by Mike Gomes
“Father?” called the voice of the elderly man. “Master Whitmore will see you now. You have ten minutes.”
“Thank you.”
“Follow me”.
The elderly man lead the way through numerous twists and turns. The mansion seemed to be pieced together as a collection of Whitmore’s wealth and expansion. As he grew in his success he would add more to the house creating a beautiful home from the outside but a labyrinth on the inside.
Coming to a large screened in patio the elderly black man swung his arm forward showing the priest the way to walk and announced his arrival. “Master Whitmore, Father Locke is requesting your time.”
“Kerick Locke! Please come forward.” said the man sitting in a high back wicker chair outside the screened in patio. The back of the chair faced the priest obscuring any view of the man sitting in it.
The elderly man hustled forward grabbing a chair and bringing it out next to Whitmore for Father Locke to sit in.
The priest walked forward nodding his head to the elderly man as he opened the screen door and stepped into the sunlight. Reaching the back of the wicker chair Father Locke froze in his tracks.
BANG! BANG!
Whitmore fired two rounds from a shotgun out into the fields in front of him and brought the gun back down onto his lap.
“Perfect shot!” bragged Whitmore giving a short high whistle causing a young black boy about the age of 8 to run over to him. “Bird! Penny! Now!”
The boy ran off into the field scraping through the high grass looking for the bird that Whitmore had shot.
Father Locke sat down in the chair next to Whitmore, seeing the old man for the first time in years. His face had drawn down at the corners of his mouth and the beard that sat on his face was white. A large stomach sat over his belt and he dressed all in white like he did so many years before. Anger churned in the priest's body, but he minded himself for the good of his visit.
“These boys will do anything for a penny. They are the best hunting dogs you can get and much easier to train.” laughed Whitmore leaning toward the priest.
The joke was met with no laughter from Locke who sat silently not taking his eyes off the white man.
“So why do you come to my home after all these years Kerick? Do you look for revenge”?
“No. I am here to ask for your help with the people that work for you. I ask you to pay them wages and not just food shelter and water.”
“My system has worked wonderfully for years. You of all people should know that. The workers are happy and so am I.”
“With all due respect you live like a king while they live in shacks. Perhaps giving them some income would be helpful to you as well as them. They would work harder if they knew that they would be paid more for their work.”
Whitmore leaned back in his chair and wiped his forehead with his handkerchief.
“You may have a point.” he said. Snapping the shot gun up to his shoulder he fired two rounds just above the high grass killing another bird.
“Stop!” shouted Locke. “The boy! He is still out there.”
“The boy works for me. He understands the risks of his work. He understands the deal we made at the start. He understands how to follow through with a deal. He does not want to change it at this point. I don’t think he wants anyone trying to change it for him.”
The boy ran from the high grass holding a bird above his head and running to Whitmore. Dropping to his knees at Whitmore’s feet he placed the bird down and did not make eye contact with his boss only saying the word “Master.”
Flipping a penny to the ground Whitmore looked down to the boy and smiled. “One more out there. Penny! Now!”
The boy jumped up and ran back into the deep grass getting swallowed up by it.
“If you came here to try to change my work you have wasted your time.”
“If you are not willing to give them more money would you let them have a chance at salvation. Please consider letting me in to hold mass once a week to those who want to be part of my flock.”
Whitmore let out a bellowing laugh “Your flock? Now that is rich. These people are my flock. I have given them everything. They have no need for your God. He did them no good when they starved into the streets or when they suffered with malaria. Kerick you're wasting your time. Go back and fill the old ladies heads with fantasies of heaven and hell.”
“I am now called Father Locke. I would prefer you address me in that manner. I am an educated man of God and ask that you show me the respect that my title deserves.” said Locke with his voice hardening and sliding to the front edge of his chair. “Let these people choose who they want their god to be!”
Shifting in his chair Whitmore let the muzzle of the shotgun point at Locke who did not break eye contact with him.
“You always were bold Kerick. Even when facing death you stood your ground. I always admired that about you. You could have given your father up for making you steal the gold, but you never did. He was willing to let you take the fall until he was forced to come clean.”
Locke’s eyes dropped from the old man and looked down into his lap.
“You watched him get his hand chopped off and stood strong. You helped him recover from the wound without thanks from him. You saw him run from your family and into the city feeling sorry for himself because he could not mine and had to pick up trash on the work site. He drank and did drugs leaving you and your mother behind. Then he killed himself and you found God, so you could have some answer as to why. Well the answer is simple; he was less a man than you or I. He was willing to do the unthinkable over and over again and did not care if it harmed you or your mother. Tell me, am I wrong Father Locke? Did your God stop any of that?”
“I do not choose or pass judgement on my Lord. His will shall be done as he sees fit.”
Bang! Bang!
Whitmore fired two shots into the high grass, but no bird was in the air.
“No!” Locke screamed.
“Your Lord's will shall be done for the boy in the grass. Dead or alive it is his will.” Whitmore said with a jagged smile crossing his face.
“Bird!” yelled the boy emerging from the high grass with the bird high above his head and charging to Whitmore.
