to be a safe haven for the Beday family, Clayton leered at the television. The televangelist’s arms were waving wildly and his mouth was rapidly delivering the muted message of retribution. Up stairs Clayton’s wife had slid so low into the coldness of the tub that only her nose was above water. Another inch would bring her blessed relief and absolute freedom. All that stopped her from that final slide into the abyss was the knowledge that the children, now hidden beneath their covers, would be left behind with the monster she had once loved. The preacher’s unheard but not silenced words rang loudly in the demented mind of Clayton Beday and in his delusion he told Sergeant Jim McCaskey his story. In his madness Clayton’s plot began to unfold.

Acceptance

John Boyle sat snoring in his favourite reading chair as the once blazing fire had died down to the soft glowing embers which painted the room an odd colour of reddish orange.  The book he had been reading had fallen to the floor but the story was living on in his dream.

 He was the gunslinger Roland and his Muriel was the woman he had loved. In his dream he tried desperately to free her from the prison in which she was held but he could not. His Muriel was trapped behind some sort of magical membrane which he could see through but which he could not penetrate. He forced himself against the membrane but to no avail and in his anguish he screamed her name over and over; his words bouncing of the membrane and echoing back upon him. She stood not five feet from him and her gaze fell directly upon him but he she could not see. He was invisible to her. As he looked on in sadness he saw the formation of a smile cross the beautiful full lips of this woman to whom he had given his life and for a moment he was certain that she could see him. For a moment he felt that on the very edges of her vision she could see his form through the membrane and she knew that he was there, ready to do whatever he could do to set her free. But then the moment passed and the smile faded. Muriel stood and stared through the membrane, through Roland and on to some unseen world to which she had been banished.

 The man in the dream who had been Roland, tall and brave and full of determination now became John himself. The John in the dream was old and feeble, much older than John himself was and decades older than Muriel. There was a pronounced hunch in this John’s back and the jowls which had formed where there had once been the line of a strong jaw flapped and swung as John lashed out against the membrane. The John in the dream railed against the membrane but there was no chance he would be able to set his true love free. The John in the dream was slowly filled with the realization that he would fail. That he was no longer the man he needed to be to set Muriel free, that perhaps he never was. The John in the dream was suddenly filled with the knowledge that his life had been a failure. That the woman across the wide divide of invisible membrane, the young beautiful woman he had known as Muriel, had never understood the depth of his love. She had never known because he had never been able to speak the words of romance she had so longed to hear. And now it was too late. As a bell rang in the distance John wailed out his pain against the membrane and the resonance of his words filled him with dread.

The bell rang and rang and as it continued on in perfectly spaced intervals the image of the old man and the young woman gave way to the reddish orange image of the dying fire. Above the fire on the mantle there stood a photograph of the woman in his dream surrounded by children, John awoke to the ringing of the phone with tears in his eyes and an emptiness in his heart.

He sat forward quickly and was suddenly filled with the anxiety that comes with calls which arrive late in the night. He looked at the grandmothers clock on the mantle which was about to strike three and wondered how long the phone had been ringing. He wondered if it had awaken Muriel who slept in the big room off the kitchen, the one that used to be the living room.

 His thoughts went to Bethany and possible trouble with the latest baby, due soon but not this soon. He thought then of Billy away again on one of his trips to one of the God forsaken countries he worked in where westerners were often kidnapped and held in horrible conditions while ransoms were arranged. It was a great worry for John and one which Billy would never be aware of. With great trepidation John Boyle reached past the lamp and clasped the telephone.  As he brought the receiver to his trembling lips the memories of the horrible dream were fading from his mind forever and the sense of uselessness he felt in the midst of his dream was replaced by the sense of uselessness he lived in the reality of his life.

In the big room which had once been their living room, Muriel Boyle lay in her bed and listened to the ringing of the phone. She counted to eight with the rings but made no move toward getting up to answer them. She had no idea what the hour was, though she knew it was late and she wondered who would be on the phone.  But mostly, she wondered why she was sleeping in the living room.

She could see a small lamp on the table beside the bed as the moon streamed through the stained glass window beside the piano. She leaned forward, and switched on the small lamp allowing it to throw dim light into the far corners of the big room. Slowly, she took in the room. There was the piano which had belonged to her mother. On its top stood the pictures of her babies, Tommy, Billy and Bethany. A photo of her John, looking so handsome in his infantry uniform, standing alongside Muriel in her grandmother’s wedding dress on the day they had been wed. Standing next to them, was a picture of her father as he stood on the docks the day he boarded a ship to leave for the country which had nothing to offer him but freedom. And there was her Mother, standing with a parasol and undoubtedly the most beautiful woman Muriel had ever seen. There were other pictures.  There were pictures from the beach, pictures of the children building snow men, pictures of graduations. All the high points of Muriel Boyle’s life stood still, as they always had, atop her mother’s piano.

Hanging on the wall was the fish that John had caught in nineteen-fifty-six, He had mounted and hung it, and Muriel had hated it every day since then. Here tonight however, in the dimly lit room a smiled crossed her face as she recalled the joy it had brought her John the day he caught the big fish. She remembered how she had seen a glimpse of her pre-war man that day and how it filled her with hope for the future. The windowsills and shelves were covered with the knick knacks and figurines she had collected and loved over the years, and the cabinet in the corner was filled with a lifetime of photo albums; albums that she had begun to sort through and organize so long ago and never finished. She determined as she looked upon then this night, to get that project finished so she could move on to another. Projects had always been her refuge.

The rocking chair which sat next to the now cold fireplace had a crocheted afghan thrown over the back which had been made by a neighbor the year she had pneumonia. Behind the chair and next to the foot stool stood the large walnut bookcase which held all the dreams and fantasies that had kept Muriel Boyle alive these long and lonely years.  Each time Muriel had needed a place to escape to, she had found it on these shelves. A castle dark, a fortress strong, jungles lush and deserts dry, rugged mountains or the big sky country of Montana, they were all here waiting on these shelves. Blessed escape was merely the turn of a page away. It was all here. Everything was in its place. Everything, that is except for Muriel Boyle, who for some reason was lying on a bed in the living room instead of in her bedroom upstairs.

She threw her legs over the bed and onto the cool floor. As she slid into slippers she did not recognize, she reached for the dressing gown she had worn for nearly twenty years. Muriel felt an odd sense of danger. She did not understand why she was here in this room. She did not understand why she did not recall getting into her nightie or dressing gown and coming into this room to go to sleep. She believed she must have been ill but she had no recollection of being so. She sat a moment and listened to the night time sounds of the house she had lived in for over sixty years. The refrigerator was running and the wind was moving through the limbs of the weeping willow causing it to rub against the steel roof in the summer kitchen.  In the hallway near the front door she could hear the steady comfort of the ticking old grandfather’s clock which had been given to John and Muriel with the farm. When John’s father moved to the little apartment he occupied till the day of his death, he left the clock for John and Muriel. ‘This old clock has always been in this house in that very spot.’ He had said. ‘To move this clock to another location now would not be right. This is where the clock lives. This house belongs to the clock as much as the clock belongs to the house.’ Muriel had laughed at him when he had said it but now, now she understood what he had meant. Muriel had become like the clock. She belonged to this house. She belonged in this house and she had never been able to see herself in another location.  Within these four walls her life had unfolded. Not always good, not always bad, but always here. She would never leave.

She listened hard to the sounds of her house and she realized it was as though she were listening for and to her own heart beat. It occurred to Muriel at the moment that the condition of her own heart had always influenced the condition of the rest of the hearts which resided in this house. When she was gleeful, so too were the members of her family, and when she was not, neither were those around her. Her moods and her swinging emotions had often affected all those who loved her. Her mental condition was fragile throughout most of her life. The guilt she lived with as a result was compounded by the responsibility she felt for the overall dysfunction of her family. Like the house Muriel Boyle required regular maintenance.

 At the very edges of her hearing she thought she could hear a voice and for reasons she could not understand, she felt a cold shiver of fear run her spine. She listened hard, but she could discern no spoken words, only tones. It seemed to her the tones were gruff and angry. She wondered who would be talking on the phone at this late hour and she wondered if it was her own fear that was controlling the tone of the conversation being held down the hall in the study.

Slowly Muriel slipped from the bed and made her way across the tattered colonial carpet toward the door which led to the hall and the study beyond. As she crossed the room she stopped and gazed into her budgie cage. Muriel Boyle stood in the dimness and recalled the many times over the years past when her budgies were the only living creatures she spoke to. When her budgies created the only music her heart could hear.

It was a large aviary which John had made for her many years before as an anniversary gift. She looked upon the brightly hanging swings and hoops. The ladder which crossed the span of the cage, the feeders and waterers were all where they should be. The bells and the mirrors had been strategically located for the best results as was the bath station and the millet hanger. Everything was there, except the budgies. Muriel looked and looked again but the birds were nowhere to be seen. She checked the door of the aviary and found it to be securely locked and Muriel felt her sense of foreboding increasing with each passing moment. She turned away from the empty cage and walked into the long darkened hall way.

There was a dim glow coming from beneath the study door, and as Muriel moved towards the door the voice she had heard from the other side grew stronger. She scanned the familiar furnishing of the hall and let her eyes drift over the various wall hangings and pictures as she passed. Seeing them and not seeing them all at once as she made her way down the dimly lit hallway. Her hand slid with ease along the top of the walnut chair rail which ran the entire length of the hall and had been used through out the years for everything from holding Christmas cards to serving as a measuring stick for her growing children. In the dim light her hand came to rest on the edge of the great mirror which had stood companion to the Grandfathers clock all these years. It was a mirror which had been purchased sometime before the great depression and had hung proudly in the Boyle family home ever since. It had been the first new piece of furniture purchased by those family members long since gone and represented the first steps a family had taken toward financial security.

Muriel had loved the mirror with its contoured top clad in acorn and oak leaves, meticulously carved and artfully placed to give the mirror balance and depth. The cast hooks which had held every type of garment imaginable over the mirror’s long life of service to the Boyle clan were cast in the shape of branches from the mighty oak which had sacrificed its limbs to the whims of the carpenter who had designed the mirror.  As Muriel slowly began to turn to face this mirror she was filled with the thoughts of the many times she had stood in this spot. She recalled the adjusting of a hat before going to church, the straightening of a scarf before parent-teacher night, the placing of a corsage enroute to her daughter’s wedding.  All the events in her life which lived on in her deepest memories began in front of this mirror.  Much of her life began with her facing this mirror and looking upon her own image more critically than anyone else ever could. It was not an easy thing to be the daughter of a beautiful woman.

Muriel turned, and in the dim light she stood transfixed to the image which looked back at her. Slowly and with a surreal caution, her right hand went to the place where her auburn curls used to fall on her shoulders. Her hand lit with great care upon the straight, grey shorn hair. Slowly the hand caressed the wrinkled lips and the extra skin hanging beneath the chin. Her left hand rose to join the search of this face she did not recognize and together the hands mapped out the eyes, the nose and the ears of this person who looked back from Muriel’s beautiful oak mirror.

She had seen a movie about Helen Keller years before and she had marveled at the way the young blind girl would identify the members of her family by mapping their faces in her hands and now here she stood doing the same thing. But she was not blind. She could see only too well the woman who stood in the mirror with liver-spotted and arthritic hands roaming over her face. She could see the woman looking back from the smoky glass and realized the woman was Muriel Boyle, or some version of her.

Muriel was confused, and her fear began to rise up to her throat. It must be some horrible dream, she had thought, some nightmare she could not awaken from. If she could scream in her sleep, John would awaken and shake her from her slumber. She turned toward the light beneath the study door and with all the will she could muster, she called out to husband. She called out to John the man who had never been able to love her as she needed, the man who always kept her safe from harm, the man who would always be there to save Muriel from her fears real or imagined.

In her mind she called out with all her power, but the voice which escaped her lips was feeble and old and the words fell without impact upon the carpet of the darkened hallway. It was then that Muriel realized that all the carpet in the hall was tattered and old as was the carpet in the living room she had left. The furnishings were old and the house smelled musty and empty. She was alone in the dark as she had always feared she would be. In her unfamiliar slippers she walked towards voice she could now discern as her John’s.

 “Hello.” He said into the black cold bakelite receiver and no answer came back to him. “HELLO!” he shouted, and this time he thought he heard someone breathing into the telephone. “Is there any one there and if there is do you have any idea what time it is?”

From the phone came a faint reply, the voice so distant and weak that John Boyle could barely hear the words which were spoken.

“Dad, Hello Dad, it’s me.”

“Billy is that you? You must be far away I can barely hear you son. It must be one of those satellite delays. What time is it where you are? Where are you? Is everything okay Billy?

“No Dad, it’s me, not Billy.”

For a moment John Boyle sat confused in his chair. His hand had risen reflexively and was wiping the sleep from his eyes as he tried to figure out what was going on.  It must be a wrong number because if not Billy who could be on the other end of the line. It certainly was not Bethany, or Carl for that matter, and that could only leave….Johns breath caught in his throat and for a moment he wondered if this were in fact some extension of his dream. It would have not been possible for John to articulate what he felt at that moment. There is no word for the emotion in which he was flooded. Anger and fear, sorrow and relief all rolled into one indescribable feeling as John found his words.

“Tommy? Oh my God, Tommy, is it you?”

“It is me Pop, it is Tommy.”

“I thought you were dead this time. I was sure you were dead this time and now here you are on the phone in the middle of the night. ‘It’s me Pop!’ Is that all you got to say boy? After three years of silence!”

Tommy could feel himself shrinking in the darkened phone booth as the harshness of his father’s tone drifted through the line and filled the air around him, Tommy was filled with fear and shame and the words he thought his father needed to hear came quickly to his lips.

“I am sorry Pop. I know it is late but I had to call. I had to talk to you and I had to talk to Mom. There are some things I need to say. Dad I am so sorry!

“There are some things you need to say! You are sorry!  Some things you need to say! Oh Tommy there are so many things that needed saying, so many things that should have been said and so many that could have been said but there is nothing that remains to be said boy. It is too late for all that. It is too late and I am too old and I can not go through this again with you Tommy. I need you to be gone. I thought you were dead this time, and though I never spoke those words out loud to your sister or brother, God forbid to your mother, I was so sure that you were gone forever and Tommy, I am sorry but I was happy. I was relieved to think that you could no longer hurt this family. Do you know how that makes me feel, Tommy? Do you know what kind of guilt comes with hoping your first born son is dead? No. Of course you don’t. How could you. You never have been able to understand love or respect or loyalty. You just never had it in you son. I guess that is my fault too, more guilt for the old man. More…”

John could not hold back the tears. He began to sob the thick wet sobs that come so quickly and violently as they shake out all the hurt the body has held onto for too long. He shook and he sobbed and he tried to form words but all that escaped him were pathetic sounds of despair and John Boyle hated himself for his weakness. Just as he could not save his love in the dream, he had not been able to save his boy. His son had been lost to him all those years ago when they had both been younger. When all that was required was a father’s love, John had been unable to give it. John had been unable to reach through the invisible membrane which had enveloped his emotional self to touch this boy and now on this dark night, sitting by a dying fire, John had spoken the words out loud which had rattled around in his heart and mind for so long. He wished his boy was dead. Not because of his anger, not because of hate or disappointment. Because it was easier than trying to fix what had all gone so horribly wrong. It was easier than openly loving Tommy for John was incapable.

Tommy slid down the glass in the darkened booth and listened to the harsh words of his father and then to the sobs.  He had never heard his father cry like this and it made Tommy uncertain as to how he would proceed. It felt like this call had been a mistake but Tommy knew the pain he heard in his fathers sobs had begun with him. Tommy had spent a lifetime blaming others for his predicament in life. Blaming others for the bad choices he himself had made so frequently. The list started with John Boyle and ended with anyone who had ever slighted him in any way. The whole world had been Tommy’s nemesis and through it all and above all his father John was the villain. But something had changed this night. Something in his heart had been softened; a feeling had been rekindled. All of his senses and all of his fears were at the forefront of his mind but Tommy resisted the urge to run. For the first time in his life there was nowhere left to run. For the first time in his life he resisted the urge to allow his father to own that pain and guilt, to let the old man take the pain and guilt with him to his grave.

Tommy would walk to his own grave this night and he would do so knowing he had set his father free. He would die knowing that no one else had been to blame and no one else would ever have to hurt over him again. He took a deep cleansing breath and he spoke.

“Dad, Dad please stop!  Please listen, there are some things I need to say and some things you need to hear. Can you do that Dad? Can we talk this one time on a deeper level than we have ever have before?”

Tommy paused and in his minds eye he saw his Father sitting in his big chair by the fireplace. He saw John Boyle weathered and fit, just in from the fields with his pipe in his hand and a newspaper on the table beside him. John Boyle with his dinner done and a day’s work behind him sat and wanted to be alone. That was the memory Tommy had of his father. He understood there must have been times in his life when his father had been there for him, times in his life when his father had laughed and tossed him a ball. But he could not remember those times. Tommy’s memory of his father had always been the same, an isolated man sitting off at a distance happy to be alone. A man unable to hide the fact that he had been more comfortable in the barn with the animals than in the house with his family.

John Boyle cleared his throat from a hundred miles away and gained control of his emotions,it was what he did. He controlled his feelings and he never broke down. Not then not now not ever. The person who John Boyle truly was, that person had always strained and pushed violently on the inside of his skin. That person tried with all his might to escape from the crippled vessel in which he had been held captive for eighty years but escape proved impossible. The walls were too high, the skin too well fortified and thickened with fear. The breach which had just occurred, the letting go of the sobs had felt good to John, too good in fact. Far better than any man who wished his son to be dead deserved.  Far better than any man who had a broken minded and neglected wife deserved. A man who could not hug his children or tell his grand children he loved them. Control covered him quickly like an old sweater and as John slipped into it he felt safe.

“Say what do you have to say Tommy. I am listening but I need to warn you, I may not do the talking you want to hear. As I said Tommy, there will be no repeat of times gone by when you called in the night and I came running. I don’t have the will to care about your troubles any more and your mother is beyond able to do so. ”

“What do you mean Pop. Is Mother ill?

“Ill, I suppose she is ill never really thought of it as such. She is probably healthier than I am physically Tommy but her mind is gone. They say it is Dementia and Alzheimer’s together. Most days she don’t know who I am Tommy. It is like she sees right through me, like I am invisible. Lots of time I wonder if that is how she felt all these years, maybe the way you all felt. Maybe this is the way it is supposed to be for me. Penance of some sort for the life I have lived. I don’t know; try not to think about it too much to be honest. Mostly I am just here waiting to see what happens next and then along comes you.”

“I didn’t know Dad. I didn’t know she has gotten so ill. I mean there were always problems with her mind but I didn’t know it had been diagnosed.”

“How would you! You haven’t as much as called for over three years, haven’t actually seen you in ten. You know what that has been like for her? You son of a bitch! You know what that did to all of us? Don’t you of all people comment on the troubles she has had with her mind.  Do you even care?

“I can’t tell you how much I care Pop. I don’t have the words. I can’t tell you how much I wish it had been different. I am not calling to hurt you any more or Mom. Something has happened Dad something worse than all the other times. All the times I was in jail or hospital. All the times you came and bailed me out and took me home. Way worse than all that. But something else has happened and I don’t know what it is or why it had to happen now and not a long time ago. I have done something beyond horror and you are going to know about it Dad, soon. I want you to know it was not me who did these things, well not who I am now. Not who I have been. Not who I was raised to be. I have been lost to drugs and booze and I know now, a bit anyway how that has ruined lives, taken lives. You always told me I could come home. All these years you told me there was always a home for me there and I hated you for it. I hated you most of my life and I blamed you for all the shit I went through. I don’t anymore Dad. I wanted you to know.”

