by Unknown
So what would he do? It was then that a second question surfaced.
What do I have to live for? He had no answer.
He decided to try to reconnect with his children and grandchildren. That he hadn’t been the model father was not his fault. His ex-wife had won custody of the children and he saw them so infrequently after the divorce the bond he’d had with each quickly dissipated.
He called Stephen, his oldest son, who had always been his favorite. Before the divorce he had taken Stephen to see Sixers basketball contests and Phillies baseball games. They’d replay the game on the way home. Stephen had been a fanatical fan. No matter how bad a season the team was having, Stephen looked on the bright side. A prolonged winning streak. Once in the playoffs anything could happen. His son was an eternal optimist.
He called Stephen now and his nine-year-old granddaughter Carly answered. After a quick hello, she called out to her father. James was sorely disappointed. He’d wanted to ask his granddaughter about school and activities she was involved in, but she hadn’t given him the chance.
“ … calling, Dad?”
“What?” James asked. His son was talking to him. His mind had drifted.
“Why are you calling, Dad?” Stephen asked, again. James heard concern in his son’s voice.
“Do I need a reason to call?” James asked. “Maybe I just want to shoot the shit with my son. You know talk about the Sixers.”
“Dad, I live in New Mexico. I haven’t been in Philly in over thirty years.”
“You don’t keep up with the Sixers?” James asked, perplexed. “You were such a rabid fan.”
“I didn’t have a job or family then,” his son said. “I don’t have time for frivolous pursuits.”
“Like talking to your old man,” James said and instantly regretted the rebuke. Then he was angry at himself. He might not have been the best father in the world, but it hadn’t been completely his fault. His wife had taken his kids from him. And now his son wanted to dismiss him. For a fleeting minute he thought of the gun that rested in a drawer on a night table beside his bed.
“I didn’t mean that,” Stephen said. “Look, is something wrong, Dad?” He sounded impatient to James, like he wanted to end the conversation unless there was some emergency.
“I’m fine son,” James said. “As important as your job and family are you have to make time for yourself.”
“Easy for you to say now that you’re retired,” Stephen said. “Now are you going to tell me what’s bothering you?”
I’m lonely James wanted to say, but he held his tongue. “Nothing son. Really, I just called to shoot the breeze.”
“I’d like to talk, Dad. I really would, but I have to take Billy to soccer practice, Jason to the orthodontist and Carly has a girl scout meeting.”
“I didn’t mean to impose,” James said.
“Look, I gotta go. I’ll call you in a few days when it’s not so hectic,” Stephen said. “Promise. Okay?”
Stephen hung up before James could answer. Moments later James found his gun in his hand. “You’ve gone too far, Stephen,” he said aloud. He pointed the empty gun at a picture of his son and blew his brains out. “You little shit,” he shouted. “You don’t know what it is to be … to be alone. All I wanted was to chat. But, no, you’re too busy for your old man. Wonder how busy you’d be if I flew out and stuck this gun in your face?” He was standing now, shouting at the picture of his son, pointing the gun steady just as he’d been instructed. “And that bitch daughter of yours. Didn’t you teach her any manners? I’m her grandfather, her fucking grandfather but she doesn’t want a thing to do with me.” He pointed the gun at a picture of his granddaughter. “Maybe this will convince you to be polite,” James said, unaware he was shouting. Slowly he calmed down. Maybe Stephen would call. He’d give his son a chance. Stephen, after all, wasn’t a bad kid. Just a little too preoccupied with his own life to worry about his father.
His son hadn’t called back. Any number of times James put his hand on the receiver. But he feared catching his son on another of those days when his family responsibilities overwhelmed him. So much for reconnecting with his family. And he felt foolish when he thought he would use his gun on his son or granddaughter. No, if he used his gun there were far more deserving targets.
