“Your mother asked me to stop by,” the pastor said. “Is it okay?”
“There’s nobody else here now,” The man said. “I don’t mind the company.”
The pastor looked at the middle-aged man in lying in a hospital bed. It was late, but the pastor was given a little lee-way from the nurses since the man he was seeing was dying. The man recently had a massive heart attack. There would be no recovery.
“You have everything you need?” The pastor said.
“I don’t need much now,” The man said. “Was going to play golf this weekend. I don’t think that’s going to happen.” The man didn’t move except for his mouth. He was too weak. His words came out of cadence.
“Your mother wanted me to talk to you,” The pastor said.
“I always knew she would outlive me,” The man said. “She trying to get you to convert me?”
“I think she just wants to know where you are with God,” The pastor said.
“She’s worried,” The man said.
“She’s your mom,” The pastor said. “It comes with the territory.”
“She doesn’t have to worry,” The man said.
“You’re saved then? You’re alright with God?”
“No,” The man said. “God and I are far from okay.”
“That’s why your mother is worried.” The pastor said.
“I know why she’s worried,” the man said. “I said she doesn’t have too. It’s her choice.”
“That’s a little bit of a harsh stance against the people who care for you,” the pastor said. “She doesn’t want this to be the last time she sees you.”
“You’re talking about heaven and hell. She wants to make sure I’m in.”
“You don’t have to worry about that,” The pastor said. “God forgives everything. He even forgives a stubborn heart against him. You will rest in heaven. That’s a promise.”
The man raise his eyebrows.
“How many theology classes do you have under your belt?” The man said. “You and I don’t see eye-to-eye on your understanding of free will.”
“You have free will,” The pastor said, “But God can see into your heart and knows what you really want. He knows what’s best for you and that’s an everlasting life with him.”
“That doesn’t make sense.” the man said.
“What doesn’t make sense?”
“Here’s the thing,” The man said. “I don’t see how this can go both ways. I don’t see how everyone can get into heaven. The whole thing wouldn’t make sense. God has promised me free will. If he automatically forgives me and lets me into heaven, then I don’t have free will. I don’t have a choice. I’m choosing to hold God to his promise.”
“You don’t believe in grace?” The pastor said.
“I didn’t say that,” The man said. “I said I was exercising my choice. I don’t want God‘s grace. God gave me free will and I‘m holding him to it. I want nothing to do with him.”
“You don’t mean that,” The pastor said.
“You mean God won’t let me ‘mean that.’ He has too. If he doesn’t, than I don’t have free will.”
“For once in my life I really don’t know what to say,” The pastor said.
“You may as well say ‘thank you’,” The man said. “For the same reason I can say no to God, you can say yes. “
The pastor got up to leave. He hesitated at the door.
“One more thing,” The pastor said. “Why should I thank you for something that is really a gift from God?”
“Well,” The man said, “If everyone did the same thing, you wouldn’t really know if free will existed. How can there be free will if all outcomes are the same? I will be your proof. My ability to say no proves you can say yes. My damnation - your salvation.”
“I just don’t understand your choice.”
“That’s the whole point,” The man said. “You don’t have to understand. It’s my choice. I find myself suddenly minding company. Go away.”
And the pastor did.
Showing posts with label are. Show all posts
Showing posts with label are. Show all posts
Friday, September 14, 2012
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
These Four Walls
I've never done good thingsI've never done bad things
I never did anything out of the blue
Want an axe to break the ice
Want to come down right now
It all comes down to Cheerios and those four walls. He was awake. He would rub his fingers over the mesh of his port-a-crib. Faster and faster, he would rub until his fingers burned from the friction and his senses ran into overdrive. He would hesitate for a moment and let those feelings pass, then rub again, over and over and over. If he stopped rubbing everything would stop. There was nobody to talk to him. There was nothing in the crib except a soiled blanket. There used to be a yellow and pink stuffed bear as well. Like the ones won at a carnival. But he had thrown that out days ago and nobody had placed it back in the crib with him. The silence was too much of a void so he would rub and rub and rub. The mesh wove patterns of light as his fingers raced back and forth. Millions of rays played a frantic game of light and shadow. Sometimes he would get lost in them. He could get so involved that he would just stare at the little holes. Those were the best times. It was like he wasn’t even there.
A girl my age went off her head, hit some tiny children
If the black hadn't a-pulled her off, I think she would have killed them
A soldier with a broken arm, fixed his stare to the wheels of a Cadillac
A cop knelt and kissed the feet of a priest, and a queer threw up at the sight of that
Sometimes he would scream. There was delicious times where he found his voice. He would sound loud and louder. The air would expel from his lungs. His muscles would tense with the joy of it all. It wasn’t for any sort of purpose. Just to sound was enough. The volume was ecstasy in his ears. He could push everything else away with the sound. He would close his eyes tight and a torrent of white and black spots would dance in the darkness behind his eyes. The sound would sometimes bring something else. Something beautiful or painful. It was only a matter of time. It all comes down to Cheerios and those four walls.
I'm an alligator, I'm a mama-papa coming for you
I'm the space invader, I'll be a rock 'n' rollin' bitch for you
Keep your mouth shut, you're squawking like a big monkey bird
And I'm busting up my brains for the words
Sometimes she would come. Staggering with eyes closed from light and pain. Heavy hands would land on the frayed edges of his port-a-crib. She would regard him and he her. If only he could stop screaming for a moment. But he found that he could not. He could just scream and scream. Sometimes she would tell him to shut the fuck up. Sometimes she would hit him. It made no difference. The screams would come from somewhere inside of him. They were as regular as breathing and as normal as his beating heart. There were the moments of silence. Sometimes a hit would come so hard that screaming was impossible from the incredible jar of the strike and the spots in his vision would become swirling stars and dazzling explosions of sharp pain. After, there was a tingling numbness as he sucked in air, Though not enough for another scream. Focus came back as often as it did not. When it did, she was gone. It all comes down to Cheerios and these four walls.
We live for just these twenty years
Do we have to die for the fifty more
Sometimes when she came it was different. She would coo and pick him up. His body would tense against her touch. So much in his little body wanted to press into her. To feel her skin. To be close to her. There was something in her touch that repelled him as much as it drew him. He found himself fighting against her, pulling at her hair, biting her. Sometimes she would throw him back into the crib and be gone again. Sometimes she would place him on the ground on his back. She would take off his foul and dripping diaper, clean him and put on a new one. She would tell him that he smelled like shit. She would say he was disgusting. She would tell him she wished he was dead. He couldn’t look into her eyes. There was so much he didn’t like to see there. He would lay on the floor, let her clean him, avoid her eyes and concentrate on the touch. It all comes down to Cheerios and these four walls.
