Arc of the Comet

by Greg Fields

  The towns with their peculiar names slid by indistinguishably, and still it rained. The monotony of the scenery, the monotony of the people within it, made Finnegan feel old. All time had been abandoned, the standards of movement had been displaced. He was beyond the pull of gravity. He was weightless and a pawn of relativity, so he did not age, but the thrust needed to break away had drained him thoroughly. He might have been eighty years old, groggy and feeble, for all the resistance he had left in him.

  Finnegan had left in mid-morning, having first called to make certain that he would be welcome. Until he picked up the received and heard the crackly voice on the other end he was unsure he would truly bring himself to make the trip. It all seemed so nebulous, so inexact. But his promise, to the brittle man with whom he spoke, to arrive within two days forced the issue. He would have to go now, and there was nothing he could do about it.

  The first day he drove as far as he could stand. Night fell early then; the darkness heightened his fatigue. More than once he lapsed into a mild trance, hypnotized by the wet sameness of the vacant landscape so that it all blurred together, his eyeballs spasmodically losing their focus. Finnegan lost track of the hours as they piled on top of one another. At one point, late in the day, he glanced at his watch and found it to be two hours later than he had thought. He stopped for the night in a shabby motel near the highway in a town whose name he had never heard. Somewhere in southwestern Ohio, it was, probably near Dayton. Everything was near Dayton in southwestern Ohio. Finnegan peeled himself off the seat that had adhered through the humidity to his shirt and jeans. He took a room, showered, and collapsed lifelessly onto a hard bed where he slept soundly, despite an air conditioner he could not shut off and did not need.

  The next day Finnegan crossed Indiana and headed up the spine of Illinois. Only near the northern end did his boredom begin to lift. Here lay the city. Finnegan could smell it, a brawny reclining animal from which the scent of the hunt emanated. The hot loins, the panting tongue, the smothering musk of a thick, impenetrable pelt. Finnegan would have known he was close even if his eyes had been closed and his hands bound. He could have recognized the pulsing of latent energy, the limitless potential for brutality and gratification that radiated in his direction. Buildings clustered, the sounds grew harsher, the odors more fetid. In the distance, because there were no breaks in the flatness to obscure his view, Finnegan saw the great glass and steel pillars rise. Alive now, his pulse revived, Finnegan drove into the maw.

  There exists in every major city a singular rhythm, an imperceptible pace all its own. Shaped by a multitude of factors—commerce, arts, attitude, style—it is as distinctive as a set of fingerprints, and just as unalterable. Hidden in the deafening roar of its daily life it silently instills an order and a context, a thread so thin as to be invisible, yet unbreakably binding the random beads into a solid chain. Finnegan’s invigoration at once again being in a city, at being delivered from the bleak and barren rural graveyards through which he had had to run, was only temporary, and he knew it. Soon, once that muted rhythm worked itself into his psyche so that it became identifiable and thus the norm, soon his exhilaration would lapse back into a subtle, constant, unyielding depression. He would be reminded of the task at hand, the somber quest for an unlikely salvation. Everything else would fade into unobtrusive background noise.

  Finnegan crept through the late afternoon traffic aware only of the general direction in which he was to head. He had an address and a map. Putting the two together, he followed streets that he presumed led to the proper way. His journey progressed block by block, subject to the mercy of traffic lights and the endless mass of cars around him.

  The striking steel towers of downtown gave way in small doses to humbler designs. The buildings became squatter, less ornate, obviously older and more worn. Apartments mixed with the offices, then dominated. Narrow row houses—brown, gray, sooty—replaced the modern apartments. The streets closed together, the buildings crammed in, and on the sidewalks the polished, well-groomed professionals had vanished in favor of rougher types. The young people here had a hard look about them, coarse and bitter, already deporting themselves with a dayworn resentment that negated their youth. They were black, white and brown, moving about in separate groups. The older people, too, looked coarse, but they maintained a cautious and almost cowering demeanor. Age had taught them their vulnerability, and they respected it. All about was a pall, a resignation to the forces that beat against them, both young and old, forever brutalizing, forever critical, forever deadening.

