Nobodies Page 13

  According to some, O’Neill hid flasks around the church: in the vestibule, under the altar, behind the crucifix. The only confirmed location was the last. One Sunday, after catechism, an altar boy saw O’Neill remove a black object from the back of the cross, just inches below the feet and the nail.

  “Is that one of those GPS tracking things?” the boy asked, assuming it was meant to protect our Lord and Savior from thieves.

  “It’s a container,” O’Neill said, slipping the flask into his robes.

  When asked what the container contained, O’Neill replied without hesitation: “Holy water.”

  * * *

  O’Neill stops at a tasting booth, presumably to sample each bottle with poise and restraint, to sniff and swirl and sip. However, when the tattooed clerk gestures to the red, O’Neill bites his lip, waves an absolving hand, and keeps walking.

  Who is this impostor, and what has he done with O’Neill? Why is he here, if not to stock up on holy water? Maybe he knows that I’m following him. Maybe he’s following me. Maybe the Big Man sent him.

  Is O’Neill here to drop the next boulder? How does divine intervention usually work? Am I supposed to confront him, or is he supposed to approach me? Does it matter? What will happen if I just avoid him? My parents are already dead, and I renounced everyone else who matters to me. Maybe my cancer is back. But how the hell would he know that?

  O’Neill turns suddenly, as if he forgot something, and walks toward me. I duck behind the nearest display rack, but before I can peek over the top, I hear a familiar voice:

  “Charlie? Is that you?”

  * * *

  Compared to Bouts One and Two, Bout Three went well. Perhaps too well.

  The day of reckoning summoned clear, windless skies and springtime temperatures. Ideal for a round of golf or a picnic, but not for an epic rematch. I wanted hurricane winds, sheets of rain, lightning swatting planes out of the sky. Something to match the gravitas of the occasion. Something to echo the rage constricting my heart, heating my veins. I felt like a warrior on the march to a coliseum, eager to embrace another victory or accept a final defeat.

  I assumed that O’Neill was still a lightweight, but perhaps he had changed. Maybe he rediscovered his passion for God and now put on his collar with pride. Maybe he hummed his hymns with gusto and recited his sermons with delight. Maybe the blood of Christ was now reserved for worshippers only—or, at the very least, consumed in moderation. Blessed are the sober, for they shall inherit the car keys. I saw that on a bumper sticker in the parking lot and prayed that it belonged to O’Neill. But I couldn’t imagine a man of the cloth driving a mini-van.

  As I entered the church, I vowed to stay calm and engage O’Neill on the most profound levels of theology, but when I saw him sway down the aisle with his sunken, world-weary face, I knew what was about to happen.

  “You should be happy,” he said, easing into the pew. “Your parents are in Heaven.”

  “I’d be happier if they were here.”

  “I know. But rest assured they’re with God now.”

  “Well, can you ask God to give them back? They weren’t in any rush to join Him.”

  “In their hearts, they were.”

  “And in their minds, they weren’t. I wonder which organ is more relevant.”

  “I know it’s hard to understand, but this is all part of God’s plan.”

  “And the drunk driver, who got off with a fine—how does he fit into God’s plan?”

  O’Neill cleared his throat and forced a patronizing smile. “Do you want to live the rest of your life in anger?”

  “Gladly. Any other way would be an insult.”

  “They wouldn’t want you to live like this either.”

  “I don’t really see an alternative.”

  “That’s because you’ve turned away from God, my son. Away from your fellow man—”

  “If I ever see ‘my fellow man’ again, I’ll do a lot more than turn away from him. And if I see God, and He’s dumb enough to let me anywhere near those Pearly Gates, He better buckle up. Eternity’s going to be a bumpy ride with me in the back seat.”

  I knew how silly I sounded, but I didn’t care. I was striking a blow for divine justice, even if the only thing I could hit was air. Dusty, holy, otherworldly air. The air of salvation and hypocrisy. The air of divine justice.

