by Greg Fields
Anyway, Conor’s leaving gives us an extra room. You know what I’m going to ask even before I write it, and yes, I know we’ve been over it before. Allow me to try again. You’re welcome to come out here and stay with us. You can even bring that damn bird. With Mom gone you’re lonely as hell, even if you don’t admit it. We’re good company here. The fact is, I expect we’re going to be a little lonely ourselves next year. I know you don’t want to leave Chicago. It’s always tough to leave home, no matter how old you are. But what’s left for you there but memories, I’d like to know? And not all of them are good ones. Sometimes we have to burn a few bridges if we’re to go on at all. It’s warm here, and we’re your family. We’re what you created. We care for you, Dad. We don’t want to see you alone.
Dad, I know the four of us have spread out all over the country. I don’t even have an address for Jamie anymore. I don’t know where he is. Allow me to flatter myself—I think of the four of us, I’ve tended to the family better than any of the others. It’s not a question of taking you in out of pity. I want to do it because you’re my father, I miss you, and I want the best for you. From my point of view, I’ve never put much stock in self-denial. Please come.
There it is. Again. The decision is yours, but I’m not going to argue with you forever. We’ve done enough of that over the years. In fact, I’ll try not to say anything more about it. Let me know what you want before we close the subject for good.
Love,
Eddie
The old man had not reread the letter for the past few days, but it had been very much on his mind, not because it posed a difficult choice but because he did not know how to respond in any way his son could comprehend, for his son was still too young.
***
Man ages, and in so doing becomes haunted. His mind is a Gothic mansion, acquiring ghosts, and as his days become more drawn the ghosts become darker, their shapes more defined, their shadows more distinct. In time the specters assume recognizable forms, both good and evil, and so their presence, fearfully perceived by an aging psyche, is confirmed in each dying day. They haunt houses and gardens, lurk in corridors and corners; he sees them on the street; he rides in their taxis, he buys their groceries; they come crawling to his doorway through the snow, drinking from a brown paper bag; they cheer at the ball parks, they swim in the lake, they bring his newspaper. They assert continually their right to exist, and become capricious. The ghosts wear plaid skirts and play hopscotch on the sidewalks; they wear blue jeans; they play basketball in the park and run home not to miss dinner; they come out of movie theaters, and he catches their eye momentarily in passing; they ask him for change on the street and taunt him because he has grown so inexplicably old; they wear their finest and step out for the evening in tailored suits and high-bodiced dresses. They carry with them the potential of what might have been, and the ashes of what was.
He hears them. They speak to him at all times, but especially at night, these ghosts. He will lie in bed sometimes, late at night, and hear them as they say a great many things and change their voices. What is it, then, to be old, and to hear the ghosts we all acquire?
The old man’s ghosts say such things as these.
“Sail away, then, and leave them here to die. How I envy you to be out of these troubles, but my eyes see the sorrows that await you. Changing time and place merely changes the form of the pain, lad. I shall miss you when you go, but I can see it in your jaw and hear it in your tones that your mind is set. I shall pray for you. I shall pray that you not be trading one desolation for another . . .”
And
“My lovely man. My lovely dreamer, weavin’ your dreams out of breadcrusts. We’ve nothing, lad, but your dreams. But know that I love your visions, as deeply as I love the man who conjures them. We’ll need to be content ourselves stayin’ here with each other for warmth, and you can weave your dreams for me alone. My lovely, lovely man . . .”
And
“Come now boys, the turkey’ll be up in a few minutes. Your father is carvin’ it now. Just once a year you lads could be civil and mind your manners at table. The animals who tended Our Lord’s manger had more decency than the lot of you. Now come hug your mother before you sit . . .”
And
“Pa, the Cubbies are playin’ the Cards today. Can we go? You got a couple of dollars for us, and we’ll sit in the bleachers? Or maybe you could call in sick and we’ll all go. Come on, Pa, it’s a perfect day.”
