“Here you go,” he said, closing the screen door behind him. “It ain’t Bud, but it’ll do in a pinch.”
I read the label and whistled. “Harp? Pretty fancy stuff.”
“What can I say? Guess you must’ve rubbed off on me.” Mr. Jameson clinked my bottle. “Bottoms up.” His beer disappeared in three pulls. He burped and wiped foam from his grizzled chin with a bony hand, the skin thin as parchment and just as yellow. “Me, givin’ you free beer for a change. What’s the word for somethin’ like that?”
“Dreaming?”
“Naw. Traumatic reversal! That’s it.”
“I think you mean dramatic reversal.”
“Heh. That, too. Jeez, how long’s it been since we been back here, kid? Six, seven years?”
“Longer than that, I think.”
“Time flies, don’t it?”
“That it does. How’re the new neighbors?” I asked, taking a peek at my old back porch. The curtains were open, and I heard people talking and laughing inside.
“Not bad. Place sat vacant a while after you and your girl left, if you can believe that. But the Eckherts? They’re okay. Young kids. Not much older than you two when you were here. We wave, say “hi”. That’s about it. Had some friends over once. Made a ruckus. I put the kibosh on that right quick.”
I chuckled. “I don’t doubt that.”
“No free beer though.”
“Kids these days.”
“Yep. No respect.” Mr. Jameson was suddenly overcome with a fit of coughing. Concerned, I took a step closer, but he shook his head as he hacked into a white handkerchief. Episode over, he secreted it away in his pocket, almost as if he were trying to hide something. “Getting’ old is the pits, kid. Don’t ever do it.”
“I’ll do my best, but I can’t make any promises.”
“So, you still with that girl? What was her name. Katrina?”
“Catherine. Yeah, we’re still together, still married. Have a daughter now.”
“A daughter, huh? Good on ya, kid. How old?”
“Just turned six. Here.” I pulled out my wallet. “Let me show you a picture.” I hadn’t gone through the photos in my wallet in ages. We had so many in the house, and I updated the ones on my desk at work regularly, so I never felt the need to. “That’s the most recent I’ve got.”
Mr. Jameson put on a pair of fossilized reading glasses and looked at Celeste, lips working over toothless gums.
“She sure is a looker, kid. You’re gonna have trouble with the boys when she gets older, so you’d best be prepared.”
“Have a shotgun I can borrow?” I asked, unibrow cocked seriously.
“Shit, I got two, and you’re welcome to ‘em. Mind if I take a look at the rest? Of the pictures, I mean.”
“Sure,” I let him take the insert in his gnarled hands, “be my guest.”
“Yep, all as good lookin’ as I remember. Maybe the ole noggin’ ain’t goin’ south as fast as I thought. Yer brother’s as big as ever.” He pointed to a picture of me and Bill I’d somehow neglected to throw out. In it, Bill held me in a headlock, grinning like a loon, while I stuck my fingers in his ears, my eyes crossed.
I snatched back the pictures and threw them in my wallet.
“He’s not my brother,” I said.
“Best friend, brother. Same difference.”
“He’s neither.”
“Uh oh. Hit a nerve, did I?”
I didn’t answer. Instead, I leaned on the railing and stared into the woods behind the apartment complex.
“I knew there was something different about you. Been trying to put my finger on it all this time.”
“I’m older.”
“Naw, it’s not just that.”
“Wiser looking? More handsome than ever?”
He leaned on the railing. “Stooped. Like you got something weighing you down. What’s been eating at you, kid?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s bullshit. And I don’t remember none of that gray hair at your temples when you were living here neither.”
I played with my beer bottle, scratching at the damp label with my thumbnail. The talking and laughter from next door continued as I stared out into space.
“You’re not on the outs with the wife, are ya?” he asked.
“No, it’s not that. We’re good, Mr. Jameson.”
“Something with your brother then? I mean, your buddy?”