So I turned myself to face me
But I've never caught a glimpse
Of how the others must see the faker
I'm much too fast to take that test
Sometimes he would drop. Legs just didn’t work after awhile. He would lay very still and look toward the ceiling as it spun and spun and spun. She would lounge on the couch and pick her nose. Sometimes she would forget to take the needle out of her arm and it would bob with the motion of her hands. She stared and stared, smiling all the time, nothing behind her eyes. He would cry sometimes. The pain would make him cry. There was something missing. She would drift off the couch and move to the kitchen as if in a dream. She would get the yellow box and float back toward him. Then the rain would come. Small tan circles poured into the crib, bouncing off his face, arms and body. He would open his mouth and some would drop in. They crunched when he worked his jaw. Delicious. Salvation. He would crawl through his stained and foul crib and eat every one he found. Sometimes she would only drop in a little. The best times where when the yellow box would fall from her fingers completely and it would all be his. He would sleep after eating. When he awoke, he found his legs worked again and he could stand up.
I watch the ripples change their size
But never leave the stream
Of warm impermanence and
So the days float through my eyes
But still the days seem the same
“I have to shit,” She said. “Oh, man I have to shit so bad. Where’s the fucking bathroom? I have to get to the fucking bathroom.” She stood up and wobbled grotesquely, bumping against the wall as she staggered to the bathroom. “Shut the fuck up,” The man would say. “You’re just coming unplugged from all that shit you do. It has to happen sometime.” The man laughed and laughed. The child rubbed my fingers over the mesh and watched her. “Go and get some more shit,” She said. “I think I will,” The man said. “I don’t want to be around when you take a super dump anyway.” He walked out of the house and closed the door. She pulled her pants down and slumped onto the toilet and shuddered. The child rubbed the mesh on the port-a-crib. The child tried to leave and get lost in the light, but it wouldn’t let him. He had to watch. He had to be there. “Oh, shit. Holy shit,” She said. She lifted her body off the toilet and it tensed as her body shoved forward. A baby dropped from her vagina, cradled in a wet weave of afterbirth. The tiny body thumped on the bathroom tile. She stood there looking down at the baby. The umbilical cord snaked into her. She pulled on it like it could be unplugged from her body. The tiny baby cried. So did she. All of a sudden the flickering light from the mesh caught The child’s eye and he was lost in the sparkling light. He could feel the heat from his fingers rubbing back and forth, faster and faster. It all comes down to Cheerios and these four walls.
Time takes a cigarette, puts it in your mouth
You pull on your finger, then another finger, then your cigarette
The wall-to-wall is calling, it lingers, then you forget
I never did anything out of the blue
Want an axe to break the ice
Want to come down right now
It all comes down to Cheerios and those four walls. He was awake. He would rub his fingers over the mesh of his port-a-crib. Faster and faster, he would rub until his fingers burned from the friction and his senses ran into overdrive. He would hesitate for a moment and let those feelings pass, then rub again, over and over and over. If he stopped rubbing everything would stop. There was nobody to talk to him. There was nothing in the crib except a soiled blanket. There used to be a yellow and pink stuffed bear as well. Like the ones won at a carnival. But he had thrown that out days ago and nobody had placed it back in the crib with him. The silence was too much of a void so he would rub and rub and rub. The mesh wove patterns of light as his fingers raced back and forth. Millions of rays played a frantic game of light and shadow. Sometimes he would get lost in them. He could get so involved that he would just stare at the little holes. Those were the best times. It was like he wasn’t even there.
A girl my age went off her head, hit some tiny children
If the black hadn't a-pulled her off, I think she would have killed them
A soldier with a broken arm, fixed his stare to the wheels of a Cadillac
A cop knelt and kissed the feet of a priest, and a queer threw up at the sight of that
Sometimes he would scream. There was delicious times where he found his voice. He would sound loud and louder. The air would expel from his lungs. His muscles would tense with the joy of it all. It wasn’t for any sort of purpose. Just to sound was enough. The volume was ecstasy in his ears. He could push everything else away with the sound. He would close his eyes tight and a torrent of white and black spots would dance in the darkness behind his eyes. The sound would sometimes bring something else. Something beautiful or painful. It was only a matter of time. It all comes down to Cheerios and those four walls.
I'm an alligator, I'm a mama-papa coming for you
I'm the space invader, I'll be a rock 'n' rollin' bitch for you
Keep your mouth shut, you're squawking like a big monkey bird
And I'm busting up my brains for the words
Sometimes she would come. Staggering with eyes closed from light and pain. Heavy hands would land on the frayed edges of his port-a-crib. She would regard him and he her. If only he could stop screaming for a moment. But he found that he could not. He could just scream and scream. Sometimes she would tell him to shut the fuck up. Sometimes she would hit him. It made no difference. The screams would come from somewhere inside of him. They were as regular as breathing and as normal as his beating heart. There were the moments of silence. Sometimes a hit would come so hard that screaming was impossible from the incredible jar of the strike and the spots in his vision would become swirling stars and dazzling explosions of sharp pain. After, there was a tingling numbness as he sucked in air, Though not enough for another scream. Focus came back as often as it did not. When it did, she was gone. It all comes down to Cheerios and these four walls.
We live for just these twenty years
Do we have to die for the fifty more
Sometimes when she came it was different. She would coo and pick him up. His body would tense against her touch. So much in his little body wanted to press into her. To feel her skin. To be close to her. There was something in her touch that repelled him as much as it drew him. He found himself fighting against her, pulling at her hair, biting her. Sometimes she would throw him back into the crib and be gone again. Sometimes she would place him on the ground on his back. She would take off his foul and dripping diaper, clean him and put on a new one. She would tell him that he smelled like shit. She would say he was disgusting. She would tell him she wished he was dead. He couldn’t look into her eyes. There was so much he didn’t like to see there. He would lay on the floor, let her clean him, avoid her eyes and concentrate on the touch. It all comes down to Cheerios and these four walls.
So I turned myself to face me
But I've never caught a glimpse
Of how the others must see the faker
I'm much too fast to take that test
Sometimes he would drop. Legs just didn’t work after awhile. He would lay very still and look toward the ceiling as it spun and spun and spun. She would lounge on the couch and pick her nose. Sometimes she would forget to take the needle out of her arm and it would bob with the motion of her hands. She stared and stared, smiling all the time, nothing behind her eyes. He would cry sometimes. The pain would make him cry. There was something missing. She would drift off the couch and move to the kitchen as if in a dream. She would get the yellow box and float back toward him. Then the rain would come. Small tan circles poured into the crib, bouncing off his face, arms and body. He would open his mouth and some would drop in. They crunched when he worked his jaw. Delicious. Salvation. He would crawl through his stained and foul crib and eat every one he found. Sometimes she would only drop in a little. The best times where when the yellow box would fall from her fingers completely and it would all be his. He would sleep after eating. When he awoke, he found his legs worked again and he could stand up.