And
“Are you sorry, Molly, for all the sins you have committed against the Lord your God? Can you give me a sign? Squeeze my hand. Can you hear me, Molly? Ego te absolve in nomine Patri, et Filii, et Spiritu Sancti.”
And the ghost who spoke to him most frequently, the one he could not lose even to his own final days, who rallied him and even cheered him despite its distant shadowy form, repeating the words again and again that would no doubt be his last conscious thought on this planet, the last syllables his brain would formulate before passing into the waiting ether:
“Good night, my dear love,” it whispered as it had so many years ago. “I’d not change a day of it. I love you dearly, my lovely man.”
And then a silence that broke only through these lonely echoes.
Insofar as the old man’s ghosts had life, they had it here. In his aged solitude they intensified, and he welcomed them. He had more time to study them, indeed, to feel them. They had grown into him; he had absorbed them. They were in his bloodstream, racing through his veins, motivating his thoughts and ultimately dictating the rhythm of his days. They entwined themselves with his most vital parts so that, if he ever ripped apart from them, he would die quickly and with great regret. They possessed life here, in this place, in this city, amid the walls, and nowhere else. He played by their rules now, and, in the cold bitterness of old age wasted alone, he did not seek their release.
No doubt his son had ghosts, too. He could not help but have them, although they must certainly still be too faint yet. Their forms still cloaked themselves in imperceptible mist, and their voices mumbled softly, and without clarity, easily unacknowledged, and thus ignored.
But the old man could not ignore his, nor wanted to. And so, in the dwindling ashes of his life, he could not go from this place. At last, after years of disquiet, after years of feverishly searching for the elusive grail, he concluded that the very act of searching for it had put it in his grasp. He would not now release it.
The old man did not go outside that day. There was no need. He had food enough; the mail and newspaper were delivered. No one came to see him. No one called. He had expected no one, and most likely would have been miffed if someone had surprised him with a visit. The only sounds that punctuated his day were the common noises: the traffic in the street below him, the singing of his bird, the radio and the television. He nibbled on crackers for his lunch, prepared a small dinner. During the afternoon he read a bit of Terkel, whom he enjoyed because the man lacked all pretensions. Terkel made him think of the times of innocence, when, as a younger man, he felt secure amid the nation’s heartbreak. He had proven himself a capable, independent man then, and he had never forgotten the pride he took in forging a stable, simple life for Molly and his boys. While reading he dozed from time to time. After dinner he watched an hour of television without liking it much, then read some more. By nine he was ready for bed.
He placed an old pillowcase over the bird cage to keep out the light. “Good night, Petey boy. It seems we’re sleeping away what little we’ve got left. But that’s no more than most folks, I suppose.” He chuckled to himself, and to the bird. “Our advantage is in knowing we’re doing it and being happy with the process. There’ll be sleep enough for both of us in due course. I’ll see you tomorrow, Petey boy, God willing.”
The old man crossed himself, turned out the light, and went to his bed.
CHAPTER III
Homesickness is . . . absolutely nothing. Fifty percent of the people in the world are homesick all
the time. . ..You don’t really long for another country. You long for something in yourself that you don’t have, or haven’t been able to find.
—John Cheever, The Bella Lingua
Back in May, Conor Finnegan and Tom McIlweath had been careening down their separate paths, one more in control than the other. McIlweath’s frustrations had subsided somewhat at the prospect of finally getting away. If this vacuous and alienated existence were, as it was proving to be, only temporary, then he could endure it a bit longer in order to reach the complete break that was on the close horizon. He immersed himself in his studies which under different circumstances he had found stimulating. Now they were merely time killers, necessary and of passing interest, but most satisfying for the way they bridged his days. He marked off time from assignment to assignment.
Having become so meticulous with his work, McIlweath was consequently dismayed one afternoon to discover that he had left a textbook he needed to review back at school. Borrowing his father’s car, he scooted back to campus to fetch it from his locker. He parked the car in a nearly empty lot. The campus was likely deserted.