“Don’t stop hating me boy. Not if it makes you feel better. This is just another one of your cons. I always said there was a home here for you and I used to mean it but no more. I see you walking down this lane and you’ll be sorry. I am old but not so old I won’t stop you.”

“Dad, I’m not coming there, not ever again, don’t worry. I only wanted you to know how sorry I am. I wanted you to know I don’t blame you any longer for my life, or for who you are. I know now something happened to you to make you like you are and that you are a good man. I know you did the best you could and I only wanted to make sure you and Mom understood that. I won’t be back in your lives. I won’t cause any more pain.”

“You won’t be back in our lives? You say that as though you have been gone. You say that as though there has been even one day in the past twenty years when you have not filled this house. One day when you’re Mother hasn’t looked down that lane hoping to see you there. One night when she hasn’t prayed or cried herself to sleep wondering where you were or if you were alive. That woman’s mind has been tortured right up till it could stand no more torture and then is just quit. That’s not all on me boy. You get that? Some of that is on you! So don’t stop hating me because I am just getting started on hating you. She talks to you most of the day. Did you know that? She asks me where you are and I have to talk to her like you‘re downstairs fixing us some tea! Some times she looks at me and she thinks I am you! She thinks I am you. You are right Tommy. You won’t cause anymore pain in our lives. Not because you have stopped causing it but because it is not possible.”

Tommy could not see in his minds eye the broken old man that sat by the dying fire, filled with regret and self loathing. He could not see the wrinkled and tired face of his father, contorted in anguish and pain. Deformed through anger and confused feelings of love and hate. It had been ten years since Tommy had stood face to face with his father and in those ten years the life of John and Muriel Boyle had devolved into something that Tommy could never have imagined. Something he never would have wished upon them. His father defeated by guilt his mother defeated by dementia. All their lives trapped in a cycle of unresolved anger, fear and addiction. Tommy had begun the journey into their pain and this night he determined to end the sorrow. For his Father, for his Mother, for Trip and Sister Petra, he would have to die.

“One time you told me something Pop when I was going off to school the first time, the first in the family.  You were proud and I knew it but I didn’t appreciate it. You told me that ‘honour was the only gift a man could give himself’ you remember? I didn’t know what you meant. I didn’t ever know! Not until tonight. I left and I wasted all the money you worked so hard to save and I never amounted to nothing. I was too ashamed to come home. To ashamed of what you would think of me. I sure never had any honour in my life. Not even close. But I know now what I have become and what I have done and I think I know a way I can give myself that gift Pop. One last thing I can do that maybe can make up for all the bad stuff. Maybe I can leave with some honor”

“Leave? Where are you running to now? Running away won’t bring any honour Tommy. Standing and fighting gives you honour. Standing and doing what needs doing even if you don’t want to. Even if it hurts that’s what brings a man honour. I seen boys not old enough to buy a drink in the war with men being blown to bits all around em and them wanting nothing more than to turn and run! But they didn’t Tommy, they stood and did what had to be done and lived with the consequences. You think you are the only one in this world with problems, count yourself lucky you never had to live eighty odd years in my head. You never had to spend your whole entire life pretending you knew what the right thing to do was and never ever being certain; being full of fear. Honour! Honour! Honour is doing the right thing. Honour is fixing things when they are broke or wrong. Honour is doing what you can for others even when you don’t think you can stand one more day. Whatever trouble you got yourself into this time is your trouble. It’s for you to start fixing. I been trying to fix this family my whole entire life and I am too tired to do it anymore; was never much good at it as it turns out anyway.”

“You remember the old McCormick?”

“What?

“The old McCormick tractor, the one you worked on for years and years. I used to come into the barn and sit watching you work. Mostly we didn’t talk but sometimes we did you remember?”

“I remember Tommy. I used to like those nights when you came out. I always wanted to talk.”

“I know Pop. It doesn’t matter now. I know. One night I came in the barn and you were cussing and throwing a big wrench across the barn. I was scared when I saw you. You looked so mad. I never saw you look like that before. When you saw me you could tell I was scared and you changed. You got all soft and came over to me crouching down. You told me you were sorry and not to be scared. It was the only time I saw you like that Pop. Out there in the barn, it was like you felt safe out there. I asked you what was wrong. Do you remember what you told me Pop?”

“Yup, I said sometimes a thing just can’t be fixed anymore.”

“Sometimes a thing just can’t be fixed anymore. I guess the trick is knowing when that time comes, before you spent too much time trying to fix stuff that can’t be fixed.”

“What is it you are saying exactly Tommy?”

“Guess I’m saying goodbye Dad. Guess I’m saying sorry. Guess I’m saying I love you. Guess I’m saying all those things because I never said any of those things before and I thought you needed to know.”

“Where is it you intend to be going Tommy?”

”Tommy laughed a short laugh into the receiver and marveled at the unfamiliarity of the sound. Something as simple as a short laugh had become foreign to his ears. His being had been so entirely transformed by his addictions that he did not recognize himself as he displayed genuine feelings. Tommy heard genuine laughter instead of biting and cruel sarcasm, instead of sneering laughter.

“Well Pop. I guess that’s the big question. Where will a guy like me end up? I can’t imagine it will be anything too good.”

Both men sat in silence. The silence which had existed between them through all of Tommy’s life had been a silence filled with pain and neglect but the silence which stood between the two men, late this night somehow seemed serene. Tommy had said all he needed to say and he was okay with the quiet.

“Tommy, old tractors sometimes can’t be fixed. I think men always can. You are not that old Tommy. You can start again. Just not here son, I am sorry but I can’t do it anymore.”

“I know you are Dad and it is okay. I said there was nothing I wanted from you tonight but there is one thing. Can I speak to Mom, just for a minute?”

“I’m sorry Tommy. I don’t think either of us could bear that. She is sleeping now and I think sometimes it is the only time she has her life back, in her dreams, I won’t take that from her.”

“Will you tell her I love her Dad? Will you tell her I never meant the harm and that I tried to make it right? I know you don’t like lying to her but will you tell her I’m doing okay so maybe she won’t remember how I have been, I love her Dad.”

“I’ll make it a grand tale Tommy and maybe, when you get where you are going you can send a letter or call again. Maybe when you get yourself fixed we can have another chance, maybe. Tommy, I love you son. Please take care.”

Tommy fought back his tears long enough to say goodbye and slowly place the receiver back into the cradle of the filthy phone. Both men, approaching the end of their lives, sat in the dimness of light and sobbed into their hands.

Muriel Boyle had reached the end of the hall and slowly pushed open the heavy oaken door to the study, just as John had placed the receiver into the cradle of the old phone. From where she stood, she looked across the dimly lit room to the wing-back chair which was nearly as old as their marriage. She could see the shoulder and left ear of her John, wisps of gray hair looming thin over its top and side and slowly moving in the wind from the fan which blew out from behind the dying fire. ’John needs a hair cut,’ she thought, as she slowly began to enter the room.

There was stillness in the room and in her John, which filled Muriel with a curiosity not founded in fear or anxiety, but rather in a sudden interest in her husband. She was invisible to him as she entered the room and it occurred to Muriel that John had spent many hours of their marriage together alone, in this room. Often he had sat late into the night in the wing-back chair reading or writing, or just staring into a dying fire. She never quite knew how he spent the time, and she realized here in the dimly lit room that she had never asked. That perhaps she had never cared.

She wondered when it had happened that she had stopped worrying about her husband. She wondered when it was that her loneliness and sorrow overcame her worry and concern for John. John had been damaged long ago, and Muriel had known it. She had known him before the trauma of war and she had known him after. The man he now was, was not the man he had been, and Muriel wondered this late night if she had done all she could have done to help John deal with his demons, or if she had just left him to them.

She had filled her loneliness with her children and the day to day activities of a growing family. She had escaped her sorrow in her novels and fantasies. And she had left her John sitting alone in a wing-back chair, never considering what torturous thoughts filled his mind on these long nights. Together they had lived life separately. Together they had denied each other’s pain. Together they traveled through the years as though it would magically be better tomorrow, and it never was.

She stopped in the middle of the large oval rug which had been hooked years before by John’s mother. She made fists with her toes through the unfamiliar slippers and was filled with a happy sense of familiarity as the thick pile of the carpet bunched between her toes and the balls of her feet. She watched her husband as though he were an exhibit in a zoo; a rare and seldom seen animal alone and in his natural habitat, a wing-backed chair in a dimly lit den.

Muriel thought for a moment that John was asleep, for he did not move. His stillness was disturbing, and just as Muriel began to move forward John raised his hands slowly to his face. He cupped his hands as though readying for a sneeze and then leaning forward, out of the depths of the wing-back chair, John buried his face in his hands and began to sob.

 Muriel was taken aback. She had seen John Boyle throughout 60 odd years of life. She had seen him bury his parents and walk his daughter down the aisle. She had seen him ill and she had seen him angry, but she had never seen him cry. He was and had always been her rock! He was the constant in Muriel’s life in which she had always relied upon and had often taken for granted. While she was lost in fantasy or memory or depression, John had always been there to hold it together and in the deepest recesses of her mind she knew he always would be. She knew she could check out at any time and John would keep it all together, yet now here he sat sobbing.

Muriel saw his pain. Muriel felt his sorrow, and for the first time in her life she allowed herself to see the reality of John Boyle.  He had always held it together because that was what needed to be done. Not because he was strong. Not because he was incapable of feeling, but because he had seen no other choice for himself. He buried his pain and he buried his love for all his family for so long that he had become stone. John Boyle had been sculpted from the hardened emotions of a damaged life. He had been the rock upon which they had all smashed themselves.

She wanted to run, as had been her way, and as she slowly turned in the room her eyes fell upon the sofa. Blankets and pillows were folded neatly on the end of the couch, a towel hung over the back of a chair and a small dresser stood where none had stood before. On the top was a picture of Muriel wearing a red suit which John had bought for her on their tenth anniversary. It was his favorite picture of her and had always stood on the dresser in their bedroom.  Muriel understood that just as she had awakened confused in the front room, John had been sleeping here in the study. She did a full circle taking in the room and once again she looked upon John, weeping in his chair.

The sobs were violent, his back rising and falling with the escape of each memory and locked in emotion. Muriel noticed John’s big hands as they covered his face. The hands were scarred and arthritic from a life time of hard work on a farm in hot and cold weather. On his wrinkled hands there rested liver spots which she did not recall seeing before. They sat like small islands amidst waving wrinkles of skin and scar. His hands were so pale and so unlike Muriel’s memory of her John with his dark and weathered looking hands so strong and so capable. His gold wedding band shone brightly upon his long pale finger as a tear escaped from between swollen knuckles. Muriel crossed the room and quietly kneeled at his side. She reached out and took hold of the hand which had provided for her without question or regret.

John was startled by her touch and a sob was quelled instantly in his throat as his head sprang back from the hands in which it lay.  In the dimness his frightened eyes fell on the woman who knelt at his side. The visible fear in his eyes faded to shock, then to confusion then to concern as he leaned forward, his brow only inches from the eyes and lips of the woman he had loved without question for over sixty years.

“John, what is the matter, John?  Why are you weeping? Has something happened to one of the children? John, please say something you are frightening me. I don’t know what is going on. Why are we sleeping downstairs? Please John, tell me what is happening? Where are my budgies John? The cage is empty. I am confused.”

But John sat silent. The evidence of his sorrow was running down his cheeks and spilling onto their locked together hands. The fingers of John and Muriel Boyle were entwined together as they had been so many times so many years ago. The golden wedding rings picked up the reflection of the dying embers in the fireplace and seemed to shine like a beacon into the eyes of Muriel Boyle. In that instant the fear, fright and confusion which had clouded the eyes of John Boyle was replaced by a joy which had not resided in this man for longer than he could recall.

“Muriel! You know me Muriel? Do you see me Muriel, John, your John?”

“Well of course I see you John. And I see you are upset. Please tell me what is going on. Why do I not remember going to sleep in the living room?  Why are you in the Den? And why, John why do you seem so much older than you should be?” Her voice became a whisper “Why am I, John? I am old. I don’t remember being old.”

“Muriel, you are as you should be. Beautiful as you have ever been. I love you Muriel, did you know that?  I love you more than anything I can imagine. I always have.”

John paused and looked deep into the eyes of his bride of long ago. He saw she was frightened and he saw the confusion which covered her brow in worry but mostly he saw that she knew him. He saw an opportunity which he would not let pass by on this lonely night. Slowly John untwined their hands. He raised Muriel to her feet and then sat her on his lap. Together they settled as one into the depths of the well worn wing-back chair, their combined weight pushing the old air out of its cushion in a sigh of familiarity. In the soft glow of a dying fire John raised his hand and smoothed the errant graying hair of his wife. He saw his weathered hand stroke her wrinkled cheek and he heard himself laugh a soft laugh, a freeing laugh, a laugh filled with love and hope.

    Muriel lowered her head and nestled into the shoulder of her John. As she brought her knees and feet up under herself she became a small ball in his lap. It had been more that forty years since Muriel Boyle had sat with her John in this position in this room in this chair. So much had changed in their lives, so much had happened to them, but the warmth that permeated through her was the warmth that had always been there on late nights long ago as she crawled into her John’s lap. It was the warmth of familiarity and safety and Muriel realized that there was no one thing in this world that could steal this warmth from her. It was the warmth of love.

John felt her weight. It was more than it had been and his strength was less. He felt his legs beginning to tingle as the circulation in them slowed with the weight of his Muriel and he felt the circulation in his heart increase as it beat rapidly with the excitement and joy of this time he would have with her. John recalled the times years gone by when Muriel would find his lap and in her comfort she would fall asleep. John was young then and strong and he would sit sometimes for hours. The pain in his legs would grow as the circulation lessened and there was no one thing on earth that could make him wake her. They were his fondest memories, sitting alone with her asleep in his arms. With no reason to speak on those dark nights and no one to hear he let his love fill his heart in silent joy. He would endure the pain this night as well. But as his old legs held the love of his life he would not endure the silence. He could no longer lock the love he had for Muriel Boyle away in a damaged heart.

“Everything will be okay my love. You needn’t worry about all these things right now because I have you. You are here with me and you are safe. I will never let anything or anyone hurt you. I will take care of you always and forever and knowing that, I know now there is no one thing on this earth that we cannot deal with, together. I have been such a fool Muriel, an old fool.  I though myself unable to change who I was but I can Muriel. I know how I have loved you and I need for you to know. Oh Muriel so much time wasted, can you ever forgive me?”

She was quiet in his arms, barely moving. The shallowness of her breath fell upon the nape of his neck and John squeezed her as tight as his old arms allowed. He heard her giggle so quietly at first he thought he had imagined it. She raised her head from his shoulder and took his cheeks in her slender and frail hands. She looked deeply into his eyes and then she smiled. Her smile filled the dim room with light and filled John’s heart with school boy joy.

“There’s no fool like an old fool, eh Mr. Boyle? You have always been too hard on yourself and I have always been needy and selfish. We did the best we could John, with each other, with the world and we muddled through. If only we could have just been the people we were. I know there have been problems John, and I can tell by the state of myself and this house that I have been gone again. Like when Bethany was born only worse I am guessing.  I am frightened and I am confused on many things but one. I know you will always care for me and that you always have. I know that is how you have loved me John. I know.”

She put her head back on his shoulder and she was quiet for a moment. Their hearts beat as one in the old wing back chair and the mistakes and failures of their past were consumed by the forgiving silence of the old house. They were happy at that moment though they both knew it would be fleeting.

“I also know what I saw John. You were weeping. You were speaking on the phone and I thought your tone was angry but then you wept John as though you were hurt deeply. So tell me John, What has happened? Who were you speaking to?”

“It was Tommy. Tommy was on the phone and he wanted to speak to you. I didn’t want to wake you because you were sleeping so peacefully. He is doing well. He has a new job to go to and he will be leaving. Maybe for a long while but he said he would call when he got things right. He sounded very good, as though perhaps there have been some changes.”

“Oh John, if only it were true. You mustn’t lie to me John. And you mustn’t lie for him. He does his own lying. I know that. I heard your tone and I saw you cry and I know what our Tommy has become. I know how it has hurt you, the hoping he never comes back. I know how it hurts you to watch me wait for him. I miss him so. I miss the boy he was but I don’t miss the man he has become, John. You never understood that. So tell me John. Tell me all that was said, all that he has done this time. Don’t tell me the grand tale I heard you speak of; just tell me the truth John. It is time I faced it.”

He looked at her in silence and he contemplated the truth. He wondered if he knew the way through the truth. It had been so long since he had experience openness and truth. He had tried so hard to protect her from the inevitability of Tommy’s demise. John had know for many years, deep in his heart that there was only one end for Tommy but his fear of death and all the havoc it would bring into their lives had kept him from ever talking honestly to Muriel about his concerns.

The irrational fear of death had gripped John when he was a young man, a boy really, standing in a field in Europe in the midst of blood and mayhem. The fear was real and the danger was imminent but if it were to cripple him he would have never survived. He learned to manage this fear to hide it deep within himself and he learned to never let the fear be seen by the world. And it worked for him, or so he thought. But here tonight John understood that people who are afraid of death are more afraid of life.  And so he told her. He told her all Tommy had said and all that he had feared and when he was done she understood as John had that Tommy would not be back. That Tommy had said goodbye for the last time.

She cried softly into his neck for some time and John never spoke. His own tears rolled down his wrinkled cheeks and mixed with hers on the collar of his shirt.  Together and in silence they wept for a son they had lost so long ago. Together and in silence they mourned the loss of the hope they had carried for so many years that Tommy would find his way home. Together they wept and in silence they both prayed that Tommy would at last have peace.

Muriel raised her head from John’s shoulder and wiped the tears from her face. Slowly she unfolded herself from his lap and took John by the hand.

“I am tired John Boyle’ she said “please take me up the steps to our room.”

He took her arm and together they left the dimness of the study. Slowly they made their way together down the long hall, past the Grandfathers clock, past the oaken mirror and up the creaky steps they went. His hand slid smoothly over the well worn varnished banister and John could feel the tight grip of Muriel on his forearm. She never spoke as she climbed the curving staircase and her eyes never left the stepped photos of their children and parents and grand-parents. All who had ever lived in this house adorned the walls of the staircase and all their eyes were on John and Muriel as they walked once more to the bedroom they had shared for over sixty years.

They reached the big room at the top of the stairs and John leaned over and kissed her cheek. “I will just get cleaned up.” he said, as he turned across the hall and went into the upstairs bath. As he turned to close the door he watched Muriel as she skipped into the room that was so familiar to her. She did a quick pirouette as she entered her arms extended at her sides and as John shut the door he was laughing out loud. ’There is that sound again,’ he thought. And there is that feeling. A feeling he always sought but always feared had befallen him. John Boyle was happy. John Boyle was content. Just for now, just for this moment but that was more than he had ever hoped for.

He brushed his teeth and combed his hair and behind each sagging jowl he dabbed some cologne, her favorite, English leather. He stood back and looked in the mirror and was not completely displeased at what he saw. He had aged as most farmers do, weathered, slightly paunched but overall in good shape, considering.  The only difference he saw this early autumn morning was the smile he wore. He turned and crossed the hall to their room.

She sat in the love seat by the bed, the light on over her shoulder as she looked down upon a book in her lap. He watched her in silence for a brief moment then slowly she looked up, perhaps alerted to his presence by the wafting of the cologne. She smiled at him and he felt his heart leap. She patted the love seat beside her and said “Come, come sit by me.” He moved slowly across the worn plank floor boards and as he drew near she looked up again. “Come Tommy, sit with Mother and we shall read. This is one of your favorites and though we have read it many times together I think tonight would be a good time to start it again. It is the ‘Catcher in the Rye’ I do love it so. What do you think Tommy, should we give it a go?”

He just looked down upon her, smile frozen on his face, feet frozen in mid stride. Like water frozen in a rock, dementia had shattered his heart.