I watch the ripples change their size
But never leave the stream
Of warm impermanence and
So the days float through my eyes
But still the days seem the same
“I have to shit,” She said. “Oh, man I have to shit so bad. Where’s the fucking bathroom? I have to get to the fucking bathroom.” She stood up and wobbled grotesquely, bumping against the wall as she staggered to the bathroom. “Shut the fuck up,” The man would say. “You’re just coming unplugged from all that shit you do. It has to happen sometime.” The man laughed and laughed. The child rubbed my fingers over the mesh and watched her. “Go and get some more shit,” She said. “I think I will,” The man said. “I don’t want to be around when you take a super dump anyway.” He walked out of the house and closed the door. She pulled her pants down and slumped onto the toilet and shuddered. The child rubbed the mesh on the port-a-crib. The child tried to leave and get lost in the light, but it wouldn’t let him. He had to watch. He had to be there. “Oh, shit. Holy shit,” She said. She lifted her body off the toilet and it tensed as her body shoved forward. A baby dropped from her vagina, cradled in a wet weave of afterbirth. The tiny body thumped on the bathroom tile. She stood there looking down at the baby. The umbilical cord snaked into her. She pulled on it like it could be unplugged from her body. The tiny baby cried. So did she. All of a sudden the flickering light from the mesh caught The child’s eye and he was lost in the sparkling light. He could feel the heat from his fingers rubbing back and forth, faster and faster. It all comes down to Cheerios and these four walls.
Time takes a cigarette, puts it in your mouth
You pull on your finger, then another finger, then your cigarette
The wall-to-wall is calling, it lingers, then you forget
Monday, September 10, 2012
The Provider - Chapter 5
Chapter - 5
Jim parked his car a couple blocks from the nightclub where he worked. He walked the darkening residential streets. Hitting the main drag was like emerging from dark tangle of jungle into a blinding shoreline. The flickering sheen of the neon lights reflected sickly off his skin. The lights drove away the darkness and with it the stars. He descended the stone, semi-damp basement steps and opened the club door. The club’s décor was Hindu Religious symbolism mixed with Tribal iconography. Jim referred to it as“religion in a blender.” There was nobody in the main hallway. He pushed back a tapestry to reveal a hidden closet door which held the broom for him to sweep the steps. Jim walked out the door and back into the night. He swept the stairs quietly and quickly. He swept away the fatigue of his body. He swept away the anger at this being the best employment he could find and it wasn’t enough. The past due bills hung heavy on his conscience. It was a slow burn. Falling ever further behind. It wasn’t a question of if the bottom would drop out, but when. Everything untended eventually failed. Jim thought of his house. The were several repairs past due. Leaks that began as a small dot of stain on the ceiling became larger with each passing week. He thought of his old furnace and water heater. Either one of those going out would finish him. Jim thought it would be justice for a life misspent. The economy failed and took the working class with it. It was his responsibilities to his son that made him hang on. Failure was the eventuality. Jim chose the graceful collapse, instead of the hard and fast implosion of many in this area. His work finished, he walked back into the club. Jim peeked around the hallway to nod to the bartenders and servers who were congregated in the main bar area.
“How are you doing man?” One of the bartenders smiled and waved to him.
“I’m good,” Jim said. I’m going to open up.”
“Okay,” The bartender turned back to the others. Jim was by far the oldest member of the staff and felt an inability to relate to his younger colleagues. They looked at him with a kind of dread. To them, this job was a stop-gap. It was a cool college job they could get nostalgic about in later life. Jim was a walking nightmare to them. He was their reminder to go home after closing and finish homework, complete degrees or marry well.
Jim went back to the safety of the empty hallway. He flicked on the lights and put out the dress code sign. He turned to see the girl who collected the cover charge skipping down the hallway. Her spike heels clicked loudly on the concrete floor. Jim thought she look like a walking skeleton. Her pale, stretched skin was further accentuated by a slathering of harsh bright whorish makeup.
“Hi!” She said brightly as she snapped open the door to the small closet sized room that would serve as her spot for the night. She flipped open the cash-box and counted its contents. She finished and snapped the box closed. She turned toward Jim and drummed her lacquered red fake nails on the ledge of the half door. He could already feel her boredom beginning to darken her exterior. He couldn’t help but take it personally. Jim knew he was hard to talk too. He never had anything to say. The more he though about something interesting he could say, the less came to mind. Every night was like a first- date failure with this girl.
“How are you doing tonight?” He asked her.
“Fine,” She said. She stared directly at him and continued to drub her fingers. She left her mouth hang open after saying “Fine,” Waiting for Jim to expound on the conversation. Jim thought she looked like a cow who’s forgotten a mouth full of cud.
“Did you have a good day off yesterday?” Jim said. She nodded and gazed off longingly down the empty hallway toward the main bar where the interesting people worked. She shut down. Jim shut down. The both of them waited in silent awkwardness for the customers to begin arriving.
Jim parked his car a couple blocks from the nightclub where he worked. He walked the darkening residential streets. Hitting the main drag was like emerging from dark tangle of jungle into a blinding shoreline. The flickering sheen of the neon lights reflected sickly off his skin. The lights drove away the darkness and with it the stars. He descended the stone, semi-damp basement steps and opened the club door. The club’s décor was Hindu Religious symbolism mixed with Tribal iconography. Jim referred to it as“religion in a blender.” There was nobody in the main hallway. He pushed back a tapestry to reveal a hidden closet door which held the broom for him to sweep the steps. Jim walked out the door and back into the night. He swept the stairs quietly and quickly. He swept away the fatigue of his body. He swept away the anger at this being the best employment he could find and it wasn’t enough. The past due bills hung heavy on his conscience. It was a slow burn. Falling ever further behind. It wasn’t a question of if the bottom would drop out, but when. Everything untended eventually failed. Jim thought of his house. The were several repairs past due. Leaks that began as a small dot of stain on the ceiling became larger with each passing week. He thought of his old furnace and water heater. Either one of those going out would finish him. Jim thought it would be justice for a life misspent. The economy failed and took the working class with it. It was his responsibilities to his son that made him hang on. Failure was the eventuality. Jim chose the graceful collapse, instead of the hard and fast implosion of many in this area. His work finished, he walked back into the club. Jim peeked around the hallway to nod to the bartenders and servers who were congregated in the main bar area.
“How are you doing man?” One of the bartenders smiled and waved to him.
“I’m good,” Jim said. I’m going to open up.”
“Okay,” The bartender turned back to the others. Jim was by far the oldest member of the staff and felt an inability to relate to his younger colleagues. They looked at him with a kind of dread. To them, this job was a stop-gap. It was a cool college job they could get nostalgic about in later life. Jim was a walking nightmare to them. He was their reminder to go home after closing and finish homework, complete degrees or marry well.
Jim went back to the safety of the empty hallway. He flicked on the lights and put out the dress code sign. He turned to see the girl who collected the cover charge skipping down the hallway. Her spike heels clicked loudly on the concrete floor. Jim thought she look like a walking skeleton. Her pale, stretched skin was further accentuated by a slathering of harsh bright whorish makeup.