On a whim, while downtown one day for his six month checkup, James returned to his school to visit. Maybe, he thought, he’d volunteer some of his time. He could come in when he wanted and leave when the spirit moved him. Best of all he would no longer have to fear his old pal Mr. Scalia, his former boss. Unfortunately, he felt like an outsider as soon as he stepped in the building. Over the past six months he’d forgotten the names of many teachers on the staff. Hell, in his last years he barely knew the names of a third of those who taught. He was met with stares of indifference or a polite but insincere hello.
Then he bumped into Pat Rutherford, the school counselor. She had also been the school’s union representative. While not close the two had talked often about the sorry state of education and the ineffectiveness of their union. He remembered, with a chuckle, how Pat had hounded him for three dollars to pay for a gift when Principal Scalia remarried. James had been adamant. He detested the man. He was no hypocrite. He didn’t care if it got back to Scalia that he’d been the only one on the staff not to contribute. If nothing else James had principles. No, he told Pat half a dozen times. But Pat had finally worn him down. “Forget Scalia. Do it as a favor to me,” she implored. Why it was so important to her James had no idea, but he’d relented. Now seeing her he thought she was someone he could relate to.
“Pat, it’s good to see you,” James said.
“Good to see you … James,” she said. James had the impression she’d had to dredge up his name. Had she already forgotten him in six months? “How’s retirement treating you?” she asked, with what looked like a forced smile. She looked at her watch. James didn’t have to be a rocket scientist to know what was coming next. “I’d love to stay and chat, but I have a meeting to attend,” she said. “Maybe some other time. No … definitely some other time.”
Right, James thought. A not too subtle brush off. As Pat walked down the hall James couldn’t control himself. “That three dollars I gave you for Scalia’s wedding present. Think I could have it back?”
Pat turned and looked at James oddly. “You haven’t lost your sense of humor, I see,” she said, then made her way down the hall.
I was being serious, James wanted to reply, but thought the better of it. So much for a meaningful conversation with Pat.
He went outside and watched students at recess. Seeing several children taunting and chasing a small, chubby boy with glasses brought back ugly memories he longed to suppress. “Animals,” he said aloud, not deserving his time. He left vowing never to return.
At home that night James sat in his lounger and cleaned his gun. Lately he’d taken it out of his drawer several times a week and indulged in fantasies. “Pat,” he said aloud, “You really should have taken the time to talk with me. But you were too busy.” He pointed the gun at the imaginary Pat and ended her life. Then he imagined bumping into Scalia who had heard the commotion. James pointed the gun at Scalia’s groin. “I was going to kill you, you son-of-a-bitch, but I think I’ll just shoot you in the balls. See how high and mighty you are when you recover. Every time you berate someone their eyes will venture downward, knowing you don’t have to balls to carry out your threat … literally.”
What appealed to him most about this scenario was he really wouldn’t be held accountable for his actions. Not for long anyway. He was an old man. Life in prison didn’t have the same meaning to James as it would to some teen who shot another in a drive-by.
There were days when James put the gun in his pants pocket with the intention of visiting his old school and settling some old scores. But common sense always prevailed. At times, though, just barely.
When the weather broke and it was breezy and balmy witho
ut being stifling James walked over to Rittenhouse Park where he had often taken his students on scavenger hunts. It literally took up an entire city block. On three sides were apartment houses and office buildings. On the fourth side was a bank and stores. An oasis in the middle of the city, so out of place, James thought often, but somehow just so right. Mothers chatted while their young children played. Senior citizens sat on benches, some feeding bread to the hordes of pigeons who shared the park. A few homeless men made the grass their bed. The police would occasionally shoo them away, but as they seldom bothered anyone the police just as often ignored their presence.
James sat on a bench taking it all in. He tried to ignore the ever present question of what he would do with his days. Today he was sitting in a park taking in the sights, sounds and smells he had so often taken for granted. But this was only a temporary respite. He couldn’t very well come here daily. Yes, he had something to do today, he thought, then sighed. But what about tomorrow?
