“Yes sir, that was all I wanted. You have a good time, and I’ll be in touch with you on Monday.” He hung up without another word. Michael could easily imagine Randal hanging up and then cringing for not saying good-bye. He smiled.
“There, all better now. Do you want another drink, Sam? Dad, do you want a drink?”
Chapter 8
The next morning, a men’s clothing store brought a selection of pants and shirts for Robert. He objected to trying anything on but finally chose several outfits. In the afternoon, they piled into the limo and drove out to the stadium. An usher met them at the ticket window, escorting them to their seats. He even stayed nearby to attend to their needs. Robert became a kid again, looking around at the crowd and marveling at the size of the stadium. Michael was glad to see his father so animated and just a tiny bit sad that it was all so fleeting. He hoped his dad wouldn’t become disoriented. The old man deserved to enjoy the day.
A voice boomed and echoed over the public address system announcing the teams and welcoming the special guest. Their faces appeared on the massive video screen high on the outfield wall. Michael saw the usher move toward him and knew they were ready for him to throw out the first ball. His name was announced as he stepped onto the field. Cheers and clapping followed him onto the pitcher’s mound.
He waved at the crowd and shook hands with the Yankee’s catcher. The home plate umpire gave him a game ball and wished him luck.
“Yeah, I’ll be lucky to reach home plate,” Michael moaned. His hands trembled as the crowd went silent.
“All you gotta to do is throw in the general direction of home, and I’ll do the rest,” the catcher advised. “Just imagine yourself as a kid and you’re playing catch with your pals.”
“Thanks, I can do that.” Michael waited until the man was ready and then hurled the ball toward home plate. The throw wasn’t pretty, but the ball did get to the plate and into the catcher’s mitt. The crowd cheered, and he waved to them on the way back to his seat, happy to be another face in the crowd again.
His father was beaming. Sam thumped him on the back so hard he nearly knocked the wind out of him. Several people leaned over and congratulated him on the throw. At the end of the second inning, the batboy for the Yankees brought the game ball to Michael, signed by all the players and coaches. The pinnacle of a glorious day.
When the limo drove out of the stadium parking lot, they went to a steak house recommended to Sam by someone he’d met in the stands. All three men had eaten very little during the game, so Michael suspected his dad would be hungry. The old man ordered a T-bone with all the fixings, diving in as if he was eating his last meal. They laughed and drank beer with the food, like three friends out on the town.
When they returned to the hotel, Robert seemed quiet but didn’t complain about any problems. He said he might’ve had too much excitement, and it was past his bedtime. Michael gave him a hug.
“I hope you had a good time, Dad.”
“That was the best day, son, and thank you.” He smiled and shuffled into his bedroom closing the door.
“Well, I think I’m going to bed too,” Sam announced as he headed for the door to the hall. “I’m planning on doing a little shopping tomorrow. There are people back in California who want me to buy them a few things. Good night, sir.”
Michael smiled and said good night. He woke up on the couch, his neck ached, he’d drooled on his shirt, and his bladder hurt from all the beer the night before. One thing at a time, he thought, hurrying to the bathroom. The toilet flushed, making a noise louder than his jet, and he cringed, imagining his father waking up angry at the sound. Mentally, he shrugged and brushed his teeth before stripping off his clothes and stepping into the shower.
Feeling refreshed and ready for the day, he got dressed before returning to the living room. The television was still on, and he switched channels to a local news report. His effort to throw the first pitch yesterday was being shown. Not a bad wind up, he thought, seeing the throw go straight into the catcher’s mitt. A proud but self-conscious smile appeared on his face.
The announcer said, “Eight thirty, and time for the weather.” He frowned. Dad never sleeps past seven; he must be exhausted after yesterday. Mike went to check on him.
He opened the bedroom door slowly until he could poke his head between it and the jamb. Peering into the gray light, he could see dark shadows over the bed. The old man lay on his back, mouth open, and Michael thought he heard snoring, so he pulled back and closed the door. An uneasy feeling settled into his stomach as a faint memory clawed around the edges of his mind. He pushed the fear away and went to make coffee.
