by P. S. Wright
helped." Tears and snot ran down his face. Bryan stared at him levelly. There was the slightest shake of his head, almost imperceptible.
"I'm sorry. I was responsible for them and I let them take my boys. I'm so sorry."
Bryan's brown eyes, so like his brother's, fixed on Kraut. "What do you want me to say? Do you want me to say it's ok? Do want me to say it's ok you gave him to those bastards knowing they was going to kill him?" Kraut tried to answer. The words got stuck in his throat. "Do you want me to say that other boy deserved to live so it's ok you gave them my brother instead?" His voice rose as the anger rose in those brown eyes. "Why are you still here? Why are you here and my brother is dead huh? Why are you still here?" His fist came down on the table.
Kraut's heart slammed against his ribcage. It hurt. He clutched the coin in his fist and waited for the first blow to fall. The faces behind the mirror would not come to his aid. They had never been there for him.
Bryan sat back down, wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, rubbed his jaw. "Did he die right away? It was instant?"
Kraut struggled to produce enough saliva to speak. He swallowed and swallowed again. "I tried to go to him. They wouldn't let me."
"That's not what I asked. Did he suffer?" Bryan was speaking in his smooth voice again. He was in control again.
Kraut blinked. "They made me wait all day. He was laying there in the sun, all day. I had to get somebody to help me. Nobody wanted to help. They didn't want to get in trouble. By the time we got to him... I tried to help. I was gonna move him, but it hurt too much."
"So you left him there? You just left him?"
Kraut shook his head and sniffed back the flow of tears that just wouldn't stop. "No. We buried him."
Bryan glared at Kraut. He waited, waited for any other detail that might make it make sense, might make it better. He waited for some excuse.
Kraut sagged. They had said it would make him feel better. He had told the truth. He felt exhausted, spent, and dirty. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
Bryan Browne stormed out, leaving the door gaping open.
Kraut looked up at the light intruding into the room through the open door. There was no welcome relief through that door. He laid his head on the table, letting the cool of the metal soothe his headache. His stomach was churning. His heart hurt. He had not had a drink in one year, three months, and six days. He had died on an trauma center gurney one year, three months, and six days ago when his heart had stopped, a rupture of his aorta, years of drug abuse, alcoholism, and hard living. He had died for three minutes, but he had been dead for five years by then. He waited for someone to come and tell him to go but they weren't coming. He was all alone, on his own, as he had always been. He had not had a drink in one year, three months, and six days... and he wanted one now.
He stood and wobbled, his legs shook beneath him. Somehow he made it out the door and down the hall past the babble of conversation and confusion of bureaucratic workers shuffling papers and lives with equal indifference. Out to the street, he pushed the door that said pull, leaving by the entrance, another meaningless act of pointless defiance. Sun streamed down between the buildings. But the birds did not sing and the clouds did not part. No rainbows appeared. There was no soaring music. To his left a Hispanic lady was screaming at her boyfriend. A little boy across the street made a rude gesture at him and earned a smack from his mother or grandmother before they boarded the bus. There was a liquor store across the street. He ripped the coin from around his neck and passed it from hand to hand. "Where were you when I needed you?" He tossed it into the gutter and stepped off the curb.
A police car screamed up. Kraut jumped back to avoid being run over. The cop failed to notice his existence. There were other bars and liquor stores right on this very street. He turned his feet in the direction of the corner. The deli and bar were separated by a single half wall. He was violating his parole by just walking in there but it had been one year, three months, and six days. He entered through the deli, hoping no one would ask for his identification. He almost did not seem him. He almost walked right past. Mister Taylor's eyes were red and foggy. He was cradling his coffee with both hands. He didn't recognize Kraut. Kraut could just walk on by, say nothing. He could not do it. He was not sure what made him say, "Hey, room for one more?"
Mister Taylor looked surprised. Before he could answer Kraut slid into the seat opposite him at the booth. Mister Taylor choked back a sob. "I can't do it anymore."
"What do you mean?" He knew. Of course he knew. He had walked right up to that moment. He had put the gun in his mouth. In the end, he had taken a more cowardly approach, killing himself with the booze and drugs.
"I can't go on without him--or her. I can't. At least when we didn't know, I had to stay around just to find out. But now what? I know. It doesn't make it better. Now what?"
"I know." Kraut had thought the truth would set him free. He had thought it would lift the burden off his heart so he could breathe again.
"I miss him so much."
"Me too."
"It's my fault. That's why she left me. It's my fault." Kraut shook his head. The man went on. "It was my decision. She was against it. He needed direction. We weren't able to discipline him. My wife was a pushover. I was gone at work all the time. They promised so much. I was just being lazy. Work was more important than my own kid. They never said something like this could happen."
"It's not your fault. You couldn't have known. Nobody did."
"I was his father. I should have asked the questions. I should have insisted. I should have worked on my family more and my stupid job less. All he wanted was my attention." Mister Taylor turned sad eyes on Kraut. "You said he was a good boy, never whined."
"Never."
"He whined all the time."
"Never." Kraut repeated, firmly. "He was a good boy and he never complained, worked hard."
"You gave him more attention than I ever did. You loved him better."
Kraut's heart hurt. The clouds had not cleared. Rainbows had not appeared. It had been one rough year, three hard months, and six lousy days, and the one thing he did not need now, right now, was a drink.
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