“Mr. Hennings?” a voice asked tentatively, taking James by surprise. He looked up and saw a teenager who looked vaguely familiar. “Mark Connors,” the youth said, when James didn’t reply. “I was a student of yours in the sixth grade. I wouldn’t expect you to …”
“I do remember you, Mark,” James said, before the boy could finish. “You’ve grown, of course, but you haven’t really changed,” he went on. James remembered Mark Connors as introverted with few friends. He still wore thick horn-rimmed eyeglasses. He still had a shock of long brown hair, with bangs that reached past the tips of his glasses. Sometimes James thought Mark hid behind the hair, a blanket obscuring his eyes. “Aren’t you supposed to be at school?” he asked.
“I go to the School for the Performing Arts,” he said. “They’re having a half day. Some teacher’s conference at the school.”
“You played piano,” James said, remembering how Mark helped out the music teacher during lessons. “You were quite good.”
Mark blushed. “I didn’t think you’d remember. I … well, I sort of blended into the background. The piano was my ticket into the School for the Performing Arts. I do my thing, but I’m still pretty much a loner.” While they talked James noticed several people pass them by, giving them odd looks. A young boy with an old man, he imagined them thinking. James must be some kind of pervert. He ignored them.
Mark looked at his watch. “I’ve got to run some errands for my mother. I wish we could talk longer. There are so few people I can relate to, but I always seemed to be able to talk to you.” He paused. “I … I get an hour for lunch each day. Tuesdays and Thursdays I have a study hall right after. I don’t want to impose, but if you’re not busy we could have lunch here Thursday. You probably have other plans but …”
“I’d love to,” James said. “Same time, same place?” he asked.
“Sure,” Mark said, then hustled off.
James looked at his watch. Two hours had passed. He couldn’t believe it. It seemed more like half-an-hour. Mark was very much like his son Stephen before the divorce and custody battle. He hadn’t known Mark was such a rabid sports fan. They’d talked about everything he’d wanted to talk to his son about. The Sixers, Phillies and Flyers, the city’s hockey team. Yes, James had had something to do today. He couldn’t wait until Thursday.
Thursday James was waiting when Mark came jogging into the park. James had felt a bit like a fool. He kept telling himself that Mark wouldn’t show. Yes, they’d enjoyed one another’s company, but Mark surely had had his fill of his former teacher. He’d probably use his lunch hour and study hall to practice the piano. James had bought two hoagies at a Wawa convenience store. The smell was delicious but James refused to give into the temptation to eat before Mark arrived … if he arrived. He’d just about given up hope when he saw Mark. Glancing at his watch he saw Mark hadn’t been late. James’s apprehension had gotten the best of him. James took out one of the hoagies and held it out to Mark. The youth laughed. From a bag of his own Mark took out a hoagie and held it out to James. “I didn’t know if you’d bring your own lunch,” Mark said. Soon they were both laughing. Then talking. Time flew, just as it had the first time. The only disquieting moment was when two teens, obviously cutting class, looked at the two of them and began laughing. James couldn’t make out their words. He wondered if Mark felt uncomfortable, but looking at the boy it didn’t seem like he cared at all. Their time together passed all too quickly. If Mark didn’t hustle he’d be late for class, he’d told James, reluctantly getting up.
“Next Tuesday?” Mark asked, tentatively.
“I’d love it,” James said.
“I’ll bring lunch,” both of them said at the same time and laughed.
“We’ll alternate,” James said. “I bring the hoagies next Tuesday. No arguing with your elders,” he added when he saw Mark about to protest. Mark nodded, smiled then jogged across the park, turning around and waving as he neared the exit.
Tuesday couldn’t come too soon for James. This time as he sat on the bench he was far less apprehensive. Looking at his watch he saw he’d arrived fifteen minutes early. He relaxed. Mark has classes, after all. He couldn’t arrive whenever he wanted. Mark arrived right on time. James handed him a hoagie and soda. Mark took a bite. His mouth still full he nodded towards James. “Even a bad hoagie—and this isn’t half bad—is delicious,” he said after he’d swallowed.