Sam came by at nine to say he was heading out to shop, but he’d be back around noon and asked if Michael needed anything. “No, I don’t think I need anything before then. You have a good time, Sam, and don’t spend too much.” They chuckled, and Michael shut the door.
He ordered breakfast for two from room service. His father would never sleep this late. Breakfast arrived forty-five minutes later. The waiter pushed two covered plates on a cart into the room, placing the trolley between the two sofas. Michael gave him a ten-dollar tip and went to see if his father was up yet.
This time, he didn’t open the door slowly, instead just walking into the room. A faint stale odor of rotting meat greeted his nose, growing stronger as he approached the bed. The old man was still in the same position, but there was no snoring. Michael touched his neck to find a pulse, and the skin was cold and lifeless.
Dead, his mind told him. The thought shocked his system, and his legs went limp. He slumped to the floor beside the bed. Tears flowed, but he made no sound. His mind was numb and empty. The wrinkled hand lying on top of the covers seemed foreign as he touched the skin. Maybe he was looking for comfort or trying to give some, he didn’t know. The once strong hand was now skeletal and purple-looking, the skin so thin he could see the veins clearly. Stroking the back of his dad’s hand like a cat, Michael’s tears poured onto the bed in despair.
Later, he would figure out that he’d spent only a few minutes in that position, but right then, minutes seemed like hours. You need to call someone, his mind said, which seemed logical, but who? Michael forced his legs to stand and move him into the living room. What am I supposed to do now, he wondered, but really wanted the voice in his head to just take over. Phone, the voice told him, call the front desk and ask for the manager.
The voice must have had control of his hands too as they picked up the phone and punched the numbers in without his eyes looking at the keypad. A female voice answered his call, and he heard his voice ask for the manager.
“Is there anything wrong with the room, sir?” she asked.
“I need to speak with the manager,” he said mechanically. The line clicked, and canned music started to play. He didn’t laugh when he recognized the song as “My Blue Heaven” and his eyes started gushing again.
“This is Mr. Cranston. Can I help you, Mr. Eldridge?” The man’s voice sounded the same as Dr. Caraway at the senior’s home. Is that some sort of requirement to be in management, Michael wondered.
“I asked to speak with you personally because my father has died during the night. I’m sorry, but I don’t know what to do now.” He choked and his throat tightened. I can’t fall apart, he reminded himself.
“Don’t concern yourself with anything, sir. I’ll make a few phone calls and be right up. Can I get you anything?”
“No,” Michael sniffed. “I’m coping.” He dropped the receiver into the cradle and sagged into the sofa. His mind shut off again until a knock sounded on the door. Pushing himself to stand, Michael numbly walked to the door. The manager, a tall man in a black suit, was standing in the hall with three men in uniforms. Michael let them into the room.
“I’m Mr. Cranston,” the tall man in the suit introduced himself. “These men are from the Medical Examiner’s office. They’re going to take your father to the morgue if that’s all right with you.”
Michael nodded and shuffled back to the sofa. Cranston stood by the door wringing his hands as the other two pulled a gurney into the spare bedroom to collect the body. Someone asked questions, and Michael answered, but he couldn’t remember who or what was said. Hearing the clatter as the wheeled bed came back into the main room, Michael stood up. Cranston held the door, and the attendants disappeared into the hall.
“I’ll take care of the preparations for you, Mr. Eldridge. We can arrange for the funeral home to prepare your father to return to California as soon as you wish. I’ll maintain simplicity as much as possible so you can make your own arrangements for the funeral. Someone from housekeeping will be here in a few minutes to take care of the bedroom. My deepest sympathy for your loss and if there’s anything else I can do for you, please don’t hesitate to ask.” Michael saw his mouth twitch as if he’d remembered this wasn’t the time to smile.
“Thank you, Mr. Cranston, you’ve been a huge help already. I’ll pay for any damages and obviously, this is beyond your job description, so I’ll see you’re compensated. I have a meeting tomorrow that I can’t cancel, but I’ll be checking out as soon as my father’s body is ready to travel. Thank you again for all your trouble.”