“Hi!” She said brightly as she snapped open the door to the small closet sized room that would serve as her spot for the night. She flipped open the cash-box and counted its contents. She finished and snapped the box closed. She turned toward Jim and drummed her lacquered red fake nails on the ledge of the half door. He could already feel her boredom beginning to darken her exterior. He couldn’t help but take it personally. Jim knew he was hard to talk too. He never had anything to say. The more he though about something interesting he could say, the less came to mind. Every night was like a first- date failure with this girl.
“How are you doing tonight?” He asked her.
“Fine,” She said. She stared directly at him and continued to drub her fingers. She left her mouth hang open after saying “Fine,” Waiting for Jim to expound on the conversation. Jim thought she looked like a cow who’s forgotten a mouth full of cud.
“Did you have a good day off yesterday?” Jim said. She nodded and gazed off longingly down the empty hallway toward the main bar where the interesting people worked. She shut down. Jim shut down. The both of them waited in silent awkwardness for the customers to begin arriving.
Friday, August 24, 2012
Prodigal
The dad sat smoking his pipe on his front steps. His son drove up, his car clanged and shuddered, as he pulled into the driveway.
"The Alternators going," The dad thought.
The son got out of the car. Every time the dad saw his son he was surprised with how old he looked. His boy was thirty. Definitely not a boy anymore. His son had dark, almost black, hair combed and gelled in place. His features were softer than his father's. The dad thought he was more like his mother in that way. Thinking of his wife made the dad happy she was out running errands. Having her here when the boy showed up made things more difficult.
"That's probably as it should be," The dad thought, "I don't think I ever handle this right."
The boy got out of the car and walked over the grass to his dad.
"Hi dad," The boy said.
"Hi," The dad said. The boy looked terrible. Unhealthy. His skin was pockmarked with zits and scabs. His eyes were sunken and black. The dad thought his son was missing some teeth too, but the boy was a soft talker. His mouth never opened wide enough for the dad to be sure.
The boy toed the ground for a minute.
"Can I have a smoke?" He asked.
"Did you bring a pipe?" the father said. The boy shook his head no. The dad took out his tobacco pouch and handed it to the boy, who put it in his pocket. "Try and remember to bring the pouch back later."
"I'm in some trouble dad," The boy said.
"What do you want?"
"I want some money." The boy said.
"You remember our fishing spot?" The dad said, "You and I used to spend long weekend mornings there. Caught some catfish and talked away the morning."
"Lake number three," The boy said. He rubbed his face. "I need money dad."
"What do you need money for?" The dad said.
"I'm in trouble. I was kicked out of my apartment."
"For what?" The dad asked.
"I lost my job."
"When did you lose your job?"
"A couple weeks ago."
The dad took a long pull from his pipe. He watched as his son leaned on one foot then the next. His son picked his nose.
"Do you still play baseball?" The father said, "I remember you used to have a great throwing arm. Do you still hang out with those guys?"
"No, I don't play that anymore," The son said. He was agitated. "I haven't played that in years. Are you hearing me? I lost my job and I don't have a place to live."
The father nodded. "I hear you," He said.
"Can I stay here a few days?" The son asked.
His father said nothing.
"Dad," The son said, "Can I stay here for awhile?"
Everything inside the father screamed 'Yes' like a chorus of Angel's heralding the coming of Christ. He bit down on his pipe. "No," The dad said.
"No?" The son said. loudly. "What am I going to do?"
"I don't know," The dad said.
"What the fuck dad? I'm your son. I'm in trouble. I'm begging for your help."
"You know what they call me in town?" His father said softly.
"Always with your fucking tangents," The boy said, "I don't believe this. What do they call you in town?"
"Enabler," The dad said, "They call me enabler among other things. I don't let it bother me too much. In some ways I think they're right, but most of the time when someone calls another person something derogatory it's because they don't know what the hell they're talking about. I doubt they know how hard it is to say no when your children are in trouble. I'm learning how. The trouble is I tried to raise you right. I did all the right things but sometimes that isn't enough. Your kids get older and become adults. Adults make their own decisions. The trouble with parents is that they never see their children as adults. I look at you and see the little boy I love."
The boy kicked a piece of gravel.
"I'm hungry dad," The boy said. The dad pulled out a half-sandwich wrapped in plastic from his pocket and handed it to the boy. The boy took the sandwich and put it in his pocket. "Can I stay here for just one night. I just need a place for one night."
"Do you remember going to Sunday School?" The dad said.
"I remember. You took me there almost every week," The son said, "I also remember a story about the Prodigal Son whom messed up royally and his father took him in a helped him. What kind of dad does that make you?"
"Some men are better father's than others," The dad said.
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"Some men are better than others. Some sons are better than others," The dad said.
"You're going to shut me out, not help me and now your lecturing me on top of it? Fuck you."
"I've kept my part of the bargain," The dad said. "I've done my part. I've helped you find jobs. I've given you money. I've taken you in time after time. You always blame someone else for your problems. You take no ownership of them. You don't think about what you're doing with your life and how it kills me and your mother a little more each day."
"I'm fucking leaving," The boy said. He stormed over to his car. The father stood up on the steps.
"Your Sunday School teachers messed up your lessons," The dad said, "There is no repentance without a change in behavior. The Prodigal son came back to his father a changed man. You are no different. I can help you, but it won't change anything about you. You have to change yourself."
"Fuck you dad. I hate you." The boy tore open his car door.
"Son?" The dad said. The boy grimaced, but hesitated before getting in the car.
"What?"
"Your Alternator's going," The dad said. He sat back down on the steps. The boy got in his car and tore out of the driveway.
The dad tapped out his pipe and patted his pockets for his tobacco pouch. He remembered he gave his pouch to the boy. He put his pipe in his pocket.
His wife turned her car into the driveway a few minutes later. She got out of the car.
"Hi honey," She said.
"Hi," the dad said, "The boy stopped by."
"Where is he?" The mom asked.
"He's gone," The dad said, "He's gone."
"The Alternators going," The dad thought.
The son got out of the car. Every time the dad saw his son he was surprised with how old he looked. His boy was thirty. Definitely not a boy anymore. His son had dark, almost black, hair combed and gelled in place. His features were softer than his father's. The dad thought he was more like his mother in that way. Thinking of his wife made the dad happy she was out running errands. Having her here when the boy showed up made things more difficult.
"That's probably as it should be," The dad thought, "I don't think I ever handle this right."
The boy got out of the car and walked over the grass to his dad.
"Hi dad," The boy said.
"Hi," The dad said. The boy looked terrible. Unhealthy. His skin was pockmarked with zits and scabs. His eyes were sunken and black. The dad thought his son was missing some teeth too, but the boy was a soft talker. His mouth never opened wide enough for the dad to be sure.
The boy toed the ground for a minute.
"Can I have a smoke?" He asked.
"Did you bring a pipe?" the father said. The boy shook his head no. The dad took out his tobacco pouch and handed it to the boy, who put it in his pocket. "Try and remember to bring the pouch back later."
"I'm in some trouble dad," The boy said.
"What do you want?"
"I want some money." The boy said.
"You remember our fishing spot?" The dad said, "You and I used to spend long weekend mornings there. Caught some catfish and talked away the morning."