  After twenty-five years of life, I had concluded that there was nothing just about divinity and nothing divine about justice. There was only The Incomprehensible Hereafter and The Incomprehensible Here, with little in common besides middle names. The Hereafter was, is, and always will be, the grand enigma: endlessly frustrating, perpetually fascinating, permanently out-of-reach. Like a lover who justifies their contradictions through mystery and blames their partner for their own flights of infidelity. The Here, on the other hand, was more accessible but no less absurd, and it seemed to be occupied by two types of people: The Lucky and The Unlucky—or, according to The Unlucky, The Unlucky and The Super Unlucky. Yet such pessimism was unrealistic, for many people could count themselves among The Lucky: those who had not yet been born, and those who were already dead.

  “What about your parents?” O’Neill asked. “What happens if you see them?”

  “Somehow I don’t think that will be an issue. Your God and my fellow man have made sure of that.”

  “He’s your God too, you know. For better or worse.”

  “Well, let Him know I want a divorce.” I stood and grabbed my jacket. “I met someone with horns and a tail who seems to get me.”

  “It’s up to you to close the wound, my son. No one can do it for you.”

  I started to walk away.

  “I’m not your son. Father.”

  Was that the best God could do? Or did He think so little of me that He wouldn’t even grant me a worthy opponent? Either way, I showed the Big Man what a real man looked like, and I awaited his judgment with furious glee.

  A week later, I received an unsigned, wine-stained letter with no return address:

  You arrogant, delusional brat.

  The world does not revolve around you.

  Grow up.

  Years passed. I cut off my friends, broke up with my girlfriend, and abandoned my dreams, fearing what might happen if I had something to lose. Death was not going to come from above—I knew that—but it could still arrive from the side, from the front, from behind. And I would never see it coming. God was a dog that did not need to bark; His bite spoke for itself.

  But I’m thirty-three, and I’m still waiting to feel it.

  * * *

  As O’Neill approaches, his pants rattle. Car keys. Loose change. The Holy Flask.

  “I thought it was you,” he says, tilting his head. “What are you doing down there?”

  “Uh, just tying my shoe.”

  I stand, meeting him eye to eye. He studies my hippie hair, my beard, my surf shorts. His gaze lingers, however, on my flip-flops.

  “How are you?” he asks, sizing up his opponent. “You look . . .”

  “Like a homeless Jesus?”

  He laughs and nods. “I like your sandals.”

  “I like your suit.”

  “Isn’t it nice?” He runs his hand over the fabric. “My brother was a tailor.”

  I ask if the Big Man has a dress code.

  “I’m on sabbatical,” he replies. “Returning in April.”

  I point to the bulge in his pocket and ask if he still sticks it behind Jesus.

  He furrows his pious brow.

  “The flask,” I explain. “Do you still . . .”

  He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a steel crucifix.

  “It’s for my niece,” he says.“I’m on my way to her birthday party.”

  I look at the bottle in his other hand. “Does your niece d
rink Pinot?”

  “Her parents do.”

  “What about her uncle?”

  “Eight years sober.” He even shows me his AA token, a bronze medallion the size of a poker chip. TO THINE OWN SELF BE TRUE, it says, along with UNITY, SERVICE, RECOVERY and the roman numeral for eight.

  His guard is down, his chin exposed. This is my chance for a knockout punch.

  “You should come by the church sometime,” he says. “It’d be nice to see a familiar face.”

  A left hook, out of nowhere! My mind staggers back. I reach for theories to break my fall, some rationale to explain his demeanor. His eyes seem sober, his smile sincere. But “seem” is the key word. I shouldn’t be fooled by his cheek-turning. It’s just another tactic in his arsenal. He knows I’ll win if we fight.

  Or maybe he’s indifferent. Maybe the Big Man is indifferent too. Maybe they have always been indifferent, and my epic battles were nothing more than daydreams, confined to my head. Does O’Neill even remember our last encounter? And, if so, does he care? Have I wasted the best years of my life on a delusion?

  You should come by the church sometime, he says. (What the hell does that mean?) It’d be nice to see a familiar face.

  I have one last chance to duck and deflect, to salvage my struggle.

  I tell O’Neill, “You know, I just might.”

  He smiles and shakes my hand. “Take care, Charlie.”

