They Never Die Quietly

by D. M. Annechino

  “Hey, bud, got any spare change?” His raspy voice typified alcohol-damaged vocal cords.

  The sand felt cool under Simon’s bare feet. “What exactly is spare change?”

  The man gave Simon a cold stare. “You know. The coins jingling in the pockets of that fancy suit.”

  “Tell me something, my friend,” Simon said. “If I were to give you some spare change, what would you do with it?”

  The man cocked his head as if he were carefully considering Simon’s question. “I ain’t gonna bullshit you, bud.” The man stood up and brushed the sand off his pants. “I’m about seventy-five cents short of a pint of Wild Turkey.”

  Simon guessed that the almost-six-foot man weighed barely a hundred and thirty pounds. “How long since you enjoyed a good meal?”

  “Look, bud, if you got a few coins, I sure would appreciate it. But I ain’t one for interviews.”

  “If you want me to give you money, the least you could do is answer a civil question.”

  The man pondered this for a minute. He licked his lips and took a swig from a paper-concealed bottle. “Lots of competition here in the beach area. Tourists are a little more generous than the locals. This time of the year, Christmas and all, it’s tough. On a good day I can scrounge enough money to stay shit-faced and keep me out of the morgue.”

  “What do you usually eat?”

  The man smiled and shook his head. “Surf and turf.”

  Simon turned away from the man and headed for the water. “If you’re going to insult me, I guess there’s no need for us to continue with this conversation.”

  “Look, bud, what do you want from me? Wanna hear my hard-luck story? That I lost my job? That my wife left me? That I’m a victim of the system?”

  “Just looking for honesty.”

  The man tipped back his head and poured the remaining alcohol into his mouth. Like a basketball player shooting a foul shot, he lofted the empty bottle into the nearby trash can. “Mostly I chow down at Pancho’s—a Mexican joint a few blocks away. They got five tacos for two-fifty. It ain’t exactly the Ritz, but it keeps me on the breathing side of the dirt.”

  “So all you eat are tacos?”

  “A Big Mac now and then. I love Mickey-Dee’s French fries.”

  “If you didn’t buy liquor you’d be able to eat better meals, right?”

  The man scratched his beard. “You some kinda social worker, or an AA member?”

  “Just a servant of God.”

  The man stepped back, almost as if he were shoved. “Is that right? Well, maybe you’d be kind enough to give your God a message from John T. Williamson.” The man paused for a moment and fixed his eyes on Simon’s face. “Tell him that the world he created in six days really sucks. And for some folks, living on this Earth ain’t no Garden of Eden.”

  Surprised that the man’s blasphemous accusation did not enrage him, Simon smiled. “Do you really believe that God should be held accountable for your chosen lifestyle?”

  “Look, bud, all I asked for was some spare change, not a Sunday sermon.”

  Simon dropped his shoes and socks on the sand, reached in his pants pocket, and removed a wad of cash folded neatly in half and held with a gold money clip. He moistened his fingers and peeled a fifty-dollar bill from the stack. “Are you a man of integrity, Mr. Williamson?”

  The man squinted, as if he were trying to see the denomination of the bill Simon held between his thumb and index finger. “I don’t rape, pillage, or steal, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Promise me three things”—Simon waved the fifty—“and this fifty-dollar bill is yours.”

  The man studied Simon suspiciously. “You ain’t one of those butt pirates, are you?”

  Annoyed with the insinuation, Simon shook his head. “Interested or not?”

  “As long as there ain’t nothing kinky going on.”

  “On Christmas Day,” Simon said, “I would like you to attend the ten o’clock services at Saint Michael’s Church on Reed Street. It’s right next to the library, only four blocks from here.”

  “My wardrobe ain’t exactly fit for church.”

  “What you wear does not concern God.”

  He nodded. “Okay.”

  “After the services, assemble as many of your homeless friends as possible, catch the southbound bus on Grand Avenue, and take it to Katie’s Kitchen in South San Diego. I want you and your buddies to enjoy a traditional Christmas dinner.”