“Now leave my home before I have you arrested for trespassing or you suffer the same fate as your father.”
Chapter 3
THE FLUORESCENT LIGHTS flickered as the wind blew hard outside the basement of the church. The room was wide and open but the ceiling was no higher than normal. Against the walls were school lunch tables brought up into their standing position moved away from their spots, so the floor could be cleaned after the small catholic school kids had their lunch.
At 7:00 pm no kids were at the school, but a set of chairs were lined up in rows with a table at the front of them and a small podium resting on the table. Off to the side was a table holding donuts and coffee.
Michael Falau took a sip from the cup of black coffee that tasted like it had been sitting too long on the burner. He looked down into the cup as if he could see what was wrong with it.
Most of the seats were filled and the people lacked any firm connection with one another. Falau watched them as they sat in silence and made little eye contact with anyone in the room.
A woman in her late fifties dressed in a waitress uniform stood up and walked to the front of the room. Her uniform held the stains of her days work and the bun that held her hair had become loose and frayed. She looked tired and drawn with little feeling left in her eyes.
“Hi. My name is Margo and I am an alcoholic.” she said looking to the ground.
“Hi. Margo.” said the other members of the group in a halfhearted way.
“I have been sober 35 days.”
“ Great job, Margo.” said one of the other women in the crowd.
“Thanks. Last night was hard. I worked ten hours. Came home to my husband drunk and passed out on the couch. The kids not fed and the dog shit on the
kitchen floor. I got in a fight with my husband about why can’t he just help out and do something when he is home all day. He told me to fuck off and left probably going to his whore. He left the bottle on the floor next to the couch. Vodka. I had it in my hand but poured it down the sink.”
“That’s wonderful, Margo. What made you make that choice?” said the older man running the meeting.
“This stupid little chip.” Margo reached into her pocket and pulled out an Alcoholics Anonymous chip signifying 30 days sober and held it out for all to see. “I might not have my health, or my husband, or a decent job, but I have this chip and for now that is worth something to me.” Margo’s hand snapped shut squeezing the chip as if she were looking for more strength from it. Her head rose up for the first time and looked to the crowd and smiled.
Falau watched as different members of the meeting got up and gave a testimonial about their life and experiences with alcohol. He found it hard to look at them with their stories of horror and debauchery.
I am not like these people, he thought. I drink but not like them. I have money and a job. My drinking is more like medication.
His hand dropped down brushing his pant leg feeling the flask he had inside his pocket. Shame overcame him as his eyes started to well up with tears letting in a slight realization that he was not that far away from the people he was trying so hard to distance himself from.
The older man stood up and called the meeting to a close. Falau saw people head for the coffee and donuts and start to mingle. In the ninety minutes that he had been in the meeting he had not said a word to anyone or shared his experiences with his drinking. There was no way he was willing to stand up in front of everyone and say he was an alcoholic. In his mind that was simply not true.
Getting up from his chair he shuffled his way to the end of his row and turned to make his way to the door.
“Excuse me!” called the voice of the older man who ran the meeting from behind him. Falau ignored the call and pressed forward aiming directly for the door.
“Excuse me, sir. You forgot something.” said the voice.
Falau stopped and turned to the man and took a quick inventory of this possessions and what he could be missing. “Did I drop something?”
“No, you just forgot to introduce yourself.” said the older man displaying a broad yellowed smile and his hand extended for a shake. “My name is Dave. I have been running this meeting for about 5 years. Glad you could come.”
Falau accepted his hand and shook it firmly. The older man’s grip was still strong, and he gave a classic three pump handshake. “Ya. Just kind of trying it on for size. Not sure it is for me.”
“We all feel that way at the start. Let me guess you’re not like these people and you can stop any time you like.”
Falau felt a smile cut across his face as he looked down trying to hide it. “Ok, you have been where I am now. But this is just not for me.”
“Well, you can come just for the shit coffee and stale donuts.” said Dave sarcastically. “Besides, you might just get to the point where you don’t need to come here with that flask in your pocket. You must be a whisky man. Whisky men love flasks. Vodka and gin are always in the travel mugs.”
Falau held still resisting the urge to cover up the flask and keep it out of sight through his pants. The internal battle of whether he should be ashamed for having it with him in the first place raged inside him. He was a grown man and could carry it if he wanted but the other side was clear that he had it at an AA meeting that he elected to attend.
“How did you know I had it?”
“When you stood up it was clear as day pressing through your pants. Don’t worry I did the same thing for the first seven months I came to the meeting here. It was a kind of safety net I gave myself before admitting to myself I had a problem. Now I am ten years sober.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you. It was hard. I could never have done it without my sponsor. He was there for me every step of the way. Day or night I could call on him and he would be there to help me fight off the cravings. I still get them sometimes, but I know much better how to handle them. Do you have a sponsor?”
“No. Not sure that I am in the market for one.”
“I would be willing to help you and be your sponsor.”
“Thanks, but no thanks. Like I said, I am here just to see what this is like. I have a lot to think about before I make any commitments.”