 “What is it Tommy, you look so sad. Tell Mother what is the matter.”

“Nothing is the matter” he replied. “Everything is fine.” Slowly John walked over to the love seat and settled in beside her. She took his hand in hers and she smiled. She smiled in a way that John had never seen. She smiled as she did when she was with Tommy.

Insanity 

It was just after two AM when Rhonda stumbled into the alley that ran behind Lucy’s Last Stand. She let her weight fall heavily onto the brick wall at the back of Lucky’s and leaned there listening to the air slowly escaping her lungs. She ached all over her body and she knew she had been hurt.

 There was a large bump over her left eye and Rhonda could feel her skin as it turned from blue to yellow leaving the marks of her trade out in the open for everyone to see.  The air escaping her lungs hurt her throat as it made its way out an air way which had been bruised as the big meaty hands had squeezed her neck from behind. She could taste dried blood in her mouth from where she had bitten down into her own flesh in order to get through the ordeal. In order to help her live past the shame and give her control of the pain; in order to get her here into this alley with crack cocaine in her purse. She had a need in her soul and a need to forget.

Her ribs ached and her knees were scrapped raw from the leather seat she had knelt on as he drove hard into her. With each hate filled thrust he had damaged her physically. With each brutal punch to her hips and vicious slap to her ass he bruised her flesh and left scars on her soul which only the blue smoke could heal. She had been in bad spots before and she had been hurt before but never like this. For a moment she was certain that he would kill her as his rage filled the car. It was as though the weight of the air inside the car itself was leaning heavily into her and not him. It was as though she had been taken to a place of such evil and darkness that it was consuming her and at that moment she wanted to live and to die at the same time.

There was a cut on her cheek where the automatic window button had sliced deep as he drove into her, the window coming down two inched and then going back up for what seemed like hours but had only been minutes. Her ear lobe was ripped through as one of Ying and yang earrings, the one’s Tommy had given her in the beginning, caught on the door handle as he threw her out into the street. And she was badly hurt, down there, where he had finished with the bottle.

 The guy in the big Cadillac Seville seemed okay when he rolled down the window and began to chat.  He seemed okay when they went through the shopping list of what he wanted and what she could provide. He seemed okay, maybe a little drunk when they agreed on the price and he seemed okay when she climbed into the big Caddy and they drove down Forty Second Street to the park by the river.  She had access to a flop room and she knew how to work the alley’s but the guy in the red Caddy wanted to take her in the car. The car was warm and dry and in truth way more comfortable than the alley or the flop house so Rhonda jumped in.

She had never been in a car so grand in all her live. Instantly she melted into the warmed leather bucket seats of the Seville. She seemed to be surrounded by warmth and comfort as the soft lights of the electronic dash lit up the inside of the Caddy and for a moment Rhonda imagined herself and Tommy driving in such a car. Perhaps on the way to the theatre or going to pick up some friends on the way to a club it could have been like that for her and Tommy. This could have been their chance to start again. But Tommy was a chicken shit. And Tommy could not live with what he had done but in truth Rhonda believed Tommy could not live with what she had done. What she had become. She was an addict and a whore Tommy was just an addict and a violent felon.

“So what’s your name or should I just cal you Big Caddy Daddy.” Rhonda gave him her working smile and let her hand rest on his thigh.

“My name is Jack.” He said “But you can call me Red. Sometimes I am Red.”

“Well which one is it tonight, Jack or Red?  Not that it will make much difference honey in fact for a few dollars more Jack and Red can get what they need from little Rhonda. Tell me Jack or Red; is there a bar in this big old Cadillac?”

Jack laughed to himself as he turned the car down the street which led to the park.

“Jack. Let’s start out with Jack. The other asshole Red thinks he can be the boss of me but tonight Jack is in the wheel house and he is doing just fine. There is a nice little bottle of Johnny Walker in the console baby, get us a drink. No glasses required.”

“Ooooh Jack and Red and Johnny as well! That will be just fine with me a little foursome” Rhonda said as she reached for the bottle of Scotch and spun off the cap and took a drink of the amber fluid. “Mind if I play some music Jack. I see you have a nice collection of oldies here. How bout some Tony Bennett? I love Tony Bennett. I know,you don’t I? Jack, Jack, you are the new guy from the pawn shop aren’t you?

“New guy! Feels to me like I have been there a fucking live time already. I know you too; you used to live with the punk, that junkie Tommy. You a junkie too? You are, aren’t you honey.”

 As Jack spoke his tone became more aggressive and he stared directly at Rhonda as the Caddy veered closer to the curb actually bouncing the tires of the big car along it. He reached over and took the bottle of Johnny Walker roughly from her hand and in one motion took it to his lips and drew deeply from it. Rhonda realized that Jack was much drunker than she had first suspected and the initial alert went off in her head. She would have to handle this situation. She would have to do her work, get her cash and get out of this car as soon a possible. She had had an altercation already this evening and was not up for another. She just wanted to get her trick in, get her cash in and get her drug in. That was the imperative.

“Hey there Jack, best keep those baby blues on the road. We don’t want a nasty accident damaging this fine car before we can party or to get pulled over by the cities finest. That would be a bummer. Why not just slow down and tell Rhonda about your night…you have a little tiff with the Mrs. is that what brings you down here or just out to get you some selfish pleasure?”

“Red.  Call me Red. And no Mrs. What brings me down here is a complicated fucking life and a fear of getting involved or I guess more involved with that fuck boy friend of yours!”

“He isn’t my boyfriend. Not any more anyway Jack. I mean Red. What don’t you calm down a bit and pull over here so I can make it all better for you.”

“Because this ain’t where I want to pull over you got a problem with that bitch?”

“No problem here Red! None whatsoever. Just anxious to help you loose some of that tension you are carrying in those big shoulders.” Rhonda heard the second stage alert bell ringing in her head and started to think of how she would get away from Jack or Red which ever one would get out of control. She started to rub Jack’s thigh from knee to groin in an effort to distract him from his building rage.

Jack reached down and roughly removed her hand from his leg and continued speaking. But as he spoke Rhonda realized he was not exactly speaking to her. He was just speaking as though there were some one else in the car with them, the third alarm in her head began to ring loudly but Rhonda feared it may be too late.

“Years, years it’s been since I let you out of the bottle, fucker! Fucking red bastard genie has won again and look at me now. You prick! You son of a bitch! Look at me now driving around with a whore in my car; running from the cops, everyone out to get me.”

Rhonda watched in fear as Jack or Red ranted at the windshield and she realized he was talking to the reflection he saw there as though she were not in the car. The bells in her began to drown out all other thoughts and Rhonda realized she was in trouble.

“No one out to get you here Red. Just me and you now, why not pull over and let Rhonda fix all your problems. This is a good spot Red and I am not sure how much longer I can wait for it, you know what I mean Red?”

“I am Jack not that Red bastard and don’t try to play me whore. I am sick to death of people telling me where and when. I am doing the deciding here tonight not you. We are almost too where I want to go! Not you! Not Red! Me! You get that whore?”

“I do Jack. I get that and all I want is what you want Jack. Fuck Red man.! I just want to make Jack happy. Whatever Jack needs tonight is what Rhonda wants man. I may not even charge you Jack because I can see you are hurting and I want to help”

“Charge me…I don’t give a shit about money. I want the fucking respect I am due! From you and them the whole fucking world seems to conspire against me and I am sick of it. I don’t need money I need respect.”

Jack reached in to the pocket of his suit jacket and as he drove he pulled out a wad of bills. Mostly twenties some fifties and tens and violently he threw it across the seat and into the lap of Rhonda.

“Take what you need Baby. Take what you think you’re worth. Take it all for what I care, you are going to earn it on that you can be certain.”

Rhonda was full of fear but Rhonda was also in need. Her addiction allowed her to look past the imminent danger and focus on all the loose bills lying in her lap and on the floor of the Cadillac and slowly, she began to gather the money and stuff it into her pockets. The same uncontrollable thirst that brought her to the streets, which put her in this position tonight, had taken over and convinced her that she would be okay. She could handle this crazy man and when she was done she would have enough cash to feed her need for several days and that made it all worth the risk. She looked up with her best working smile as Jack continued to rant.

“You have no idea how hard I have tried. I been off the booze, bought that fucking pawn shop. Been straight and narrow for the most part, maybe scamming the junkies a bit here and there but no one cares about them fucks anyway. Maybe I fucked over Louis’ widow a bit when I bought the place but she wanted out anyway. I was doing her a favor. You know I even went to an AA meeting tonight. I even went back to those fucks because I thought maybe they were right about a few things the last time I went to see them but no way. That fuck there in the mission Father Hank the ex Priest diddler or something who knows. He tells me ‘Why didn’t I come there before I drank’ fucking deviant. He thinks I’m going to listen to a fucking low life drunken deviant he’s got another thing coming. And I told him so too. Go fuck yourself I said as I left that bunch of losers. I don’t need em now, never needed em before either. Fucking Red will be put back in his place before this night is done I can assure you Rhonda. When I am done with you I will be done with him as well.”  

Jack skidded the big red Seville to a stop beneath a huge oak tree by the side of the river. He breathed heavily and Rhonda prayed his heart would explode. The sweat was beaded on his forehead in thick drops and the glow of the electronic dash board bathed him in an eerie light. The droplets were so prominent on his fore head that they resembled huge boils giving Redjack the look of evil. He roughly grabbed Rhonda’s hand and placed it on his crotch and Rhonda could feel the rapidity of his pulse in the hardness. He held her hand there for several minutes and slowly Rhonda began to stroke him. Quietly she cooed in his ear. “It will all be okay Jack. Rhonda will help. Rhonda will make it better now.”

Without a word his meaty hand took her wrist. Jack threw open the drivers door and in a single motion he left the car, dragging Rhonda over the center consul and out into the cold night. She stumbled to get her footing and before she realized Jack had lifted her off the ground and set her down at the back door of the car. She had not realized till now how big Redjack was. She had not realized till now the power that had been concealed beneath a suit jacket and a winning smile. She had not realized till now as she looked up into his vacant eyes that Redjack was insane.

“Get in the back, and get on you knees. I am ready to finish this thing” He opened the door and roughly pushed her in. Rhonda crawled on hands and knees to the other side of the big Caddy and was reaching for the door handle as Redjack came in behind her. Redjack pulled her roughly away from the handle and hit the auto locks as he flipped up her skirt and ripped off her panties. Rhonda felt the roll of bills in her coat pocket reassure her and let her mind go to the place it stayed while she worked.

        Clayton Beday had driven slowly and cautiously down to this deviant part of town. He was on a mission to establish order in the life of Rhonda the whore. He would sanctify her in pain and she would know the power of Clayton Beday. He did not need to explain his actions or his inebriation to some low level cop in a cruiser so he moved with caution and patience. He would find the girl and she would be made to suffer. With each passing second the pleasure of his mission was increased in his diseased mind, Clayton was savoring his insanity.

        It was just before two in the morning when Clayton walked into Lucky’s Last Stand and ordered a Vodka and milk. He had been to four other bars in the past two hours and walked calmly through six or seven alleys with no sign of Rhonda.  The places to look for the girl were running out but Clayton was a patient man and Clayton would persevere until his goals were realized. If not tonight then tomorrow or the next night he would find her. There was no timetable on divine retribution.

        He had made some small talk with the bartender and then found his way to a darkened corner booth in the seedy bar. The shadows fell over his face and shoulders as he sat in the corner and Clayton was only visible from the chest down. Occasionally his scraped and swollen hand would gather up the double Vodka and milk from the table and the drink would disappear into the darkness which had enveloped Clayton’s head. Moments later the drink would return to the table a little less full. Other than the aging waitress in the seedy bar no one noticed Clayton Beday. But Clayton noticed them. He noticed them all.

        From the darkness of his booth and the darkness of his mind Clayton passed judgment.

Though Rhonda was the subject of tonight’s hunt it was becoming evident to Clayton that the mission he had been called to extended beyond her. Everyone he observed in this den of iniquity was in need of direction. Everyone in this pit of vipers was calling out for correction and as Clayton sat in the shadows his mind was filled with the voice of the televangelist. ‘Seek them out in the dark places. Go forth and shine the light of self righteousness upon these sinners.’ It was up to him, Clayton Beday to bring the sin of these people into the light and sanctify them with fire and pain. It would begin tonight but it would go on for many nights to come as all about him stood the unworthy. Clayton’s insanity was such that these thoughts borne in addictions rang true and his certainty that he had been chosen was unshakable.

He watched the table in the far corner with interest as one by one the addicts came to the man sitting there. He was a small man but unlike all the rest in this place he was sober. He drank from a bottle of Perrier water while all those about him at the table guzzled booze and were clearly drunk in their actions. He was a small man but Clayton could see that he was in control. He had an ease and arrogance about him as he slid his small packages of crystal death to the addicts. One by one they came one by one they sat, and one by one they left. Alone these denizens would find a hole and alone they would seek refuge from whatever demon besought them, refuge in the blue smoke.

He watched the small tidy man who was the big and messy drug dealer and slowly he began to smile. This man would be number two for Clayton. This man would be party to the swift and final justice that Clayton had ordained himself to deliver. This man would be cleansed by Clayton, just as Rhonda would be.

Clayton lost himself in the fantasy of how he would deal with the little man and did not see Rhonda as she entered into Lucky’s. She had made her way slowly to the bar and once there she had ordered a double Jack Daniels. She took the drink and on shaky legs she threw it back and ordered another. The pain she felt in her body and her soul would not easily be lifted this night and Rhonda craved numbness. The second double Jack went as the first. And Rhonda’s physical pain lessened enough to get her moving once again, toward the table on the far side of the bar and the little man known as Hotdog.

Rhonda stood at the table as was the rule and looked down on Hotdog in silence as she waited for the nod of permission to sit which she knew would come.  He was a man small in physical stature that had risen to some height in the underworld of drugs and guns. He was not ‘the’man in the organization which controlled the traffic in this end of town but he was ‘a’ man and as such he was filled with a false sense of his own importance. A false sense that would one day be his undoing, but not here, not tonight.

Rhonda knew him well as she had stood many times at the edge of this very table willing to do anything required to get what she needed. Tommy had introduced her to Hotdog but as the months and years had passed Rhonda had developed her own relationship with Hotdog. It was not always necessary for Ronda to have money to get what she needed. Sometime she just needed to be willing to submit to Hotdogs unique fetish to acquire her drugs. Yes she knew Hotdog well, perhaps too well.

The sight of him repulsed and frightened her at once. He had been born with a disease of sorts, some genetic and freakish anomaly which left him completely hairless. He had no brows or lashes. No hair on his head or anywhere on his body. His skin seemed a size too small for his little frame and he was oddly translucent. You could almost see through him but you could not see into him and in that there was salvation for to look deeply into Hotdog would be to gaze upon pure evil.

He sat with a couple of young girls whom Rhonda recognized as she had once been herself. They were new to the game, new to the addiction and probably had some boundaries yet to be crossed, some principals yet to be burned in the crack pipe. They looked at Rhonda and smirked. They looked at her as though she were used up and beat up and they told themselves they would never sink to such depths. And Rhonda understood. Rhonda had occupied the same seat and it had not been so long ago, though it seemed a life time.

 Hotdog also looked and smirked, no doubt remembering the times he had belittled her. No doubt recalling the power he yielded in a little zip lock bag, the power over life and death. His beady eyes held her in contempt and he took pleasure in letting her stand in silence knowing by her appearance that she must be in great pain. She hated him with all that was left of her heart and simultaneously knew she would do anything for him. Even now, only less than an hour after she had been viciously raped.

“You look like shit little girl.You been having a bad night?’  He laughed at his own wit and the two on either side of him joined in. Rhonda stood in silence knowing the game, knowing the rules.

“This here is Rhonda ladies. She has been a friend to old Hotdog for a couple years now, isn’t that right Rhonda.”

“Whatever you say Hotdog, whatever you say.”

He looked at her for what seemed an eternity but was merely seconds and then ever so subtly he nodded his head. If you had not been aware of Hotdogs required ritual the nod would have gone unnoticed,  as it had with Clayton Beday who watched from the shadows as he bided his time.

Hotdog leaned back and extended each of his hairless arms over the shoulders of the young girl on either side of him. Rhonda could see the slight stiffening of the two girls as the cold clammy hairless flesh of Hotdog came to rest on their bare shoulders and she smiled bitterly to herself as she remembered their revulsion to his touch.  They looked to him with forced smiles while their eyes were glazed over from the magic of the pipe. Soon they would need more and soon they to would be forever at the mercy of Hotdog.

“Rhonda here has been a special friend to old Hotdog, aint that right Rhonda.”

“Whatever you say Hotdog.”

“Mayhaps some night soon Rhonda can join us all up at my place for a special night and she can show you the way to old Hotdogs heart. What do you say Rhonda?”

“Whatever you want Hotdog.”  

 Rhonda knew what he meant and what it meant as she had once been the girl at the table, the one under Hotdogs hairless limb smirking at a crack whore arrogantly. Her name had been Hope and she had shown Rhonda the special thrills that Hotdog sought and then she was gone. He now invited Rhonda to initiate these two new pretty prey of Hotdogs and then he would be done with her. She had been used up and she would be cast off. Lost to the world as had been Hope.

“Is there something old Hotdog can do for you this late night Rhonda? You look like shit, like maybe you need something a little more relaxing than your normal rock. Perhaps old Hotdog can help you out. I got me some real nice H here tonight girl. Gonna set you free and take away all those bad thoughts. All that pain you are wearing on your face. Gonna make you my pretty again Rhonda. What you say girl. Old Hotdog gonna fix it all for you?”

“Maybe Hotdog.  Maybe. I don’t ever do the heroine but tonight, maybe it is what I need. Maybe tonight is the night I take the big ride eh. Forget about it all for a while.”

Rhonda reached into her pocket and pulled out the large role of cash that came from Redjack and sat staring at the money. The price of her dignity and the cause of her pain were all gathered at the table in this scummy bar in this shitty neighborhood and for the first time in years Rhonda thought of her Mamma. She thought of her Dad and her sister and she wondered if they ever thought of her. She wondered if they were still looking for her and she wondered if anyone would find her before it was too late. She hoped not. She hated herself, she hated Tommy Boyle, she hated Hotdog and she hated the world. It had used her up and left her here at the mercy of this hairless beast. And she didn’t want them to find her. Not like this, not as she had become. She wanted to be Daddy’s little girl again but she knew she could never be. That girl was gone forever. They would not find her because she was no longer recognizable to them. She was alone in the world and so she reached out to Hotdog with a handful of cash and she purchased her only friend.

“Now your talking little girl” Ole Hotdog going to fix you up for a good ride and that wad of cash your sporting will keep you well for a couple days. You must have worked a little over time tonight eh Rhonda.” Hotdog laughed at his own wit as he reached into the nap sack at his feet and removed the clear plastic bag Rhonda had come for.

They made their exchange, money for drugs in full view of the patrons of Lucky’s Last Stand. Hotdog operated here with impunity and arrogance as he placed himself above the law.

Here in this place he was in charge. He was the man with the merchandise and he lorded over the addicts as he pleased. He had locked their destinies in a knapsack full of celluloid bags and he loved the power he had over them. He was the man.

Clayton watched from the corner booth as the deal was made. He watched Rhonda stuff the bags in her pocket and Hotdog stuff the cash in his and he felt contempt for them. Rhonda stood on shaky legs and leaned into the table as she placed the bag of dreams in her pocket. She saw the two young ones laugh to each other and she knew their day would come. Nodding to Hotdog she turned and walked out the back door into the alley behind Lucky’s Last Stand.

Clayton finished his drink and paid the waitress for another which he drank in one gulp.  He wiped the film of milk which mixed with the sweat on his upper lip onto the sleeve of his shirt as he rose and headed for the alley behind Lucky’s.