"Lake number three," The boy said. He rubbed his face. "I need money dad."
"What do you need money for?" The dad said.
"I'm in trouble. I was kicked out of my apartment."
"For what?" The dad asked.
"I lost my job."
"When did you lose your job?"
"A couple weeks ago."
The dad took a long pull from his pipe. He watched as his son leaned on one foot then the next. His son picked his nose.
"Do you still play baseball?" The father said, "I remember you used to have a great throwing arm. Do you still hang out with those guys?"
"No, I don't play that anymore," The son said. He was agitated. "I haven't played that in years. Are you hearing me? I lost my job and I don't have a place to live."
The father nodded. "I hear you," He said.
"Can I stay here a few days?" The son asked.
His father said nothing.
"Dad," The son said, "Can I stay here for awhile?"
Everything inside the father screamed 'Yes' like a chorus of Angel's heralding the coming of Christ. He bit down on his pipe. "No," The dad said.
"No?" The son said. loudly. "What am I going to do?"
"I don't know," The dad said.
"What the fuck dad? I'm your son. I'm in trouble. I'm begging for your help."
"You know what they call me in town?" His father said softly.
"Always with your fucking tangents," The boy said, "I don't believe this. What do they call you in town?"
"Enabler," The dad said, "They call me enabler among other things. I don't let it bother me too much. In some ways I think they're right, but most of the time when someone calls another person something derogatory it's because they don't know what the hell they're talking about. I doubt they know how hard it is to say no when your children are in trouble. I'm learning how. The trouble is I tried to raise you right. I did all the right things but sometimes that isn't enough. Your kids get older and become adults. Adults make their own decisions. The trouble with parents is that they never see their children as adults. I look at you and see the little boy I love."
The boy kicked a piece of gravel.
"I'm hungry dad," The boy said. The dad pulled out a half-sandwich wrapped in plastic from his pocket and handed it to the boy. The boy took the sandwich and put it in his pocket. "Can I stay here for just one night. I just need a place for one night."
"Do you remember going to Sunday School?" The dad said.
"I remember. You took me there almost every week," The son said, "I also remember a story about the Prodigal Son whom messed up royally and his father took him in a helped him. What kind of dad does that make you?"
"Some men are better father's than others," The dad said.
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"Some men are better than others. Some sons are better than others," The dad said.
"You're going to shut me out, not help me and now your lecturing me on top of it? Fuck you."
"I've kept my part of the bargain," The dad said. "I've done my part. I've helped you find jobs. I've given you money. I've taken you in time after time. You always blame someone else for your problems. You take no ownership of them. You don't think about what you're doing with your life and how it kills me and your mother a little more each day."
"I'm fucking leaving," The boy said. He stormed over to his car. The father stood up on the steps.
"Your Sunday School teachers messed up your lessons," The dad said, "There is no repentance without a change in behavior. The Prodigal son came back to his father a changed man. You are no different. I can help you, but it won't change anything about you. You have to change yourself."
"Fuck you dad. I hate you." The boy tore open his car door.
"Son?" The dad said. The boy grimaced, but hesitated before getting in the car.
"What?"
"Your Alternator's going," The dad said. He sat back down on the steps. The boy got in his car and tore out of the driveway.
The dad tapped out his pipe and patted his pockets for his tobacco pouch. He remembered he gave his pouch to the boy. He put his pipe in his pocket.
His wife turned her car into the driveway a few minutes later. She got out of the car.
"Hi honey," She said.
"Hi," the dad said, "The boy stopped by."
"Where is he?" The mom asked.
"He's gone," The dad said, "He's gone."
Thursday, August 23, 2012
Jason of Astor Park
The boys and girls playing at the park saw him limp toward them. He was more than a block away. It was Jason. He had dirty blond hair. His malformed face turned toward the sky. His slack-jawed smile, plastered and permanent. He howled as he walked. The children climbed high on the playground equipment, spreading out to keep from getting cornered by the man. The girls screamed and so did some of the boys. Stories of Jason raced through their heads as he crossed the street and headed into the park.
-Jason was hit by a semi-truck as a kid and his parents found him hanging from a telephone poll.-
-Jason has weird diseases and you’ll end up like him if he drools on you.-
-Jason caught a kid alone in the park one day and raped him behind the clubhouse.-
-Jason is a retard that killed his mom…Jason is homeless…Jason died and came back…Jason has AIDS…Jason escaped from an insane asylum…Jason…Jas…J…-
And then there he was. Jason Hooted loudly at the children he’d treed on the playground equipment. Today was different than most days. Today, Jason had brought with him a red wagon. The wagon was filled with magazine clippings that were held down by a brick. Jason gestured sweepingly to the wagon and the children. His voice garbled nonsense. Spittle flew from his mouth and dripped down onto his clothes.
Some of the braver children would drop down from the playground equipment and Jason would chase them. He smiled, laughed and howled breathlessly as he attempted to catch each taunting child. Sometimes, while they ran from him, the children would grab a handful of wood chips off the playground floor. Once back up in the safety of the equipment, they would throw the chips at Jason. It never made him mad. He would laugh. The children never knew why he didn’t climb the equipment. He just didn’t.
Most of the time Jason would stalk around the children until he got bored. Then he would leave, going back the same way he had come. Not today. Today, one of the children, a girl, fell off the equipment and landed on the ground. She cried. She had skinned her knee. Jason sat down beside her. His smile had gone. It was the first time the children saw him without it. His mouth formed a large O. A large gob of drool dripped down his chin. His eyes showed concern.
Jason picked a Dandelion and handed it to the girl. She slapped it away with a shriek.
Jason tried to put his arm around her. She screamed and turned away from him.
Jason sighed and began to play with the wood chips. Sometimes he would glance at the crying girl.
While Jason was sitting with the girl a couple of the boys dropped from the playground equipment and took Jason’s wagon. They rolled the wagon away from the playground about a hundred feet to the park’s small wading pool. It was Autumn and the shallow pool had long since been closed down for the season. The fence surrounding the pool wasn’t very high. Sometimes the children would climb the fence and roller-skate and skateboard in the empty pool.
It took all three boys to lift the wagon. They dumped the wagon into the pool. They had to stand up on their tiptoes to do it. The wagon landed with a loud clang. Magazine clippings blew everywhere. The boys laughed and ran. The children on the playground cheered.
Jason stood up. He’d covered his ears at the noise. He saw his wagon in the pool and limped over. The children dropped from the playground equipment and went home. It was supper time.
One of the children looked back at Jason as he went home. He saw Jason standing at the fence. Jason had both his hands pressed to the chain-link. His face was pushed so far into the fence that it seemed like he would pass right through. The boy heard Jason Howl. It was higher pitched than normal. It sounded worried. The boy thought he sounded like a dog.