Whether a good guess or a hint at a keen intellect I’d never given the man credit for, the statement startled me. Was I that easy to read? Whatever the case, I wasn’t going to ‘puke’ to him about Bill, about Celeste, about any of it. I kept quiet and shook my head.
“All right, I can take a hint. If you don’t wanna talk, you don’t hafta. No big deal either way.”
“Thanks. I appreciate that.”
Something crashed next door. We turned and saw inside my former apartment. A girl and two men, about the same age as Cat, Bill, and I were when I’d lived there, were laughing. The girl, blond with a slim figure and infectious smile had her arms around a tall, tanned guy with light brown hair. I assumed they were dating. I knew what the casual familiarity of young love looked like, and their bodies exhibited in spades. They pointed at the ground where their doughy friend with the crew cut and pale skin lay sprawled on the floor amongst the remains of an obliterated and rusty lawn chair, a spilled plate of chips, and a busted highball glass. Ice and amber liquid spread across the white tile.
“Kids,” Mr. Jameson growled. “Get worse n’ worse every year.”
I watched as the couple helped up the friend, who was red-faced with embarrassment but laughing all the same. I was transfixed. The scene felt so familiar. Three friends, summer heat, drinks, laughter, the future a vague thing that seemed as if it would never arrive. I was a voyeur from the future observing a scene out of my own past. What lay ahead for these three who hadn’t a care in the world except for what would happen in the next seconds, minutes, hours? Did they even care? Not that long ago, I wasn’t much different. Time and experience change a person, and I’d travelled a lot of rocky roads since the days spent in that apartment. I wondered if wanting it enough could bring me back to those happy-go-lucky days. Or were they gone forever?
“Christ, Kid,” Mr. Jameson said. “You look like the Ghost of Christmas Past just walked over your grave.” His cackle turned into a series of hoarse coughs. He covered his mouth with the handkerchief until the spell ended. “Dammit. Getting old sucks yak ass.”
In actuality, it was the Ghost of Christmas Future who showed Scrooge his own grave, but ruining the guy’s joke didn’t seem the right thing to do.
“Maybe you’re not used to the fancy beers?” I joked, unable not to stare at the bloody hanky he stuffed in his pocket. He noticed.
“Nice try, but I saw you lookin’.” He shrugged bony shoulders. “May as well tell ya I got the cancer, since you’re too polite to come out and ask.”
Cancer.
For a reason I couldn’t account for, the deadpan statement hurt me deep inside. He’d said it with such finality, as if it were no big deal.
“Is it … serious?” I asked once the initial shock had worn off.
“Heh. All cancer’s serious, kid. Some more’n others. When you’re my age, something’s gotta get ya.”
“Mr. Jameson, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to say.”
“Ah, you don’t have to say a word, Ricky. Is what it is. I’ll tell you this, though,” he said, turning back to the woods and looking out over the trees. “Makes you take stock of yer life. What you done, what you let go undone, what you shoulda done. Only thing that sucks worse than getting’ old is livin’ with regrets. This solitary life of mine? All my own doin’. Easier to be alone than deal with people’s bullshit. That’s what I used to tell myself, at any rate. Now that I know I’m comin’ to the end of my line, there ain’t a goddamn thing I can do to change any of it. And I’ll tell ya, that’s worse’n hackin�
�� up a lung all day long, kid. Do yourself a favor. Don’t get old, and don’t live with a grudge. Ain’t worth it.”
There was more to the story, I was sure. But I knew I’d get no more out of Mr. Jameson no matter how much I asked, so I let it go. He said what he’d wanted to, and I knew there was a bigger reason behind it. Whatever he saw in me, the ‘weight’ that had me so stooped like a hundred pound monkey on my back, would drag me down if I let it. That the monkey on my back weighed closer to two hundred-fifty pounds and went by the name Bill Henly was clear.
A chance meeting with my old neighbor had given me food for thought, and think on it I would.
For three months.
CHAPTER73
Mother of Mercy Cemetery.
At last!
Now I am finally going to move on. Now I am finally going to be released from this ... this … this non-existence. I’m curious as hell to see where I’m headed.
