by Tom Reilly
“What makes you think she’s not looking down on all this right now, Tim?” Cheryl added.
“You’re right, she probably is,” he said.
“Hey, little brother. Are you hanging in there?” Frank said.
“Yeah, Frank, I’m okay. You?” Timothy didn’t really care if it was a question.
“Oh sure. I knew it would be harder on you, being the youngest and still at home,” Frank said.
“I think this is tough on everyone, Frank,” Leslie said.
“So when do you think we should powwow and discuss our options?”
“Options, Frank? You mean like what to do with the house? Do you think Mom is even in the ground yet?” Timothy could not hide his contempt for his brother.
“Hey, take it easy. I know you’re upset. We can deal with this later,” Frank said.
“Frank, you need to back off. We’ll get to it when we get to it. Let’s thank all of these people for coming,” Leslie said.
“Yes, of course. I can arrange to stay over.” Frank walked back to the table to sit with Bill.
“Can you believe this?” Timothy said. “That greedy bastard is worried about his cut—”
“Timothy, it’s okay. It’s okay. Do you hear me? It’s okay,” Cheryl said.
“Yeah, I hear you. It’s okay, but it doesn’t feel okay,” he said.
They stayed for about two hours until the last guests left and the bereavement committee ladies nudged them out like waiters clearing a table to prepare for the next seating. The family said its goodbyes. Leslie and Ike headed home with the children. Frank and Bill headed to the airport so Bill could get back home. Timothy and Cheryl drove past the cemetery. Timothy wanted to make sure Mom’s gravesite was taken care of.
Timothy dropped off Cheryl at the funeral home for her to pick up her car. She offered to spend the evening with him, but Timothy said he wanted to be alone.
“Timothy, please let me help you,” Cheryl said.
“I’ll be fine. This is something I need to do by myself,” he said.
“Do what?” Cheryl said.
“Grieve. Think. Plan. Whatever you do when you bury your number one fan in life,” Timothy said.
“Remember, you still have a pretty big fan in me, you know,” she said.
“I know. Thanks for being with me throughout this. You sure didn’t bargain for any of this.”
“That’s what people do when they love someone.” She leaned over to kiss him. “Call me later?”
“Yes. I promise.”
“Okay. I’ll be waiting.” Timothy watched Cheryl drive away. When he got home, Timothy sat in front of a blank television screen, drinking beer, in the same chair he sat in when he returned from Vietnam. This nearly-the-same routine—beer, TV, sitting, and thinking—had one significant difference. Mom was gone from this echo-empty house. Notebooks lay scattered on the coffee table in front of him—each filled with his musings as a kid. A pile of empty beer cans on the floor next to his chair kept him company. After a couple more beers, he went to his bedroom for more notebooks.
He opened the nightstand drawer and on the pile of notebooks rested his Colt 1911, standing guard over his memories. He won this .45 caliber pistol in a card game in Vietnam and carried it for the rest of his tour instead of the standard .38 caliber revolver the Army issued to helicopter pilots.
Timothy carried the .45 the day he got shot down and the last time he fired it. He shot a Viet Cong who charged the crash site. He saved Scoot’s life with that shot. He traded one life for another in a zero-sum game. At times, he wondered why he experienced no guilt over this. It felt transactional to him. A simple trade. The other life didn’t matter. That he thought in those terms bothered him. It seemed uncharacteristically cold for Timothy. The shooting didn’t haunt him, but his lack of feeling did. That part of him kept trying to connect with the rest of him.
He stared at the pistol for few minutes, thinking about the card game, the crash, and Bobby. Alcohol unlocked the vault in his head. He gathered the notebooks, carried them back to the living room, and placed the 1911 on the stack. He stared at both while popping the top of another Pabst.
