CHAPTER ONE
And even to your old age I am he;
And even to your hairs will I carry you:
I have made, and I will bear;
Even I will carry, and will deliver you.
Isaiah 46:4
April, 1990
The silence of the kitchen disturbed only by the faint squeaking of rubber tires rolling across sticky linoleum, a man deftly negotiates a path through the darkened interior of his house, apparently having tread the same course many times before. Reaching his destination at the far end of a narrow hallway, he gives the doorknob a clockwise turn, reluctantly making his way into the dank chill of the shadow-filled bedroom.
He feels a familiar tightening in his throat.
Drawing a breath, he pushes himself toward the crib in the corner of the room. Reaching through the railing, he gropes for the small stuffed teddy bear, knowing it would still be lying undisturbed among the blankets, untouched as it were for months by any human hand save his own.
He clutches the bear to his chest and swings the chair around, his rapidly filling eyes making it all the more difficult to find his way around the blackness of the room. Bumping his hand against the curved arm of the rocking chair, he stops, spins around. Then, with all the strength his slender arms could muster, he lifts himself up and drops his limp, spindly frame onto the cramped seat of the small wooden rocker.
Bringing the bear up to his heavily stubbled face, he allows a thin smile to cross his lips, as he is still able to detect a faint scent of baby powder on its fur-covered abdomen. Finally, after a long, agonizing moment, he drops his hands to his lap and presses his teeth against his quivering lip.
Then, he weeps.
* * * * *
What in the world was he thinking?
Slipping on the left component of a severely tattered pair of running shoes, Tony couldn’t help but wonder, Had he been under the influence of some experimental, mind-altering drug? Had the news of his ex-wife’s impending marriage caused his mind to snap like some thin, overbaked pretzel? Otherwise, what would explain the total lack of sound judgement displayed several months ago when he signed his name on one Waiver of Liability form, affording him the dubious privilege of joining several thousand other individuals of questionable sanity in a grueling, six-mile excursion through the treacherous, wino-strewn, pothole-laced, cobblestone boulevards of the New Orleans French Quarter?
The Cajun Classic.
What in the world was he thinking?
Now, he had scarcely more than six months to work himself into well-oiled, Olympian-like condition, lest he spend his upcoming fortieth birthday in a floral-print backless gown, eating chocolate fudge double layer cake through an I.V. in some I.C.U.
Forty.
The mere mention of the number sends an icy shiver up his spine, much the same as might be experienced by a plump young turkey when he hears the word ‘November’. And despite having promised himself that he was not going to allow his ego to fall prey to the inevitable anguish associated with impending midlife, the number unceasingly haunted him, as the day of reckoning continued to loom ever larger on the chronological horizon.
196 days, 17 hours, 28 minutes.
One day after the aforementioned six-mile excursion.
What in the world was he thinking?
He aimed his gaze at the window across the room. Rapidly, the steel gray hues of the eastern sky were giving way to a more resplendent tableau of crimsons and siennas. Shaking his head, he muttered several colorful words regarding the relative merits of Daylight Saving time, noting that the hour that had mysteriously vanished during the night had caused him to sleep a bit longer than he had intended.
As he carefully tugged on the frayed ends of his shoelaces, the shrill ring of the telephone unexpectedly shattered the silence. Startled, his hand reflexively jerked upward, causing him to break off a large piece of an already too-short string. Lunging forward, he scooped up the receiver, instinctively trying to prevent others in the household from being disturbed.
Oddly, despite the passage of nearly five years, he has never completely gotten used to the bitter fact that now, he was alone.
“Hello?” he mumbled, rubbing the corners of his eyes.
“Tony? Are you awake?”
“No, genius...I’m talking in my sleep. Praying that you’re just a bad dream.”
“Clever, dude. Man, you were supposed to be here a half-hour ago. What’s the problem?”
“Aw, I forgot to move my clock up before I went to bed last night.”
“Well, you know what they say about getting old...the memory’s the first thing to -”
“Real cute, smart aleck. Look, I’ll be there in...forty-five minutes.”
“Why so long?”