Cranston smiled. Michael noticed the greed in his eyes. He ignored the blatant ignorance because he needed the man. The men from the ME’s office wheeled the gurney down the hall. One of them handed Michael a sheet of paper before leaving the suite. Cranston followed them with a bow as he closed the door.
The television was still on, making the only sound in the room. Michael moved to the windows and looked out at the buildings towering into the sky. Glass and steel reflected the sunshine deep into the concrete canyons below. His world had just ended, but the people below didn’t know that. They went about their days oblivious to his pain. I’m alone now, he thought. There’s no one left in my life. If I jumped through this window, would anyone miss me? Would anyone cry for me? Heather might, but for how long?
He sighed and shook his head. “Get your shit together, Michael,” he scolded. “You can feel sorry for yourself some other time. He had a wonderful life, and you gave him the best day he’d ever had, so be happy.” Someone knocked on the door.
Sam stood smiling back at him as Michael opened the door. The smile quickly faded as he saw his expression.
“What’s wrong, Boss?” His big voice was soft, kind, and concerned all at once.
“Dad died sometime during the night.” His bottom lip trembled again. “They just finished taking him out a few minutes ago.” He couldn’t hold back the tears. Somehow there was a pump in his face that switched on and blasted water.
“Christ, Michael, I’m sorry for you. Let me get you a drink. Go sit down.” Sam suddenly changed from a tough, gregarious giant into a gentle nursemaid. Michael didn’t care and didn’t notice the use of his first name. Having someone around was comforting, anyone to talk with about what happened.
A glass of amber liquid appeared in front of his blurred vision, and he watched his hand tip it back, feeling the fire from the whiskey.
“So, what happened? Everything was fine when I left.” Sam settled on the sofa opposite.
He listened to Michael relay the events of the morning. He could tell the younger man was having difficulty controlling the tears. Sam kept quiet. He’d been in situations like this before in Korea. His flight wing lost plenty of good pilots; some of them were friends of his. Most of the crew accepted the deaths, but some went to pieces and had to be sent home. The worst was a young guy on his first tour in action. He watched his wingman get shot down in flames. Poor bastard barely kept himself controlled back to the airfield before he cracked. The ground crew dragged him out of the cockpit blubbering and screaming. He never came back.
Sam’s father had died while he was overseas. There had been tears, yes, but their relationship hadn’t been as close as Michael’s had. Sam joined the air force against his dad’s wishes, maybe to spite him. The senior Worthy was a tank commander in WWII. He’d seen hell and didn’t want his son to go through the same shit. They never really kept in touch much after that. Anytime they got together, the conversation was about the weather or Sam’s brother Travis, an accountant in Wichita.
Yesterday was the first time he’d met Mr. Eldridge, Sr. He’d felt bad for Michael about the old man losing his memory, but that was then. Now his father was gone forever, and he could see how painful it was for him.
“Are you going to the test tomorrow?”
“I’m obligated to, Sam.” Michael reached for a tissue and blew his nose. “I need to fix the program and be there in case something else happens. The hotel manager said he’d call me when the funeral home has Dad ready, and we can leave right after that.”
“Okay, I’ll come with you tomorrow. All I need to do is get the airport to fuel the plane so it’s ready when we get there. The flight plan is already filed so there won’t be anything else.”
Michael nodded his approval, but Sam could tell he was struggling to focus his mind and wasn’t really listening.
“Let’s get out of this room. You need some fresh air.”
“Oh, I couldn’t,” Michael protested.
“Either you come willingly, or I’ll carry you down to the lobby. Your choice.” He tried to lighten the mood with a tiny joke. Michael’s shoulders sagged in defeat. Sam could see he didn’t have the energy or will to resist.
On the sidewalk in front of the hotel, Sam asked the door attendant for a cab. Michael stood nearby, leaning against a no parking sign. The man in livery blew a whistle and a second later, a yellow cab pulled to the curb in front of the two men. Sam leaned forward and held the door for Michael to enter.