  Finnegan found the street he sought and checked the numbers through the wet gloom. The lighting was poor so he had to peer through the dimness while driving as slowly as he dared. In due course he found his number. The building to which it belonged was a crumbling brownstone, the worst of the block. It had no external adornments. Its bleak façade consisted solely of windows and uneven brick above a narrow wooden doorway. The neighborhood itself appeared foreboding, a hint of casual evil wafting in the soggy air. Up and down the street were similar brownstones in somewhat better repair. At the corner was a grocery store with iron bars over its front windows. Finnegan had seen this type of neighborhood too many times before, and he remembered the stories of those he had come to know living in these places.

  To his relieved surprise, next to the building was a small driveway. He noted that only a few of the old structures had room for such a luxury. They were jammed together as closely as books on a shelf. Finnegan turned his car into the driveway, stopped the engine and stepped out onto broken asphalt. He stretched and took a deep breath of fusty city air. Finnegan moved up the rickety, slanting steps and rang the middle of three doorbells. A sharp buzz unlocked the door. He entered and was met immediately by an overpowering stench of mildew. His nostrils flared as he climbed the dark, dank staircase before him.

  On the second landing a door opened. Stepping forth was an ancient, jagged figure, brittle to the touch. His hair had long since become a shock of gray. It fell haphazardly around his razor-thin head. Deep lines creased his face in all directions. Between the creases, a pair of fiery brown eyes burned outward. Yes, it was those eyes. Despite age and poverty, these eyes were still very much alive. His eyes reflected an intensity that Finnegan rarely saw in people six decades younger. The old man’s body sagged only slightly. He carried little fat on him and his limbs no doubt had as much strength in them as could be allotted to someone of his years. Finnegan knew him to be nearly ninety although he did not know his exact age. The old man himself had never told him.

  The elder figure stepped cautiously, in the slow and measured movements of an aged body, and regarded the young man coming toward him up the stairs. The corners of his mouth broke into a wide smile. Finnegan saw it, saw the old man, and smiled back, bounding up the final steps two and three at a time.

  “Conor!” the old man cried.

  “Grandpa,” and the two embraced in a hug that lasted several seconds. Conor’s grandfather would not let him go. The younger Finnegan reveled in the elder’s strength, the sureness of his clinch.

  “Holy Mother of God,” said the old man at last, releasing Conor and stepping back to look at him in full. “You’ve grown up well, boy. Of course I wouldn’t have expected any different now, would I? But you look to be the best of us.”

  “Good food and clean living, Grandpa.”

  “Ah, the devil. You’re a Finnegan, that’s all. But you seem to have outdone all the others I used to know. You’re a prize, Conor. Come in.”

  Finnegan walked into his grandfather’s flat. The worn and faded look, the cheap furniture, the decrepit appliances soiled permanently with grit and soot—all of it had been predictable. Finnegan had been in so many such places, and they never failed to depress him. The tail end of mortality was always so present in them. Here was no different. His grandfather would shortly be dead. He could not help but be near the end of his complex journey. His grandfather had to know it and, if he were at all
like the dozens of people Conor had met in similar situations, he might even welcome it. Yet the buoyant vivacity Conor had remembered in his grandfather still shone forth. It remained there, in those remarkable eyes, still hungry to absorb whatever they located, and in his lyrical voice which gave no evidence of faltering. If his grandfather truly recognized his imminent passing, then he would at least save his pride by not bowing to it. Let it come, if it must, but he would keep those precious parts of his mind, body and soul alive in the face of a closing darkness.

  “You look well, Grandpa. You look strong.”

  “As strong as an old man’s health allows. I have no complaints. The occasional pain in one extremity or another, but that’s about as far as it goes. Have a seat and I’ll make some coffee. Or would you prefer something a bit more spirited?”

  “More spirited? You’re still at it, aren’t you?”

  “An old man has scarce few pleasures left him, Conor. Don’t try to deny me one of the best.”

  “Well, then, let’s have a drop or two. It’s been a long drive.”

  “Just the thing,” said the elder Finnegan and ambled slowly into the kitchen. Conor followed him. His grandfather opened a pantry door. “Here, let me,” said Conor, and reached by him to pull down two tumblers. “Where are the spirits?”