“I gotta look for a new shoestring. I just broke -”
“Jeez, Tony! You own a sporting goods store! You think some time before the race you could sneak out a new pair of shoes, and finally get rid of those ten-year old, no-string, split-tongued Swiss-cheese soled pieces of garbage?”
“Nine years old.”
“Just get your bony butt over here, please.”
Exasperated, he slammed down the receiver, glanced up at the wall clock and nodded smugly.
Who’s getting old, he mused.
I mean, anybody could forget to set their clock.
Anybody.
He plopped down in his desk chair and, after several tugs, finally managed to open the jam-packed drawer. Sifting through the rubble, it quickly became apparent that his aging, walnut veneered pseudo-antique rolltop desk was completely devoid of anything even remotely resembling a shoelace. He did however, begin uncovering a plethora of long forgotten personal paraphernalia - unfinished manuscripts, unmailed résumés, unsubmitted artwork - all droll reminders of creative years and lofty aspirations gone by.
With only the pale glow of the newly risen sun guiding him, he quietly scanned the aging relics of his optimistic youth, trying to recall exactly when his life began to go astray. At what point did his ambitious dreams become nothing more than just - dreams? He should be teaching, he thought. Or writing. He had even considered a career in music at one time. Or art. Why had he allowed his talents and abilities to be wasted? How could he have permitted his mind to stagnate and rot, like some fish deprived of water? Instead of fresh ideas and challenges, his mind was laced with bitterness and regret, hopelessly resigned to the brutal reality that for the rest of his days, his most inspired creations will consist of Balance Sheets and Statements of Income.
Frustrated, he tossed the papers back into the drawer and slammed it shut. Then, he caught a glimpse of something lying near his feet.
A card.
Scooping it up, he switched on the desk lamp.
Reluctantly, he read the inscription.
Happy First Wedding Anniversary
From Your Loving Wife
Allowing a smile to cross his lips, he acknowledged the realization that apparently, his memory was still functional. He could vividly recall the day he received that card; indeed, he could even remember a certain hot summer day several years before.
The day he first laid eyes on that fair-skinned, auburn-haired girl who would later become his Loving Wife.
Hi.
Uh, hello.
Do they hurt?
The braces? Just when he tightens ’em. And when you eat crunchy foods.
I guess I'll have to lay off of potato chips for a while.
And popcorn. You gettin' yours on today?
Nah...he's just taking my impressions.
Yuch! I remember that...I almost puked my guts out!
Thanks...I feel better now.
Ooh, I gotta go...my mom's blowing her horn. Good luck - uh, what's your name, anyway?
Tony. Tony Amante.
I'm Kathy...see ya ’round.
His reveries interrupted by a chorus of hoot owls and tree frogs beginning their traditional morning recital outside his bedroom window, he placed the card back in the drawer. Then, he inched the drawer closed, deciding that the broken string would probably last a while longer after all.
Besides, it was getting late, and his jogging partner was waiting at home, presumably quite impatiently.
Lowering himself onto the carpet, he dropped his chin to his knees. The sun, now shining through the opened blinds, was casting an eerie, striped pattern of shadows and light onto the specks of dust hovering in its path. Slowly, he lifted himself up from the floor and ambled toward the window. Gazing through the blinds at the deserted street below, he watched as the streetlights began to flicker out one by one.
Catching a glimpse of his reflection in the dew soaked pane, he curled his lips. A smattering of gray hairs had sprung up some time during the night, an unwelcome complement to the lines that had forged a path along his cheeks several nights before. Dropping his gaze, he ran his hand across his slightly protruding abdomen, hoping perhaps to mold it back into a shape that would more proportionately fit his otherwise sylphlike frame.
He sighed in disgust.
While certainly not unattractive, with a wiry frame just over six feet tall and a smooth, olive complexion that clearly revealed his Sicilian heritage, for some reason he has always been repulsed by the person whom he saw when he gazed into the mirror. Although the dark brown hue of his wavy hair required periodic enhancement, and the creases around his eyes and across his brow were indicative of a person with a long history of sleepless nights and anxiety-filled days, he still had the appearance of a man several years younger and an airy, carefree attitude that sometimes made even his teenage daughter seem matriarchal by comparison.