  “I heard of the place but never been there.” A strong wind blew in from the west. The man zipped up his jacket. “And what’s the last thing?”

  “From midnight Christmas Eve to midnight Christmas Day, promise me that you won’t touch a drop of alcohol.”

  The man scratched his beard. “That’s a mighty tall request, bud.”

  “I won’t be looking over your shoulder, but if you agree I expect you to keep your word.”

  The man stepped toward Simon and held out his hand. “You got a deal, mister.”

  Simon handed him the fifty. He bent over and picked up his shoes and socks. “What size shoes do you wear?”

  Williamson stuffed the fifty in his jacket pocket. “Eleven.”

  Simon handed him the two-hundred-dollar loafers. “You have a Merry Christmas, Mr. Williamson.”

  The man clutched the shoes to his breast as if they were a newborn baby. “You’re a solid citizen, sir. God bless you.”

  Williamson watched Simon head north, noticing that the generous man walked with a limp.

  Only inches from the waves splashing the shoreline, Simon moseyed northward toward La Jolla. He had no particular destination in mind, only wanted to benefit from the ocean’s salutary peacefulness. The farther he strolled, the fewer people he encountered. When he reached a remote area of rock formations, a cape of sorts, Simon, his right foot now aching from negotiating his way over jagged stones, found a boulder with a flat surface, sat down and elevated his foot. The wind had picked up and the air felt much too cool for his lightweight suit. He pulled up the collar and closed the front of his jacket. In spite of the unfriendly air, a feeling of tranquility soothed Simon. His body warmed from within. He felt good about himself and his purpose in life. He had made some mistakes. Like all weak mortals, Simon had broken God’s laws. But in the Master’s plan for mankind, He had provided divine forgiveness. Simon inhaled the salty air and felt his heart swell with excitement. One day soon he would be eternally rewarded for his intrepid crusade.

  Simon had always felt an innate connection to water. With its sophisticated ecosystem and innumerable species—many yet undiscovered, others having survived centuries of evolution—the vast oceans dramatically represented God’s masterful and unlimited creative genius. Not that Simon needed proof to support God’s all-good and all-knowing qualities, but the ocean offered countless examples of His wisdom.

  Simon had lived most of his life in Corpus Christi, Texas, on the Gulf of Mexico, and his affinity for water began at an early age. As a child he would sit on the pier in the harbor and watch fishing boats for hours, imagining what it would be like if he could breathe underwater and swim with whales and dolphins and manta rays. He had become a certified open-water scuba diver before his fifteenth birthday. By the time he turned eighteen, he had earned the status of dive master and had completed specialty courses in wreck diving, night diving, and underwater naturalist.

  The wind whistled in his ears. The moon slipped behind one of the few clouds in the jet-black sky.

  You have betrayed me, my impious son.

  Her words exploded in his ears like a gunshot. “Leave me alone, Mother. Haven’t you hurt me enough?”

  Such a naïve little boy. Did you think that I would let you dismiss me like some cheap whore?

  “You are a sinner, Mother, a woman unworthy of a loving son.”

  Oh, but you are so wrong, Simon. Remember those nights in my bed? Those long, lazy afternoons? Tell me that you did not enjoy the sweetness of my lips? Tell m
e that I did not taste like honey?

  He pressed his palms against his ears, but he could not silence her.

  Prove to me that I am the only woman you will ever love.

  “Please, Mother, leave me be.”

  Know this, Simon: I will never leave you. You cannot wave your hand and banish me. I will be with you forever. I will live in your head till Judgment Day.

  With his acute peripheral vision, Simon saw an indistinct figure approaching from the north. He quickly dismissed his mother’s taunting words. Turning his head, he noticed a woman tiptoeing over unstable rocks, her arms held out like someone walking a tightrope. As she moved closer, only twenty feet away, he could see her youthful face. The gusty wind disheveled her long blonde hair. Wearing blue jeans and a bulky sweater, the tall lean woman approached him. She stopped only feet away from Simon, staring at him in a peculiar way. The moon broke free from the cloud formation. The woman had the face and figure of a fashion model.

