A Book for Remembering

I slammed on the brakes and the 1964 Plymouth came to a screeching halt. The summer night was clear and warm and in the sudden stillness the desert around me seemed to stretch on endlessly. Tears were still streaming from my face. I could feel them burning on my flushed cheeks, eroding away my skin and dripping freely from my chin onto my shirt but I didn't care. I hardly even noticed them to be honest because in that moment when I should have been feeling distraught and heart broken I felt nothing and that was somehow worse. I looked over at the duffle bag that sat innocently on the passenger side seat, the duffle bag that was filled to the brim with cash, the duffle bag that occupied a space that would never be filled with my son ever again. At the thought of my son, my sweet round faced son who would never sit in that seat, never eat cheese pizza in that seat, never listen to Blink 182 and try to sing like Tom DeLonge ever again. These thoughts seemed to scream over and over again in my mind and perhaps it was the stillness of the desert night that so contrasted the heaving sea of anguish that radiated throughout my entire being or perhaps it was seeing the bag that had replaced my own flesh and blood in the passenger seat but the numbness inside of me shattered. I began to scream and beat my hands against the steering wheel of the old Plymouth. I could hear myself screaming to God asking him over and over again to forgive me for getting my precious boy mixed up in all this. I knew that he would not.

I don't know how long I cried, how long I screamed, how long I hit my open palms against the wheel of the old Plymouth. At least until I started to feel the icy numb creep back into the new home it had created in my heart and even then I just sat and I stared ahead at the long desert road that seemed to go on forever. When the old tires of the Plymouth finally crunched against the familiar gravel driveway of our, my, home I was exhausted and empty and tear stained. I grabbed the bag that held the spoils of the nasty work that had taken my son away from me and stumbled up the drive to the home that I shared with no one now. As I crossed the threshold into the home that had become just a house I placed that heavy bag onto a chair that my son would never sit in again and I welcomed the sweet oblivion of sleep that I was sure would overcome me. I dreamed of my son and I dreamed of God. It was the worst night of sleep I had ever had. The next morning I awoke, unfortunately, and went to the kitchen but I didn’t feel much like eating so I just drank cold coffee left over from, Yesterday? It seemed like a lifetime ago that the two of us departed for what was supposed to be a routine job. As routine as our line of work got anyway, what we did wasn’t strictly within the limits of the law but it was never supposed to go like this.

I sat down and stared at the bag that seemed to laugh at me, it seemed to jeer and mock me. I could almost see its long zipper open like a wicked mouth and sneer, “Happy now? Are you happy with the trade you made? You sick bastard! I’m more real now than he ever will be!”

I grimaced as I opened that mouth with trembling hands and saw the stack of bills tumble out onto the floor. There was twenty thousand dollars in this bag and it seemed like only yesterday, God was it only yesterday? When the two of them had gleefully discussed what they would buy with their shares. They had a good amount saved up and this was going to be the last one they said. One last job, well that was true for at least one of them now.

“I'm going to buy a brand new truck, and mark my words if it isn’t the talk of this hellhole town.” He had said. I had said I was going to buy a whole tract of land maybe up in Montana, somewhere that I could just get away from it, all of it. We must of looked like two school kids the way our eyes lit up as if we were discussing what trading cards we were going to swindle some punk out of. I smiled in spite of myself and I felt the tears hot behind my eyes before I saw them blemish the green face of the late Mr. Benjamin. I went and I slept again because it was the only way I could escape the pain, escape the memories that refused to be suppressed, escape the voice of the bag that contained my prize for causing the death of the only one I had left.

That night I dreamed of him again, I wished that I wouldn't. It made waking up to the silence of the house even worse. I don’t know how many days my life passed in front of me this way. I would awake, I would drink coffee, I would stare at the bag overflowing with money as it hurled insults at me, insults I knew I deserved then I would eat something that was left in the fridge from Lord knows when and then I would sleep and I would dream of him. Then one day the phone rang and it was Kyle. I was so shocked that I just stood there stupidly for a moment staring into space. Did he really expect me to accept another job after what had just happened? When I voiced this query all Kyle did was laugh, I told him I was out. He told me what happens to people that try to leave, I told him I didn’t care and I hung up the phone. I knew that they couldn’t let me live, not with what I knew and for the moment I didn’t care I just went back to sleep. That night I still dreamed of him, but this time it was different because this time he spoke to me. He just spoke three words but they sent cold sweat down my spine and I sat straight up in bed breathing hard. “Dad, remember me.”

He was right I couldn’t remember him if I was dead, I had to live so that in a way he could keep living too. But I couldn’t stay here. I grabbed the bag from the chair and this time before it could open its vile move of metal teeth I told it where it could shove it if it dared speak and I went out to the Plymouth. I tore out of the driveway and I knew what I had to do. Within the next couple of hours I pulled out of the lot in the new truck and I headed north, north to Montana. The only things I took with me were the clothes on my back, what was left of the money and a picture of my late son. I didn’t feel better but I had a purpose and a direction to drive and that was better than nothing and as I merged onto the highway a song by The Smith’s came on the radio and I laughed at the sense of humor Carma or the universe or God must have and I didn’t look back.

I quickly learned that I couldn’t spend my way back to happiness, though I tried damn hard believe me. I bought a small house in Montana, no where near the amount of land I had wanted but enough for just me. Just me. I bought booze but that only seemed to expand the emptiness so I ended up just dumping it after a while. I bought music I thought he would have liked but I couldn’t bring myself to listen to them. I bought a dog and the companionship did seem to help a little. I named him Rooster after one of the characters that John Wayne had played and for the first time in almost a year I felt a little bit of peace creep its way in my heart in spite of myself and in spite of the numbness that had so recently taken up residence there. As always I dream of him, I don’t think I’ll ever stop dreaming of him but I don’t think I want the dreams to stop anymore. My life is full of regrets and I know that everyone carries regrets and sorrow in their soul, but I like to think that I carry a little more.

I did buy one more thing with that awful money, one more thing for me anyway. I ended up giving most of it away. I couldn’t stand it being in this house anymore. This was a new house, a new start, a new sanctuary from the past and it had no place here. I bought this little black book. I think that maybe if I write about him that he’ll continue on in a way. I know that I can’t really bring him back, God knows I would if I could. But maybe if I keep writing about him, someday people will know what kind of man he was. It makes me sad to know what kind of man the world is missing but maybe if I write hard enough the world can still have him in a way. Maybe someday I’ll even write about what happened, I'll write about the way he left the world as quietly as he entered it, I’ll write about the awful things I did and the ways I could have stopped it. Maybe someday but not now. Now I will write about him and the things we shared and the ways I’m trying to live without him. Then maybe someday God can forgive me. Maybe someday but not now.