Arriving in the blustering downpour amidst hundreds of other concertgoers, Elizabeth was tense from fighting their way through the heavy traffic. Despite her unenthusiastic mood and the damp, frigid air, she was determined to keep her spirits high and stroked Paul’s cheek as he switched off the ignition. He raced around to the passenger side and helped Elizabeth from the car, opened the umbrella that was barely big enough for one person, and raised it over her head to shield her from the pelting rain. They ran through the crowd clutching their pillows and blankets, and hoped they would be dry by the time they reached the entrance. Paul stopped suddenly, pulled Elizabeth under the cover of a sagging awning, and gave her an unexpected, delicious kiss. “Stay with me forever,” he said.
Elizabeth was startled, but managed, “I’m not going anywhere.” She wasn’t sure if her heart could take it. Paul’s sweet words of commitment swirled in her head as they headed to the concert hall entrance.
The line into the auditorium moved quickly and every entrance door was open to accommodate the growing number of ticket-holders. A throng of wet, disheveled people moved inside. The icy blast of cold air that met their faces eventually gave way to a more temperate atmosphere as the collective body heat made it more comfortable. The noise level rose with each new person who entered, and the pungent aroma of marijuana began to fill the room.
I hate that smell, Elizabeth thought.
Simultaneously, Paul muttered under his breath so only Elizabeth could hear, “That smell makes me nauseous. Reminds me of the constant stench in Vietnam, everyone too stoned to shoot straight or care. Let’s go find somewhere to sit.”
With that, Elizabeth tightened her grip on Paul’s hand and allowed him to drag her into the crowd that got bigger by the minute. They stepped over a dozen people, apologetic all the way, and exercised great care not to step on anyone’s hand, bota bag, or overly full Styrofoam cup of cheap beer. They found a spot just big enough for the two of them and spread their blanket. Paul was excited and Elizabeth was excited for him. She knew this was good medicine for his wounded heart.
Without warning, the lights dimmed and, even though no one had taken the stage, deafening applause erupted. Elizabeth couldn’t help but feel invigorated by the pulse of the room, the enthusiasm of the crowd, and the sheer volume of the experience. In his quiet way, she could tell Paul was relishing the moment, and they jumped to their feet when the first band bounded onto the stage. She couldn’t see past the crush of people or hear the emcee over the ear-piercing noise of the crowd, but Elizabeth screamed and clapped along with everyone else when the announcement boomed, “Ladies and gentlemen . . . !” In the midst of the commotion, she once more wrapped her arms tightly around Paul and felt a surge of happiness overtake her. His smile was all she needed. She was glad she came.
)
Home at last, grateful for the break in the storm, they threw down their dirty blanket and pillows, reeking of marijuana and spilled beer. What seemed like necessary items to bring along to a pillow concert had turned out to be more of a nuisance than a help. From the minute the first band took the stage to the last encore of the evening, no one sat. For two hours, hundreds of concert goers crammed themselves into one giant, pulsating throng, like a single unit, hands waving, feet stomping, and cigarette lighters casting an amber glow above the crowd.
The sad heap of linens they brought home had been trampled by dirty feet, and soaked in spilled beer, cigarette ashes, and worse. Unable to bear the odor, and remembering laundry day wasn’t until Wednesday, Paul stuffed everything in a trash bag and set it on the balcony.
“We’ll get to it later. Right now, I wanna take a quick shower, have a piece of leftover meatloaf, and go to bed. With you.”
Elizabeth set about removing her smelly clothes, equally as overpowering as the pillows and blanket. After she had taken a quick rinse, she added them to the sack of dirty linens and changed into a warm pair of flannel pajamas. Paul was eating the meatloaf right from the plate, using a knife to cut one slice at a time, making sure there would still be some left for dinner the next night.
“Ah, cold meatloaf. Nothing better for a late-night snack.” He reminisced about coming home from basketball practice in his junior year of high school, his mother’s meatloaf and mashed potatoes ready to take center stage at the dinner table. It was a memory tinged with comfort and sorrow, one that rarely visited his thoughts. He brought himself back to the present and turned to Elizabeth, “Want some?”