The boy walked backwards home. He watched Jason. Jason walked around the fence of the wading pool once, twice, then he sat down. He howled again. The sound was long and very sad. Again, the boy thought about how closely the sound resembled that of a dog. Tomorrow he would tell his friends that Jason’s mom had sex with a dog. He would tell them Jason’s mom had sex with a dog and that was how Jason was born.
-Jason was hit by a semi-truck as a kid and his parents found him hanging from a telephone poll.-
-Jason has weird diseases and you’ll end up like him if he drools on you.-
-Jason caught a kid alone in the park one day and raped him behind the clubhouse.-
-Jason is a retard that killed his mom…Jason is homeless…Jason died and came back…Jason has AIDS…Jason escaped from an insane asylum…Jason…Jas…J…-
And then there he was. Jason Hooted loudly at the children he’d treed on the playground equipment. Today was different than most days. Today, Jason had brought with him a red wagon. The wagon was filled with magazine clippings that were held down by a brick. Jason gestured sweepingly to the wagon and the children. His voice garbled nonsense. Spittle flew from his mouth and dripped down onto his clothes.
Some of the braver children would drop down from the playground equipment and Jason would chase them. He smiled, laughed and howled breathlessly as he attempted to catch each taunting child. Sometimes, while they ran from him, the children would grab a handful of wood chips off the playground floor. Once back up in the safety of the equipment, they would throw the chips at Jason. It never made him mad. He would laugh. The children never knew why he didn’t climb the equipment. He just didn’t.
Most of the time Jason would stalk around the children until he got bored. Then he would leave, going back the same way he had come. Not today. Today, one of the children, a girl, fell off the equipment and landed on the ground. She cried. She had skinned her knee. Jason sat down beside her. His smile had gone. It was the first time the children saw him without it. His mouth formed a large O. A large gob of drool dripped down his chin. His eyes showed concern.
Jason picked a Dandelion and handed it to the girl. She slapped it away with a shriek.
Jason tried to put his arm around her. She screamed and turned away from him.
Jason sighed and began to play with the wood chips. Sometimes he would glance at the crying girl.
While Jason was sitting with the girl a couple of the boys dropped from the playground equipment and took Jason’s wagon. They rolled the wagon away from the playground about a hundred feet to the park’s small wading pool. It was Autumn and the shallow pool had long since been closed down for the season. The fence surrounding the pool wasn’t very high. Sometimes the children would climb the fence and roller-skate and skateboard in the empty pool.
It took all three boys to lift the wagon. They dumped the wagon into the pool. They had to stand up on their tiptoes to do it. The wagon landed with a loud clang. Magazine clippings blew everywhere. The boys laughed and ran. The children on the playground cheered.
Jason stood up. He’d covered his ears at the noise. He saw his wagon in the pool and limped over. The children dropped from the playground equipment and went home. It was supper time.
One of the children looked back at Jason as he went home. He saw Jason standing at the fence. Jason had both his hands pressed to the chain-link. His face was pushed so far into the fence that it seemed like he would pass right through. The boy heard Jason Howl. It was higher pitched than normal. It sounded worried. The boy thought he sounded like a dog.
The boy walked backwards home. He watched Jason. Jason walked around the fence of the wading pool once, twice, then he sat down. He howled again. The sound was long and very sad. Again, the boy thought about how closely the sound resembled that of a dog. Tomorrow he would tell his friends that Jason’s mom had sex with a dog. He would tell them Jason’s mom had sex with a dog and that was how Jason was born.
Abortion
Steve and Fred sat down to dinner at a local diner.
"My sister got an abortion yesterday," Fred said.
"Is she okay?" Steve said.
"I don't think so. I don't see how anybody could be when they make a decision like that. I know the kids not okay," Fred said.
"You sound upset with her decision," Steve said.
"She didn't talk to me about it first."
"You talk over every little thing with your sister?" Steve said. "You're a little old for that. Doesn't sound like any of your business."
"Maybe," Fred said, "I don't know about that."
"What do you mean?"
"I think something like abortion is everyone's business," Fred said.
"You having some issues with your ovaries you want to talk about?" Steve chided, "Fallopian tubes acting up on you?"
"Don't give me that shit about being a man and having no call about what women do with their bodies," Fred said, "I'm talking about children."
"I just don't think you should have an opinion on something that you can't understand," Steve said, "Do you think your sister is a bad person?"
"No," Fred said, "She's not a bad person. One action doesn't define a person. I do think abortion is wrong and I feel pretty lucky that I don't have the ability to have that kind of temptation in my life."
"Yeah," Steve said, "By now you would have had about three abortions and I would have had at least two."
"This isn't funny Steve."
"I didn't say it was," Steve said, "You going to order?"
Fred hadn't noticed the waitress at their booth. They ordered coffee and omelets. The waitress went to the counter to give the order to the cook.
"I'm not mad at my sister," Fred said, "I'm worried about her."
"It's the law of the land," Steve said, "You have to follow the law of the land. You don't want women having back alley abortions like it was before Roe vs. Wade."
"I don't want women getting hurt," Fred said, "Don't you just get a bad feeling in your gut when you think about abortion. Don't you just get a feeling that it isn't right."
"I do. It's ugly business," Steve said.
"I've been thinking about it for awhile. Even before my sister had one," Fred said, "I used to be pro-choice. My parent's are."
"What flipped you?" Steve asked.
"I'm a Christian and..."
"Don't give me any of that shit," Fred said, "I'm a Christian too AND pro-choice."
"It's not like that. We've been friends for a long time just hear me out. Part of my beliefs about people is that they have souls and are built for eternity. I believe that all children have souls. What I don't know is when those souls are placed in the bodies. I can't tell for sure if a human has a soul when he's a single cell, a hundred or a million."
"What are you getting at?" Steve said.
"I'm a cautious man," Fred said, "I could be wrong and when I get to heaven Jesus will tell me the whole soul thing doesn't happen until about six month's gestation or something. But I figure if that's the case, I was just being careful with something I don't understand."
"So if the soul is there at conception..."
"If the soul is there at the moment of conception, at the moment the tissue becomes viable, then you're talking about a life built for eternity. If that's the case then abortion is the termination of human life. It is big people killing the smallest and most vulnerable of our population. It is someone taking the life of something God has blessed with a part of himself."
"But you don't really know that," Steve said.
"I don't," Fred said, "Like I said, I'm a cautious man."
"My sister got an abortion yesterday," Fred said.
"Is she okay?" Steve said.
"I don't think so. I don't see how anybody could be when they make a decision like that. I know the kids not okay," Fred said.
"You sound upset with her decision," Steve said.
"She didn't talk to me about it first."
"You talk over every little thing with your sister?" Steve said. "You're a little old for that. Doesn't sound like any of your business."
"Maybe," Fred said, "I don't know about that."
"What do you mean?"
"I think something like abortion is everyone's business," Fred said.
"You having some issues with your ovaries you want to talk about?" Steve chided, "Fallopian tubes acting up on you?"
"Don't give me that shit about being a man and having no call about what women do with their bodies," Fred said, "I'm talking about children."