 Hank Quinn had been restless since he had met with Armist and Polly Anne. The story of the old timer’s transformation and the violence of Tommy Boyle had left him inspired to act but he was uncertain as to how.  His long and endless work at the mission was often frustrating and though he lived in hope that there would be those brought to the Lord and healed of the compulsion to drink and drug he was aware that those numbers would be few. He would get some into programs and others into Harm reduction therapy but most of them would drink and most of them would die. The story Armist had revealed to him this evening had spoken to his heart and rekindled his faith. He could see the miracle that Armist could not. He could feel the spirit working in Tommy Boyle though he doubted Tommy would understand. There was something powerful happening tonight in these five square blocks and Hank Quinn wanted to be a witness to it. So in the wee hours he began to walk.

It was not unusual to See Hank Quinn walking the streets late at night. Often at the end of his late meeting he would clean up and walk a few blocks looking for those who may be in harms way. Maybe get a few back to the mission. The difference tonight was that Hank was not looking for wayward souls or fallen drunkards this evening.  Hank was looking for Tommy Boyle and in a greater sense Hank was searching for himself. Since he had heard the details of the violence that had befallen Trip and Sister Petra he had become obsessed with the idea of finding Tommy.  You see Hank Quinn had spent a life time teaching of miracles and telling the down trodden to have faith. “I you believe in the miracle the miracle will happen for you.” He had said it a thousand times and had even witnessed the miracle of lives changing in programs of recovery. He preached it, he saw it but still in the deepest part of Hank’s heart he did not believe it. At least not for himself. Hank had lost everything when he lost his ordination.  Oh he had wrestled his demons and had even come to terms with his many addictions. He had experienced physical and mental transformation which could only be attributed to God but he still had a emptiness deep inside and a shame forged from years of Catholicism which he kept for himself. Hank had taught others to shed the sins of their past and accept forgiveness but he himself did not believe, in darkest parts of his mind, that he had earned the same favour from a kind and loving God. In his mind he knew it was not so but a thousand miles lay between the head and the heart.

So on this dark and damp night, in the hardest part of the downtown core, Hank Quinn searched for souls, Tommy Boyle’s and Hank Quinn’s.  He knew that both of their survivals depended on the out come of this night. Tommy’s physical body and eternal salvation was in jeopardy and Hank knew he could no longer go on as half a man. He needed to fill the emptiness within him in order to maintain a spiritual condition which would allow him the serenity and peace he craved. He needed to shed the years of shame and remorse completely in order to move on in his own life. Hank had become convinced that the solution to his problem lie in the transformation of Tommy Boyle and Armist Hancock. God was working and he was working overtime here in these five square blocks and as has always been his way God was working with a purpose. A divine plan which Hank felt he was being called to. The forgiveness he sought would not come from amends or another fourth step but from God and God’s promise of propitiary salvation alone. That redemption needed to begin with Hank and somehow with Tommy Boyle.

Rhonda found a spot in the alley between the dumpster and a tall stack of empty soda crates. She fell heavily into this urban cave and groaned softly as her back came to rest abruptly against the brick wall. Every part of her body ached and cried out for the cure but her energy had been so depleted by the events of the evening that her body moved in slow motion. The dullness of her movements did not give testimony to the urgency in her brain or the ravishing pain which racked her body.  It was as though she watched from another world as her hand slowly and mechanically moved to the hand bag and removed the small cellophane pouch which contained the heroine.  In a surreal sort of haze Rhonda looked on as her hand pulled out the lighter and the spoon and all the fixings required to ride the red dragon. She had never done the heroine but she had watched many times as Tommy had fixed for himself. She had assisted as Tommy went under with the first assault of the dragon and stood by to make sure he never vomited and swallowed his own bile. He never did and Rhonda was certain that she would not either though if she did it would not be a bad way for her to end this night. In fascination she observed the hands as they gently poured from the bag to the spoon and deep in her head she heard a voice say ‘there that is the right amount’ but the hand kept pouring. ‘Stop’ cried the voice but the hands did not respond and soon there was triple the right amount. ‘It’s too much’ said the voice but the hands did not hear as the lighter was lit and the cooking began. ‘You need to stop now or it will be to late’ pleaded the voice in her head but the hands slowly filled the syringe and wrapped the strap of her hand bag tightly around her bruised arm. ‘Please I don’t want to’ sobbed the voice but the part of Rhonda which desired to live was no longer stronger than the part of her which wished to die and the hands lovingly slid the needle into the vein.

The dragon raced quickly through her blood and into her heart and brain and Rhonda stiffened at the assault and then slowly slid down the wall till she lay on her back in the damp and filthy alley. Her skirt had pulled up to her waist exposing her bruised and bleeding nakedness to anyone passing but Rhonda was beyond caring. She was gone. She was leaving this horrible place as she always did with the cure but this time, this night would be her final departure. She would not come back to the alley. She would not come back to a man who cared nothing for her or the Johns who beat and abused her. She would be shed of the burden of these five blocks forever. She wanted so desperately to see her Mother once more and suddenly there she was standing in the alley looking down upon her. She smiled at Rhonda and Rhonda felt her heart soar. ‘Oh Mommy’ she said ‘I have been such a bad girl I am sorry, so sorry.’ “Never mind her Mother called out ‘as she bent to take her hand ’I have been looking for you.”

 “Really” cried Rhonda “Really Mommy, I thought you were mad. I thought no one was looking for me anymore.” Rhonda smiled as she began to let go of her live. She felt happy for the first time in as long as she could recall. Happy because it was finally over and she could see her mother.

But suddenly something changed. The hand which had been extended to her in love was rough and hard and meaty. It was not like the gentle touch of her Mothers slender hand and an alarm went off deep in the dying brain of Rhonda. Her eyes fluttered several times and finally opened fighting to focus. There squeezing hardly on her small hand stood a man. A man filled with evil and seething anger.

“I have been looking for you my dear” screamed Clayton Beday as he dragged Rhonda out into the openness of the ally. “I have been looking all night. We have unfinished business you and I and by the look of you, you are ready to give me what I paid for earlier this evening. You look like your dying Rhonda but you will not die with a smile on your face as I just found you. Neither will you die by you own hand for that is sinful. You will die at the hand of righteousness and you shall die in the manner which you lived. You shall be strangled in fornication and this act of intercession will set you free from the trials of this wretched life forever. You will be saved by Clayton Beday now and forever!”

Rhonda tried to scream but there was no breath in her. Rhonda tried to struggle but there was only limpness in her limbs. Rhonda was dying but not as she had wished, Rhonda was going to be murdered.

Hank Quinn had come to the end of his circuit with no success. Tommy Boyle was nowhere to be found. He had searched all the usual spots and had seen no one. All the street people were under ground tonight. All the street people knew there was trouble afoot and that tonight was a good night to remain unseen. He had been so certain there was a call to him this night. So sure that he was meant to be out here on this wet night and involved with whatever was about to happen and yet there was quiet. Perhaps it was his ego leading him forward through alley after alley and not his God. There was a time when Hank knew the difference. When he knew so surely when God had touched his heart but that certainty eluded Hank now, his faith had been fractured and in the healing his heart had not set correctly.

He came to the mouth of the alley that ran alongside Lucky’s last stand and looked into the dim light straining his eyes against the wet darkness to see if there was movement in the alley.  All seemed quiet to Hank as he turned to walk inside of Lucky’s for a quick look before turning back to the mission. Hank entered the bar and allowed his eyes to grow accustomed to the even darker dinge of the bar room. He scanned the crowd for signs of Tommy Boyle but there was none to be had. His eyes fell on Hotdog, not one of Hanks favorite people and the distain was quite mutual. It had been months since Hank had exchanged any words with Hotdog and those words had not been pleasant but Hank began to move closer to the drug dealer.

“Well lookee here” said Hotdog” If it isn’t Father Hank Quinn …messenger to the lord and fancy man to the young angels of the parish.” Hotdog laughed and pulled the two young girls closer to him, his hairless hands clasping their shoulders.

“You looking for some crack from old Hotdog tonight Padre or just looking for some sweet young thing? I could set you up right here Father with one of my new best friends. Ain’t that right girls. One of you would be happy to please old Father Hank right?  Why maybe Old Hotdog could watch on and make sure the Father is doing it right. What you say Father? Sound good to you? Oh wait a minute, you really aint a Father no more are you Hank. Ex officiato or some shit, excommunicated maybe. Now you are just some do gooder down here fucking with my business. Some pervert out looking for a young one”

Hank looked down on Hotdog silently and took it all. In his heart he longed to reach out and choke the life out of Hotdog and so in his silence he prayed. He prayed for this depraved and arrogant drug dealer and the two young girls that sat under each of his hairless arms. He prayed for their redemption and asked God to intercede on their behalf. He prayed so he would not loose ground to his anger and he prayed that he would not judge this man before him but would leave that work to God. Hotdog was a resentment Hank Quinn could not allow to fester and poison his heart and mind.

“That’s funny Hotdog. I always said you were a funny guy. You will break them up when you are in prison.” Hank and Hotdog both laughed but the girls sat in fear of what may transpire. ”Thanks for the offer of the drugs and the women Hotdog but I think I will have to pass on both tonight. Doesn’t really fit into what I am trying to do here in the borough. And you are right. I am no longer a Priest. Excommunicated I believe was the correct term.”

“Oh so sorry to hear that Hank, you know I didn’t mean no disrespect. I was raised Catholic myself you know.”

“I didn’t know actually Hotdog but to be honest, not so surprised. So can we get past all this bullshit Hotdog and get to the point of why I am here?”

‘Please do Padre, Please do.”

“I am looking for someone and I thought you may be able to help. Maybe do something good for once Hotdog. What do you think?”

“I think everyone is looking for someone Padre and you may need to be a bit more specific. I think old Hotdog always remembers better when he is paid for his talent but maybe just for tonight I will give you a break. Be a nice guy. You know Padre, one fallen Catholic to another. Who is it you are looking for Hank.”

“Tommy Boyle. I am looking for Tommy Boyle.”

“Whoeee! You and every other swinging dick in these here five blocks. That crack head is a hot commodity right now! I said I would give a hand Padre but Tommy Boyle! I had that motherfucker I would give him up myself for the reward.”

Hank looked down at Hotdog and knew he did not know where Tommy was. Slowly he turned and without a word started to exit Luck’s last stand.

“Whoa Padre. Hold up. Hotdog is a man of his word. Said I would help and help I will. His whore, Rhonda, she just scored a bag of H and headed out that back way into the alley. Not 15 minutes ago man. The way she looked that psycho Tommy maybe already dealt with her tonight. I don’t know but she got what she needed to get right and she is most likely still out back riding the red road to freedom. There you go Padre. Don’t say old Hotdog never helped you out. Maybe say a wee prayer for me and my girls here tonight we are all going to need it, especially them aint that right girlies.” Hotdog laughed hard at his own humor as Hank Quinn crossed the floor of Lucky’s last stand and walked out into the wet darkness of the alley.

Clayton was rushing as he held onto Rhonda’s arm and fumbled with his zipper. He slapped her hard once on the cheek and she stirred slightly in her dying. He needed her to hold on, for just a moment while he readied himself. He would take her and it would be the last thing of this earth she would know. She would not fight him for she had no life left in her to do so. She would not scream for there was not breath enough to escape her lungs. She would lie there dying and for the first time in his life Clayton would be completely in control. The thought of the control was working and Clayton felt himself harden. He felt the blood moving in him for the first time in many months  and he smiled as the man he had always know himself to be was about to be born just as the woman  he knew Rhonda to be was about to die.  He breathed heavily as he completely tore away the panties which had already this evening been torn. Rhonda bled from the violation she had endured at the hands of Red Jack but Clayton did not care. She would die and he would live.

He did not hear the footfalls behind him as he discarded the soiled panties. He did not see the shadow fall over him like the outstretched arm of God as he began to enter. He did not see the rising arms of Hank Quinn as his excitement rose. And he did not expect the searing pain he felt as the side of his head was laid open with the swing of a discarded beer bottle from the alley.

Clayton rolled off of Rhonda with a scream, his hand rising to the gushing blood at his temple. He did not turn to face his attacker. He did not rise up to fight his unseen assailant. He did not curse the man who had wounded him so deeply. Clayton’s power and control left him quickly as did his erection and Clayton was left whimpering and scurrying away toward the mouth of the alley. For the second time in this long night Clayton was running away in cowardice. For the second time in this long night Clayton was filled with self loathing and unimaginable fear. As he rose from his hands and knees to his feet he began to run. Clayton was running for his life.  In his escape Clayton looked over his shoulder into the darkness of the alley to see his attacker.

He saw the man there bending over the whore Rhonda. He was taking her in his arms and holding her to his chest. Then he kissed her and Clayton was filled with hate for this man he did not know. This little man, half Clayton’s size had bested him. Just as the junkie Tommy had earlier this same night.  Just as had been the pattern of his life. Clayton always lost in all his pursuits. But it was not his fault. Just as all men of God will face persecution so too would Clayton. In his heart he knew he was righteous and that Rhonda the whore, Tommy the junkie and this unknown man in the alley would all have to pay. He was not running in fear! He was running away to fight another day.

With each laboured step the distance between Clayton and the attacker grew as did Clayton’s delusion.  As his diseased mind regained control over his damaged emotions and his legs carried him to the lights of the street at the end of the alley Clayton shed his fear and let his courage prevail. He felt strong now and fleet of foot. In a remarkable move resembling that of a pass receiver crossing the goal line Clayton pivoted on his left foot and in full flight began to run backwards into the street.  As he back pedaled toward the lighted street Clayton raised his arms above his head as though reaching out to summon the power of the Lord. The street light behind him picked up his form and cast a demented shadow the full length of the alley falling over Hank Quinn as he feverishly performed resuscitation on Rhonda.

His breathing was ragged but his voice was strong as he bellowed from deep within the raging pit of his stomach. They would hear him and they would know! They would all know that he, Clayton Beday, was the shadow that fell over them. He Clayton Beday would exercise extreme judgment upon them and soon he, Clayton Beday would send them all to hell. Screaming in his insanity, running backward through the alley as he had run backward through his life, Clayton Beday exited into the street.

‘Fly me to the moon and let me gaze upon the stars’ Jack Corbett came too from his black out to the crooning sounds of Tony Bennett on the radio of the big red Cadillac Seville. He sat unmoving for a moment and let the confusion wash over him. He was drunk, that he knew and the evidence lay at his side on the leather seat, an empty bottle of Johnny Walker Red. His bottle, the Bottle he had been talking to for so long now was gone. He looked at the bottle and a remorse poured over him that he was certain would choke the breath out of him. He had done it again. He had gone for so long this time in control but in the end the bottle had won.

There was blood smeared on the bottle and Jack began to feel anxiety grow in his gut. He was sitting in the back seat and the car was running. The back door of the car was open to the night air and Jack felt damp where the wind had carried the light night mist in to settle upon his suit jacket. He looked down over himself and saw that his pants were open and his belt was off. The belt lay on the floor of the car beside one of his shoes. He could see blood on the buckle.  

Jack took it all in but he had no idea what it all meant. He ran his big meaty hand through his hair and tried to rub a memory back into his brain through his eyes but it was of no use. The memories were lost forever in the black out. He pulled his hand away from his face to look at his watch and saw blood on the band and he knew he had to get out of there. It was nearly three in the morning and Jacks last memory was just after midnight. He’d been in the alley behind the pawn shop talking to Tommy Boyle. Fucking Tommy Boyle! It always came back to the shit head junkie!  Jack looked at the blood on his watch band and then to the blood smeared on the bottle of Johnny Walker Red and he wondered if it was the blood of Tommy Boyle. Did he find Tommy again and in a black out fight him? He had no idea but Jack Corbett was not about to stick around to try and figure it out.  He had to move and he had to move now. He hoisted his bulk from the back seat of the big Cadillac and slid in behind the wheel. He looked in the rear view mirror and for the quickest moment he thought he saw a young girl in the back. A fleeting moment of disjointed memory shook Jack Corbett and once again the remorse washed over him. What had he done? He may never know or worse yet, he may.

Without hesitation Jack slipped the big Caddie into gear and left the park.  Slowly at first and then with more speed Jack weaved through the park and onto the Street.  As had been the pattern throughout his life Jack tried to leave the wreckage behind him but it was to no avail. The haunting would follow him. The uncertainty would stalk him and eventually the truth of what had happened would discover him and he would be revealed. Revealed to himself and others for the hopeless alcoholic he was. He had been masquerading in the guise of a legitimate business man but he had been and always would remain a liar and a fraud.

Tears streamed down the big man’s face and pooled in the jowls where his neck should have been. His fat stomach moved against the steering wheel of the big caddie as he sobbed. He took a corner too fast and his tires screamed as the big Caddie fishtailed on the wet pavement. Clumsily he wiped the tears from his eyes and tried to focus on the road. He realized where he was and knew in three blocks there was an exit to the freeway. If he could just get to the freeway perhaps he would be okay. If he could just get out of the hell hole of these five blocks and back to the safety of his little apartment he might be able to start again. It would be different this time. Maybe he could even go to some of those meetings again.

Another snippet of memory assaulted Jack. He was in an alley telling that little guy from the mission to fuck off. He had been to a meeting tonight earlier. Could that be where he fought? Could the blood be Hank Quinn’s? The memory was there and then it was not and as hard as Jack tried he could not put the whole of the evening together in a single line of events. But he knew he had been in the borough. He knew he had been seen this night and that could be a problem.

There was just one block to go now to the freeway and Jack’s foot pressed down on the gas pedal of the big Caddie, he was in full flight now and escape was at hand. The four hundred cubic inch engine roared as Jack made the final turn too fast and too wide. His hands slipping on the leather covered steering wheel as he tried to correct the fish tailing Cadillac. It was then that the world went into slow motion and in this slow motion Jack witnessed a man running backward from an alley. His arms where extended over his head his index fingers pointing to the heavens. His mouth hung open in a demonic sneer as though his jaw had been disjointed.

 Jack squeezed his eyes shut once and shook his head hard as if trying to jar loose this hallucination which had appeared before him. As his eyes opened Jack realized too late that what he was seeing was no hallucination. He could not tell what the man was screaming or who he was screaming at as the big red Cadillac took the legs out from under him. He could not tell if the man had seen the car at the last moment or not though he looked surprised. He watched in horror as the man careened in slow motion into and then through the windshield of the Seville. He felt the shards of glass rip into his jowls as the man exploded through the windshield and pinned jack to the drivers’ seat forcing his right foot hard to the gas pedal. Jack was screaming now and as the man’s face smashed into his own the pain was incredible. Jack Corbett stared straight into the eyes of Clayton Beday as the life was draining from him and what he saw there was evil. Then in the flashing of his minds eye Jack saw Rhonda bent over and screaming as he had violated her in the most unspeakable way. He saw the outstretched hand of Hank Quinn beckoning him into the mission earlier that night. He saw a couple in love as he passed them roughly in an alley cursing over his shoulder at Quinn and heading for the Caddy. He saw it all. He knew what he had done and in that moment as the Cadillac Seville sped out of control towards the concrete retaining wall of the freeway Jack Corbett asked God to forgive him. With all his heart he pleaded to the Lord Jesus for mercy and as the Cadillac burst into flames Clayton Beday took up his place in hell and Jack Corbett found salvation.

The light from the cell phone illuminated the face of Armist Hancock as he stood in the shadows across from Lucky’s Last Stand uncertain of what he had just witnessed. He rubbed the scar on his forehead with his twisted talon like hand and waited for Bob Gideon to pick up the call. In his other hand he worked the small circle of beads attached to the crudely carved wooden crucifix as he tried to understand what he had just witnessed. He could feel the heat from the fire and he could hear the scream of a man as he burnt to death in his car.  Hank Quinn was calling out for help as he rapidly performed CPR on a girl in the alley, the light of the burning car illuminating the scene in a surreal fashion.  Armist’s every instinct was to melt into the darkness and disappear but he stood cell phone to ear and counted the 4th ring.