James and Mark were discussing the failings of organized religion when a mother and her daughter walked by. The little girl, who couldn’t have been older than seven, was holding her mother’s hand. She stopped in front of the bench upon which James and Mark were sitting. Her mother gave a slight tug, but the child held her ground. “It’s not polite to stare,” the mother whispered to her daughter, but James overheard her.
“Why are you talking to yourself, Mister?” the girl said, looking at James.
“Hannah!” the girl’s mother said, in a louder voice. “That’s enough.” This time she tugged a bit harder and the girl went with her mother. She stared back at James several times before being distracted by pigeons her mother allowed her to chase.
James didn’t understand. What did the little girl mean? He turned towards Mark and the boy was gone. On the bench where Mark had sat was a wrapped hoagie. My god, James thought. I’ve been talking to myself. I created a … a friend to talk to. “I feel like such a fool,” he said, aloud. This time a number of others turned and looked at him oddly. James rose and left the park as quickly as his sixty-five-year-old legs would take him. He couldn’t have been more embarrassed if he had peed on himself.
At home he debated with himself long and hard whether he had just been lonely or was going mad? With no one to confide in—not even Mark, he thought bitterly—he chose the former. He vowed, though, never to return to the park again. He took out his gun and for the first time seriously debated ending his life. He loaded a single bullet in the gun. He cursed himself that he hadn’t bought a revolver. Russian Roulette. Let the fates determine whether he’d live or die. But, with the gun he’d purchased with the bullet in the chamber, if he fired the outcome was certain. Still, what the hell did he have to live for? And creating an imaginary friend. How could he? Kids, little kids invented friends to play with, not grown men. What have I become? James wondered. He held the gun to his temple, his finger on the trigger. Then he started to cry as he lowered the gun. He didn’t even have the courage to end his pitiful existence. He cried himself to sleep in his lounger, waking up for his nightly pee at three in the morning. His back ached. He jumped at the sound the gun made when it fell to the floor as he stood up. He’d completely forgotten about the gun. Then he began to laugh hysterically. What if it had gone off? What if coward that he was he had accidentally killed himself? What a hoot he thought and laughed again. When he got into his bed his sleep was fitful, full of images of all who had wronged him. His gun in his hand he shot each in the face, obliterating their features. But like clay their faces would reassemble and they’d laug
h at him for his inadequacy. He couldn’t even kill right.
Soon it wasn’t what should he do with his life, but what should he do today? And the day before when he looked at his list for the first time it was blank. He stared for what must have been twenty minutes at the paper, his hand trembling. “What do I do today?” he asked aloud. The phone rang. It was a solicitation for life insurance. While fully covered he listened to the man’s spiel, then politely declined. It had given him something to do, even if for just ten minutes. He hung up and looked at the phone for fifteen minutes willing it to ring again.
Surely Sprint or MCI would want his long distance business.
A knock on the door. James padded downstairs in his slippers and bathrobe expecting to be greeted by a pair of Jehovah’s Witnesses. They always seemed to travel in pairs he thought. Before his retirement he’d shunned such visitors. Now, though he had no desire to convert, they could at least spice up his day.
He opened the door and saw a package. A UPS driver was on his way back to his tell-tale brown truck. James picked up the box the man had left. Excitement gripped him, which quickly turned to disappointment. Wrong address. He called out to the driver. The man must not have heard him. He got into his truck and drove away.
Later he went outside for a walk. He saw his next door neighbor, Thomas McGinley mowing his lawn. McGinley looked his way. James didn’t know his neighbors well at all. He’d kept pretty much to himself. McGinley, also retired, seemed nice enough, though. Maybe a brief conversation. James waved and said hello. McGinley ignored him. James hand went instinctively to his pocket. He now carried his gun with him. Ignore me, McGinley? Ignore this! He imagined taking out his gun and pointing it as his neighbor. How rude would he be then?