  “See you around, Father.”

  And then he leaves. No boulder. No Bout Four.

  PING PONG

  And I don’t want her coming to my funeral./ What?/ She’s not invited./ Of course she’s invited. She’s my mother./ Sorry, but that’s non-negotiable./ She has to come./ Why?/ For me./ Whose funeral is it again? Who’s the one in the coffin?/ She’s still my mother./That’s terrific./ Not to mention your ex-wife./ Key word: ex./ I want her to be there./ I don’t really care what you want. It’s not your funeral./ You won’t even . . ./ What?/ You won’t even be there./ I’ll be there. I won’t be breathing, but I’ll be there./ You know what I mean./ She’s not invited. Period. End of discussion. I’m not going to let that bitch—/ Watch it./ That person . . . infect my life again./ Technically speaking, it’s not your life./ It’s my death. It’s my death. Not yours. Not hers. Mine./ How do you expect me to tell her that? How do you expect me to call my mother and—/ Not my problem./ It is your problem. You’re the one creating it./ No, I’m the one concluding it./ Why are you being such a—/ Prick? Because that person is poison./ I wasn’t going to say “prick.”/ She’s fucking poison, and I’m not gonna let her—/ She won’t—/ End of discussion. She’s not coming. I’m telling Freddy./Telling him what?/ Not to let her in. I’ll post police if I have to./ I’m pretty sure you can’t—/ I can do whatever the fuck I want./ Not when you’re dead./ Especially when I’m dead. I’ll put it in writing. I’ll get a restraining order./ Stop being ridiculous./ I don’t want her there. Period./ Why?/ Many reasons./ Give me one./ IT’S MY FUCKING FUNERAL./ I understand that./ You don’t. You think it’s about you. As usual, you think it’s all about you./ Not as usual. And, yes, it is about me. It’s about everyone./ It’s about me. I’m the one in the coffin. I’m the one who’s dead. And I’ll suck the devil’s dick before I let her walk through the door./ So you’ve decided on an indoor service?/ Fuck off./ And I thought you wanted to be cremated. What’s all this shit about a coffin?/You know exactly what I’m saying, smart ass./ I know what you’re saying; I don’t know why you’re saying it./ It doesn’t matter./ It matters to me./ Well, you’re just gonna have to live with that./ Now, who’s the selfish one?/ I have a right to be selfish. It’s my fucking—/ Funeral. I get it./ Thank you./ But you’re not the only one in attendance. In fact, from a medical perspective, you’re not in attendance at all./ I can’t believe you’re doing this./ Ditto./ I’m fucking dying, and you’re . . . After all that’s happened./ What’s happened? I still don’t know what’s happened./ You know perfectly well./ I don’t./ I’m not getting into it. The point is simple. Ruth. Isn’t. Coming. She’s been out of my life. She’ll be out of my death./ I can’t handle this./ I CAN’T HANDLE THIS. YOU THINK THIS IS HARD FOR YOU? I’M THE ONE WHO’S FUCKING DYING./ I understand that—/ I’M THE ONE WHO HAS TO WASTE AWAY, WONDERING HOW SHE’S GOING TO FUCK ME OVER WHEN I’M NOT EVEN ALIVE TO DEFEND MYSELF./ She’s not going to—/ I can’t believe it. After all these years, she’s finally going to kill me. It’s what she’s always wanted, and she’s finally going to do it. And you’re going to help her.