“Gideon here”

“Listen Bob, you better get yourself and McCaskey down here to Luckys on 5th pronto, there’s been some trouble.”

“Armist, what kind of trouble? You find Tommy?”

“Not just yet Bob. You’d best get over here there’s people you know need help quick. Bring some other cops and an ambulance. Better get a fire truck or two as well and you may as well get the coroner I’m pretty sure there’s at least a couple dead guys here.”

“Armist! What the hell is going on?”

“No idea Bob. But I can’t help thinking it’s all about Tommy Boyle some how. Gotta go Bob. Don’t want to be around here when the boys in blue come a running. I’ll be in touch.”

Armist closed the phone. He held his hands up in front of him and felt the warmth from the fire. It felt good, first time he‘d been warm all day. The man in the car stopped screaming and Armist was glad for it.  He looked down the alley to where Hank Quinn was huddled over the girl Rhonda.

”Helps coming Hank,” he yelled “Keep that girl alive!” He turned and walked into the darkness.

The end is near

Tommy Boyle woke with a start to the sound of a distant explosion. He was slumped with his feet folded beneath him and had slept for nearly and hour. True sleep, not an alcohol induced pass out, no drug filled respite from the grim reality of his life. Sleep, pure and real and like he had not experienced in years.

He looked around from the place of his slumber and laughed in spite of himself. In all the places he had waken in all his years lost, in all the places he had come too,  this was his first time at the bottom of a phone booth. He had a burning ache running from just behind his ear down through his neck and into his upper back. The receiver hung by his temple and had been his make shift pillow. He could hear the sound of the fast busy signal filling the booth and was amazed at how he could have slept through it. Grabbing the receiver and using the serpentine metal cord which dangled from the phone Tommy began to unfold himself. His legs ached and his feet burned with pins and needles.  With great effort and much distress Tommy clawed his way to a standing position in the darkened booth.

He strained his eyes against the wet darkness of the street and when he was certain there was no one near by he pulled open the door of the phone booth and clumsily, like a new foal taking its first steps walked into the abandoned street. He stretched and bent and allowed the blood to push away the piercing pins and needles in his lower extremities. He rolled his head and listened to cartilage and vertebrae crack while finding their proper positions in his neck. He stretched his arms high above his head and yawned a deep and cleansing yawn. He breathed in deeply while letting his arms free fall to his sides and for or a moment, ever so brief, Tommy had forgotten he was an addict, a drunkard and a murder.

He wondered at the explosion and was not sure if he had heard it or if he was in fact dreaming. He looked of in the direction he thought the blast had come from but could see no signs of smoke or fire in the darkened distance. He looked again to the left and the right and then he marveled at the quiet of the street. This was night time in the burrow! This was the peak time for the denizens that subsisted in these five blocks to be out and about their business. The business of survival! Scrounging and stealing, selling themselves or some one else, getting the drug they needed and the shelter required to survive another day here in theses five square blocks of hell. Where were they?

As quickly as the question sounded in his brain the answer followed, they were hiding. They had taken too their lairs and flops because the place had been crawling with Cops. Cops looking for Tommy Boy! A panic began to grip Tommy and slowly he backed his way into the phone booth and closed the door.

Tommy waited in the darkness. Not for the panic to leave, not to be discovered not to alter or come up with a new plan. Tommy waited for her, he waited for the lover. But she did not come and for the first time in his live he understood he was truly alone. She was all that he had left and now she was gone. He had turned his back upon her and she had fled and in an odd way, he missed her.

The miracle of his condition did not go unnoticed to Tommy and his thoughts went to the small circle of wooden beads attached to the crudely carved crucifix. He was not sick. Oh he ached and he was tired and his heart was broken in ways he could no longer express. But there was no real pain.

 Perhaps his withdrawal had not yet begun though it had been hours since he last used. The thoughts of detoxification yet to come filled him with fear though he could not imagine that physical pain could ever surpass the pain he felt in his soul. Tommy had been spiritually bankrupt for so long that he could not recall ever feeling anything but the void. Then this evening it all changed. He changed. Tommy was not the man he had been as he smashed Sister Petra’s face into the brick wall. He could see the image of the man who threw Trip beneath the bus but no longer knew who that man was.

He thought of his call to his sister and his Dad and he felt something move in his heart at the memory of their voices. Perhaps there was some semblance of good left in him. Perhaps those seeds of love that had been sow when he was a child were planted so deeply that they were able to survive the long draught of addiction. Perhaps he could still be human. Maybe in the end he would have some dignity. Maybe at the end of it all, he would remember what it meant to want to live. He hoped it would be the case. He hoped that at the moment of his death he would want nothing more than to live. That every nerve in his body would scream for survival. If he could feel that, if he could understand that thirst for survival at the point of his death maybe then it would atone for what he had done. Giving ones live when that life accounted for nothing was no sacrifice.

The phone booth was suddenly flooded with red and blue light as an ambulance screamed around the corner and past Tommy’s booth. The panic rose in him and he knew his time was short and his task was incomplete. He thought again of his family and he knew there was one more call to make. He reached to the top of the phone and dropped in his last fifty cents and began to dial the number for Billy

The ambulance screamed through the night careening around corners and running red lights. In the back lay Rhonda. An oxygen mask obscured her face and saline solution dripped slowly into her arm. It was the only good thing which had entered Rhonda through a vein in a very long time and Hank Quinn prayed with all his might that it was not too late. The Medic was on the radio announcing their ETA to Mercy Hospital and monitoring Rhonda’s vital signs. She had died there in the alley, died in Hanks arms. He had felt the life and breath run out of her at the same moment he heard the cry from Armist Hancock.

“Keep that girl alive Hank” Armist had yelled and Hank was sure that it was too late. Furiously he had begun to do mouth to mouth on Rhonda. Short bursts of breath twenty seconds at a time alternating with chest compressions. He remembered the CPR course he had taken.  He remembered not paying much attention as he sat through mandatory training thinking he would never be in this situation. Hank prayed for recall and clarity and suddenly he could see the woman as she demonstrated compressions on the dummy. He heard her words as though she sat beside him and coached him on in the alley. Hank prayed and the Lord heard his cry as Rhonda had stirred slightly then lurched violently and thrown up all the poison that was in her into Hanks lap. Just as she had died in his arms she had come back.  Hank had been weeping and thanking the Lord, holding Rhonda tight to his chest when the ambulance had arrived.

He sat now in the back of the rig swaying in rhythm with the ambulance and trying to sort through all that had just happened. He had left the shelter tonight with such conviction. He had felt God touch his heart and thought he was being led to Tommy Boyle but the Lord had sent him on a path to Rhonda. In humility Hank praised the Lord and marveled at His presence in Hanks life, the author and finisher of all things.

Hank looked up from his prayer of thanks to the Medic which loomed cautiously over Rhonda.

 “Is she going to make it son.”

The paramedic sat close to Rhonda and monitored her condition. Hank read his concern in the deep cut lines in his brow and looked on with dread.

 “You want the truth friend or you want the standard reply. Hell, you shouldn’t even be in here but the truth is, if not for you she wouldn’t be here at all so I guess that earns you a ride and some information. She’d be in the coroner’s wagon with the rest of the carnage out there had you not performed CPR. She died Hank, plain and simple, in your arms and then once again on the way into the bus. You brought her back then we did. Question is, can she come back on her own. She is in a coma right now but she is stable. I really can’t say how much damage has incurred from lack of oxygen but judging from the track marks and the condition of the rest of her, I’d say this girl suffered massive damage in every way tonight. One thing for sure, if she comes out of this she is going to need a friend and I’d say at the moment, you are the only one she has.”

“Thanks. You may be right. I have known her for a while but maybe now I will get to know her more. I am just happy I was there and able to help. It was God really. He took me there.”

“You mind telling me why Padre? Bob Gideon sat in the front seat of the ambulance and had been listening on in silence. He had tried to question Hank Quinn in the mayhem of the street to no avail. McCaskey was cleaning up the scene and Gideon jumped the ambulance to question Hank Quinn.

“Bob! Sorry I actually had forgotten you were there. What is it you want to know?”

”I want to know what the hell is going on! I want to know who is burned to death, who has been crushed and burnt, and why Rhonda is lying here dying, obviously been raped and strangled as well as overdosed.  But mostly Hank I want to know how you happened to be there just in the nick of time? I want to know what you are doing wandering around down here at three in the morning. I really want to know how you and Armist Hancock connected tonight.  Start where ever you like Hank.

“Well, Bob, lots of questions eh. I don’t know who was in the car or who the guy was who was crushed by the car. I do know the crushed guy was the one who was choking and trying to rape this girl.  I came onto him in the alley as he was accosting her. I intervened.”

“You intervened? What exactly does that mean Padre?”

“It means I hit him over the head as hard as I could with a bottle. Please do not call me padre Bob. It does not set well with me these days. I don’t know who he was, I did not recognize him. He ran screaming out of the alley and as he entered the street he turned back. He was screaming something when the car hit him. I couldn’t make it out. I suspect he was insane.”

Hank reached down to Rhonda and took her by the hand as they rocked gently to and fro in the speeding ambulance. She looked helpless as she lay connected to the machinery which afforded her life. Hank knew this girl from the mission and though he had no way of knowing the depth of the despair Rhonda had descended into he felt as though he had failed her. They did what they could at the mission but Hank realized it often fell short. He wondered sometimes if he was there for the client or if his work there was a salve for his own guilt. He promised himself that this girl, should she survive, would not slip through the cracks. He would be her friend if she allowed him and he would see her into a different life.

“Sorry Hank, I meant no disrespect. What can you tell me about Rhonda? I know she was Tommy Boyle’s girl for a while. You know anything about Tommy Hank? We really need to find him.

“I don’t know much about her Bob. I really don’t. I have seen her at the mission. I’ve seen her there with Tommy but not lately. I think maybe their relationship, whatever that was, had come to an end.  I was down here looking for Tommy. I thought I could help. I felt as though I was being led to do something, as it turns out it had to do with her, not Tommy. I don’t know where he is Bob, that’s straight. I know he needs to be found I was just hoping he could be found alive and not be shot on sight by some Blue justice.”

“It’s what I want too Hank. It really is. There has been enough death here in my neighborhood this night. I won’t say you are wrong about the blue justice but I will say there are a couple of us trying to avoid it.”

“I don’t know anything Bob. If I did I would say. As for Armist Hancock, you know what he’s like. One minute he was not there the next he was. To tell you the truth, I never even saw him I just heard him telling me to keep her alive and help was on the way. “

“Can you tell me anything else about the girl?”

“I can tell you how I found her. I can tell you who gave her the crank. I can tell you about a hairless devil named Hotdog. But you already know about him don’t you Bob. You guys know where he is and what he does but you never seem to be able to stop him.”

“No one ever talks about Hotdog Hank you know how it works down here. It’s all backed up, the bad guys get protected by the victims, and the good guys, which are supposed to be us cops, get shut out of the information loop. You want to tell me about Hotdog I will listen and I will act. Count on it.”

“He told me he sold her the stuff. Told me she was in bad shape and he was doing a public service by helping her out. He’s the one who told me she was in the alley. He’s the one said he sold her the high test. I will happily testify to that if you think it will help get this guy gone from here.”

“It will help Hank. I promise you when this night is over and this mess is behind us, I will get Hotdog. His time down here is over. We need to take back our streets and all this has made me more determined to do so. I hope Rhonda pulls through Hank and I hope if she does she will accept your help.

They all sat in silence as the ambulance screamed into the emergency department of the Mercy Hospital. The three of them, all drawn together in the early hours in the morning, trying in their own ways and for their own reasons to save Rhonda.

Last Call

The fourth ring had come and gone and Tommy was full of dread as he waited for the answering machine to pick up.  In years gone by this fourth ring would bring a sense of relief in anticipation of the machine. Talking to the machine had always been easier than talking to Billy.

 Tommy could lie to the machine and not be held to account. He could be angry or sarcastic with the machine and never have to deal with the consequences. He could even laugh with the machine. All those things he could not do face to face or voice to voice with his little brother because Tommy could not bear up under the weight of Billy’s disappointment. In a life time of regret and a world of remorse few things cut Tommy deeper than the apathy he heard in Billy’s voice whenever they spoke. It wasn’t even a fear of Billy’s anger, it was the realization that Billy no longer cared. He felt nothing for Tommy anymore, not even contempt.

The years and the secret they had kept between then created a gulf which had become impossible to cross. It had begun with the crack in Tommy’s character which Billy had discovered so many years before on his trip to the university. The ensuing years of compounding lies and empty promises of change had caused the crack to widen into a fissure. As Billy lost hope for normalcy or love in his family the fissure had become a canyon. And into that canyon Billy had cast all of his naïve notions of life and love.  Billy had become aloof and cynical in an effort to survive. Throughout those many years of lies and deceit the canyon had eroded into a gulf so vast it seem insurmountable. Sometimes a thing just can’t be fixed.

 Billy had never told his Dad about the letters or the fight he had been in with Cool Cat, simply because he knew there would be no point. He never spoke of the relationship he had developed with Mr. Perkins; a relationship which Billy had been able to rely on for many years and one which had never let him down. It was not a relationship which afforded Billy the love he sought from his father but it was a relationship based on respect. It was nurturing done with purpose, mentoring which would carry him through life and it filled the void left in Billy by a distracted father an ill mother and a fallen brother. Mr. Perkins had replaced Tommy as Billy’s hero and had shown him the path of higher education as a way to freedom. And somewhere on that journey Billy had cast off all attachment to Tommy.

Bethany’s husband Carl and Mr. Perkins had spoken truth into Billy’s live in regard to his enabling relationship with Tommy. And now here tonight Tommy, on the fourth ring, recalled the last conversation he had with his little brother. The one when Billy told him there would be no more loans, no more bail outs or late night calls. ‘Come on brother, just give me one more chance’ Tommy had pleaded to which Billy had replied “I have no brother, never call here again’ and hung up the phone.

 It was not what Billy had said but how he had said it which penetrated Tommy’s wall and delivered a blow to his heart. There was no anger, or disappointment not even pity or disgust. There was nothing. All the emotion in Billy had withered and died; its dust blown away on a wind of regret as can only be experience by the family of a man lost to addiction. Billy was gone forever and Tommy took one more step down in his decent into hell.

He would not say his goodbye’s to a machine. He would not do his mea culpa to a digitally enhanced voice of his little brother. Tommy was about to hang up the phone and head to the A train when the connection opened up and an unfamiliar voice barked insultingly into the phone.

“Ya, ya hello, who is it for frig sake, at 2.30 in the morning! Don’t you know most decent folks are in bed by now, lucky for you I ain’t one.” The unusual greeting was followed by laughter, laughter Tommy recognized as having its origins in liquor.

Tommy breathed deeply and spoke “Who is this?”

“Who is this? Isn’t that the question I should be asking huh buddy I think so? So I will. Who is this?” followed by more laughter.

“My name is Tom. I am calling for my brother but maybe I dialed the wrong number. Or maybe his number is changed, his name is Billy.”

“Billy boy, my buddy my pal, well the number is right but you are out of luck! The man himself is not here.” the voice on the phone continued in nonsensical laughter.

“Well, where is he and who the hell are you?

“My name sir is Joe…and I am a friend of Billy boy, actually we work at the same place. Billy boy is out of the country at the moment and I, well I am sort of on a forced holiday from work if you know what I mean. Oh ya and also out of the house at the moment too. Taking a wee break from my broken marriage if you know what I mean.” He laughed at his own humor and continued on in a bit of a ramble. “My wife and my boss now there’s a team that would work well together eh both of them spend their days trying to put me down. It’s no wonder I drink eh my friend. Wait who did you say you were again?”

“Tommy, my name is Tommy. Where is Billy? And by the way he does not like being called Billy Boy, never has. If you were a friend you would know that.” Tommy was beginning to feel sweat growing under his clothing once again as well as an anger growing towards this man he did not know. His time was short and he did not wish to spend any of the moments left to him in conversation with a drunken stranger.  No sooner had this thought run through Tommy’s mind than the realization came to him that this had surely had been the thoughts of his mother and father, his brother and sister, and Carl as he called late at night, drunk and out of control.

“Oh boo hoo Billy Boy wouldn’t like that eh?” the laughter came in a low rolling wave through the telephone line and began to build as the Joe continued. “So this is the famous Tommy is it? Let me see, is that Tommy the loser! Tommy the drunken junkie! Tommy the pathetic brother! That Tommy?”

Joe’s laughter was loud and out of control. It had become harsh and cruel as he spewed out the truth of Tommy’s life in descriptive waves of pain which crashed down upon him as roaring surf. The words echoed in his ears loud and thunderous and Tommy began to feel anger welling up inside him. Tommy was no stranger to anger in his world. The self righteous outrage he had felt in his life when ripped off on a drug deal or when some asshole drank the last mouthful of vodka had become part of the fabric of his existence. It was an anger that fueled his addiction and gave him the means by which he could function in the shattered world he had created.

But something was different now as these words from a stranger assaulted him.

Tommy believed he was feeling the sting of true emotion. The words left him raw and exposed and that was something Tommy had not felt for more years than he could recall. It was not the alkie, junkie anger which he encountered daily and had become comfortable with. This was the anger he had felt long ago in a dormitory as he was berated by Tom Cat and Neville also know as Devil.

It was an anger that had left him exposed and vulnerable to their bullying. An anger which had been born in the idea that Tommy just wasn’t good enough or fast enough or smart enough; that he just was not enough. It was this repressed anger that had become the rudder in his life directing him into and out of every situation he had encountered.

And in that moment the emotion was so real. With the absence of his drug educed force field the anger ate at Tommy. It was in that moment locked in the grips of real emotion that Tommy realized there had been no one in this world who had ever told him he was not enough.  Not his mother or father. Not his sister or brother. Tommy realized that it had only been he and the lover who whispered those demeaning words in the dark of the night, in the recesses of his mind. He had willingly walked into a prison of his own design and spent a lifetime there. And this realization, delivered to him in the slurred words of this man Joe filled him with rage.

“Joe is it, listen you want to call me a loser meanwhile you’re sleeping in the spare room in the house of a guy you barely know. You are pissed drunk at 3 in the morning by yourself, full of self pity sounds like you are not much different than me asshole!”

“Ha, I am nothing like you! You are a low life scum bag. Me, I’m just a little down on my luck. And by the way I do know your brother. He is a dick man. A real rule guy right. Sucks up to the bosses, always doing the right thing yes sir no sir. That’s why he is over in South Africa working a job that should have been mine and I am here under suspension. I tell the boss’ like it is and they get threatened by me but not Bill no not Billy. You know what he does? Whatever they want man that’s what he does. He keeps the rules and never takes the hard chances. You know he has a list of dos and don’ts for me when I came here as long as my arm. You know the only one I remember? No? Well just let me tell you asshole! It was ‘above all DO NOT let my junkie brother Tommy into my place when I am gone. You are right Tommy, I am in his spare room, where are you sleeping tonight junkie?  Joe took a breath and Tommy could hear several gulps of a bottle being drained into Joe’s throat. “Ya, wow that’s real brotherly love eh Tommy Boy! That’s what family is all about right, really warms my heart.”

Both men sat in silence in the wee hours of the morning. Both haunted by truths that had invaded their realities late on a wet night. One ready to face them, the other locked in the struggle to bury them beneath gallons of alcohol. After a time Tommy began to speak.