Timothy liked the weight of the gun in his hand. He removed the magazine and cocked the slider, ejecting the round from the chamber. He picked up the bullet and studied it. This round weighed about 15 grams and packed a punch of 21,000 psi with a muzzle velocity of 1,000 feet per second. Its stopping power made the 1911 a military staple for over sixty years. Timothy shot one for the first time in training, and its recoil surprised him. This no-nonsense solution had the power to stop all attackers—the two-legged kind and the memory kind. One small pull of the trigger and whatever got in its way became instant history. No problems, no bills, no guilt, and no memories. Timothy stared at the bullet as he placed it back in the magazine and inserted the magazine into the pistol. He cocked the slider and chambered the round.
The phone rang, and he let it ring. He had no conversation in him this evening. He had only decisions to make, and he had to make them by himself. He sat on his chair, the 1911 in hand, and replayed the life events that brought him here.
What did Hoffen say to me? Why can’t I remember?
The phone rang again. Timothy aimed the 1911 at the phone and alternately at the television set. He knew it would be an easy way to stop the ringing.
CHAPTER FORTY
THE SHOP PHONE rang, and Scoot answered it. “Scoot’s Cycle Shop.”
“Scoot, I’m concerned,” Cheryl said.
“Hey, pretty lady. What’s wrong?”
“I called Timothy last night several times, and he never answered the phone.”
“He’s probably trying to figure out a couple of things,” Scoot reassured her.
“He promised me he would call. It’s not like him. I have a bad feeling about this. He was depressed when I dropped him off yesterday, and he said he didn’t want anyone around. What does that mean?”
“Probably that he wants some time to himself.” Scoot maintained his cool.
“What if he’s not okay?” Cheryl said.
“I’ll drop by later and check on him.”
“Could you do it sooner than later, and call me right away?”
“Sure. I’ll head over there right now,” Scoot said.
“Thanks, Scoot.” Cheryl hung up.
Scoot sat at his desk staring at the phone. He placed the receiver on the cradle and grabbed his keys. What’s he up to? Doesn’t he know he’s got a great gal trying to make his life better? This is bullshit. I need to go talk some sense into this guy. He saved my life. Now it’s time for me to try to help Cheryl save him.
Scoot hopped in his truck and drove to Timothy’s house. It was Timothy’s house now, at least for a while. A lot of things ran through his mind this morning after talking with Cheryl. He knew how hard Timothy took Bobby’s status. Timothy tried to keep his hopes up, but Scoot knew each day brought them closer to reality. Scoot trimmed the ten-minute ride to five minutes. He wasn’t sure what to say to talk some sense into Timothy, but he knew he had to deliver the message fast. Words were Timothy’s strong suit, not Scoot’s. Scoot was good at fixing things that involved gasoline and combustion but not at fixing people.
He turned onto Timothy’s street and saw the shop truck parked in front of the house. Good, he’s home. Now we can have a talk about this stuff.
Scoot stopped in front of Timothy’s house and looked in his work truck, wondering if Timothy decided to sleep one off on the front seat. It wouldn’t be the first time. Scoot remembered the time they went to an all-night party and both of them slept in the front seat of Timothy’s car outside of the party house. It brought a smile to his face. Better times.
Things looked quiet. He knocked on the door. No answer. He rang the doorbell. No answer. He knocked on the back door. No answer. He cupped his hands to look inside. No one’s moving around. Too quiet for me. He’s usually up by now.
Scoot walked around the rest of
the house checking windows. When he got to Timothy’s bedroom window, he stood on a wooden beer box Timothy had lying around the yard. Again, he cupped his hands to see inside the house. All right, this is strange.
As he walked around the side of the house, Scoot saw Rob.
“Hey, Scoot. Looking for Tim?” Rob said.
“Yeah, seen him around?” Scoot asked.
“No, can’t say I have this morning. His truck’s out there.”
My truck, you mean. “Yeah, I saw it. He came home last night after burying his mom yesterday, and I thought I would come by to check on him today,” Scoot said.
“I saw him at the funeral. Sad,” Rob said. “I liked his mom. She was nice to me and the other neighborhood kids.”
“Have you seen anything?” Scoot had enough small talk.
“I saw his living room light on pretty late last night but didn’t think anything about it. Figured he was watching TV.”