Why the rush?
This not knowing is killing me.
Right. Bad turn of phrase. One cannot be killed if one is already dead. How about insane. Better?
This not knowing is driving me insane.
Yes.
Much better.
Obviously death wasn’t the end, but maybe my internment six feet under will be. Departed or not, having been forced to witness this opera of human suffering for the past two days has exhausted me. I’m spent, emotionally and spiritually.
As an aside, I’ll admit that the funeral procession was cool. Imagine being the actual chase camera mounted to a stock car. A very slow stock car resulting in what one would have to call a slow-speed chase, but a chase nonetheless. Tied to my empty body as I am, I had no choice in hovering outside the hearse as the line of cars made their way to my eternal resting place. It was different, yet liberating in a way, to fly through the air, being pulled along by invisible strings. Perhaps everyone experiences the same thing. I don’t know. When and if the time comes, make note that you do not have to duck underneath large branches as I caught myself doing several times. Old habits of self-preservation and fear of injury and all that jazz.
Now comes the eulogy. It’s time for Bill to stand at the podium and give me a rousing sendoff, to tell people how awesome I was and how the planet and humanity as a whole will be worse off for my passing. Or something along those lines.
While I can’t speak for the rest of the assembly, I’m interested in hearing what he has to say.
The podium is off to the side where my casket hangs precariously over a massive chasm in the earth. An October breeze rustles fallen leaves across the grounds. I imagine it carries a slight chill and a hint of winter along with the dead, yet beautiful, foliage. Other than the sound of the dancing leaves and quiet crying, it’s as silent as, well, a cemetery.
Wind teases Bill’s hair as he places his large hands on top of the podium.
“For those of you who don’t know me,” he starts, looking at an index card.
An index card! He’s using crib notes?
“… my name is Bill Henly. I’ve known Rick for …”
His words are snatched away by the fall breeze. A ray of sun breaks through the cloud cover and highlights a tear on his cheek.
I’m going in for a closer look. The nippy air should hide my cold, ghostly presence. I stop behind Catherine, Celeste, and my immediate family. My wife holds our daughter in her lap. This is a good spot, nice and close to my nearest and dearest. I’ll cling to this last moment in time with them as much as possible before it’s gone.
Bill, who’s been silent for almost a minute, tears up the index card and shoves the shreds into his pocket.
“The heck with it. I had a whole speech prepared. None of it seems appropriate now, so I’m going to fly without a net.” He shrugs his wide shoulders, and attempts a sheepish grin.
After taking a deep breath, he begins again.
“Ricky and I met in the fifth grade. I was the new kid. The puny new kid. Contrary to popular belief, I wasn’t always this gigantic.” That draws a chuckle from the group. “There was a time when Ricky was bigger than me.
“I’ll never forget that day,” he says, voice distant as if he’s peering back in time. “I was one of the last ones out of school. I was shy and awkward, and I hadn’t had much of a chance to make any friends. I hopped on my bike, ready to ride home alone, when a bunch of middle schoolers rolled in. They were bigger, meaner, faster. They chased me all around the school grounds. Wasn’t long before I tired out and they caught up to me. They knocked me off of my bike and I went down hard. Do you remember that day, Beth?” he says to my mother, sitting in the front row.
All eyes turn to her. She wipes a tear with a tissue she’s pulled from her pocket, nods.
“There I was,” he continues. “On the ground, knees torn up from the blacktop, crying. That didn’t stop the kids from beating on me. I yelled out for someone, anyone, to help me. I thought I was done for. Then I heard someone screaming “Hey! Get off him!” It was Ricky. I found out later that he’d forgotten a book in class and came back, hoping the janitor would let him inside to get it.”
Family, friends, everyone is still, their rapt attention focused on Bill.
“With no regards for his own safety, without a second thought, he charges this group of three or four kids, swinging his backpack like a lunatic.” He shakes his head, chuckles a bit. “Ricky was nowhere near their size, but that didn’t matter to him. Even though he could have gotten a severe beat down, he flew in like a righteous animal, knocking the punks in their heads with his flying bag of books until they backed down and took off on their bikes.”