“You are right Joe. My brother has no use for me at all anymore nor does my father for that matter. I have stolen the lives of many people Joe and the truth is I am very tired of it. You ever get that feeling Joe when you are just so tired of it all? When it feels like you just can’t go on another step, tell another lie, take another drink?  No you probably aren’t there yet are you. Well I am Joe. I crossed some lines there is just no going back from and I want out, out of it all.” Tommy paused in the phone booth and began to pick his next words with care.

“There is something I have left to do Joe. I wanted to talk to Billy you know but what I got was you. I wanted to tell him I love him and I am sorry and that none of it was his fault. All of it has been on me. Will you tell him I called Joe, would you do that for me? Tommy waited for a reply which would not come. “You know Joe; I wasn’t always what I am today. I used to have family who loved me and wanted good things for me. It was me who screwed things up Joe but I spent a lifetime blaming everybody else; just like you are now. When I heard you talking Joe it was like listening to a recording of me. It is not too late for you Joe. You can still fix things. You have a wife and some kids out there Joe who wants you to fix things. It’s up to you. For me it is over but who knows maybe this one act of saying goodbye might help you, maybe it was you I was supposed to talk to. I don’t know Joe but you have not hung up on me so far so I am going to hope you will listen. And I am going to hope maybe there will be some redemption for me when I meet my maker. And I am going to tell you my story because sometimes when a man meets his end a story is all he has.”

Joe was quiet for the next 45 minutes as Tommy slowly told him the whole sad story of his life. He was quiet and he drank through it; all the while thinking ‘what a loser this guy is’. He wanted to laugh, he wanted to hang up but all he did was listen and drink Billie’s good vodka out of the bottle, the stuff he had purchased while working in Russia. He smoked Billie’s good cigars, the ones he had brought back with him from Cuba; another project Billy has stolen out from under Joe. And he thought to himself ‘If I ever get as bad as this guy I will quit drinking’.  

‘If I ever cross the lines this bozo has crossed I will get my life back in control’. He never heard Tommy as he had tried to explain the lines were not clearly marked and that by the time his life had been lost, the battle was out of control.

        Tommy finished “well” he said “not sure if you are still there but if you are I hope you have heard me.”

“Yup still here….still listening to your boo hoo sad story.”

“Well Joe like I said, sometimes when a man reaches an end a story is all he has. Good bye Joe, you may be the last person to ever hear that from me, tell them I was sorry.”

        Tommy hung up the phone and slid to his haunches in the bottom of the phone booth as Joe passed out, the telephone receiver lying beside him on the couch, the good vodka spilling out on the floor and the glowing embers of a Cuban cigar moving slowly but unstoppably towards his fingers enroute to leaving another scar on a life lost.

The ATrain.

For a long while Tommy sat on his haunches in the dark damp of the phone booth. He mulled over the conversations he had initiated that night with his Father and Sister and with the stranger at Billy’s house and for the first time in many years he felt no remorse.  Hearing his own story from his own lips had somehow cleansed Tommy of his remorse. While confession was good for the soul words could never change the damage he had done in their lives but Tommy believed action could. In his despair Tommy mistakenly believed the action he had decided upon would clear the slate for him. That this offering of his life would heal over a life of festering wounds which had descended upon them all like a pestilence.

He was so tired. He was so ashamed and fearful that he could not hear the echoes of Beth’s voice telling him there was another way. He could not hear the street wisdom of Armist telling him he was taking the easy way out.  He could not hear the longing beneath the stern words of his father who just wanted his son back. He could not allow himself to believe that they would forgive him for it was not within him to forgive himself.

With great effort Tommy pushed himself up to his feet, the cool glass wall of the phone booth penetrating the army parka and leaving a chill in his spine. Tommy was frightened. He was not a brave man and after spending a life time avoiding emotional pain he was poised of the edge of great physical pain. He was now only minutes away from launching himself in front of the A Train.  His limbs seemed heavy and his motions seemed other worldly as he saw more than felt his arm rise up and turn the light bulb tight into the socket in the ceiling of his glass confessional.

Light flooded the compartment and Tommy covered his eyes with one hand as his other reached into the pocket of the parka and withdrew the pocket watch which had belonged to 3 generations of better men than he. He had 15 minutes before the A Train shook the street as it emerged from the tunnel and crossed the level crossing at Lexington. That is where he would do it. That would be where he would take his last steps on this earth as he walked into the path of the train. There would be no honour in it but he hoped there would be peace.

Slowly he closed the cover on the pocket watch and set it on top of the phone. He looked down at his boney and beaten hands and removed his father’s ring setting it beside the watch in the hope that somehow these items would find their way back to his family. Almost symbolically the phone booth fell into darkness as Tommy opened the door and stepped into the street.  It was as though the curtains were being drawn on his life. The tragedy that had been Tommy Boyle was over and the crowds were about to exit. There was no applause there was no ovation just a lingering sense of sorrow at the waste of a life. And there, somewhere in the deepest part of his mind Tommy believed he heard a familiar laugh. The laughter of the lover that great deceiver who knew she had won and celebrated the final victory.

Armist had just left the walking alley which cut through from Main too Lexington. As he emerged from the cross walk Armist turned north thinking he would swing one more time through the neighborhood of Tommy Boyle. Armist swung away from the safety of the store front shadows as he maneuvered past some garbage cans which had been rifled through and left like dead soldiers on the side walk for decent folks to step over.  

He was moving east and with each passing block the neighborhoods fell further into decline. Armist understood that the high glass and steel towers of power which looked accusingly down upon him from only ten city blocks away stood in mockery of those who survived out of the discarded garbage cans he had just traversed. As much as he hated everyone who worked in those castles, everyone involved in making decision which would maintain this disparity between the classes Armist was also drawn to the great rising beauty of the lighted glass monoliths. Many nights he would sit in his alley and look up at the lighted buildings, often imagining they were alien ships coming to change the circumstance of all those that the real world had left behind. In these moments, these private times Armist allowed himself to be taken by the beauty of the notion.

Almost without thought, Armist looked over his shoulder to take in the lighted beauty of the buildings. As he turned a light sparked into life in the phone booth at the end of the block and Armist knew instantly he was looking at Tommy Boyle.  Armist pressed himself into the wall in front of a local shop and instinctively reached for the phone which Gideon had provided for him. As Armist pressed send on the cell the booth was plunged back into darkness and Tommy Boyle was on the move.

Armist hung up the phone and imperceptibly moved along the glass windows of the store fronts, in and out of the indented doorways now in pursuit of Tommy Boyle. An eerie sense of foreboding shrouded Armist as he watch a phantom of himself fade in and out of the street lights heading away from the phone booth. Tommy appeared to be almost floating in the over sized parka wearing one red shoe and one blue shoe. Tommy was slightly hunched over but moving with purpose as Armist shook off the shiver which extended down his spine he made his way to the phone booth. Armists street vision immediately spied the pocket watch and ring and on the top of the phone. He quickly scooped them into his good hand as he continued behind Tommy and once again hit send on the cell phone in his other hand.

“Gideon here, how can I help you?”

“I got him Bob, I got Tommy.” Armist breath was coming in short gasps as he fell into step behind the fleeing Tommy Boyle.

“What do you mean Armist; do you have hands on him? Where are you?” Gideon felt his heart rate begin to increase as was always the case when police work began to unfold.

“I am following him Bob, he is on the move and it feels like he knows where he is going. He is not being careful like you know what I mean, he is just walking. I think I could catch him if I took to jogging but he would hear me coming, maybe he would bolt, not sure.”

“Don’t approach Armist, leave that to us. You understand?”

“I don’t know Bob, something feels wrong.”

“Armist where are you. I will get McCaskey and we will be there.”

“Well right now I am on main passing over 5th and heading north toward Lexington, kind of like he is going home Bob but that don’t make no sense at all. He knows you will be looking for him there for sure. Something just feels wrong”

“Armist you stay back, I mean it. I am on my way. I am on the other side of the borough. McCaskey has a squad car I have already clicked him on the radio and he is on the way to get me, we will be heading south toward you, you have him covered from behind, we have him Armist there is no where left for him to run, just stay back now and let us come to you.”

As Gideon closed his phone McCaskey pulled to a stop beside him. Gideon climbed into the squad car and they sped off toward the fugitive Tommy Boyle.

Armist closed the phone and slid it into the pocket beside the watch and ring of Tommy Boyle. He took two more steps and stopped in his tracks. Armist cocked his head and he listened intently to the street. He pressed his weight down to the soles of his feet and he felt the street beneath him. These were his streets and he knew them with every sense of his body. He knew them in a way that could only be known by a man who had lived his entire life in five square blocks. He knew the sound of every building, the schedule of every delivery truck of every shop and vendor. He knew the habits of the night people and the places they abode. Armist knew the way the wind sounded as if furled around and through the lighted castle office towers before what remained of it settled on the borough. He knew the sound the rain made as it bounced of the dirty pavement and washed through the gutters into the storm drains. He knew the name of the dog barking a block away and could identify the birds by their songs. He knew the size of every rat by the sound of the scurrying of their feet.

 And he knew what it was that had felt wrong. He knew there was something coming. He wiggled the toes of his big feet in the new runners and like no other man on earth could felt the imperceptible vibration of his street. He understood the A train was only 5 minutes away from emerging at the level crossing on Lexington and he knew what Tommy had in mind. Armist broke into a jog and hoped there was time to get to Tommy.

Tommy stepped onto the track a couple hundred feet from the mouth of the underground tunnel. He stood still for a moment and listened to the night. It was unusually quiet for this time of night on the street and he wondered where the people were. He was grateful for the solitude. He was grateful there would be no witnesses to the event which was only minutes away now. He found solace in the privacy. Though he had been alone for the better part of his life he felt as though he had never enjoyed privacy.

Tommy slowly began a three hundred and sixty degree turn as he took in the street which he had called home for some time now. A light breeze fell upon the neighborhood, the rain had stopped and somehow at this moment in time the place seemed peaceful. He thought of Gutter Gus sleeping on the steps as his gaze fell upon his apartment. He looked at the corner where Rhonda would be standing come noon tomorrow and he hoped she would somehow find her way out. He looked with a mixed sense of anger and gratitude at Louis East End Pawn Shop which had robbed him and kept him alive simultaneously. He wondered how the new guy, Red, would fit into the neighborhood. He smiled as he recalled the old woman at the little coffee  hut on the corner who so many times had given him a bagel “just so you would have something in your stomach” she would say and he remembered that there was good in this world. He saw the mission where Hank Quinn had reached out to Tommy so many times only to be scorned and laughed at. The mission where the Nun had so many days offered him soup and a smile, a smile no one would see again.

 For a moment he wondered if they would miss him at all. Quietly he heard himself laugh at the notion. He would just be another in a long string of casualties in the borough. In a day or two there would be another living out his life in Tommy’s soon to be vacated apartment. Life would continue on without Tommy Boyle, without Trip, without Petra because that is what life does, it continues on.

 Tommy was jarred from his final thoughts by the familiar blue and red flashing of oncoming cruiser lights over the tops of the shops and he knew that they had found him. Even in this His last stand he could not catch a break. As he continued his turn toward the A train tunnel he could see the shape of a man emerging in and out of the street lights and advancing toward him quickly. And at the end of Tommy’s final pirouette he could see the distant light of the A Train shining forth from the darkened mouth of the tunnel. Tommy began to run toward the light.

Gideon and McCaskey raced around the corner onto Lexington as the train emerged from the tunnel. Silhouetted in the bright light of the oncoming train they saw the running form of Tommy Boyle.

 “We are not going to make it Bob” said McCaskey “We can’t get there and get out and get him before the train has him. Looks like Tommy Boyle is going to get his own justice tonight Bob.”

“I sure didn’t see this coming Jim and I sure don’t want to see what is about to happen. Look, here comes Armist but he is too far out. He won’t be able to get to him either Boyle is running to the train.”

“Not likely though I have to say, I have seen that old boy run. When we were after him he had a whole other gear which I never would have imagined” The car screamed to a halt and Gideon and McCaskey leapt out and began to run toward the mouth of the tunnel and the oncoming A Train.

Armist looked on ahead as he ran toward the scene of the crash and a voice within him spoke harshly, the voice of gutter Gus ‘what are you doing man! This is not your fight, those are cops you are running toward and a low down druggie who has never understood or lived by the code. These are not your people and this is not your trouble! That is McCaskey running at you. He wants to lock you up! And that Gideon, just because Polly Anne trusts him don’t mean you do. Just veer of now and run the other way and you are home free. You won’t get to him any way and who knows if you do, maybe he pulls you into the damn train with him. Suicides often want to take someone with them for the trip at the last moment. Listen to old Gus now ….run Armist run!’

Sometime during the run Armist had slid his hand into the pocket of his new sports jacket and found the small circle of wooden beads attached to a crudely carved wooden cross. It hung on his finger as his hand pumped up and down in smooth unison with his feet. As he ran on the talisman came in and out of his line of vision. The voice of Gus left Armists head and in its place his mind was filled with the rhythm of his feet as they slapped the pavement in his new runners.  Calm came over him and as he concentrated on the rhythms of his footfalls he felt the intensity of his pace increase. His legs moved like pistons, his arms pumping in unison and he moved into another gear. His focus was locked on Tommy Boyle and the intense light of the A train. Whether he could make it or not was no longer the question. Armist Hancock had committed to an action. The son of a war hero, a man of the code he raced on toward Tommy Boyle and possibly death. In his mind he heard the word….run Armist run….in the soft voice of Sister Petra.

The train emerged from the tunnel at 45 mile per hour. The estimated stopping distance of the train at that speed is 300 feet. The engineer hit the emergency stops in horror as the light from the A train fully illuminated the face of the man running toward him 200 feet away. The compartment was filled with the sound of screeching brakes and somewhere behind him the Engineer could hear the screams of frightened people as they began to crash toward the front of the train cars in which they road. Some of them had been sleeping, heading home from a long night on the town; some were heading to work others coming home from work. There were those who simply rode the trains by night as a salve to the insomnia from which they suffered. All of them were about to be drawn in to the train wreck which had been the life of Tommy Boyle.

Tommy ran toward the light with all the strength and conviction of a dying man. He had not run like this ever. Not when he was a child, not when he was a thief, not even when he had thrown Trip under the bus. Then he had run for his life, now he was running from his life, running toward the end as a means to bring reconciliation.  Pain coursed through his body and he welcomed it knowing it was a precursor to the ultimate pain which would come on impact, the pain which would lead to peace.

Gideon and McCaskey ran toward the scene in desperation knowing they would arrive seconds late and the aftermath would be horrific. The light was bright as they moved forward one on each side of the tracks and was blinding to Gideon who was on the far side and could only see Tommy moving down the center. From the near side of the tracks McCaskey could see Armist Hancock, moving like a 20 year old Olympic sprinter coming to the finish line.

“Om my Lord” said McCaskey “he is going for it, Armist is going to try and stop him! He will never make it Bob! They will both be killed!”

Gideon’s mind was flooded with the words and he searched desperately for a course of action but there was none to be found. He was too far away. He had promised Polly he would help Armist. He had told her he would keep Armist safe and now he was watching Armist run to his death in the aid of the felon Tommy Boyle. Gideon felt a heaviness descend upon him as he tried reconciling these two great facts in his mind.

 Gideon and McCaskey in unison but without foreknowledge both began to call out to Armist with all the strength they could muster “Stand down Armist, break away Armist, let him go Armist.” But Armist ran on with singularity of purpose as their voices fell silent under the screaming whistle of the A train.

The engineer watched the scene unfurl in helpless silence. He watched as the 2 cops broke off one to the left and one to the right of the tracks as they began to cease their pursuit. Their faces drawn in anguished screaming as they spoke words unheard by the engineer. He watched the big man running faster than any man he had before seen but somehow seeming to be in slow motion and he was certain that this man would not outrun his train. He looked into the eyes of the one running toward him on the track and wondered what sort of evil had brought this man to this point in his life, this place of hopelessness.  He turned around and slowly sat with his back to the imminent carnage. This night would be with him forever, he did not need to see the bloody conclusion. Later this morning, when he finally got home, after all the questions had been asked he promised himself to tell his son how much he was loved.

It would be any second now. The light had blinded Tommy but he ran on. There was no one now between him and his fate. There was pain in his body and he was filled with fear but he knew it would soon be over. He was amazed at the sounds around him. The roar of the train engine was being overshadowed but the screaming of its breaks. Like a wild stallion reared and ready to run being held back by the hardened steel of a bit the train snorted and spit and pitched forward in its efforts to move forward while being held back.

Armist was close, but he did not know if he was close enough. The noise was incredible. He looked quickly to his right in time to see Gideon and McCaskey give up the chase and begin to turn their backs to the train. They called out but their words fell on ears consumed by the din of thousands of pounds of charging steel. He looked back in time to see Tommy, running full tilt, eyes wide opened his face containing a look of sudden realization that perhaps he had erred in his decision but the option of reconsideration had long since gone.

  A sudden and unexplained silence had enveloped Armist. He felt more than saw the small circle of wooden bead attached to a crudely carved cross and he understood that this was the defining moment of his life. Tommy’s altered life had created this chaos but it was Armist who now ran toward it. Tommy had given up on his life but Armist had decided to give his live in the effort to save him. Armist was not only the son of a war hero, he was a hero in his own rite and if he died here in this next moment, he would die an honorable man and that was a good way to go. Armist closed his bright blue eyes, saw Polly Ann and leapt into the path of the A Train.

Tommy Boyle was completely blinded by the light. In his mind he saw his Mother at the wash line, his Dad in the driving shed, Billy walking down the lane and Beth crying on the porch. The impact was sudden, the pain was instant and the light had been extinguished.

Epilologue

        Well, there you have it, that’s what he told me and that’s what I wrote. I remember at the end of his talking he said something kind of strange. I never really thought about it at the time because; well because I never really thought about anything during that time.  He said “when a man meets his end a story is all he has” but he never said it like he was saying it to me, you know.  He said it like he was hearing it in his ears and just repeating it. I don’t know why that has occurred to me just now but it has. It was kind of spooky. Maybe because it was kind of like an omen or something for me, kind of felt like it was me coming to the end of my story, only I was too sick to get that at the time.

  But it was not the end of Tommy’s story, though it had been the end of our conversation, as much as I remember of it at any rate. To be honest that could have been the end of Tommy Boyle and his story as far as I was concerned. During that time in my life I would not have been able to muster one ounce of compassion or have any type of empathy at all toward him. I did not care one bit about him, he was just a looser. The only connection I had with the man was through the brother Billy and believe me that connection was quickly lost when Billy returned to the country. No it was not the end of Tommy Boyle’s story at all and it was in some ways the beginning of mine. I guess I shall need to explain.

        I have written all that he had told me down. I was not there for any of it and some of it made no sense to me then. Perhaps I remembered it differently than it actually transpired. Perhaps I invented some of it I don’t know, my mind was in bad shape in those days. A lot of the holes have been filled in by other people who had been around there that night. People who told me what happed after he had called me. How I met them is part of the beginning of my story. So here it is. Here is the rest of the story, the truth of which I absolutely can attest to, for the people who conveyed it to me can not lie, their lives depend upon that simple truth.  So I’ll start at the end and the beginning

The End

        Joe stood in the shadows of a door way across the street from the 5th St. mission and tried to understand what had brought him to this hopeless state of mind and body.  He was not drunk but he was not sober either. He was kind of in the middle, a state which he never often left these days. He was due for a top up but he had no money and the feelings of fear and desperation were closing in. He understood it would not be long before he crashed. He was going to have to do something but that something remained unclear. He watched the tremor in his hand as he lit the last half cigarette and moved back into the shadows.

