Bill Warrington's Last Chance

by James King

  You think this is funny, old man? Do you have any idea what you’ve done?

  Leave him alone, Mom. Can’t you see? Can’t you tell?

  Now you’re some sort of expert? You have no idea what your grandfather is capable of.

  Hey, Marcy . . . would you mind keeping your eyes on the road? Maybe I should drive.

  If I don’t drive, I’m likely to strangle the two of ’em. Maybe the two of you should do something instead of sitting in the back like a couple of turds.

  No, it definitely wasn’t Clare. But it was music nonetheless. Bill tried to figure out how it was possible that he’d forgotten the sound of his children’s voices, the give and take, the sudden burst of anger . . . or laughter. How was it possible to miss it? They were right there. His kids. They, of course, didn’t appreciate what was happening. But eventually they would: crammed together in a crowded car, sniping at each other, wondering how many more miles to go before they got . . . where? No matter. It’d come in a second. But they’d appreciate it, he knew it. They’d look back on it and laugh when they grew up.

  Bill opened his eyes. They were passing a semi. The person sitting next to him was a grown man. They’ve all grown up. Of course. But where in the hell were they?

  He leaned forward and looked to his left. Strong-looking, good-looking men. Grown.

  “You okay, Dad?” the man sitting next to him asked. Nick. That’s who it was. He saw in Nick—had he noticed it before?—Clare’s eyes, maybe a little of his chin.

  “Beautiful,” he said.

  He saw Nick’s brow crease. How could he explain? He looked at Mike, sitting next to Nick. Was it really Mike? Something seemed off. He looked . . . old. Tired.

  Mike, or whoever it was, looked at him. He wasn’t smiling. But he didn’t look angry. Just . . . uninterested. Like he was there. Mostly just there.

  Eternity gave Bill a headache. Father Somebody-or-other was trying to explain it to the class. Think of a planet. Size of the earth. But instead of oceans and continents and trees and mountains, it is a solid ball of metal. And imagine that every thousand years, a small bird from deep space flies to the planet and pecks at it. A single peck. Once every thousand years. Makes a tiny little nick, and a sliver of the planet, small as an atom, flies off into space. How many billions and trillions of years would it be before the planet was gone? Now, children: Those billions and trillions of years are just a small nick of time in eternity. And so, children, think: Where do you want to spend eternity?

  McDonald’s.

  Bill is surprised to see a cheeseburger on a yellow piece of paper in front of him. Fries spilling out of a red cardboard box onto the paper. A small red puddle of ketchup. Someone had been talking to him. One of his children.

  You have to eat something.

  April says you always eat at McDonald’s.

  Do you want one of my onions?

  “No!” April said loudly. Bill and everyone else looked at her. “He definitely does not want an extra onion.”

  One of the men addressed her. “April, if he wants—”

  “Trust me,” April said, cutting him off, not timid at all. Go, April! “You don’t want to be in a car with him after he’s had an onion.”

  Music again. The laughter. He picked up his cheeseburger and started eating. He concentrated on the taste of the pickle. Couldn’t describe it. But he was here with his grown children, something he knew he had wanted but wasn’t quite sure why. Didn’t matter. They were talking, laughing. Bill felt the washing sensation come over him from the top of his head, sending a vaguely familiar and wonderfully warm feeling everywhere. He remembered the beach. He remembered Clare swimming up to him. Her smile. The way she wrapped her arms around his neck and the feel of her swimsuit breasts against his chest.

  He saw Nick looking at him. “You want to say something, Dad?”

  “Yeah,” Bill said. They all looked at him, holding a fry midair or a soda in hand or looking over the sandwich about to be bitten into. But he didn’t say a word. He just smiled.

  Bill’s eyes snapped open. It was like all those moments he’d woken up and realized that it’s Saturday morning, after all, that he wasn’t out in a crowd wearing only his boxers, that he hadn’t moved out of his house, and that he wasn’t back in a foxhole missing a hand or a foot. He knew exactly where he was: in a car, with his family, and they were all heading home. His kids were talking to each other. Bill couldn’t hear much of what was being said, but it didn’t matter. Nobody was yelling. They were talking. They were together.

  He felt the weight of his granddaughter next to him. He felt it was safe enough now to close his eyes again.

  And then, suddenly, he was standing outside of a hotel of some sort. People were taking turns hugging someone, calling him Mike. But when Mike stood before Bill, Bill saw that it wasn’t Mike at all. He recognized this person—the name would come to him in a moment—but it definitely was not Mike.

  “I’ll be in touch,” the man said. “And you press that button on your speed dial every now and then, okay?”

  Manny! Of course it was Manny. Bill never did buy that malarkey about Manny killing himself with his service revolver. Not the Manny he knew, the Manny he shared a foxhole with, shared a winter with, shared a lifetime with. But now Manny was leaving.

  “I never said this to you, and I wish I had,” Bill said, surprising himself, not sure where the words were coming from but knowing they were as true as anything he’d ever said in his life. “You stayed strong through some tough times with me. Makes me proud whenever I think of you.”