  “Next cupboard. Whiskey is all I’ve got. That’s all that appeals to me these days.”

  “Fair enough.” Conor found the lone bottle and poured an amount into each tumbler. At the refrigerator, a dilapidated thing with chipped enamel and a broken handle, he fetched an ice tray and dropped three cubes into each glass.

  The old man took his glass and raised it toward his grandson. “God’s blessing on you, Conor. To your health, to your joy, and to the everlasting glory of your spirit.”

  “And to yours, Grandpa.”

  “What little there’s left of it, aye.”

  The liquor burned the back of Conor’s mouth and seared its way down his throat. He had been thirsty, although this whiskey was not the answer. He would have preferred something soft. But the prospect of sharing a drink with the grand old man, this ancient, hoary font of legend and inestimable respect, meant far more than slaking his thirst. This was their first drink together, and most likely among their last. They had so little time.

  The two returned to the living room and sat, Conor on the couch, his grandfather in an easy chair adjacent. In the corner a yellow canary twittered impulsively.

  “It’s good to see you looking so well, Grandpa.”

  “Yes, and a trifle surprising too, I’ll wager. At my age each day’s a blessing. An unanticipated gift of sorts.”

  “I don’t believe that,” responded Conor with a smile. “You make it sound as if you’re just sitting back and letting life go by. That’s never been your style.”

  “No, you’re right. But I do get lonely here, Conor. Loneliness so deep it’s like a wound. Unfortunately there’s not much I can do about that. Petey keeps me company,” he inclined his head toward the bird, “and there’s the television. Those are the only animated voices I care to hear. This isn’t the safest of neighborhoods any more, you know. The lady upstairs, she’s about sixty. She goes to the store for me when I don’t want to go out. She looks in one me from time to time. Mrs. McCarthy, her name is. She tells me she keeps a gun on her nightstand,” he chuckled. “Can you imagine?”

  “I thought I might buy you dinner tonight if you’re up to it.”

  “No,” he snapped. “I don’t want to be bothered. I haven’t seen the inside of a restaurant in at least twenty years.”

  “Well then, I’ll go out and bring something back. Sandwiches maybe.”

  “If you want. Conor, let me put one thing to you right away. You needn’t be solicitous of me. In fact, I’d prefer you knock it off altogether. I’ve never been comfortable with anyone thinking they have to do things for me.”

  “But Grandpa, you don’t—”

  “I don’t want to hear it,” he interrupted sternly but with good nature. “Treat me like your grandfather, not some old, feeble hermit. We’ll get on fine if you do. If not, you’ll most likely make me feel old and grouchy. Now, how long do you want to stay?”

  “How long do you want me?”

  “No one’s going to kick you out.”

  “In that case, maybe two days or so. Let’s play it by ear. See when you get tired of me.”

  “How’s your dad?” asked the old man. “You know, that bastard’s forgotten how to write. I hear from him every six weeks or so when he calls, but you’d think he’d pick up a pen and jot out a letter every now and then. How is the boy?”

  “Dad never was much for writing. When I was in college Mom would write all the letters. I got maybe two from Dad in four years. But he’s doing well as far as I can gather. He’ll be retiring in a year, maybe less. That’s hard for me to believe. I can’t picture him not working.”

  “Ah, then there’ll be two nonproductive Finnegans on this earth. It’ll be up to you to pull enough weight for the lot of us.”

  Conor smiled. “He sends his love, Grandpa. When I told him I was coming to see you, he made me promise to say that.”

  “Of course,” replied the elder. “It’s always easier to work through a third person. I do appreciate the sentiment but tell him I’d appreciate it more if he delivered it in the flesh.”

  “How long’s it been? Over a year, right?”

  “Damn near four. He and your mother visited one June, if you recall. They came through after your graduation. But they’ve not been back since then.”

  “You know how many times Dad’s asked you to move out there with them. I’m sure that offer still stands.”