"I just don't think you should have an opinion on something that you can't understand," Steve said, "Do you think your sister is a bad person?"
"No," Fred said, "She's not a bad person. One action doesn't define a person. I do think abortion is wrong and I feel pretty lucky that I don't have the ability to have that kind of temptation in my life."
"Yeah," Steve said, "By now you would have had about three abortions and I would have had at least two."
"This isn't funny Steve."
"I didn't say it was," Steve said, "You going to order?"
Fred hadn't noticed the waitress at their booth. They ordered coffee and omelets. The waitress went to the counter to give the order to the cook.
"I'm not mad at my sister," Fred said, "I'm worried about her."
"It's the law of the land," Steve said, "You have to follow the law of the land. You don't want women having back alley abortions like it was before Roe vs. Wade."
"I don't want women getting hurt," Fred said, "Don't you just get a bad feeling in your gut when you think about abortion. Don't you just get a feeling that it isn't right."
"I do. It's ugly business," Steve said.
"I've been thinking about it for awhile. Even before my sister had one," Fred said, "I used to be pro-choice. My parent's are."
"What flipped you?" Steve asked.
"I'm a Christian and..."
"Don't give me any of that shit," Fred said, "I'm a Christian too AND pro-choice."
"It's not like that. We've been friends for a long time just hear me out. Part of my beliefs about people is that they have souls and are built for eternity. I believe that all children have souls. What I don't know is when those souls are placed in the bodies. I can't tell for sure if a human has a soul when he's a single cell, a hundred or a million."
"What are you getting at?" Steve said.
"I'm a cautious man," Fred said, "I could be wrong and when I get to heaven Jesus will tell me the whole soul thing doesn't happen until about six month's gestation or something. But I figure if that's the case, I was just being careful with something I don't understand."
"So if the soul is there at conception..."
"If the soul is there at the moment of conception, at the moment the tissue becomes viable, then you're talking about a life built for eternity. If that's the case then abortion is the termination of human life. It is big people killing the smallest and most vulnerable of our population. It is someone taking the life of something God has blessed with a part of himself."
"But you don't really know that," Steve said.
"I don't," Fred said, "Like I said, I'm a cautious man."
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
All For Nothing
The phone rang in the middle of the night. The father swore and fumbled for his cell phone and glasses. The mother sat up in bed and rubbed her face.
"Who died?" The mother said.
"Someone better have died calling at this hour," The father said. He picked up the call.
"Hello?"
"Hi, I am so sorry to be calling this late. It's your adoptive worker through the county. I know you're not a foster home but we kind of have a situation here. Two boys, a baby and a one year old, just came to us and need placement. We are overrun with children at the moment and don't have enough foster placement options available. Would you be willing to take these two boys?"
The father turned to confer with the mother. Before he was finished with his first sentence she was out of bed and getting dressed. He loved her more for it.
They drove to the social services office. There they were handed two baby boys.
"We tried to clean them up a little," The social services worker said. The boys were filthy. Long unkempt hair snarled and matted the one-year-old's head. The baby skin was an unhealthy white. His body was lean and weak. The father turned him over in his arms and ran a finger over the flat back of the babies head. The hair was missing in a wide circle.
"I don't think they let him out of his bouncer much," The social worker said.
"That's putting it kindly," The father said, "What do we do now?"
"You take them home," The social worker said, "I will be calling you tomorrow to set up a home visit and go over your responsibilities for supervised visits with the biological family. Do you have car seats?"
The father and mother shook their heads no.
"The seats the children came here with are in pretty rough shape," The social worker said, "I can lend you some from our office, but you have to bring them back tomorrow. We don't have any more."
The father and mother took the children home.
Over the next several months the children's health improved. The hair grew in on the back of the babies head and it formed better to a proper shape. When the baby first entered the home his crying was soft and with disinterest. The father said it was because the baby didn't think anyone gave a shit. The mother told the father not to swear in front of the baby. Now the child squalled with fury. His screams sounded beautiful to the mother and father. The screams meant "I exist! I have worth!" The father said he liked the child better when he wouldn't cry. The mother scolded him.
The one-year-old began to babble instead of scream. He still panicked whenever he saw food and grabbed as much as he could get his hands on. In company, he went from lap to lap pointing and screeching for whatever the person was eating. The father said it was probably the only way the kid used to get any food was to beg it off whomever was eating. The mother agreed.
The children had their visits with the biological family. The mother and father could only watch as they fed the children soda, ice cream by the ton, candy and worst of all - apple juice.
"Please don't give him apple juice," The mother would say, "It hurts his stomach and give him a rash that bleeds. His skin is so fair."
The biological family gave him juice anyway.
The baby cried. The biological family called him fat and spoiled. They told him he was rotten.
The one-year-old would be so up from the visit that he would scream and scream in the car all the way home, through the evening and into the night. The baby would be so overwhelmed that he would just fall asleep until the visit was over.
The father and mother lost sleep. The children were never on a regular schedule. Visits were held during nap times. The children were handed back from day-long unsupervised visits with words of - "The kids didn't sleep all day. Only little cat naps." The children would scream through the night.
The Mother and Father prayed that the children would stay with them. They could make them a good home. They would be good parents to them. They wouldn't hurt them. They prayed for it every night.
It wasn't an easy way to live. The Mother and Father's marriage suffered from the emotional roller coaster their lives had become. Their finances strained. Their lives seemed not their own; run by court dates and supervised visitation.
Ten months passed, then twenty. The children grew up strong in the father's and mother's home. The court hearing for permanency placement arrived. The children's biological mother and father didn't follow the courts steps on how they would get their children back. The father and mother went to court looking for a miracle. Two miracles. They didn't get it.
"The children are to be reprimanded to the custody of the maternal grandmother," The judge said.
The father's heart broke. The mother's heart broke.
The boys were taken away by the social worker. The children were going back to the home they were taken away from. A trailer which already housed five people. The boys would make seven.
"Why did we care for them only to have them be taken back to where they were abused?" The father said.
The mother didn't answer.
"You know they are just going to hurt them again. What the fuck is the point to all this?" The father said.
The mother didn't answer. She started to cry.
"These boys were with us for twenty months," The father said, "That means nothing in the grand scheme of things. Especially with them being so young. We did nothing. A week of starving and slaps back in that fucking trailer will ruin twenty months of our love here. Fucking pointless!" The father shook with rage, then sat down by his wife and they both cried.
Years passed. At first the mother and father thought of those boys every day. After awhile those times where the children passed their minds stretched to weeks, then months. Now the mother and father were old and memories of the children came as sad, unexpected surprises. It reminded them that a person cannot forget anything about their lives, everything eventually churns to the surface sometimes.
The father died. He entered heaven, greeted friends and family long passed on. Every once and awhile the father would spend some time with Jesus.
"Hi," the father said, "I'm the guy that slapped you five on the way in. Bet that doesn't happen too often to you."
"More often than you think," Jesus said, "What do you want?"
"How are my sons?" The father asked.
"They are okay," Jesus said, "They are on Earth."