        He could see them all there across the street standing in front of the mission and he detested them all, though he knew them not. Alcoholics and drug addicts, that’s what they were, the worst of the worst each one of them a low life in their own right. Only now they were clean and sober, going to those meetings and acting all high and mighty, like they were better than him.  There’s nothing worse than a reformed sinner, that’s what his Grandpa used to say and Joe now knew it to be true. If only they knew how hard it had been for him these last 7 years; if only they had seen him when he had been at the top of his game when he had a good job and a nice family. They were low life but he was not. He was just riding a long run of bad luck. He was going to pull out of it and put it all back together. He just needed a break, just needed to get through the night. A couple drinks and a place to sleep would fix him up till tomorrow and then maybe things would turn around. But there was no money for a couple drinks and there was no place to sleep and he was beginning to doubt his ability to pull it all back together. He had not seen the line but he feared he had crossed it. Perhaps there were no tomorrows left for him.

        They were loud and their joy crossed the street on the tepid night air and in to the alley, assaulting him. He hated them with all his heart but somewhere, deep down in his tortured soul there was a voice which called out to him ‘Go Joe, go over there and they will help you, go now before it is all lost forever’. He grimaced against the voice for he had heard it before. Many times in these past months he had stood here in this alley and watched them as they laughed and hugged and shook each others hands. Drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes and being happy, too happy. They were fakes. They were frauds and con men and they had no idea about his life. They had no idea how badly he had been treated in this shitty world. He had reasons to drink that they could not even imagine….they were bums and he was not….they had nothing to loose to begin with but he had. And it was gone, all of it. He would never join them, he would rather die.

        He spit onto the filthy street and watched as the big dapper looking one leaned down and lit a cigarette for the old doll, the one who owned the tattoo place. He was surprised to see her that first time he stood unseen in the shadows. She seemed to have it together, she seemed happy. He watched as her slender bejeweled hand reached up and steadied the old-timers knarled and street worn hand as she drew in deep and slowly exhaled that first delicious warm nicotine smoke. Even from here, in the dim light of desperation he could see they were lovers and in his heart Joe felt a deep sense of loss. Generally he guarded himself against these feelings, all feelings really, and seldom did he allow himself to recall the years of happiness he had once owned. The life he walked away from. He felt like an interloper here in the dark watching and “waiting. Waiting for the despair to become too much to bear. Waiting for the night when he would find the courage to cross over and join them.

Waiting, it seemed like his life had become a cycle of waiting; waiting for the world to see his full potential, waiting for his wife to forgive him or his kids to miss him. Waiting for the justice he deserved or something good to happen in this shitty world to keep him going, just waiting.  He stepped forward into the street light and took 3 steps toward them and froze in his tracks. Not tonight, it’s not that bad yet.

He heard a shuffling in the alley behind him and turned a little too quickly and felt his head begin to swim. He took three quick steps to the wall he had been leaning on and steadied himself, waiting for his head to clear. Slowly his eyes began to focus and standing there before him in the ashen darkness of the alley was a man. Joe gasped in astonishment as his eyes fell upon the hideous figure that stood in the shadows. The man was completely hairless and the white of his eyes were blood red. There was a singular glimpse of color on his face and that was a thin black strip running vertically on his bottom lip. Apart from this discoloration it appeared as though the mans skin was opaque. Joe closed his eyes reflexively for a mere second and in that second he imagined that he had seen every vein that existed in the face and neck of the man. He could see the rapid pulse of the mans’ blood rushing to his heart and in that moment Joe had wondered if this creature even possessed a heart. He was frightened and opened his eyes quickly as he sensed this odd looking creation could pose a threat to him.

        The man merely looked up to him and with a deep and raspy voice began to speak.

“Hey Brother, what’s happening. Think you could help a bro out here tonight. Think you could spot old Hot Dog a few bucks to get a cup of coffee.”  Joe looked on in disbelief as the awareness came to him that this was actually a human being a speaking breathing human and not a creature of the night, not some figment of his deteriorating brain.                            

“I don’t have a few bucks, and you aren’t my bro.” Joe started to back away into the darkness of the alley.

“Just a figure of speech man, don’t mean no offence, just meant you know brothers on the street; how about a smoke then man, how about a little nicotine for old Hotdog.”

“I don’t have a smoke for you either and I don’t live on the streets.” Joe turned to walk away but Hotdog stepped into pace at his side, very close and very agitated.

“Oh excuse me friend! My mistake I suppose you live in some nice uptown condo or some shit like that eh. You just down here on a sight seeing mission to see how the street folks play with each other. Well let me tell you what, you give me a fucking smoke now friend or old Hotdog is going a show you he don’t play to nice!”

Quicker than Joe would have imagined possible Hotdog had veered in front of him and pushed Joe to the wall.  Hotdog leaned in and looked directly into the eyes of Joe and Joe saw such a fury there, such hate that his blood ran cold. How had he ever arrived here in this situation? He could smell the breath of this hideous transparent man and though its stench was a combination of many things they had all merged into the smell of desperation. Joe hadn’t realized despair had an odor until that moment and as time seemed to stand eerily still he found himself wondering about his own breath. Did it have that odor of desperation? Was it the smell of defeat or despair? Or was it just the way men smell as they die from the inside out.

“Look man, I told you I don’t have any money or any smokes. I wasn’t trying to blow you off I just got some place I am supposed to be. I’m kinda in a hurry.”

“Oh you got somewhere you have to be do you. Well maybe it’s that fancy condo; maybe you should just take old Hotdog home for the night, what about that asshole. Maybe introduce old Hotdog to your lady, shit man. You think I am stupid? You think I am some kind of low life? I used to run this neighborhood man. You know who I am? I am fucking Hotdog! Men fear me and women can’t wait to take me as their own. You gonna stand right in front of me and blow smoke in my fucking face AND THEN TELL ME YOU GOT NO SMOKE FOR ME! Maybe I just smash your ugly uptown face in and take your smokes and your money man, maybe that’s just what I do.”

Hotdog leaned into him and allowed all the rage of the past six years to bubble to the surface and fester just beneath his transparent skin.  He felt as though his anger had become a living thing and was in control of itself. It rolled and squirmed beneath his skin as a living evil.  Hotdog knew by the look of abject fear on the face of this uptown poser that he Vladimir Hawdawkovitch had attained a new level of insanity.  His fall from mid gangster status had been rapid and hard and though he survived a five year sentence in a medium security federal institution all he had once been, all he had aspired to be had been lost.

While he had been living here in these five square blocks he had been something. He was connected with his brother Russians and he was feared and respected. There were woman and money, drugs and guns and he had his finger in it all.

Or so he had thought. Like so many other young men in baggie pants and side ways hats Hotdog had only been a minion in a small gang of thugs and drug dealers. He had ridden high on a dream of infamy which had only existed in his mind in the place where his own self worth should have been. After all the crap with Tommy Boy and the girl and the car fire the cops needed to do some “ tough on crime” media bullshit  and they came down hard on the entire precinct. The cop Gideon had set old Hot Dog in his sites and he was relentless in his pursuit. After 6 months of investigation and some trumped up charges Gideon, with the help of that pedophile priest Quinn, had seen to it Hotdog went down.

 Once he was inside, doing the time, his Russian family had forgotten him instantly and Hotdog came to understand his situation was bleak. He was alone and throughout a hard five years he had learned to survive, the only real sacrifice having been his remaining sanity. He had lived inside his mind which had essentially left him alone behind enemy lines. He lived and relived his life as a refugee from his mother Russia, as a casualty of an alcoholic father and his disappointment in a mother to weak to protect him.  Working through his thoughts and emotions in the solitude of a cell and in the confines of a damaged mind Hotdog came to an understanding and believe that he was nothing. All he had aspired to be was an illusion and the truth of Vladimir Hawdawkovitch had been concealed in the creation of Hotdog.  He came to know that he was despised among men and reviled among woman who had only used him as a means to an end, the end being their drug of choice.

 Though he had heard it said that ‘the truth will set you free’,  Hot dog had no capacity to understand the words sweetly whispered in his mind in the confines of his cell were not the words of truth but the lies of  his evil past .  He could not understand that recovery and freedom exist in the present and in the future and that relapse and regret can only survive in the present and the past.  No one had ever told Vladimir that there was another option for his life and in his despair and insanity Vladimir offered up his life as a sacrifice to the demon of his addiction. He sank into the mire of prison hooch and a never ending supply of prescription drugs and jail house meth.  Somehow he survived his five years, or a semblance of him had at any rate. He left that place a mere shadow of a shadow with no past or future that he could hold on to. With only the reality of his lost and addicted present he returned to the one place his twisted mind had ever felt it had some control over his destiny. He had returned to the borough, the five square blocks that had once been his imagined empire, and the very place where he now stood poised on the edge of another crime. He looked into the eyes of this man he held roughly against the wall and felt his grip tightening.

Hotdog knew he could kill this man here and now without a second thought and with not an ounce of remorse. He knew because he had done it before. He had killed a dealer in prison and though he did not recall the name of the man he would never forget the look in the man’s eyes as he realized he was dying. He could not forget the tensing then easing of the man’s body as Hotdog squeezed the life out of. He would never forget the sense of power and control.  It had been easy and it had been necessary.  Tonight it was not necessary but it would be easy, and satisfying.  Slowly Hotdog’s grip tightened around the man’s neck and with increasing pressure he could feel and hear the closing of the man’s windpipe.

Joe struggled as the air in his lungs began to dissipate and there remained almost no passage for new air to enter.  He clasped the hand of this demented stranger and quickly realized it was a grip he could not break. He struggled as the oxygen left the blood going to his brain and though the life was being violently squeezed out of him he moved from a place of panic to a place of euphoria. He was high, he was better than drunk and though a small part of his brain knew he was dying the larger part was enjoying the experience. In this insanity Joe ceased his struggle. In his addiction and at the moment of his death Joe made a choice. His choice was to die; to stop the struggle.

 His desire to fight for the life with which he had been blessed, and the people that had cherished him, had ended years before.  It had ended the night he walked away from his family and chose a bottle. Slowly and with absolute awareness Joe let his arms drop from the vise like grip of the creature which held him almost lovingly at the edge of his death. With happy anticipation Joe welcomed the end to his earthy struggle. There would be no more long nights filled with remorse and recrimination. There would be no more days filled with panhandling or stealing in order to buy a drink. He would finally be free of the shakes and tremors, free of the dry retching or the puking up of blood. Released from the denial and the never ending need to escape the responsibility for where he had ended up. In that moment he knew there was no one else to blame. There was no buck to pass. There was just him, and the booze.

 He wanted to have been able to tell his wife he loved her, his children he was sorry. He wanted them to know it was not their fault but that it had been his disease which had destroyed their happy family but he had never had the courage. Now it would be over, he would set himself and his family free in this one last act of desperation and cowardice. It would be the last time that he would ever give up on anything. In his last moments of consciousness his disease had told him he was not dying, he was killing his failure. He was destroying that which had hurt his family in an act of nobility, not being murdered by an unsightly creature over a cigarette he didn’t even have. Mustering all that was left Joe opened his eyes and looked into the face of Hotdog, into the eyes of the instrument of his death, and he smiled as the light drained out of his world.

What the fuck, Hotdog thought as he dropped the poser to the ground. The guy just gave up. He just quit. There was no struggle in this mans demise and Hotdog was enflamed with anger at being denied that moment of power and control.  That moment when he felt all the fight drain out of the man along with all the life, like it had been for him his first time, in prison. How could a low life drug dealing scum bag doing a 5 year bit for child molestation fight harder for his life than this man on the street? The world no longer made sense to Hotdog. He looked down at the poser where he had fallen to the ground and spit on him in contempt. Hotdog eyes darted up and down the street as he bent down to rifle the man’s pockets. There was no money; there was not even a cigarette, the guy truly was a poser. Hotdog laughed quietly to himself as he turned and disappeared into the emptiness of the alley.

The Beginning

The darkness exploded into a beautiful brilliant light and Joe felt warm all over.  He could not recall the last time he had been warm, really warm.  Though he knew not where he was he smiled because he was happy.

 There was someone coming out of the light, but he could not tell who it was and then, he realized, he was not afraid. Joe tried to recall when the last time was that he was not afraid but he could not. It seemed as though he had always been full of fear and shame, even when things had been good in his life.  As he lay there, so still, he was aware that the shaking was gone. There were no tremors and he was not sick, even his insides were still and he was not in need of anything.  All his desires had been replaced with the need to meet this man that approached him from the brilliance of the light.

             Though the man was still far off it was as though Joe could feel Him holding him. He held Joe so close and so tight it was as though He had pressed into Joe and he could feel Him inside and close to his heart, to their heart. This man was filling Joe with such love and contentment that he was certain he would burst. For the first time in his memory Joe realized he had no feelings of remorse.  For one fleeting moment he understood that all the harm he had brought into his life and into the life of his family would be set aside and forgiven within the embrace of this Man. For the first time ever, Joe felt love and it emanated from this Man who was walking toward him, but was somehow already there. This Man he could not recognize but somehow knew.  

These feelings of peace and contentment were so new to Joe that he began to grow wary. He had existed for so long running from all emotion and trusting no one but now there was this Man, this Man in whom the insanity of Joe’s life simply vanished.  

          Being unfamiliar with this sense of peace, Joe gave into his panic and anxiety. He could not process the emotions he was experiencing because deep within, Joe knew he did not deserve this. This man was making a mistake, a big mistake.  Joe had done nothing in his pathetic life to earn this feeling of absolute love. His wife had loved him, his children had loved him but he had spurned their love. He had preempted their departure with his own because he knew that sooner or later they would realize he was unworthy. He had no merit, he had no substance he was just a damned dirty alcoholic, just as his grandfather had been. Just the thing he had sworn he would never become.

Slowly and with some reluctance he allowed that sense of peace and serenity to seep out of him and with an expectancy which surprised him he fell back into the familiarity of fear. He did not think he was dead but neither was he fully alive. He seemed trapped in this place between a world he hated and the unknown beyond the brilliance of the light at once feeling drawn and repelled. Suddenly Joe realized the Man was not walking to him but rather Joe was being drawn to the Man. Led through a long tunnel at incredible speed, transported along without really walking and all the while his eyes fixed on the brilliance of light surrounding this Man. It seemed he was looking beyond the center of the universe where all the light in the entire world existed and though he tried to stay in his comfortable place of fear and remorse he was unable. Joe felt as though he were a speck of dust being carried on the wind into the sunlight and as he moved along bits of the light permeated his body. The first spike of the light removed his fear completely. The fear had not just moved to that place in his gut where it had lived in the moments Joe could control it, but it was gone! Another fragment of light pierced through him and he was filled with a peace and joy he had never experienced and suddenly, the things of the word which had baffled him he could see with clarity. The end of the tunnel was near now and Joe could clearly see the Man as he approached, His arms were extended and the light emanating from His flesh.

And then Joe was there, right in front of Him.  Joe looked deeply into this Man’s eyes and yet could not focus on His face and in that moment he witnessed his entire life. Joe had no idea how long he had stood gazing into the beauty of this Man’s eyes as his life played out in front of him. It may have been seconds or it may have been hours but in an instant the trance was over and Joe was filled with an understanding of how he had lived. Of how he had squandered the gifts he had been given.

And then he heard the voice. It was sweet and soft, fierce and strong, rising and falling like a great symphony in an ancient theater.  The words blew over him as a wind and the words spoken were unfamiliar to Joe and yet he understood each thought perfectly.  The voice was dripping like honey and glittering like gold and for a moment Joe was reading the strange words as they came from the mouth of this man of light and he understood. It was direction and it was purpose and for the first time in all his life Joe felt as though he belonged. He felt as though he understood and he knew he needed to get back to his life. He needed to get back and make things right, to change everything he had previously know about life.

With great effort Joe caught in gulps of breath and began with difficulty to form a sentence.  He had so many questions. He wanted this Man to keep him folded into His heart forever and yet he knew he would not be able to stay, he understood this Man had a plan for him and it required life. Just as Joe was about to spew forth all his questions the Man smiled. The smile spread through Joe like a warm light and he lifted his own arms to reach out and embrace the Man. It was in that moment that the Man closed his eyes and as He did the light left Joe.  The void engulfed him and Joe felt himself beginning to fall. Back he went down through this passage which had drawn him up to the place where the Man had waited and as he fell he could feel a great rush of air fill his lungs. With sudden impact he landed back in the alley from which he had come. His chest ached and his head was splitting but there was no fear, there was no anxiety, there was no remorse. He knew he would be okay because he knew there was a plan and the plan was not his.

Joe’s eyes flew open as great gulps of air escaped his lungs. There was a man pressing hard on Joe’s chest as he looked over his shoulder he was calling out to someone. As Joe’s senses returned and the buzzing left his ears Joe could hear the words the man was calling out.     “Rhonda, call 911, do it now I think this guy is dead.”  To his left Joe saw the girl. She was young and she was pretty and as she scrambled to find her phone she began to speak.

“What the hell Hank. Did you see him? Was that Hotdog walking away from this guy? I mean if he is out Hank and back around here we gotta go! We gotta tell somebody or do something” Rhonda felt the tremble in her hand as she frantically removed her cell phone from her bag. She felt the fear growing deep within her as all the memories of that long ago night fell heavily upon her.

“Rhonda, it is okay trust me, I saw him but now we have to deal with this guy, I really think he might be dead! I did CPR and mouth to mouth but he does not seem to be responding.  Gideon is over at the meeting, we will tell him and they can deal with Hotdog but now we have to make the call”.

Slowly Joe lifted his hand and covered the hands of Hank Quinn which were forcing life saving but unrequired rhythms into the heart of Joe. With a shrill and startled scream which begat an equally or surpassing shrill and startled scream from Rhonda, Hank leapt from his straddled position over this stranger on the street and backed into the alley wall beside Rhonda.

“Mother of Mercy and Saints preserve us!” Hollered Hank, as he leaned into the jagged brick wall and began to compose himself. Instinctively he circled a protective and reassuring arm around Rhonda who stood trembling in fear and uncertainty.  She nuzzled her head deep into his shoulder as was her way when she felt threatened.

 Hank had come to know all of her ways in these past five years as he had journey with her. He had been her only support system throughout her long and painful ordeal. Through the days where her survival seemed unlikely Hank had immersed himself in prayer and in the process began to heal his relationship with God. During his bedside vigil, deep in prayer and meditation Hank relived his past. Leaving no stone unturned Hank came to understand that the Lord had forgiven him and it was now time for Hank to forgive himself. With tears of joy he let loose the mistakes of his past and cleared the pathway.  If he were to be of use to God and Rhonda and to all his fellows he needed to be free from his guilt, free from a past which kept him in bondage.

Hank had been everything for Rhonda during her physical recovery from massive trauma, her detoxification from crippling addiction and her emotional journey back from a lifestyle which had decimated all of her self respect. If there had been any family out there for Rhonda, and Hank was sure that there was, she had refused to divulge their whereabouts. It would take a great deal of time before Rhonda would be in a place where she could step beyond her shame and reach out to a family which had long ago stopped searching for their little girl.  Hank related to her shame, he understood her reluctance to forgive herself and Hank understood that these two lost and damaged souls had been placed together for a reason. They would recover together. His ability to reach out to and help Rhonda would in turn save his own life and restore him to a place of relationship with the Lord.

 So Hank became her guardian of sorts and advocating for Rhonda filled a space in his life which had been vacant for too long a time. He tended to her physical healing, addressed her addictive behaviours and counseled her on her spiritual relationship with the Lord. Together they began working through 12 step programs and to build fellowship in recovery. Rhonda, having no place to go decided to stay in the 5 square blocks which had previously been her hell on earth but would become her sanctuary.  She moved into the mission with the others that were there in recovery and together they worked and together they recovered by the grace of God.

 Hanks life took on new meaning and the fire he felt for serving the cities most lost and forgotten was reignited within him. He moved through the burrows with an ease which had previously eluded him. His association with Armist and Polly Anne gave him credentials with the street people who had never before seen him as an ally. And God began to grow his programs. The mission was full and the needs where being met.