  “It can stand until Doomsday. I’ll never leave here. I’ve grown into this place by the roots. If you rip me away I’ll die. I’ll die anyway, but it stands to be more pleasant if I remain. I’ve no interest in cluttering your father’s life through a misplaced gesture of good will. I’ve been here almost seventy years, for God’s sake.”

  “That’s a long time.”

  “You’re damn right. And I had nothing when I got here. Nothing. Just my clothes in an old suitcase and a few dollars. But that was enough to get me by until I could build a stake. I slept at the mission for three weeks before my first paycheck came and I could get a place of my own. That was on Irving Park, and it wasn’t too bad except it had no furniture. Here I thought everything came complete and when I unlocked the door it was totally empty. I slept on the floor in my clothes for about four months. I bought some things then, and everything was fine.”

  “Why Chicago, Grandpa? Why not Boston or New York?”

  “Boston scared hell out of me. I’d never seen anything so damn big and crowded and dirty. There were Irishmen there, but they were different. They were bitter and hard, and they’d been whipped. Kicked by people who just wanted to hear the sound of flesh thumping. I stayed two weeks and I hated it. I’d lived on a farm all my life until then. I missed the open space. I missed being able to walk by the sea or walk for miles down a path without running into another living soul. But in Boston it was all elbow to elbow. There was cursing and sweat all around, and always those same whipped expressions.

  “One day,” he continued, “I was sharing a glass with a fellow in some pub and I was feeling particularly miserable, regretting the day I’d ever decided to come this way and figuring I’d made the biggest mistake since Judas. This fellow started telling me about the Midwest, the Great Plains. Farmland, he said, for as far as the eye could see. He’d never been there, mind you, but he desperately wanted to go. He was certain it was glorious there.

  “So I got to thinking. There were no breaks for me in Boston, that was obvious, and I felt if I stayed long enough I’d end up either starving to death or becoming a thief. I had enough money to get me to Chicago. I’d never heard of the place, but that was the city he mentioned. I figured it was probably some little village compared to Boston. Something like Waterfor
d, or maybe Cork at the worst. I thought I’d come here and head for the farmlands, hire myself out until I got enough money for my own spot of land.”

  The old man chuckled softly. “Instead I found something three times as huge as Boston and twice as dirty. On the train ride I sat by the window and watched all this green land go by. Miles upon miles of farms and small towns. I thought I was as close to paradise as a man could be. But then the train stopped here and I had to get out. Only now I didn’t have any money left. There was no place else to go.”

  “And you’ve been here ever since.”

  “And I’ll die here. And you know, Conor, I couldn’t be happier about it.”

  They spent the night talking. Conor’s grandfather told story after story, and Conor sat, enraptured. The old man had lived a demanding life, but his sense of purpose, and above all his sense of self, had never diminished, and it led him onward. He told Conor of making his own liquor because it was cheaper and better than what he could buy. He did so without guilt, but with a righteous indignation that a man should be forced to such trouble to secure his pleasures. He recounted fights, mostly verbal but some physical, with those who sought to cheat him because they equated his accent with an innate stupidity. He relived his courting of his beloved Molly, who had, he said, saved him from his baser passions and lent a sweet stability to his existence. She had justified him and given him his ultimate purpose: to make her equally happy. Their lives had fused into a joyous amalgam of her gentility and his commitment. They tempered each other with their best parts. When Molly died he had been lost, helpless for months, just sitting alone in a now-empty flat. But his old dignity rose again to restore him. His grief would not claim another life. He vowed to himself to go on with his narrowing routine, but he also vowed never to leave this place where he and Molly had shared the best of their lives.

  The next day the stories continued, and the day after that. The weather improved enough, the rain ceasing and air warming smartly, so that Conor coaxed his grandfather into taking slow, ambling walks. The old man’s limited endurance kept them short, although they were long enough for the elder to point out scenes of his own past, and that of his son. The corner store, now secured behind bars, had once caught young Edward Finnegan stealing a candy bar, a crime for which the boy had been grounded for two weeks. Here was the corner they turned to get to Wrigley Field, and there lived a delicate little blonde girl for whom Conor’s father had carried a torch. Conor reveled in the memories, whose telling brought a wistful lilt to his grandfather’s voice.