  And then he turned and got in the car quickly, because from the look on Manny’s face, Bill was afraid Manny might start weeping or, god forbid, try to give him a hug.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  The automatic doors whooshed open barely in time for April. She had gotten used to the slightly antiseptic smell months ago, but she w as so excited to get started with what she had planned that she wouldn’t have noticed it in any event.

  She turned left and hurried down the wide, carpeted hallways. This was one of the first things she liked about the place, one of the reasons she had argued so hard for it: the light beige carpeting, the spacious halls with paintings in frames, the large dining room to the left with cushioned wood chairs and actual tablecloths on the tables, and the activity room to the right, where people could sit in armchairs near a huge fireplace or around card tables playing cards or board games or whatever.

  “Still a nursing home, no matter what you call it,” her mother replied when April said that the place felt more like a hotel than an assisted-living facility. “Carpet’s not going to help him live longer.”

  April resisted the urge to say, I’ll remember that when it comes time for me to stick you in one of these places. She had been resisting the urge to say a lot of things these days, now that her mother seemed finally able to get through a day without some subtle reminder of the pain and agony—Yes, that’s the word I mean, young lady, agony—April had “caused” her last summer. April had argued about it with her at first, insisting it hadn’t been that big a deal, that she hadn’t been gone long enough to cause anyone enough stress to raise a zit, much less agony. But one morning she looked up from her cereal and caught her mother, elbows on the table as she sipped her coffee, staring at her. Her mother quickly shifted her eyes and pretended to be looking out the kitchen window. But in that moment, through the wisps of steam that rose up to the lines of her mother’s forehead, April saw something more than agony. She saw a quiet sort of terror.

  When April went upstairs, she typed “getting old” at the top of her TITS list. It was the last entry April made on any of her lists. She hardly even thought of them now. When she did, it was usually by accident. She might come across one as she searched for a file or folder on her computer. She might click it open and read it as if she’d come across a picture of her and Heather in seventh grade, mugging for the flashing light in one of those instant photo booths.<
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  Maybe it was that terror that had prevented her mother from punishing her. April assumed she’d be grounded for the rest of high school, but her mother had worked the silent treatment for about a month, never attempting to strike up a casual conversation—a tactic that April had always believed, before the trip, was a guilt-trip tactic her mother used to eventually pry information out of her. But as the first few weeks passed and the only times her mother talked to her was to check on homework or to announce that she was leaving to show a house, April knew that her mother wasn’t just using some ploy. She was probably quiet because she was afraid that if she brought up the subject of the trip, she’d relive feelings she never wanted to experience again. It was kind of like the time April woke up one morning—Nebraska? Wyoming?—and discovered that her grandfather had gotten up, left the room, and taken the car keys with him. He had started the motor and was sitting there, with his hand on the gear shift, as if trying to remember if he’d forgotten anything before driving away. April had talked and waited for her grandfather to remember who he was and who she was. For a few terrifying seconds before she found him she was convinced he’d never come back, as if he’d actually driven off and was now lost in the vast expanse of nothingness that surrounded them. She understood that, sometimes, the greatest fear you can have has nothing to do with your own safety.

  And so when, about six weeks after the return to Woodlake, her mother had asked her, after another silent dinner, if April was at all interested in going to see a movie with her, April burst into tears and asked—no, begged—her mother to forgive her. Her mother stood, came around the table, and cradled April’s head against her stomach until April was quiet. They didn’t go to the movies. They sat at the table and talked about what to do with Grandpa.

  This is how April knew that the whole process of finding a place for Grandpa to live was so difficult for her mother, even though she sometimes acted—especially when she was on the phone with her brothers, reporting on one or more places she and April had inspected that day—that the whole process was nothing more than another nuisance manufactured by Bill Warrington merely to disrupt everyone’s life.

  Clifton House was a perfect, unpretentious name, as far as April was concerned. And the community room really was a community room, the dining room really was a place human beings could eat in without contracting some disease eradicated centuries ago, and it was close enough for April to get to on her bike.

  April had insisted on being a part of the call with her uncles once they’d settled on the place. Her mother had purchased and installed, with the help of Hank Johnson, a new “home office” phone line with three-way conferencing capabilities. She and her mother sat next to each other at the makeshift desk in the old sewing room, talking into the phone’s speaker.

  “Sounds expensive,” Nick said after Marcy had finished her description of Clifton House. Marcy nodded. No one said anything

  “They can’t hear you nod, Mom,” April said, finally. Then, to the speakerphone: “My mom’s nodding, which means she agrees that it’s expensive but she also think it’s worth every penny, especially considering the other dumps we’ve checked out. So she’s just going to have to sell another house or two. Uncle Nick, you’re going to have to write more articles, and Uncle Mike . . . you’re just going to have to get a job.”

  For a moment, there was only the hum of the line through the phone speaker.

  “Quickly,” April added.

  A staticky laugh came through the speaker.

  “Just like your mother,” a voice said. April knew it was Uncle Mike, but for a moment she thought someone else had joined the call. And then she remembered hearing those exact words before: the first time she visited her grandfather, and he stood at the front door of his house, holding the door open for her. She had a picture in her mind that he was smiling, but chances were he hadn’t been.