Elizabeth shook her head, a recollection of a midight snack once shared with her mother flashing before her. She pushed the memory aside. It seemed like a lifetime ago, and hanging on to the past did not bring her a sense of security or peace. She relied on Paul to fill the emptiness that had been her childhood. “No, I’m going to bed. Hurry up, I’m freezing and I need your body heat to keep me warm.”
With that, Paul carefully wrapped what was left of the meatloaf, returned it exactly to the same spot in the refrigerator from which he had taken it, and laid the knife in the empty sink. Before turning around, he removed a clean glass from the cupboard and, with no intention of using it, put the knife inside the glass and placed it in the sink. He sheepishly glanced at Elizabeth. “I didn’t want the knife to be alone all night.”
Is that odd or sweet? Elizabeth thought, but hesitated to utter it aloud. Paul gently led her into the bedroom, turned off the light, and curled up beside her, providing Elizabeth with the sanctuary she craved.
Chapter 21
Paul dreaded the sight that was about to greet him behind the sterile, unwelcoming door. He slowly shuffled through the hospital halls one more time, passing the vending machine for the fourth time, the restroom, the drinking fountain. He stopped at the nurse’s station to ask the time, making sure his watch was accurate—pause, stop, start—anything to avoid pulling back the curtain to see his father, emaciated and weak, waiting for his only child to visit him for perhaps the last time. The O’Brien family name was the only thing Paul and his father had shared since his mother died.
Paul Senior’s deterioration was rapid, but came as no surprise to Paul. He often wondered, with the brutal way he treated his body and soul, how his father had lasted as long as he had, well into his 60s. The death of his wife had rattled him to the core, and any semblance of the life they once shared as a happy, loving family had been shattered. As soon as the last guest said goodbye on the day of his mother’s funeral, Paul’s youth became nothing but a memory, and his father accepted a life of solitary mourning. Neighbors tried to help by bringing warm meals and visiting, but no amount of attention or support could release the senior O’Brien from his depression. Paul felt helpless as he watched his father turn to a fifth of gin a day for solace.
Their house began a slow decline into disrepair, the lawn grew tall, turned brown, and died in the summer. Finally there was no lawn left, and a front yard full of dirt took the place of the once-manicured, lovingly maintained property. Neighbors turned a blind eye to the debris piled up in the side yard, the siding rotted from termites, and the white paint, once pristine, peeled from lack of care or interest.
After Paul graduated from high school, the draft was upon him. When all his friends waited in fear of their notice, Paul surprised everyone by joining the Marines and reporting to Camp Pendleton for basic training almost immediately. His father mumbled a cursory, “Goodbye . . . I’ll miss you, Son,” at the bus station, and seemed relieved that the burden of paying attention to his only child was lifted. He preferred to live as a recluse, and now there would be no one to question, complain, blame, or interrupt the life of pain he’d chosen.
As Paul made his way closer to his father’s room, he suddenly felt guilty he hadn’t invited him to his wedding. It had been an intimate, minimal affair, made up mostly of Elizabeth’s family. It was only Sam, Linda, and their two children, Elizabeth’s sisters, Aunt Deborah, Uncle Bill, and their son, Ricky, who was now a father and husband. At the time, he wasn
’t feeling generous enough to disrupt the nuptials and celebration by having his father attend. Paul Senior had turned into an uncontrollable alcoholic, subject to blackouts and rage, and would have turned the wedding into a three-ring circus. Elizabeth’s heart was a little larger and had urged Paul to reconsider, but on this topic, he could not be swayed.
The announcement to marry was sudden. “Please don’t tell me you’re only marrying me because I’m pregnant,” Elizabeth had whispered in Paul’s ear when she joined him in front of the minister.
As always, a smile and a wink from Paul were all she needed. “All right, I won’t tell you I’m marrying you because we’re pregnant. Baby or no baby, Elizabeth, I love you.”