The late afternoon sun cast shadows across the blue buildings as he made his way across the wide quadrangle. In early May, even in California, a brisk clarity can ride the air. McIlweath paused by one of the thick stone benches. The faint chill heightened his perception of the contrast between the present quiet and the drone that customarily filled this place during most of his time there. After a few seconds of quiet innocence he went ahead to retrieve the book. His reverie was broken by a voice behind him.
“What do you say, Mac?”
He turned to find Finnegan trotting up to him from the direction of the gymnasium. McIlweath suppressed his annoyance.
“Conor. What are you doing here?”
“I was shooting around in the gym. That’s about the only real exercise I get now.”
“You’re not playing baseball?”
“Not this year. I wasn’t going to get much playing time. Shortage of talent on my part.”
“That’s too bad.”
“Not really. It feels good to have the afternoons to myself. Basketball season seems to run the whole damn year.”
“Wasn’t it all worth it, though? You guys did great. It must be a good way to go out.”
“We lost in the playoffs, Mac. That’s all I’m going to remember.”
’Who are you trying to kid?’ thought McIlweath. ’You’ll probably remember every basket you made and every time the announcer called your name. You’ll remember your free throw percentage until the day you die.” But all he said was, “I guess I can understand that.”
“Did you walk back to school? Can I offer a ride home? And why are you here anyway? This is too nice a day to be stuck on campus.”
“No, I’ve got my dad’s car, but thanks. I forgot my physics book. We’ve got that lab assignment for tomorrow, remember?”
“Damn. I’d forgotten all about it. I can knock it off tonight, I suppose. I’m glad I ran into you. You know, Mac, I’ve gotten incredibly lazy these last few weeks.”
“Why’s that?” McIlweath asked without any real interest.
“I don’t know. A lot of things, I guess. We can see the end of the road now, so the work just doesn’t seem important. Now that everything is set for next year it doesn’t really matter what I do. I’m not going to graduate any higher or lower regardless of my marks this term. And I did well enough earlier in the term so that I can probably screw up totally until the end of the year and my grades won’t change. We’re just playing out the string, you and I. It all seems a bit pointless. We’re passed this stage, so let’s get on to the next one. Is your car in the south lot? So’s mine.”
They walked together in the direction of their cars. A light film of perspiration lined Finnegan’s forehead and cheeks. McIlweath could smell him faintly.
“Mac, do you ever get scared about next year? Whether you’ll do all right, and whether you’re making the right move?”
Finnegan had asked the question more for McIlweath’s benefit, to draw him out about the coming year. In truth he really wasn’t too concerned. He was, as always, supremely confident. And he certainly didn’t want anyone, Tom McIlweath included, getting the wrong impression. Most of Finnegan’s friends in fact had hinted at some uncertainties. But he wasn’t like that, and his decisions, once made, provided blueprints. Finnegan expected that the quiet, private and largely unknown Tom McIlweath would have his share of doubt. Accordingly, McIlweath’s response came as somewhat of a surprise.
“Conor, I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to it.”
Finnegan arched an eyebrow. “Tell me why. It’s bound to be a hell of a change.”
“Precisely what I’m looking forward to. Face it, Conor, I really don’t know many people here. I never did. This is just a way-station. Very pleasant, but I’ve never been a part of it. I’ve never been accepted, even by you, although in your kindness you’d deny it. I’m anxious to move on to something different, someplace else.”
Finnegan ignored the complaint and responded to the act rather than the motive. In his fashion, he turned it upon himself. “So am I, Mac.”
“Are you? You’ve got everything you could want here.”
“Maybe. But there’s so much more out there that I don’t even know about yet.” Finnegan paused, then began again. “You know, it sounds almost silly to say it this way, but in basketball, coach always said that even the weakest teams can win at home. The really outstanding teams are those that can win on the road. That’s what I want to do.”