But the pleasant, appealing image on the surface offered not even a hint of the demons that roamed within. And despite the fact that the painful memories of his adolescence - the taunts, rejections and heartbreaks - have become little more than hazy flashes in his mind, the wounds that they opened have left deep, permanent scars across the delicate tissues of his subconscious.
Now, as he approached the midpoint of his life, he began to sense that time was slipping away, and there was still much work to be done.
He was nearly forty.
And still very much alone.
Kathy?
Excuse me? Do I...
Tony. Amante. The orthodontist’s office? About six years -
Tony! I don't believe it - you're going to school here?
I sure am...accounting major.
I'm in psychology...man, it's great to see you! How've you been?
I'm doing okay. How 'bout you?
I'm surviving. Look, I gotta get to class...give me a call sometime. I'm in the book - Boudreaux, Lakeside Drive. I'm running late - I'll talk to you later! Call me!
No problem! Hey, Kathy!
What?
Your teeth - they look great!
Huh? Oh, yeah...thanks! Yours too! Bye!
His dark brown eyes aimed across the room, he gazed at the framed portrait hanging on the wall near the window. Seeing it illuminated in the brilliance of the early morning sun, he realized, perhaps for the first time, how closely the young girl in the painting resembled her mother; the same full, pouting lips, the sultry, almost hypnotic look in a pair of eyes that could never quite decide if they should be light brown or olive green. Staring at his daughter’s subtle yet alluring features, captured so strikingly in a variegated blend of oil and pigment, he couldn’t help but marvel at the unusual genetic mishap that must have occurred nearly fourteen years earlier, which allowed a person so wrought with flaws as he to claim even a small measure of credit for the creation of a being so radiant, so...perfect.
A smile teased the corners of his lips.
Nice work God, he thought.
You worked out the bugs.
At that moment, a wall-rattling thumping issuing from downstairs brought his reflections to a screeching halt. Lifting himself up, he quickly made his way down the stairs, then dashed into the foyer.
He pulled the door open.
“Are you crazy?” he said, in a muffled yell. “You’re gonna wake up the whole neighborhood!”
“Good morning to you too!” the rotund, sweat suit and Spandex shrouded figure caustically replied, while nonchalantly adjusting his nearly opaque Ray Bans. “Where ya been? I’ve been knockin’ for the last fifteen minutes!”
“I was upstairs looking for some - what the heck are you doing here, anyway? I told you I was coming -”
“I got tired of waiting. The weather’s gettin’ hotter, and I’m gettin’ hungrier!” As he spoke, he was rubbing his sizable midsection in large, circular strokes. “Well, ain’t you gonna’ invite me in?”
Smiling, Tony said, “Yeah, Greg, c’mon in...but make sure you wipe -”
“Already done, dude!”
Nudging the door closed with his heel, Greg pulled off his sunglasses and positioned them on top of his head. Several inches shorter than Tony and possessing a physique that invited comparisons with large household appliances, he still exhibited the same ruddy-cheeked, rounded face Tony remembered from their grammar school days together. His hair, poker straight and the color of Gulf Coast sand was combed straight back, its texture just sparse enough to reveal scattered patches of sunburned scalp underneath. Like Tony, he was as quick with a compliment as with an insult; in contrast, while Tony’s smile seemed always to be concealing some deep, hidden torment, Greg’s deeply dimpled grin was a genuine, seemingly permanent feature.
Casting a glance at the soles of Greg’s feet, Tony turned and trotted into the kitchen. He poured two glasses of Gatorade, then pulled a banana out of the fruit bowl.
“Sorry I can’t offer you more,” he said, breaking it in two. “I haven’t been to the grocery yet this week.”
Greg, eyeing the morsel of banana as if it were Kino’s pearl, said “That’s okay. I’m trying to cut down anyway.”
“Excuse me?”
“Yeah, Carrie said I could stand to lose a couple of pounds. What do you think?”
“I think your wife has mastered the art of understatement.”
“C’mon, man - be serious. Haven’t you noticed how much less I’ve been eating lately?”
“Not really. You made so many trips to my refrigerator the other night, my neighbors asked me if I installed a strobe light in my kitchen.”
“Hilarious. So, if that’s the case, how come I’ve lost twelve pounds in the last month?”
“They’re not lost...you just haven’t looked in the right places. Check behind you.”