The impending birth of his first child and the thought that this little person would grow up with no grandparents on either side, made Paul choke back tears. I could have done better. He should have done better. It never would have been like this if Mom hadn’t died. Immense sorrow swept over him as he recalled the better times, the early times, the precious times, when it was the three of them—the wonder years before his mother was taken. His father’s life was running out, and he, in his stubbornness, had never reached out to try and repair the damage that the estranged years magnified. He grasped at last, that his father was every bit as damaged as he was.
Paul took a deep breath. He stood up straight and stepped into the room, aware of the pulsating, clicking, regulated sounds of the machines and the short, shallow breaths of his father. He felt compelled to speak to him, even if Paul Senior was too weak to respond.
Paul’s whole body tingled as he realized that this would be the last time he would see his father and his opportunity to be a better son would vanish. Approaching the bedside, he leaned in close to his father’s face, being careful not to disturb the tubes hooked up to his emaciated arms. His eyes were trained on the machine in the background, keeping a steady record of his heartbeat and pulse. The bed beside his father was empty so he felt fortunate he had total privacy to have this last conversation.
Taking his father’s hand, no longer strong and full of life, but frail and weak, Paul spoke softly. “Dad, I know you were in pain after Mom died, and I’m more aware of that now than I have been in the last ten years. I was so consumed with my own grief, not only at losing Mom, but at the sights, sounds, and horrors I’d witnessed in the war. I was not equipped to pay attention to your sorrow, only to my own. I removed you from my life because I thought you removed me from yours. I didn’t have the strength to battle both our demons, so I concentrated, selfishly, on my own. I was not there for you and I should have been, even if you couldn’t be there for me.”
Paul hesitated and wished it wasn’t one-way conversation. He wanted to know his father could hear him. “You’re almost a grandfather and my child will be the one to lose, because he’ll never know his father’s father or his father’s mother. I know I should be elated, but I’m feeling lost and regretful, and I wish I could do these last few years over again. I wanted to tell you how much I love you, and how grateful I am for the memories we made a long time ago.”
Paul took a deep breath and grasped his father’s hand. He thought he felt a movement and a slight grip in return, but it was hard to be sure. Mostly he felt peaceful, content, and forgiven as the line on the screen became flatter and flatter, and his father silently slipped away.
Chapter 22
While sorting through the years of clutter and debris in his father’s home, Paul had uncovered a last will and testament, which was quite visible and neatly packaged in comparison to the rest of the rubble. He immediately contacted the law agency whose name was attached to the folder and learned the name of the attorney in charge of his father’s legal matters. Paul didn’t recall any discussions of wills, assests, or inheritance. He was not expecting much when he placed the call to Mr. Fitzgerald.
Mr. Fitzgerald approached the landing of the apartment building where Paul and Elizabeth were trying to bring order to the chaos that came along with a three-month-old child. Rex was a loud and robust baby who took up almost every waking and sleeping moment of Elizabeth’s time. There never seemed to be enough hours in the day to clean, shop, cook, and dote on the precious little blue-eyed boy she and Paul adored. The small house that was crowded with two adults felt even tighter and more uncomfortable as Rex’s toys, crib, bottles, and pacifiers swallowed up most of the once-vacant floor space. At some point the young parents knew they would need to move. Elizabeth had quit her job as a first-grade teacher right before Rex was born and Paul’s small salary wasn’t enough to accommodate a larger living space.
Paul was expecting the attorney and opened the door immediately after he knocked. Short, overweight, and flushed from climbing one flight of stairs, he immediately removed his hat, exposing a shiny bald head, save for a rim of white hair at the nape of his neck. He adjusted the glasses on his nose and extended his hand to Paul.
Elizabeth was cradling a sleeping Rex in the rocker that was a baby gift from Sam and Linda, and wanted to make sure he was peaceful and asleep during the meeting. She made an effort to greet Mr. Fitzgerald, but instead nodded in his direction after being introduced so as not to jostle the baby.
Mr. Fitzgerald sensed the need to speak quietly. “It’s so nice to meet you, Paul. I knew your mother very well. We went to high school together. Your father and I became best of friends after your parents married. He kept in contact with me on a regular basis after your mother died, and made me promise to keep all his policies in force and not let anything lapse. He was a good, kind man.”