“I can appreciate that. If you do think of drinking realize you can just call me at the number on this card and I will help you. No strings attached.” Dave pulled a small business card from his pocket and handed it to Falau who took it and placed it in his jacket pocket.
Falau extended his hand and was met by Dave’s. “Dave, thanks for the offer. You seem like a great guy.”
“We meet here seven days a week at the same time. You’re welcome back any and all nights.”
Falau turned and walked out the door feeling the wind of the autumn night hit him. The city street lights lit up the ground and the hard wind blew papers and trash about the street.
Falau flipped up his collar and braced himself from the wind. Quickening his step to get home he could feel the flask bouncing off his leg as he walked. Each smack against his leg reminded him of what laid inside the stainless steel container. Dave was right. It was whisky. A demon that now had moved from being the savior that helped him battle the flashback of the car accident that killed Jeniffer, the love of his life, to being an equal in horror for him. He continually told himself he could stop the drinking, but the temptation always won out.
Three doors down from his brownstone home on Massachusetts Avenue in Boston, Falau passed “Sullivan’s Liquors”. He walked briskly past keeping his eyes from looking into the store.
Getting to the steps of his building Falau placed his hand on the railing and stopped. Looking back to the liquor store he drummed his fingers against the railing.
Tomorrow I get sober. That meeting was too much. I need to just have a few drinks and get to sleep. No nightmares or anything. Tomorrow is day one, thought Falau talking himself into the behavior he knew was wrong.
Walking double time back up the street he pushed the door open going full speed. Behind the counter a young black man’s head popped up and Locked his eyes on Falau.
“Hey Falau. How you doin’?”
“Not bad DeShawn. How about you?”
“Slow night tonight. People just don’t buy booze on a Tuesday. Oh! Check out the whisky section. We got in this new honey whiskey that is amazing. You should get yourself some.”
“Thanks. I think I will do that.”
Falau walked down the far aisle of the small store and crouched down to see the label of the new honey flavored whisky and pulled the bottle from the shelf.
Suddenly the sound of glass breaking along with the crashing of the door rang out in the store.
“Give me the money, mother fucker. GIVE ME THE MONEY!” screamed a male voice from the front of the store.
“Ok man. Just... give me a... second.” stammered DeShawn from
behind the counter. The sound of the cash register buttons drifted through the air.
“NOT THE REGISTER, MOTHER FUCKER! THE SAFE! THE FUCKING SAFE OR I WILL BLOW YOUR HEAD OFF!”
“Ok. Ok.”
Falau kept himself in a crouched position and worked his way to the front of the aisle and looked at the intruder. The man dressed all in black and wore a ski mask. His skin was black, and he had no accent. He held a .45 Smith and Wesson shield handgun that shook while he spoke. Outside sat a car running with nobody in the driver’s seat. Falau smiled.
He was an amateur looking to make a quick buck for drugs or just some cash. Falau could see he was taking too long waiting for the safe. If he took the money from the register it would have been less, but he would have been gone by now and the chances of getting caught would be slim. Falau stood up and spoke.
“The honey whisk
y looks great, DeShawn.” he said holding out the bottle in front of him.
The masked man pulled the gun toward Falau who stopped moving. The intruder’s nerves spiked, and his eye and his gun launched back and forth between Falau and DeShawn.
“Who are you?” asked the intruder.
“Just a shopper” said Falau, walking forward holding the bottle in his right hand reaching to place it on the checkout counter.
“Stop walking!” demanded the masked man.
“Hey, I just want my booze and I will be on my way. Whatever this is has no bearing on me.” replied Falau casting confusion over the robber.
“What the hell are you talking about? This is a stick up and you want to pay for this and walk out? Sit down, cracker.”
“Cracker?” questioning Falau with a hurt sound to his voice. “We have enough problems here without having to bring race into it.”
“Safe is open.” said DeShawn.
The robber turned to DeShawn giving Falau the moment he needed to strike. Holding the bottle by the neck he swung it hard and fast over his head. The robber caught the movement out of the corner of his eye and jerked the gun toward Falau firing off a shot before getting halfway to the big man.
The bottle shattered on impact with his head at the same moment his skull cracked into three pieces and the man dropped to the floor having the gun fly from his hand.
Whiskey and glass covered the floor and Falau planted his foot kicking the man in the face three times until an ample amount of blood had mixed with the booze on the floor.
DeShawn slowly pulled himself up from behind the counter and looked out at Falau and the intruder. “Damn, Falau, you’re a badass. The whisky is on the house.”
Chapter 4
HER HEAD RECOILED BACK from the steering wheel and she crashed against the passenger’s side door. His eyes drifted up and he lost sight of her and struggled with the impact of the pickup truck slamming into his car. Gaining control of his bearings he again looked to Jennifer, the sole love of his life to see blood covering her face and the life gone from her eyes. That was the worst part. Not the initial impact or the funeral days later; it was the moment he saw that her life had been extinguished by a young man who had too many beers. A senseless and disastrous killing of an amazing woman with her whole life ahead of her.