Tom McIlweath did not know where Conor Finnegan would be taking himself, nor did he particularly care. Let Finnegan find his own new playground and leave him in anonymous peace. Even so, the question was natural.
“So where are you going next year, Conor? How far on the road will you be?”
“Pretty far, Mac. I’m going to Rutgers.”
McIlweath stopped in his tracks while adrenalin shot fiery arrows through his limbs. Air flew from his lungs, and he felt his face palpably grow red. Dumbstruck, he could think of nothing to say.
Rutgers. Despite his best intention to sever this distasteful chapter and start fresh as the sole author of the next one, a piece of this place would follow him there.
With Conor Finnegan, Conor Finnegan of all people, accompanying him across country to college, there would be no escape, at least not a total one, from a self-image he had come to loathe. One figure, a popular and persuasive one, would be a standing reminder of that which he had sought to dispel. Whether by false luck, or chance, or fate, or the malevolent mischief of unseen gods, with one word, his aspirations had been challenged beyond reasonable response.
Noting that his companion was no longer walking alongside him, Finnegan stopped and turned over his shoulder to see McIlweath’s perplexity displayed in a furrowed brow and hard stare. “What’s the matter, Mac? Have you heard of the place? A lot of people don’t even know where it is. It’s in New Jersey.”
“I know,” he croaked through a constricted throat. “I know where it is. In fact I’m going there, too.” They had stopped just outside the gate to the parking lot. The sun hung low enough to attenuate the shadows of the adjacent buildings and keep them in shade.
Finnegan’s eyes grew wide. “Are you kidding me?” he practically shouted as his excitement leapt from his lungs. “I can’t believe it. Nobody from here goes to Rutgers. Nobody’s ever gone there from here, and now there’s going to be two of us? That’s amazing. You’re kidding me, right?”
“I’m dead serious, Conor.” McIlweath started to walk toward his father’s car. “Let’s go home.”
“But wait, though. I can’t believe this. How did you pick Rutgers? I mean, why there of all places? Come on, Mac, talk to me.”
“It’s a long story. I’ll tell you sometime. Not now.”
McIlweath had parked next to the gate, right beside the entrance to the lot. Tha
nk God. He could make an escape without having to explore further this perverse turn of events. He was too stunned to think rationally, or to sort through the avalanche of reactions that caromed around his reeling mind. He opened the car door to slide inside even as Finnegan continued asking him to wait.
The car spun around, nosed through the gate, turned right and headed for home. McIlweath dismissed the notion of running Finnegan down, although at the moment it had its appeal. Instead, he sped away, leaving his friend leaning against his own car, shaking his head in bewilderment.
***
For the next several days, Tom McIlweath went out of his way to avoid Conor Finnegan. Because they did not travel in the same circles this was hardly difficult, but some extra precautions were necessary nonetheless. His desire to avoid Finnegan took on neurotic proportions. Instead of buying his lunch in the cafeteria or eating in the quad, McIlweath spent his lunchtimes in the school library, munching on a sandwich at a study table, thumbing through magazines, the only student there. The librarian, a matronly lady of indeterminate age, would sit across from him, quizzically skewing her face from time to time, but she never said a word.
Nor did McIlweath take his usual seat in the second row of the English and physics classes he shared with Finnegan. Through the short remainder of the year he took to sitting in the rear, close to the door, so that he could arrive and leave with the passing bells without having to cross paths with Finnegan, who was customarily one of the first in the rooms. Finnegan, for his part, did not notice his friend’s shift in position.
McIlweath also took great care to leave campus each day as soon as he could. To be sure, few students lingered after the final bell, but there was always a handful who might sit in the quad after the last period to talk, to gossip, and to watch the campus empty. Finnegan was occasionally one of those, particularly now that his afternoons were free. McIlweath made certain he had all the books he needed to take home before going to his final class so that he could bypass the quad afterwards and head straight out.