Who’s he talking about? Paul wondered. He could barely remember this “good man” that Mr. Fitzgerald spoke of. At the same time, it gave him solace in knowing his father had one good friend he kept and trusted for a lifetime, and throughout his sorrowful last years, had some joy and contentment.
“Please, sit down, Mr. Fitzgerald. I’m sorry for the clutter, but I think there’s enough room over here for you to spread out and show us whatever you brought with you.” Paul pulled out a chair at the small dining room table which moments before had been cleared of a stack of diapers and freshly laundered baby blankets. Mr. Fitzgerald took his seat and turned toward Elizabeth so she could also hear what he had to say.
Elizabeth did her best to be a gracious hostess. “Mr. Fitzgerald, would you like some water, coffee, iced tea? I’m sorry I didn’t have time to bake cookies. It was the plan, but the day got away from me, as you can see.”
He smiled, said water would be fine, and thought how pleased this scene would have made Paul’s parents. He was happy for what he was about to reveal. “So let’s begin.”
Turning to Paul, he began, “You may or may not remember the beach house your parents bought when you were starting high school? Shortly after they purchased it, your mother got ill, and they were never able to enjoy it as they had hoped and planned. Your father worked very hard and saved for many years to purchase a second home for their retirement, but as we know that didn’t happen. For the last fifteen years I’ve been managing the property, which has seen a variety of tenants, but is still basically in excellent condition. Your father had a fund for repairs and improvements and insisted maintenance was the top priority.”
Again, Paul thought, Who is this man he’s talking about? Given the condition of the place his father called home, Paul could hardly believe they were one and the same. He allowed Mr. Fitzgerald to continue without interruption, remembering the house he hadn’t thought about in years.
He listened intently as Mr. Fitzgerald continued, “The beach cottage now belongs to you, Paul. There’s no mortgage, I’ll deliver a thirty-day notice to the current tenants, and the deed will be transferred to you.”
Paul was stunned. “I thought that place would have been long gone.” He turned to Mr. Fitzgerald. “Are you sure? The little house down by San Diego? In Carlsbad? My dad kept it after Mom died?”
“I’m not sure how I can reassure you, but
trust me, it was always your father’s plan to pass it down to you upon his death. It’s all here in this folder.” He held up the manila folder for Paul to see as if it was an affirmation of his message.
“Your parents’ house, the one you were raised in, has fallen into a sad state, and there are years of deferred maintenance to address. Whatever is left after the repairs and commissions will go to you, but it’s not going to be much. There’s an enormous amount of work to be done to attract a buyer.”
Mr. Fitzgerald handed Paul a large stack of papers with paper clips holding little notes protruding from the pages that required his signature. “This is a lot to take in,” he acknowledged, “and I’m sure you have a lot of questions to ask me and each other. Please call me in the next day or so and we can get down to the business of making this situation a reality.”
As Paul fought back tears for his lack of compassion for his father, the missed opportunities to repair the past, and this sudden wave of good fortune, he felt a warm wind sweep past his face and knew his parents were smiling. Showing Mr. Fitzgerald to the door and grasping his hand to shake, he felt the urge to latch on to this man, and embraced him in a warm hug. “I’ll call you tomorrow to set up our next appointment, Mr. Fitzgerald. Thank you so much for everything you’ve done for our family.”
Closing the door behind him, eyes trained on Elizabeth and his sleeping baby, Paul sank into the last available spot on the sofa and let out a long sigh. The room was still as the full meaning of the gift he had received sank in. Rex stirred, and as Elizabeth tried to quiet him again, Paul interrupted, “I can’t be quiet at a time like this! Let’s wake up our baby, turn the radio up as high as it will go, and dance! I want to celebrate!” Rex opened his eyes wide and Elizabeth didn’t mind one bit. She cast an elated look at Paul, then glanced down at Rex and whispered, “Hear that, our little boy. We have a house, a home, a place for all of us to grow into one happy family . . . forever.”
Keep Forever Page 12