“Did he ever turn it out?”
“Don’t know. I went to bed about midnight, and it was still on,” Rob said.
“Did you hear anything?”
“Come to think of it, I did. A little before midnight I heard like a firecracker or something pop. I figured it was those kids down the street. Those little brats do that kind of shit all of the time.”
“All right, thanks, Rob. I’ll check it out,” Scoot said.
“Let me know if you need anything.”
“Okay.”
A pop? Who shoots off firecrackers on a school night in the middle of winter? And just one pop? What the hell is that?
Scoot went back at the front door. This time he stood on his tiptoes to look through the stained-glass window and saw a light on but no other movement. Nothing.
Man, don’t tell me you did something stupid. C’mon, Tim, answer this fucking door. Scoot pounded until his fist hurt. He pounded until the old man across the street with a bag of groceries stopped to watch. He pounded to wake the dead.
Scoot continued to pound away on the front door, nearly breaking his fist.
Timothy sat there for a few seconds getting his bearings. He opened his eyes wide and made his way to the front door. He opened it to a frowning Scoot.
“What the hell, man?” Timothy said.
“Man, you gave us one hell of a scare,” Scoot said.
“What do you mean ‘one hell of a scare’? C’mon in.”
Scoot went into the house and looked around the front room. Beer cans and notebooks littered the floor. The 1911 sat on the edge of the coffee table. A spent casing sat on the floor. Scoot spotted a hole in the floorboard where the bullet had entered.
“Rough night, pal?” Scoot asked.
“Sort of. Don’t remember everything, but I do remember trying to shoot a mouse that ran across the floor,” Timothy said.
“A mouse!”
“Yeah. I hate those things. Ever since that bar girl in Nam gave me a piece of rat wrapped up in a leaf to eat,” Timothy said.
“Are you shitting me? You shot a mouse because of some gook broad in a bar?” Scoot said.
“No, because I didn’t want to shoot myself.”
“Huh?”
“Yesterday, when I got home, I started drinking. I thought about all the stuff I’ve got going on right now. Cheryl, school, work, this house. Everything. It got to me. It’s like everything I am dealing with ganged up on me, and I couldn’t see a way out. I started going through these old notebooks I kept while I was growing up. I went back in my room to get some more when I saw the .45 sitting there. Remember this thing?”
“Uh, yeah. It saved my life,” Scoot said.
“I thought about using it to end mine last night. With the stopping power of this thing, I thought it might stop the pain. Wait a minute. Why are you here?” Timothy said.
“What? You gotta be shittin’ me, man. Cheryl called me this morning to tell me she hadn’t heard from you. She called you several times last night, and you never answered the phone.”
“I figured it was her,” Timothy said.
“Why didn’t you talk to her?” Scoot asked.
“Didn’t know what to say.”
“So you got drunk and shot up your house? Are you fuckin’ crazy?”
“Probably, but that’s not the issue,” said Timothy.
“What’s the issue?”
“Last night I had a lot of thinking to do. I kept looking for the easy solution to tough problems. I went through my old notebooks. Found some old entries that made sense, even though I wrote them years ago. I drank myself into a stupor, and of course I shot the mouse.”
“No, you didn’t. The little prick got away. All you did was put a hole in the floorboard and scare the shit out of me. I saw Rob, and he told me he heard a firecracker go off last night,” Scoot said.
“You talked to him?”
“Yeah, he was outside in his yard when I walked around the house to see if I could see any movement. I rang the bell and knocked on the door. You didn’t answer.”
“What time is it?”
“Noon,” said Scoot.
“Holy shit. I slept twelve hours.”
“You probably needed it.”
“I think I slept through the hangover. I feel pretty good.”
“Glad to hear it.” Scoot dished out a heaping dose of sarcasm. “So why did you shoot at the mouse instead of yourself?” Scoot pressed.
“I was sitting here feeling sorry for myself. Drunk, which needs to stop, by the way. I read a couple of things in my old notebooks I hadn’t thought about in a while. I’ve dealt with a lot of shit in my life and never let it take me down this far. I remember something Hoffen said to me.”