  We need to talk, and you’re not going to like what I have to say./ What do you mean?/ It’s about Dad. About his funeral./ His funeral? Did something happen?/ No, no, he’s fine./ Thank God./ Well, not fine, but you know . . ./ What happened?/ Nothing happened. We had a talk./ About his funeral?/ Yeah./ Does he want me to give a eulogy? Oh God. I don’t know if I—/ He doesn’t want you to come./ What?/ He doesn’t—/ Why?/ He didn’t say./ He said something./ He said . . . he has his reasons./ Which are?/ He didn’t say./ But why would he—/ I don’t think he likes you very much./ He said that? He said he doesn’t like me?/ Not in those words./ What did he say?/ He didn’t say anything. That’s what I’m telling you./ Then why are you saying he doesn’t like me?/ Because he doesn’t. It’s no big secret./ What did he tell you?/ He said you can’t come to the funeral./ Well . . ./ His words, not mine./ Well, screw him. He doesn’t get to decide who—/ I’m afraid he does./ He can’t control me./ That’s not what he thinks./ Well, he can think whatever he wants. It’s too damn bad./ This isn’t really up for debate./You’re right. I’m not going to debate a thing. I’m just going to do what I want./ I won’t let you./ What?/ I won’t let you. Uncle Freddy won’t let you./ What’s he going to do?/ You won’t be allowed inside./ He can’t control who attends his funeral. Is he crazy?/ Probably. Either way, you’re not invited./ It’s a funeral. No one’s “invited.” You just show up./ Well, you’re not showing up./ I’ll show up wherever I goddamn please./ No, you won’t. I won’t let you./ Why are you being like this?/ I’m not being like anything. I’m just delivering a message./You don’t want me to come. You just said so./ No, I didn’t. I said—/ I know what you said./ Look, I’m sorry. I really am. But I’m not the bad guy here./ You’re one of them./ How? I haven’t done anything./ You’re doing plenty. As usual, you’re taking his side./ Stop with the “as usual.” I’m tired of—/ It’s true. You always take his side. You even sound like him when you talk./ Stop making this about you. This has nothing to do with you. Or me, for that matter. This is what he wants, and it’s what he’ll get. It’s my job to honor his wishes./ “Honor his wishes.” Okay, Junior./ Don’t call me that./ It’s your name, isn’t it?/ He says the same thing about you, by the way./What?/That I sound like you when I fight with him./ Of course he does. It’s because he’s—/ Stop. I’m not doing this. I refuse to be your ping pong ball./ Ping pong ball?/ Back and forth, back and forth. Ever since I could speak./ Don’t be so melodramatic./ I’m tired of it. I refuse to go back to that. I’m twenty-nine, and I’m not going to be your punching bag./ Punching bag?/ Or his, for that matter./ Punching bag or ping pong ball? I’m confused./ I’m too old for this shit./ Then put him on the phone./ He doesn’t want to talk to you. I don’t want to talk to you either./ Oh, that’s nice./ About this, I mean./ Sure./ I’m just passing on information. Do with it what you will./ “Do with it what you will.” And you say you don’t sound like him./ Look, it is what it is./ “It is what it is.”/ Stop it./ He’s so selfish. He thinks the funeral’s for him. He’s dead. He doesn’t matter. It’s for his survivors. It’s for the people he leaves behind./ Which doesn’t include you./ We were married for eighteen years./ And you haven’t spoken in ten./ So?/ He doesn’t want you there./ I wouldn’t be there for him. I’d be there for you./ I’ll be fine./ And for me./ You’ll be fine too./ And so will he. So will everyone else./ No, they won’t./ Well, that’s too damn bad. I’m gonna do what I want, and everyone el
se will have to live with it./ I’m going to have to live with it. That’s the point. You make your demands, he makes his, and I get stuck in the middle./ Don’t blame me for that./ I’m blaming both of you./ Fine. Blame whoever you want. I’m still coming.

  Baby, what’s wrong?/ Nothing. I just wanted to hear your voice./ Is everything okay?/ Not really./ Is there anything I can do?/ No, just talk to me. Tell me about your day./ Are you still at the hospital?/ Yeah. I’m down in the caf./ Is your dad okay?/ Yeah, he’s fine. Tell me about your day./ Uh. Are you sure?/ Yeah, go ahead./ Okay. Well, first I went shopping. Got a new pair of jeans. Had a bagel in the food court. Salmon and cream cheese on pumpernickel—/ I miss you./ What’s going on, baby? Is your dad okay?/ Yes and no./ Did you talk about his funeral?/ Yeah./ How did it go?/ Not well./ I’m sorry, Maxy Bear./ It’s okay./ Do you want to talk about it?/ Not really. But I do want to hear about your day./ No, you don’t. My day was boring./ Boring beats mine./ Yeah./ I wish you were here. I’d give you a big smooch on the lips./ Ooooo./And a hug./ And a hug? Lucky me./ Two hugs, if you play your cards right./ Sweeeeet./ And a bum squeeze./ Ooooo. You’re making me wet./ That was easy./ Annnnd now I’m dry./ Woops./ Well done, Mister Sex Pants./ Captain Sex Pants./ I thought you liked Mister./ I changed my mind./ Well, then . . ./ Is that okay?/ Aye aye, Captain.