His thin lips tightened. “I kid you not, if you weren’t such a good friend, I’d -”
“C’mon, man. You know I’m kidding. You’re not really fat. Just slightly, uh...dimensionally disadvantaged.” Pausing, he glanced down at his watch. “Jeez - look at the time! We’d better get going.”
“How many we gonna run today?”
“Well, since the race is only six months away, we should probably go for about five.”
“Five miles?”
“No - five yards. Twice around my coffee table, then into the hot tub.”
“Five miles...” he muttered, wiping imaginary beads of sweat off his spacious forehead. “Okay...but I have one small request.”
“What’s that?”
“That if I collapse, you take me to a hospital that serves Italian food.”
* * * * *
As the pair embarked upon their ambitious trek, the sun was already hovering unsympathetically above the rooftops, removing all remnants of what had begun as a cool spring morning. Tony glanced toward the glowing yellowish orb set against the pale-blue, cloudless sky and breathed a disconsolate sigh.
Kathy loved days like this, he thought.
Warm, sunny days filled with the chirping of sparrows and the pungent smell of azaleas. Days spent at the park taking pictures of Crystal sitting by a pond or among the twisted, tentacle-like roots of the gigantic cypress trees. He remembered fondly the times Kathy would spend hours lying in the shade of those trees, reading her psychology journals while Crystal sat beside her, completely surrounded by beach toys and Barbie dolls. And despite the passage of nearly five years - years spent in his own self-imposed purgatory - he still couldn’t fully comprehend exactly why it happened the way it did.
Why, on that cold, blustery November night, while his wife and daughter slept soundly and securely in their beds, he packed his suitcase and tearfully walked out of their lives forever.
Tony! Are you ever coming to bed?
It’s tax time, Kathy. You know I’m always swamped this time of year.
Yeah, Tony...I know. This month it’s taxes; and when that’s finished it’s quarterly reports, and after that you’ll sit around writing that stupid play -
All right, Kathy - that’s enough!
No, Tony - it’s never enough. I’m getting tired of this! Everything in your life is more important than your family.
Please don’t start that psycho-trash with me again -
No, this time I’m serious! I need a husband and Crystal needs a father. I wish you’d either get your priorities straight...or get out of here!
Be careful what you wish, Kathy. Sometimes wishes come true...
As the blistering sun continued its journey across the increasingly cloudy sky, the throbbing of knees and shins began to take its toll. To make matters worse, Tony’s shoes were now in the early stages of meltdown, discharging large chunks of lukewarm rubber in all directions.
Finally reaching their predetermined stopping point, the two of them lunged across the curb, collapsing in a heap onto a field of dew-soaked grass. Rolling his body over, Tony tried to open his eyelids, but the blinding sun, now directly overhead, prevented it.
Lying supine on a plush patch of wet clover, he struggled to force a deep breath through his uncooperating lungs.
If death is near, he thought, he was ready.
He draped his arm across his forehead and waited anxiously for pieces of his life to flash before his tightly closed eyes.
He prayed it would be quick.
Tony, there's something we need to talk about.
Oh no, Kathy...don’t tell me the alimony check bounced again. I told the bank -
I wanted to be the first to tell you. I'm -
Wait - let me guess...you're pregnant, and the father's a space alien.
No, I -
An illegal alien?
Tony - I'm getting married!
You're what?
I'm getting married...in November.
Married? November?
I don't believe it - I've finally got your attention!
Married?
“Tony?”
“Yeah, Greg.”
“You alive?”
“Yeah,” he uttered. “Barely.”
Lying perfectly still, he could feel his pulse pounding inside his head.
“Hey...Tony.”
“Yeah, Greg.”
“It’s been...a long time since...our first mile run...at St. John the...Redeemer.”
“Much...too long, man.”
Finally managing a deep breath, he lay his hand across his chest.
“Tony?”
“What?”
“You know the only good...thing about getting...older?”
“No, Greg...what is it?”
“It sure beats the…heck out…of the...alternative.”
As he lay placidly in the damp grass, agonizing over throbbing muscles and unpleasant memories, Tony couldn’t help but wonder - just for a moment - if the alternative might not be so bad after all.