Through it all Rhonda was by his side. She proved to be greatly adept at listening to and relating to the girls on the street which were living the life she had survived. Together they changed and developed programs designed to meet the needs of these women where they lived.  They were just there, to listen, to direct, to counsel but mostly just to love them. Mostly just to let them know there was another way and they were not alone.

Somewhere on this wonderful journey Hank had fallen in love with Rhonda. There was no specific time or event. There was no special moment or epiphany when this became evident to Hank. He had just awakened one morning and he knew. He loved her; he wanted to be with her forever.  Together and slowly they embarked on a new journey of discovery. The way at times was marked with caution as neither Hank nor Rhonda had ever experience a healthy relationship but through their ups and downs they survived and they grew. Their love had become a story of survival and joy in a place where survival and joy seemed unlikely.  

And so it was that they found themselves together, here in this place on a dark night heading to the local meeting and witnessing the violent attack of this man. God had once again placed them in a situation which would require them to face and deal with demons from their past.  And once again giving them the privilege of being of service to one of the many lost.

“You’re alive!  Hank blurted.

“I am.” Replied Joe as he pushed up to an elbow and then into a sitting position.

“But you weren’t man, I know! I know! I have been here before. I was working CPR on you but you were not responding! Rhonda, you better make that call, we need Paramedics.”

“No please don’t, I…I am okay, I was gone but now I am back and I really am okay. I…… I can’t really explain it all but I do know I will be okay, no paramedics, no cops, please.”

“No Cops! That guy tried to kill you man. Do you know who that was, are you somehow connected to him?

“I don’t know him, he said his name was Hotdog and he wanted money, I didn’t have any and he got angry. Did she call you Hank?”

“Ya she did, who are you?”

“And she is Rhonda?”

“That’s right pal. Listen are you sure you are okay, I mean really man you were unconscious. You were not breathing.” As he spoke he moved toward the stranger on the sidewalk extending his hand to help this man to his feet.

“You’re the Priest.” said Joe.

Hank stopped suddenly in his tracks and began a slow retreat to the wall where Rhonda stood in silence. He felt her tiny hand slide into his and he could feel the sweat on her palms. Hank knew that Rhonda was frightened just as he knew he must proceed with caution.

“Ex priest” Hank replied slowly” How did you know that? Have we met because I have to tell you buddy I am pretty good at names and faces and yours is not ringing any bells.”

“And she is Rhonda, the girl friend?”

     Rhonda squirmed uneasily in Hanks grip and he could tell she was becoming increasingly agitated. Quickly Rhonda exploded from her position on the wall and crossed the three feet of sidewalk between her and the man with great speed and intensity. She was mad and Hank knew it. He had witnessed her in this state of anger on one other occasion and Hank was aware how quickly Rhonda could revert to her street self. He kept in pace behind her and reassuringly laid his hand on her shoulder. She glanced at Hank and then began to speak, the edge in her voice somewhat diminished.

“Ya, I’m the girl friend, Hank’s girl friend, what of it?”

“Hanks girl friend, oh that’s different.” Joe replied somewhat perplexed and aloof.

“Different! Why is that different?  Look man if you have something to say to me just say it!  I don’t much like that you seem to know us but we have no idea who you are. As it happens I have an old friend across the street right now, he is a Cop and I am feeling like he needs to be in on the conversation. What do you think Hank? Should we get Gideon over here?”

“By all means Rhonda, no point in us taking any chances, I will give him a call right now.”

        As Hank began to dial his cell phone Joe clambered to his feet and Rhonda quickly retreated to the wall.

“Wait, wait, please I am sorry. I did not mean to frighten you or freak you out; it is just that I ….I thought Rhonda was Tommy’s girl friend.”

“Tommy! Tommy Boyle? You know about Tommy Boyle?”

“Well no, not really, I mean he and I never met, I sort of knew his brother, Bill.  I was kind of crashing at his place, five or six maybe even seven years ago now. I kind of lost track of time, well and everything else in these last bunch of years.  You see I drink some, a lot actually, and I need to get some help. I never thought I would end up in this part of town in fact, I never even knew about this part of town until I heard about it from Tommy. You see I talked to him on the phone, I think I may have even been the last guy he ever spoke too. I don’t much like to think about that cause I sort of laughed at him at the time, didn’t really give a shit about him or his story.  He wanted me to write down some things, for his brother and his family and for me I think. I never did, write any of it down, but for some reason, I can remember all of it.

To be honest, I never really knew if he was bullshitting me or not till I saw some stuff in the papers a few days later. Then I just took off you know. Split out west for while, moving around trying to catch a break but I could never put it out of my mind. I have been so caught up in my own shit for so long I just never cared. He was just a loser to me then, a dirty druggie and now here I am, living on the same streets, maybe in just as bad a shape as he was”

        And on Joe went. He told them the whole story of Tommy Boyle and how he had been the last call Tommy was to make before jumping out in front of a train, He told them how Tommy had wanted to make it right with his brother Billy how he had begged Joe to pass his words on to His younger Brother. Something Joe had never done. Joe remembered how he had laughed at Tommy and how Tommy had tried to tell Joe not to let his family go. He told them the whole story and for the first time ever in his life he also told them the truth of his addiction.  He told them his story right up till the moment that Hank was beating on his chest and breathing life into His lungs.

“So that’s it man, that’s why I recognized your names. That’s why I was surprised that Rhonda was your girl friend, because I never knew that part of the story. You know I’ve been standing over here in the dark a couple times a week for months now, watching you all over there at that meeting, wanting to come over but I’ve been afraid to. I think I am ready to come now, will you guys take me over.”

          Hank and Rhonda looked at Joe in disbelieve and then looked at each other and broke into laughter. Joe looked on, uncertain of what to think as the two of them fell into each other’s arms in a deep embrace. Through laughter and tears Hank began to speak.

“Oh my God and Praise the Lord! Joe, my new friend in sobriety, Rhonda and I would be thrilled to go with you over to that meeting, most especially that meeting! This is going to be the first day of the rest of your life my friend and I am pretty sure it will be an evening you will not forget. Come on now and let’s get over there, there are a some people whom you are going to want to meet and a whole bunch of folks who are going to want to meet you. God is good!”

Hank laughed and Rhonda snickered as they each circled a hand around the elbows of Joe and led him off to the Friday Night Late meeting at Mercy Mission.

The Meeting

        The smoke lay heavy in the air at the front door of the mission as eight or ten members huddled in the night air and talked amongst themselves.  There was every kind of person there in the dim light, some were sick and shaking and clinging to the words of those who appeared at ease and self assured. Others had darting eyes as they worked feverishly at not locking vision with anyone person.  Some were obviously still close to the street while others were well dressed and groomed but all of them stood as one.  

        In the center and looming above them all was Armist Hancock. Polly Anne stood at his side and the two of them spoke to and acknowledged everyone present; greeting people and shaking their hands as they made their way into the Late Night Meeting..  The calm and love that existed between them somehow permeated those who were nearby and as Hank and Rhonda made their way through the small group towards the door, Joe felt al little closer to that feeling of peace he had experienced in the awesome presence of the Man.

        “Armist, Polly! Hank called out, “I want you to meet someone, someone special I think.  This here is Joe; he is in a bad way and has been watching from the shadows for a while now. He’s ready to get some help and he’s got quite a story to tell.”

        “Well we all got a story to tell brother and there all good to hear. Name is Armist.” He stretched out a massive worn knurled hand and Joe took it in his own. “This here is Poly” He said smiling “So you are the guy been standing in the dark over there for a while now eh. I’ve been keeping an eye that way and praying you would make the walk over.”

Polly was reaching out her hand towards Joe when she stopped mid way and turned her gaze to Armist.

“You mean to tell me you knew this man has been standing over there hurting for a while now and you never walked over to see if he needed our help! Well Armist I just don’t know what to say about that.”

“Poly dear, I knew he needed our help. But I also know I stood many a night in that same spot looking over here at your pretty face but was not able to make that journey. And if you’d known I was there and walked over to see me I never would have come in. And if I had, I never would have made it. I needed the miracle Polly and I think Joe here needed it to. I’m thinking by the look on his face right now, he may have had it.”

“Well Armist Hancock, when did you get so smart I wonder?” Polly dropped her cigarette and stamped it out under her food as she raised her arm up and looked at Joe “well lets all go in Joe, meeting is about to start and it is going to be a dandy, let’s go get a coffee and I will introduce you to some folks.”

Amidst the light laughter and conversation of the small crowd they moved towards the door and for the first time in his recent memory Joe felt at home. They passed through the double doors and down a narrow stairway to a low-ceilinged basement room which was full of chatter and chairs. On the walls there were signs hanging like beacons of hope for those who had given up on their lives.  YOU ARE NOT ALONE! KEEP COMING BACK! LET GO AND LET GOD! EASY DOES IT! BUT FOR THE GRACE OF GOD! They hung like sign posts to a better way of life and Joe felt drawn in and encouraged as he made his way to the open area inside the door where people lined up for coffee.  Polly reached in and poured Joe a half cup of the hot black coffee which he took in his shaking hand. As he began to drink Armist called out a smiling warning, “Careful now Joe, that there is probably the worst coffee you ever tasted, here in this group we are known for half cups of bad coffee. What you got to look forward to if you keep coming back is full cups of bad coffee!”  Light laughter lilted through the gathering crowd as 2 uniformed officers approached Armist from the back of the room.

“Well, well, well, I never thought I would ever see the day when Armist Hancock was telling folks what was good and what was bad!” Said Bob Gideon

“And I never thought I’d see the day I would be standing in front of instead of running away from two of the city’s finest!” as Armist spoke he spread open his long arms and with genuine affection encircled the necks of Bob Gideon and Jim McCaskey.  The three men fell into comfortable banter as Joe slowly moved away and began to mingle through the walking lost and found.

 People were sitting and standing, some were laughing some were crying and Joe took it all in, trying to imprint all he observed on his memory. There was no distinction between them and no judgment among them.  He saw women wearing expensive jewelry in conversation with women who had been used badly by the world,  men in dry cleaned suits in conversation with men whose apparel were in tatters.  Throughout his life Joe had joined many churches and clubs, social activist groups and neighborhood action committees always seeking that place of acceptance; that place where he would not be judged, where he would find unconditional love. He had felt that love when he had met the Man, and now he felt it here again, in this room filled with societies cast offs.

He turned slowly in the center aisle taking it all in and his eyes fell upon a row of chairs three or four rows back from the front.  The people there seemed familiar to him in a way which he could not define and as he watched them intently it occurred to him that they were out of place.  The old man fussed over the woman who gazed about the room with a look of contented confusion. He held her hand and he spoke softly to her, occasionally stroking her hair and broadly smiling.  Next to him was a little boy who looked to be five or six years old kneeling facing backward on his chair, his eyes wide and wandering from face to face as he took in all the commotion as people chattered while they took their seats.  In the two chairs next to the small boy where two teenagers, a girl and a boy both with heads down and thumbs working feverishly on I-phones; oblivious to anything in the world beyond the perimeter of the three by five screen they could not appreciate the miracle of community as it unfolded in their presence. Beside them sat a man and woman also looking uncomfortable but not entirely unaware of their surroundings. She look worried, possibly frightened and he looked concerned and protective; his focus shifting easily from this woman beside him to the room around him, ready to comfort or react as the situation demanded.

They were in love, deeply thought Joe and he remembered what that was like. He remembered the moments in his life he had shared with his wife which were similar to these two people he watched from a distance; folded into each other in an unshakable bond. He remembered the night at the hospital when his wife’s mother had died. How Teresa had sat beside him in silence for hours. There had been no spoken words but incredible communication as he had held her and been there for her in that moment of complete vulnerability. He remembered and was momentarily filled with sorrow over the decisions he had made which had broken that bond.

He remembered the day their oldest had been hit by a car and the state he had been in as they waited for word of her condition.  He was unable to cope, uncertain if there was something he could have done to have protected her. He was weeping and losing his hope and then suddenly she was there beside him. His strong wife Teresa was holding him close and telling him it would all be okay. Whispering in her soothing tones into his ear letting him know that whatever happened they were a team, together they would get through, they would survive.

And it was true! They had been a team, unstoppable, unbreakable, and able to withstand an onslaught from any outside situation. But addiction does not attack from the outside. Addiction moves in with you a little at a time and slowly takes residence in your soul. It sleeps in-between you and your wife each night, it goes along to the little league game with you and your kids, it sits at the table with your family for every meal slipping outside words into private conversation and eventually and unapologetically it dominates every discussion, every activity, every moment of you life. And then it takes everything away. Every intimate moment, every cherished memory every aspect of life and love which gave you joy. And like a coward you just let it happen.

He felt tears begin to well behind his newly opened eyes as he realized he did not even know where they were, his family had moved on out of an instinct to survive and Joe had not bothered to wonder where they went. Then he remembered the Man, he remembered His words and His love as he had sent Joe back with a mission, a mission to make it right and Joe knew that he would. He fought back the tears and carried himself off the battle field of his mind and emotion and refocused on the room around him.

The little boy was fidgeting up and down on the chair now, his eyes darting in every direction then falling on the old man at his side. “When will it all start Grandpa John.” He asked. “Soon Tommy, just be patient a while longer.” came the reply. “Tommy?” said the woman as she looked over at the smiling old man and past him to the boy. “Yes, dear, little Tommy, you remember!” He said smiling as he encircled her shoulders with a protective arm knowing that she did not.

Joe just stood and watched. He drifted into his own thoughts concerning what was to be done, “make it right” the Man had said but how on earth could he do that? Where to even begin?  An overwhelming sense of his own inability to cope was creeping into the corners of Joe’s mind misting the memory of the Man ever so slightly when Joe was jolted back into the present.

 There was a woman standing before him, short, well kept with long flowing chestnut hair and a beautiful smile. Joe was taken by her beauty and his mind began to take in all her features. The teeth were perfect, probably fake thought Joe but it was not the teeth which gave the girl a beautiful smile. There was a genuine quality that shone through her smile and settled into his heart. The girls’ eyes were kind but Joe noticed one eye moved slightly out of sync with the other and he thought to himself the eye is also false but still there was sincerity in her gaze which was slightly unsettling. Joe believed this woman could see into his heart and understood his deepest thoughts, with only a mere glimpse. The nose was a bit too straight and the skin a bit too tight and Joe suspected this woman had been made over. But the serenity that she exuded seemed out of place in a woman who would redo herself out of vanity and Joe suspected like so many others in the room this woman would weave into his story.

“I’m sorry” said Joe “did you say something?”

“I did” replied the young girl as she extended her hand to Joe, hanging from her wrist was a small circle of wooden beads attached to a crudely carved wooden cross.

 “I said One Day at a Time. You looked as though you were a thousand miles away lost in thought so it seemed to me an appropriate slogan for the moment. Are you new here?”

“Yes” said Joe, I’ve been around the area for a while but this is my first meeting. I am not really sure what I am supposed to do.”

“Well right now, we are supposed to get a seat because things are about to get started. Beyond that, you really don’t have to do anything tonight but listen. You did all that was required of you this evening by just walking through the door. And if I may say so, you picked a grand night to begin your journey.” Holding Joe’s hand the beautiful young girl with the chestnut hair and perfect smile led them to their seats.

The commotion in the room calmed slightly as the big form of Armist Hancock walked to the table at the front of the room. He looked with distain at the gavel upon the table and with a swift and alarming motion he slammed his knurled hand hard down upon the table top. Books fell over, a pile of monthly chips slid to the floor and the room fell silent. Everyone looked in anticipatory silence toward the big man at the front of the room.

Armist smiled as he looked upon the gathering. These handpicked misfits he called his family.

“Sorry about that folks, I guess old Armist just don’t know his own strength.”

An anonymous voice from the back of the room sang out a replied

 “Well I don’t know why that would be Armist. We all know about your incredible strength and legendary deeds because every chance you get you tells us about it!” The room erupted in genuine laughter the kind that is only heard in place where people felt at home and loved and Armist looked on amazed that these people, the worst of the worst now sat and shared such fellowship. He could not stop the broadening of his smile.

“All right, all right, I guess I had that coming. One day at a time people one day at a time, Humility is something I’m working on. But tonight is not about me. We have a special night tonight, an awesome speaker with an incredible story to share. We also have an old friend here tonight to chair our meeting. As far as I know these two hombres have not seen each other in sometime, both have been on their own journey. On top of that we got a new guy here tonight, name is Joe and he is sitting right there with our dear Sister. Make sure you say hello to him later on, I got a feeling you may want to talk to him. So sit down and clam up! We will start in the usual way and then get right to it.”

Armist cleared his throat and bowed his head and hats were removed throughout the room as in unison this fellowship previously lost and broken folks called out in prayer.

“God grant me the serenity, to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can and the wisdom to know the difference.” The Friday night meeting at the Fifth St. Mission was officially called to order.

Chairs scraped along the floor in the front row of the hall as a young man and woman rose to their feet. Both extended an arm to the older gentlemen whom had been sitting in between them and slowly with some effort the gentleman rose to his feet. On his head he wore a ball cap tilted rakishly to one side the crest of the front reading ‘NEVER SAY DIE. The man was thin and pale but in his eyes there was a glint of joy and his jaw was set in steely determination. The young man and woman by his side reached out toward his elbows to steady him but he quickly shook off their grasp. He looked to them both with a proud and loving smile and softly told them they could both be seated.

For a moment he just looked out over the crowd, a smile on his face and deep in thought and then when he felt a steadiness beneath him he leaned slightly forward and retrieved two canes which has been hung from the back of his chair. The room was completely silent as he moved forward on two prosthetic legs, moving slowly and slightly awkwardly he made his journey to the front table and turned to face the crowd. He looked back upon hundreds of faces, some smiling broadly, others dabbing at tears in the corners of their eyes and still others who had no knowledge of the event they were witnessing.

The man leaned his canes on the edge of the table and held tightly to the podium as he began to speak.

“I would like to welcome you all here tonight for this here meeting. It’s been awhile since I have been in these parts and this here is my first meeting in the borough. My name is James Montgomery Patterson and I am an alcoholic.” The room responded with the customary murmur ‘hello James’.

“Now some you folks here abouts have heard tell of me and some of you have maybe even known me but none of you have ever seen me sober. Except for my boy and girl sitting there who have kept me going these past seven years. For those of you who have known me in another life I am going to start again. My name is Trip and I am an alcoholic!” The room exploded in whistles and cat calls and a thunderous reply ‘HELLO TRIP!’

Trip continued, “You know folks we all have a row to hoe in this world and sometimes the rows are hard and rocky. Sometime we get them crooked and sometime, well sometimes we just can’t get through and we go in a whole other direction. That’s the way it has been for lots of us here. But you know if we live through it and if we do the do things and most important of all if we call out to our Lord God in that time of the deepest despair, we can get help. We can get clean and sober and we can turn our lives around by the Grace of God. That’s the story for all of us here tonight, maybe even more so for our speaker tonight. I would not be standing here in front of you on store bought legs without the help of lots of folks. Maybe none of us would be here at this meeting tonight were in not for old Armist there. That’s the way it is for us, we need each other and we need help, But I’m not you speaker tonight he is a man I called my friend for a long while and a man I hope to call my friend again. So while I scurry myself back to my chair, please help me welcome tonights speaker.”

The room erupted in applause people rising to their feel as out of the side wings of the basement room at the Fifth Street mission walked a man toward the front table. His head was bowed his face looked solemn as he was clearly uncomfortable with the accolades of the crowd. Silently he took his place at the podium and waited as the din of the crowd transformed in seconds to absolute silence. He looked out at the faces he recognized many which he had not seen in such a long time and marveled that they were here. Here for him after all he had done. He thanked God under his breath threw back his shoulders and looked into the eyes of the people in the room and began “Hello, I am Tommy and I am an alcoholic.”

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