by Will Searcy
before. My wife took a cautious step towards my son, and then fell on top of him and wept.
I still grieved but was not lost in it. My wife had intruded. She stole my grief from me, and that loss amplified the loss of my son. I resented her for it.
After a while, my wife leered up at me. Mascara streaked down her face in black tears. Her eyes were wild like a Rottweiler standing guard over her puppies.
“Were you at least there?” she spat.
I was not. I was not there when Sam died. I was not there when Sam needed to be healed. I was not there when Sam needed to be held. I was not there when Sam asked to go home. I was not there. I never was. I did … nothing.
My coffee house latte rested behind me in its nook on the counter under the cabinets. Instead of sharing with my wife, I scooted to the right to hide my cup from view in that cavernous space.
5. DARKNESS
My steel and glass cage was my cave. It was my comfort, shrouded by darkness, hidden from the world. Somewhere in what remained of my heart, I knew I should fight darkness and strive for the light beyond the storm clouds overhead, but darkness was easy. It accepted my pain. It accepted me as I was. Broken. And darkness did not ask questions. Darkness let me be.
I did not sleep on the job anymore. Sleep during daylight was preferable. Many people had trouble sleeping after tragedy. My wife did. She said so in one of her numerous attempts to confide in me with the hope of reciprocity. I never had trouble sleeping. Waking hours were worse.
Since my pop moved in after the funeral, it had been hard to find privacy. He was a blustering old man who loved to offer his thoughts and emotions like a used car salesmen peddling Buicks and Chevys. My pop was the type that found beauty in bawling, joys in pain. He said it reminded him of his blessings.
He moved into Sam’s room - my second betrayal to my dead son. He said it was to keep an eye on us. My wife said he was trying to provide normalcy, to make the house feel less empty. I found it presumptuous that my decaying dad believed he could replace my son. The only trait they shared in common was pissing themselves. I wished he would just leave me alone, but he refused. Everyone refused to leave me alone. That was why I loved my glass and steel cave, hidden in plain view.
I started reading again, although I did not feel smart. My son’s death had made the ultimate fool of me. Either I was gullible enough to think I could save the unsalvageable or too inadequate to do what a superior man could have done. Either way, I knew I was wrong about the most important thing in my life. That truth left me feeling as dumb as a bridge operator should feel, regardless of what I read. Still, I had time and I favored basking in my ignorance to resting enough to face my father in daylight.
That night, the book was Dante’s Inferno. I knew it was a morbid choice for a man with a deceased son, but I wanted to know what to expect. As far as I could tell, Sam did not belong. He was such a good boy! The mildest outer rings were no place for a boy like Sam. So, my reading indulged my own expectations for the afterlife, if it existed. The first four circles of Hell seemed like child’s play to me. Surely, I was worse. Things heated up come the fifth circle. I could relate to anger, but I did not tend to act upon it. The sixth circle rang a bell. Since God denied me my only true prayer, I knew He did not exist. He had no proof. All he had was a book a few thousand years old. A book of supposed fact. I did not trust current non-fiction, so I refused to believe something so old and intangible. Heresy was definitely on the table for me, and I did not even mind the punishment. While flaming tombs would get old, knowing nothing of the present was like a dream. Knowing nothing was akin to invisibility, but better. It meant being unaware of existence. Unaware of loss.
Upon further thought, I realized I favored the knowledge of the future more than complete ignorance in the present. Knowing the future would allow me to prepare for it. I would never be made a fool again. I would know what to expect. I would know.
I guess I did not wholly believe God did not exist. I was still open to a miracle, to Him proving it in some way, but I wanted to know. In that vein, perhaps I was a better fit for anger. Maybe I was angry with God. He took my son. He forced me to suffer the most unimaginable pain a father could face. I had the right to be angry at the being responsible for fate. That felt like justice. I felt vindicated just by thinking it.
A loud blast of a horn drew my attention away from my reading. It was time to lift the bridge and let a ship through. As I did, I noticed an unwelcome sight. A purple haze glowed on the horizon. The sun would soon shine. My cave would be locked away, and I would be forced to return home where I would try to sleep the day away.