  So I talked to mom./Wonderful./ And she’s not too happy./ I can imagine./ She wants to come to your funeral./ That’s unfortunate./ Yes, it is. Because I’m the one who has to deal with her./ Yep./ I’m the one who has to pay the price for your bullshit./ Take it up with Ruth. She’s the one intruding./ Intruding, to you. No one else cares./ Fred doesn’t want her there either./ Only because you don’t want her there. He’s acting on your behalf./ As he should./ Don’t make this about the rest of the family. It’s about you and her./ It’s about you and her. She’s gonna drag you through this. She’s going to whine and bitch and complain until she gets her way, because that’s how she operates. Always has, always will. She’s going to manipulate and guilt-trip and mind-fuck her way into getting what she wants, because she knows you can’t fight back./ Says you./ And the worst part is, she doesn’t even want to come. She doesn’t give a shit about me. About saying goodbye. She said goodbye ten years ago, when she . . ./ What?/ The point is, she’s selfish. She just wants to get her way. No matter what it is or what it costs. No matter who it hurts. All that matters is that it’s hers. Especially if someone tells her it’s not./ I think you’re being a bit paranoid./ I think you’re being a child. Which is exactly why she can use you./ Calm down. No one’s using anyone./ I wish that were true./ You know, you sound like a—/ Junior./ I told you not to—/ Max. Listen. I know she’s your mother, but she’s also my wife—/ Ex-wife./ And you simply don’t know her like I do./ Just as you simply don’t know her like I do./ True./ “Husband” and “son” are not the same./ Yeah, the husband stands a chance./ I’m glad I didn’t inherit your cynicism./ She’s been doing this since you were born, and she’s doing it again. Only this time I won’t be around to protect you./ I think I’ll be fine on my own./ I’m not so sure./ You seem to think I’m unaware of what’s happening. Of my position in all this. I’m not. I’m very aware. You haven’t said a single thing I don’t already know. Or haven’t considered./ Good. So we’re agreed./We’re not agreed. I’m just letting you know. And there’s a difference between knowing something and being able to do something about it./ As long as you’re aware./Why? What good is awareness if it doesn’t help you? If it only reminds you how helpless you are?/ I’d rather be self-aware and self-loathing than blissfully ignorant and destructive. Just ask your mother./ You’re no less ignorant. No less destructive. If you were, you’d let this go./ She’s the bad guy, not me./ You’re both the bad guy./ According to you./ It’s a reasonable request, you know. She wants to attend your funeral. Big deal. Why make everything into a battle?/ Because I can. Because it’s what she expects./ Well, how about you subvert expectations by doing the right thing?/ I am doing the right thing./ The noble thing. Fuck right and wrong. This is about—/ The path of least resistance. Your favourite path./ I’ve spent too much time on the other path. You have too./ Then a few more weeks won’t kill me./ “A few more weeks” is why you’re here. Your inability to let things go./ She is why I’m here./ It takes two to tango, Father Dearest. She fucked up; you fucked up. Why don’t we bury the hatchet and call it a draw?/ Because it’s what she wants. A draw means defeat./ It’s what she wants—maybe—but it’s not what she’s expecting./ I hope it’s not what you’re expecting, because you’re going to be disappointed./ Hoping, not expecting. It’s never too late to change./ I’m not the one who needs to change, Sonny./ Maybe. Maybe not. But you’re the one who can./ So can she. Why aren’t you yelling at her?/ I was. I will. But right now I’m yelling at you./ I don’t want her infecting my family. Not to mention my friends./ Then don’t invite her. But let her come./ I can’t stop her from coming. It’s a free country, last time I checked.