  She smiled and stuffed her hands in her Levi’s. “Thought I was the only one crazy enough to be out here tonight.” Her voice was marked by a Scandinavian accent.

  Watch out for this one, son. She will corrupt your pure heart.

  “I don’t think there’s anything crazy about listening to the ocean,” Simon said.

  “I’m Brigetta. Any room on that rock for another lonely soul?” Her soft words sounded pitifully desperate.

  Simon moved over and she sat beside him. He immediately felt warmth radiating from her body pressed against his side. He thought it odd that a woman would be so forward on a dark deserted beach. “My name’s Simon.”

  “Let me guess—your fiancée just jilted you.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Only a deeply depressed man, lost in troubled thoughts, would be sitting here alone, freezing his butt off, staring at the ocean.”

  Simon moved a few inches away from her. “I’m afraid that my story will not live up to your rather melodramatic premise.”

  For the second time, she adjusted her body against him. “So there’s no heartbreaking story?”

  He sensed her dissatisfaction with his inability to deliver a tale of woe. Maybe she herself felt melancholy and searched for comfort through another’s damaged heart. “You sound disappointed that I’m not wallowing in sorrow.”

  She planted her elbows on her knees and rested her chin on folded hands. “Misery does love company.” He noticed her staring at his bandaged foot.

  “What happened to your foot?”

  “Broke my toe.” Simon felt a compulsion to put his arm around her but fought off the instinct, believing it best not to give her the wrong idea. Especially after his mother’s warning. “What’s your story, Brigetta?”

  She cocked her head and stared past Simon. A seagull gracefully landed on a rock to their left. The curious bird cautiously studied them. “The doctors tell me if I’m lucky, I’ll live to see my nineteenth birthday.”

  At first Simon thought he hadn’t heard her clearly. But when he looked into her eyes he could see only morbid blankness. “What do you mean?”

  “Leukemia.” She picked up a small stone and heaved it at the seagull. The bird let out a sequence of loud screeches, sounding more like faulty brakes on an old car than the protest of an angry bird. Clumsily it flapped its wings, and with graceless alarm the bird lifted off the rock and flew away. “The incurable kind that strangles your liver.”

  Simon felt an impulse to harshly scold her for the blatant display of cruelty to one of God’s creations. But considering her ill-fated future he sat quietly, without comment.

  “If I had even an ounce of courage, I’d swallow a bottle of sleeping pills. But I’m too much of a wimp.”

  In spite of his common sense, Simon put his arm around her and pulled her closer. He could smell alcohol on her breath. “How much time do you have?”

  “Six, maybe eight months.”

  Moved by her hopelessness, Simon squeezed her shoulder. “I don’t wish to stick my nose where it doesn’t belong, but I have to ask you, Brigetta, are you saved?”

  “I don’t think you get it.” Her timid voice grew impatient. “I’m dying.”

  “What I’m asking is if your soul is saved.”

  “You want to know if I believe in God?”

  “Believing is not enough. Have you made peace with the Almighty?”

  She didn’t answer at first. Instead she stared at the ocean. “When I first heard the diagnosis, I spent most of my time—when I wasn’t crying of course—praying to God, Saint Jude, and the Blessed Mother, asking all of them for a miracle.” Her eyes welled with tears. “They didn’t hear me.”

  Oh, how Simon wanted to reassure her. Didn’t she realize that God had indeed answered her prayers? He had sent her to him. “I can help you, Brigetta.”

  Her head snapped toward him. “Are you a physician with a miracle cure for leukemia?”

  “I’m not talking about curing you physically.”

  Brigetta stood and steadied herself on the boulder. “You seem like a really nice guy, Simon, but what I need—”

  “What have you got to lose?”

  She pondered his words for a few moments. “Everything.”

  He stood and faced her, gripping her shoulders. “Trust me, Brigetta.”

  She gazed at him with haunted eyes. “Simon, I’ve got to cram a lifetime of fun into less than a year. If you really want to help me…”

  Be careful, son.

  “What do you want from me?” Simon asked.