Bill shakes his head again as if he still can’t believe it.
“He offered me a hand and helped me up. Asked if my mom or dad were around. I was a latchkey kid so I had nobody to go home to. Rick invited me over. He helped my beaten self and battered bike to his house.” His face breaks into a smile. “Beth patched me up. Gave me milk and Twinkies. Ricky and I were best friends from that day on. The two of us ran into those bullies once we were a little older. They got a lot more than a book bag to the head, believe you me.” A wave of laughter cascades through the crowd.
Bill’s reminiscent smile fades away, replaced by something stronger, something sadder.
“Ricky always had my back no matter what. He was always there for me. Even when I …” I can see his chin quivering. “Even when I didn’t deserve it.”
Bill breaks down, openly weeping. Angela, who’s been sitting a few rows back, stands up and strides to the podium, wrapping him in a hug then taking hold of his hand.
Fortified, Bill continues.
“I wasn’t always a great friend to Rick. Some of the things I’ve done over the course of our friendship … awful. Unforgivable. But the word unforgivable was never in his vocabulary. He did forgive me. Why? Why did he rush into danger to help a perfect stranger against horrible odds? Because that’s who he was. Ricky is—was—the kind of guy who put others before himself no matter what. His friendship saved me more times than I can count, and I never had the chance to repay him for that. When he needed saving, I wasn’t there. Too little, too late,” he says, almost to himself. “Too little, too late.”
He pauses, head bowed and staring at the ground.
“Bill,” Angela whispers.
“It’s okay,” he says to her, then looks up at the gathered mourners. “Although he’d never say it, and would absolutely hate me saying it, Rick was the best of us. I’ll never stop missing him. I loved Rick Franchitti. He was my best friend, but he was so much more than that. He was my … he was my brother.” Bill scans the crowd slowly from left to right, challenging anybody to dispute his claim. “He may be gone now, but he’ll be my brother until the day I die. Wherever he is, I hope and pray he feels the same way.”
Bill falls silent. Angela pulls him close and they rock back and forth. There isn’t a dry eye in the house.
I scan the crowd. These are the people whose lives I�
��ve touched. In one way or another, whether it be for decades, years, or months, these are the people who will miss me. Some more than others, all in their own particular way, but I’ve left my mark on them.
I feel … good.
Their suffering brings me no joy, but it does let me know that I’ve left my stamp on them. It makes me realize that my life wasn’t wasted, that I won’t be forgotten.
Eulogy over, all words needing to be said uttered and now part of history, Catherine and Celeste approach my coffin. They place beautiful flowers on it. Strain shows in my wife’s features and I know it’s a superhuman effort for her to stem off the wave of emotion. But she’s being strong for our daughter. Stronger than I could ever be, and that, among many other reasons, is why I’ve loved her since the first day we met.
The procession is over. People walk through the chilly October winds to their cars.
I can’t go with them. I wish I could, but I can’t.
The cars are gone now, leaving only my coffin and the cemetery employees who will lower me to my final resting place.
Finally.
Now I can move on.
Now I can have peace.
CHAPTER 74
I tapped a healthy fingernail against the rim of my glass. The repetitive clink helped pass the time as I waited in the darkened booth. I wasn’t nervous. Far from it. Calm had set in. This was where I wanted to be. This was what I wanted to do.
The bar was filling up, as they tend to do on Friday nights during happy hour. Patrons waved, laughed, hugged friends, raised drinks in the air, spoke loud enough to be heard over the Led Zeppelin someone had selected on the jukebox.
The door opened, and a young twenty-something with dark hair and bright eyes nodded a ‘sup’ to the bartender, shedding his black pea coat now that he was out of the stormy October air. I shook my head. He wasn’t who I was waiting for. Not big enough, old enough, familiar enough.
Funeral with a View Page 30