The mother died. She entered heaven, greeted friends and family long passed on. Every once and awhile the mother would spend some time with Jesus.
"Hi," the mother said, "I'm the wife of the guy who bothers you all the time."
"You long suffering woman," Jesus smiled, "What do you want?"
"How are my sons?" The mother asked.
"They are okay," Jesus said, "They are on Earth."
Time passed. The father wasn't sure how much, but it felt like a lot. He went and talked to Jesus.
"Hi," The father said.
"Hi," Jesus said.
"I feel like I've been here awhile," The father said.
"Make yourself comfortable," Jesus said.
"How are my sons?" The father asked.
Jesus frowned and looked at the father with heavy, sad eyes.
"Where are my sons?" The father said. "Where are they Jesus?"
Jesus began to speak but then stopped. The father stared hard at Jesus then, in fury, ran to where God was. The father came to the place. He looked at God and was so filled with awe, love and understanding that it took all his will power to tear himself away.
He found Jesus behind him.
"Nothing," The father wailed, "It was all for nothing."
The father found out that even though Jesus wipes away every tear in heaven, it doesn't mean that we won't cry.
"Who died?" The mother said.
"Someone better have died calling at this hour," The father said. He picked up the call.
"Hello?"
"Hi, I am so sorry to be calling this late. It's your adoptive worker through the county. I know you're not a foster home but we kind of have a situation here. Two boys, a baby and a one year old, just came to us and need placement. We are overrun with children at the moment and don't have enough foster placement options available. Would you be willing to take these two boys?"
The father turned to confer with the mother. Before he was finished with his first sentence she was out of bed and getting dressed. He loved her more for it.
They drove to the social services office. There they were handed two baby boys.
"We tried to clean them up a little," The social services worker said. The boys were filthy. Long unkempt hair snarled and matted the one-year-old's head. The baby skin was an unhealthy white. His body was lean and weak. The father turned him over in his arms and ran a finger over the flat back of the babies head. The hair was missing in a wide circle.
"I don't think they let him out of his bouncer much," The social worker said.
"That's putting it kindly," The father said, "What do we do now?"
"You take them home," The social worker said, "I will be calling you tomorrow to set up a home visit and go over your responsibilities for supervised visits with the biological family. Do you have car seats?"
The father and mother shook their heads no.
"The seats the children came here with are in pretty rough shape," The social worker said, "I can lend you some from our office, but you have to bring them back tomorrow. We don't have any more."
The father and mother took the children home.
Over the next several months the children's health improved. The hair grew in on the back of the babies head and it formed better to a proper shape. When the baby first entered the home his crying was soft and with disinterest. The father said it was because the baby didn't think anyone gave a shit. The mother told the father not to swear in front of the baby. Now the child squalled with fury. His screams sounded beautiful to the mother and father. The screams meant "I exist! I have worth!" The father said he liked the child better when he wouldn't cry. The mother scolded him.
The one-year-old began to babble instead of scream. He still panicked whenever he saw food and grabbed as much as he could get his hands on. In company, he went from lap to lap pointing and screeching for whatever the person was eating. The father said it was probably the only way the kid used to get any food was to beg it off whomever was eating. The mother agreed.
The children had their visits with the biological family. The mother and father could only watch as they fed the children soda, ice cream by the ton, candy and worst of all - apple juice.
"Please don't give him apple juice," The mother would say, "It hurts his stomach and give him a rash that bleeds. His skin is so fair."
The biological family gave him juice anyway.
The baby cried. The biological family called him fat and spoiled. They told him he was rotten.
The one-year-old would be so up from the visit that he would scream and scream in the car all the way home, through the evening and into the night. The baby would be so overwhelmed that he would just fall asleep until the visit was over.
The father and mother lost sleep. The children were never on a regular schedule. Visits were held during nap times. The children were handed back from day-long unsupervised visits with words of - "The kids didn't sleep all day. Only little cat naps." The children would scream through the night.
The Mother and Father prayed that the children would stay with them. They could make them a good home. They would be good parents to them. They wouldn't hurt them. They prayed for it every night.
It wasn't an easy way to live. The Mother and Father's marriage suffered from the emotional roller coaster their lives had become. Their finances strained. Their lives seemed not their own; run by court dates and supervised visitation.
Ten months passed, then twenty. The children grew up strong in the father's and mother's home. The court hearing for permanency placement arrived. The children's biological mother and father didn't follow the courts steps on how they would get their children back. The father and mother went to court looking for a miracle. Two miracles. They didn't get it.
"The children are to be reprimanded to the custody of the maternal grandmother," The judge said.
The father's heart broke. The mother's heart broke.
The boys were taken away by the social worker. The children were going back to the home they were taken away from. A trailer which already housed five people. The boys would make seven.
"Why did we care for them only to have them be taken back to where they were abused?" The father said.
The mother didn't answer.
"You know they are just going to hurt them again. What the fuck is the point to all this?" The father said.
The mother didn't answer. She started to cry.
"These boys were with us for twenty months," The father said, "That means nothing in the grand scheme of things. Especially with them being so young. We did nothing. A week of starving and slaps back in that fucking trailer will ruin twenty months of our love here. Fucking pointless!" The father shook with rage, then sat down by his wife and they both cried.
Years passed. At first the mother and father thought of those boys every day. After awhile those times where the children passed their minds stretched to weeks, then months. Now the mother and father were old and memories of the children came as sad, unexpected surprises. It reminded them that a person cannot forget anything about their lives, everything eventually churns to the surface sometimes.
The father died. He entered heaven, greeted friends and family long passed on. Every once and awhile the father would spend some time with Jesus.
"Hi," the father said, "I'm the guy that slapped you five on the way in. Bet that doesn't happen too often to you."
"More often than you think," Jesus said, "What do you want?"
"How are my sons?" The father asked.
"They are okay," Jesus said, "They are on Earth."
The mother died. She entered heaven, greeted friends and family long passed on. Every once and awhile the mother would spend some time with Jesus.
"Hi," the mother said, "I'm the wife of the guy who bothers you all the time."
"You long suffering woman," Jesus smiled, "What do you want?"
"How are my sons?" The mother asked.
"They are okay," Jesus said, "They are on Earth."
Time passed. The father wasn't sure how much, but it felt like a lot. He went and talked to Jesus.
"Hi," The father said.
"Hi," Jesus said.
"I feel like I've been here awhile," The father said.
"Make yourself comfortable," Jesus said.
"How are my sons?" The father asked.
Jesus frowned and looked at the father with heavy, sad eyes.
"Where are my sons?" The father said. "Where are they Jesus?"
Jesus began to speak but then stopped. The father stared hard at Jesus then, in fury, ran to where God was. The father came to the place. He looked at God and was so filled with awe, love and understanding that it took all his will power to tear himself away.
He found Jesus behind him.
"Nothing," The father wailed, "It was all for nothing."
The father found out that even though Jesus wipes away every tear in heaven, it doesn't mean that we won't cry.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)