  She brushed the back of her hand against his cheek. Standing on her tiptoes, she leaned into him, cupped her hand around the back of his neck, and tried to kiss him, but Simon stepped back.

  Told you, son. She’s like all the rest.

  Simon could feel his compassion for the young woman begin to fade. His face felt warm. “I’m flattered, Brigetta, honestly, but I don’t think this is a good idea.”

  “You don’t find me attractive?”

  “That’s not it at all. You’re a beautiful young—”

  “Then why?”

  Silence.

  She shook her head and snickered, then pushed her hair out of her eyes. “What man in his right mind would turn down a sure thing?”

  “A man with integrity and moral fiber.”

  “Are you gay?”

  His anger swelled. “Of course not.”

  “Then why are you being so difficult?”

  “I can only help you spiritually.”

  Brigetta’s face contorted. “Is it because I’m dying? Does that sicken you? Afraid you’ll get infected or something?”

  “Brigetta, please don’t do this.”

  She didn’t sense the danger. “Are you impotent?”

  Simon took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Brigetta, please.”

  “I’m not asking for an engagement ring.”

  Are you going to let her humiliate you, son?

  “I have a great deal of empathy for you, Brigetta, but I don’t appreciate what you’re trying to do.”

  “What I’m trying to do is have a little fun before I fucking die!”

  “You picked the wrong guy. If I’ve misled you in some way—”

  “You’re really serious, aren’t you?”

  “I think it’s time for me to go.”

  “I’ll bet you’re a fag, right?” Now she was almost screaming.

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  She taunted him with a mocking laugh. “You’re not man enough for a woman like me.”

  “Please don’t yell.”

  She loosened her belt and unzipped her jeans. “Let’s get down and dirty right here on the sand.”

  He turned and moved away from her. She grasped his shirtsleeve, her long fingernails digging into his skin.

  “Let go of me, Brigetta.”

  Without saying a word, she cocked her arm and slapped him hard. He shook it off, but his face was on fire.
<
br />   As if he were standing in a dark tunnel, Simon’s eyes went black for a moment. When he opened his eyes, Bonnie Jean Oliver stood in front of him.

  Not all souls can be cleansed, my sweet boy.

  ELEVEN

  Saturday evening at eight-fifteen, after reading Angelina Doctor Seuss’s Green Eggs and Ham, struggling with every word as if English were Sami’s second language, she tucked her daughter in bed. “Mommy, your voice sounds funny,” Angelina had said. “Read it the good way.” In spite of Sami’s troubled state of mind, she couldn’t help but laugh at Angelina’s carefree innocence.

  Sami flipped on the night-light, and just as she partially closed the bedroom door, she heard the doorbell chime. God, no. It had to be her mother. She had insulated herself from the world for the entire day—hadn’t answered the telephone, ignored her pager, even turned off the cellular. And most remarkably she hadn’t spoken to her mother. For all Sami knew, an asteroid could be hurling toward Earth, potentially ending all life. She seriously thought about ignoring the doorbell, but there were limits to her irresponsible hiatus from humankind.

  She had spent the entire day with her daughter but hadn’t found the courage to tell her. Amid a punishing feeling of guilt, Sami’s anguish was almost unbearable. At the mere thought of revealing to Angelina that her father had died, Sami broke out in a cold sweat. How could she explain to a two-year-old that she’d never see her dad again? How could she ever expect to compose a speech so delicately diplomatic that her daughter might be spared just an ounce of the misery associated with having to spend the rest of her life as a fatherless child?

  Sami walked by the mirror mounted on the wall in the foyer and reluctantly glanced at her unkind reflection. She hadn’t showered today, and her hair looked matted and greasy. She wore an oversize terry robe that should have been cut into rags years ago. Without makeup she looked like she could play the lead in Night of the Living Dead.

  The doorbell chimed again.

  As Sami twisted the doorknob with one hand and unlocked the dead bolt with the other, she expected that her mother, annoyed and ready for a brawl, would be standing on the other side of the door with that agitated look she’d seen so often. When Sami saw her partner’s friendly face, she felt a touch of relief.