“Take us to Coney Island,” Sam ordered as he shut the door.
“That’s in Jersey,” the cabbie whined. “I gotta charge you extra for the round trip.”
“Don’t worry about the fare. Here’s a twenty to get you started, now go, please.” The driver took the money while eyeing the wad of cash in Sam’s hand and put the car in gear. Sam figured Michael could use a distraction. They wouldn’t go on any of the rides, but there were other things to see and do in the famous amusement park. Even if they only went for a walk to the end of the pier, that would be better than sitting in the hotel room.
The ride was interesting, to say the least. Traffic was miserable for a Sunday, bumper to bumper in some places, especially on the bridges exiting Manhattan. Several times the cabbie had to slam on the brakes, throwing his passengers forward against the front seats. When they finally arrived, the driver shut the meter off and turned slightly in his seat.
“That’ll be one-twenty-five for the time and another fifty for the return.” He seemed anxious as if he expected the men to stiff him. Michael looked like a drug addict, even to Sam. Pale skin, sunken red eyes, and dressed in worn jeans and a sweatshirt. He, at least, had on a dress shirt with his jeans. Pulling money out of his pants pocket, he handed the driver two one-hundred-dollar bills.
“Keep the change, but if you want more, you’ll be back here in exactly two hours.” The driver smiled and said he’d be there as Michael and Sam left the cab.
The air was chilly as they stood at the south end of the boardwalk. Dull, gray clouds whirled overhead and wind gusts whipped across the ocean, pushing salt spray over everything. The fine particles of water stung Sam’s eyes as he searched the area for shelter. He noticed the lights in front of a bar three doors down from where they stood and pulled Michael toward the chance of warmth.
Two shops beyond the bar, a sign announced a clothing sale. Deciding they needed jackets more than booze at this point, he dragged his boss there.
There were only two racks of outerwear in the place, most of what they sold being T-shirts and souvenir hats that said: I was at Coney Island. Despite the slim pickings, Michael found a jacket to fit. Sam had to settle for an extra, extra-large when he normally wore an extra-large. Surprisingly, the bright red bomb
er jacket didn’t fit too bad, but he didn’t like red. By now, Michael had perked up a little as they went back to the bar.
Only two other people were in the pub, one of them being the bartender. The other guy was seated on a stool, hugging a bottle of beer. Both men turned toward the door as Sam and Michael entered.
“Gents, what brings you two out on a day like this?” The bartender was dressed in a 1930’s style. The handlebar mustache completed the effect.
“Nothing special,” Sam replied as they walked toward a booth in the rear. “Had some time to kill and decided to see the sights. Too bad the weather sucks. We’ll have a whiskey each…neat, please, for both.”
A minute later, the drinks sat on the table between them. The walls of the bar were covered in oak panels with some kind of dark stain applied to make them appear old. Imitation gas lamps with electric bulbs inside hung from the walls, and black-and-white pictures from the ‘30’s were plastered everywhere. Shelves ran along the top of the wall, holding books and mugs of every description. Glass cabinets, with visible locks in the front, displayed sub-machine guns, revolvers, and photos of dead gangsters. The place smelled of old cigarette smoke and stale beer, but they were warm.
Sam took a sip of whiskey and looked at Michael grinning back.
“What’s so funny?” he rumbled.
“Not funny,” Michael said. “You were right; I did need to get out of that room. This is my happy face.”
Sam grinned. “I don’t know why this little adventure would make you happy. It’s freakin’ cold outside, and this is a real shit-hole of a bar,” he whispered.
“No argument there, Sam, but where else could we go today and have this much fun.” Sarcasm was not Michael’s biggest attribute, but he was right.
“Ok, we’ll have a couple of drinks to fortify our bones and then go for a walk on the pier. By the time we get back that cabbie should be waiting for us.” He raised his glass in a toast. “To ugly jackets and cold walks on the pier. May one never be needed again, and the other never happen again.”
An Altered Course Page 8