My wife no longer juggled the universe. Since our son died, she worked less and cared little about her job. Losing our son was a financial boon for us. Our health insurance dropped as well as our living expenses. Long hours at work were not necessary anymore. We did not have anyone to work for now. So, when I arrived home, my wife was enjoying a cup of coffee at the table, waiting for me.
I sighed as I closed the door behind myself and walked to the kitchen.
“How was work?” my wife asked in feigned enthusiasm.
“Quiet,” I said, wishing she would take it as a request.
She nodded and sipped her coffee. Then, she returned her attention to her newspaper. My pop had insisted on getting a newspaper subscription, so we could “stay tapped into the world”. It was wasted effort.
“Anything interesting happen?” she asked.
“Like what?” I replied.
“I don’t know. Did you see any shady characters or fancy boats or anything?”
I paused as I debated cereals. I chose Cheerios.
“No,” I replied.
I poured my Cheerios in a bowl and topped them with chocolate milk. That was how Sam liked them.
“Are you reading anything interesting?” she asked.
I sat at the table and dug into my Cheerios. “No,” I said with a full mouth.
She nodded and looked down at her newspaper. This inquisition was typical. My wife thought small talk would fix everything. A casual chat would soothe away the hurt and serve as a gateway to a bigger conversation. I kept that gate closed.
“Aren’t you going to be late for work?” I asked.
“It’s Sunday,” my wife said.
I ate more Cheerios and pretended that had no significance.
“Your father suggested we could all go to church together.”
I finished my Cheerios in silence and slurped the chocolate milk out of the bowl, like Sam would, and then left my bowl in the sink.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m tired,” I said as I walked to the bedroom without looking back at her.
The bed was made. My wife probably thought I would appreciate the gesture. I thought it was a waste of time. I scattered the throw pillows, tore back the comforter, and crashed into bed.
In spite of my desire for sleep, I was wide-awake. I was angry. Mostly at my wife. Partly at life in general, but mostly at my wife. She acted so normal. She wanted a healthy marriage full of “healthy” conversations about our dead son in which we would “share” all our fears and disappointments and agony. She wanted to be like all the normal people in the world and deal with this like normal people did. I hated normal people. Normal people did not bury their sons.
I felt someone hovering in the doorway, so I held still. The body did not leave for what felt like minutes. A tickle on my nose began tormenting me. I did not dare scratch it, because that would give me away. It would make me visible.
“You asleep, Thomas?” a voice boomed.
It was my father. I could picture his stupid smiling face. The thought of rolling over and seeing it made my stomach churn, so I stayed frozen.
“Sleep’s supposed to be for the weary, not the young,” my father said.
He waited; probably
thinking his attempt at wit would elicit a chuckle. I did not find it funny.
“Okay, I guess you’re asleep,” he all but shouted. “We’ll just go to church this afternoon when you’re awake.”
Dread weighed heavy in my stomach. I rolled over and got up.
I went to church without protest despite my desire to not go. When Sam was alive, I was the one who championed our church attendance. I wanted Sam to grow up with faith and discipline. I wanted him to be a good man when he was grown. Also, I thought I believed. My pop had raised me to go to church and believe in God. He put it in my head, if not my heart, and that was what God had become to me – nothing more than an empty cliché.
The priest spoke, and like everyone else in the church, I thought his sermon was meant specifically for me. He spoke of light and darkness, how we would not be caught sleeping when death came like a thief in the night, because we were children of the day and accepted our salvation. I thought about Sam and felt the lump overtake my esophagus and my eyes mist.
When it came time to pray, I tried. I tried to speak to God, but all I wanted to do was ask for my son back. I wanted Sam to be alive, in spirit if nothing else. If that were true, I wanted to see him. I would wish for death so I could join him, but Dante informed me where I would end up, and it was not with Sam. I considered praying for forgiveness, but it would be insincere. I was not the one in the wrong.
All my prayer amounted to