“Like what?”
“When I was growing up, all I ever wanted to do was write. I thought I had something inside of me that wanted to make its way out. I went to Nam and kept a diary of what we did there. I knew we were doing something important even though most people here didn’t understand it.”
“I heard that,” Scoot said.
“I got out of the army and enrolled in school. When they asked what I wanted to major in, I thought psychology would be good because I could get in people’s heads to understand them,” Timothy said.
“So what did you discover?”
“It occurred to me maybe I was trying to get inside my own head—trying to figure me out. As I sat here last night, the answer was lying on the table in front of me. My whole life is in those notebooks. The ups and downs. Good times bad times. My hopes and dreams. Things that make me sad. More importantly, things that make me happy.”
“Yeah, okay. Where’s this headed?” Scoot asked.
“Hoffen said something to me at the funeral parlor the other night. He said something about life being difficult but not impossible, that hope and despair are largely the result of choices we make. If we make the right choices, hope will take us down the right path. Bad choices and we end up on the wrong path. And here’s the kicker—once we decide to do something, if it’s the right thing for us, Providence steps in and things begin to happen to make that path easier for us. My path has been tough the past year. Maybe I’m on the wrong path,” Timothy said.
“So what does this mean you’re going to do?”
“First things first. I need to square things with Cheryl. She deserves the best I have to give, and I’ve been shortchanging her lately.”
“About time you pulled your head out of your ass,” Scoot added.
“Then, I will go to school and talk to Father Schmitt one more time. I know there’s another answer there. Once I do that, I’ll figure out something with the hospital to pay off Mom’s bills and give me more hours. After all, they can’t fire me if they want their money. I am going to tell Dez I’m not taking his offer. He’ll be pissed, but he’ll get over it. Frank plans to stay over a couple of days, and we’ll work out the sale of the house. He’s a prick, but he’s still my brother. If I can keep your truck for a little while longer, I’ll figure out someth
ing for transportation.”
“Speaking of that, I’m going to need the truck this week. Can you swing by tomorrow morning and drop it off? I’ve got something else you can drive,” Scoot said.
“Sure, that’s fine. I appreciate it. You know, Scoot, as bad as I felt yesterday, I feel that much better today. It’s like I stepped onto the right path—whatever that path is,” Timothy said.
“Okay, I got a business to run. I’ll see you tomorrow when you drop off the truck, and call Cheryl,” Scoot said.
“I will. As soon as you leave. Thanks, bro, for keeping an eye on me.”
“I got your back, and you got mine.”
They bumped fists and gave each other a half-hug.
Timothy grabbed the phone and dialed Cheryl’s number.
“Hey, I heard you were worried about me.”
“Thank God, you’re okay. I was worried. You sound good,” she said.
“Yeah, my guardian angel just left. I heard you called him this morning.”
“Why didn’t you answer the phone last night?”
“I was in the middle of a conversation when you called.”
“With who?”
“Myself.”
“What does that mean?”
“I needed to figure some things out, and I did. I woke up this morning feeling a lot better than when I went to sleep,” Timothy said.
“Will you come by later?”
“Yes. I need to do a little house cleaning around here, but I’ll be by this afternoon and we’ll hang out. Okay?” he said.
“Yes. Of course. Thank God you sound better.”
“For a change, I feel like I have a few more answers than questions.”
“Okay, see you later. Love you,” she said.
“Love you, too.”
Timothy hung up and dialed Leslie.
“Leslie, have you talked to Frank today?”
“Good afternoon to you, too, little brother. And yes, I have talked to Frank. He’s staying over until Thursday, and we can figure out some things.”
“Good. Let’s get together tomorrow afternoon and talk about it. I had this thought. Since we can’t do much for a year anyway because of probate, all we have to focus on is taxes and insurance. I can sell my baseball card collection and pay that off. That way I can live in the house until we sell it, and you guys won’t be out any money,” Timothy said.