  “I’m in,” Uncle Nick said.

  “Me, too,” said Uncle Mike.

  After a pause and a look at April, Marcy said, “So are we.”

  There were more conference calls as her mother and Uncle Nick made the arrangements to move their father—who put up surprisingly little resistance—and sell the house. April often didn’t understand what they were talking about, but she felt it was her duty to be there, just as it was her duty to visit him at least once a week now that he was settled at the home. She usually visited twice, often to share with him a new song she had written for her group, Hidden Agenda. The band—mostly friends of Keith Spinelli’s, who for no reason that April could put her finger on went from hot to not in her estimation—wasn’t very good. And it wasn’t actually her band, but they liked her songs.

  She’d been so busy with rehearsals and with the surprise she’d been putting together for her grandfather that she hadn’t found a chance to get to Clifton House for a little over two weeks.

  She found him sitting in front of one of the three floor-to-ceiling shelving units that represented the library collection. He had apparently dragged a folding chair from one of the long tables and placed it where he sat, hands folded in his lap, out in the open. He looked like a schoolboy serving detention.

  “That you, Clare?” he called out.

  April groaned. There were more and more Clare Days these days. It might take her a while to remind him who she was and where they were. She hoped that today, of all days, he wouldn’t be beyond her reach. She knew the day was coming when she’d never get him back.

  But, please, god, not today.

  “It’s me, Grandpa, April,” she said, walking to him. “Why are you sitting out here in the middle of the room?”

  She leaned over and kissed his cheek. She was surprised at its smoothness. And was that aftershave she smelled? She straightened and smiled as she remembered he was expecting someone. Her grandfather did not smile back.

  “Who the hell are you?” he asked. “Where’s Clare?”

  “Come on, Grandpa. Let’s go sit at the table. I’ve got something to show you.”

  She reached for his arm. He recoiled.

  “Get the hell away from me,” he said.

  April stared at him, her arm still extended to help him stand. This was a first, a rejection of some sort that April couldn’t absorb. She knew this was an off moment for him, that he couldn’t help himself. But after all they’d been through together, after everything she’d done to make sure he ended up in a better place, a place like this, she couldn’t help feeling that he was being intentionally cruel. She forced herself to do what she had seen her mother do: just keep talking as if nothing were different, nothing had changed.

  “Two surprises for you today, Grandpa,” she said, her voice quivering at first. “First, check this out.” She dug into her pocket, retrieved her new acquisition, and held it out to him. He looked at it as if he wasn’t sure she wanted him to take it. He eventually did, though, his hands looking to April skinnier, more veined, and shakier than even just a few weeks ago.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  “My driver’s license! See? That’s me.” She pointed to the picture, which had actually turned out pretty well, she thought. She didn’t look like a hillbilly or an alien.

  “I got it yesterday,” she said as her grandfather silently examined it. “The guy who graded me said it was like I’d been driving for years.” She waited for a response. “I almost said, uh, yeah—like, practically across the country and back. But I didn’t know if there was some sort of statute of limitations on that sort of thing.”

  Her grandfather continued to stare at the license, although April had a feeling he wasn’t even trying to figure out what it was. It was like he wasn’t even looking at it.

  “Remember when you first started teaching me? And then the accident and the hospital and everything? How you caught hell from Mom?” April waited, growing impatient. “Your daughter, Grandpa. Marcy?”

  Her grandfather looked up. April thought she had finally gotten through.

 
“Where’s Clare?” he asked.

  April sighed. She had wanted him in one of his sharper moods. And not just so that he could appreciate her getting her driver’s license, but also because Uncle Mike would be there. If he wasn’t with it for Uncle Mike, why would Uncle Mike bother coming to visit again? She could almost hear her uncle asking that very question. She had gotten to know him much better, through e-mails and text messages, as she planned her grandfather’s eightieth birthday party. When she left a voice mail message on his cell phone about coming to Woodlake, he texted back, asking what a girl about her age would want as a surprise gift. April thought it was cool that he could text, but he was obviously confused about whose party he was being invited to.

  GPs bday, not mine, she’d texted in reply.

  My dgtr, not u, he texted back.

  They started exchanging texts and e-mails as the day drew closer, and April learned that he’d gotten a job somewhere in Chicago selling stuff over the phone—something to do with money was all April understood. While he never came right out and said it, April realized through his questions—What bands are popular with boys today? What kind of store would a girl your age want a gift certificate from?—that her uncle was trying to win his family back. It didn’t sound like it was going too well.

  May b just some face-2-face? she suggested.

  Cuz AC will rip it off, he replied. Deservedly so.

  The “deservedly so” is what made April like her uncle, even after she found out from her mother exactly why Aunt Colleen would want to do him bodily harm.

  “Where is she?” her grandfather asked—loudly now. “She’s supposed to be here.”

  The library doors opened. A man entered with his back toward April and her grandfather as he pulled a wheelchair in. When he wheeled the chair around, April saw that he was an older man, dressed impeccably in a tie and tweed jacket, with a white handkerchief peeking up out of the front breast pocket of his jacket.