Ellis

Ellis
Copyright 2014 Matt Cairone
All Rights Reserved

Ellis packed his things into pillow cases, as the guards stood careless watch outside his cell. Today, for the first time in thirty-two years, he would walk in the open and breathe air on the outside. These were things he had not done since the door slammed behind him on September 1, 1982.

The guards were happy for Ellis. A judge agreed, after all this time, that he was not the man who raped the girl walking home from school. After all this time, a judge agreed that the prosecutor had abused his power, had abused his office and, in the process, had abused Ellis.

Ellis was of the mind that he was the only person in the world that believed he was innocent. Even those closest to him, at least to his way of thinking, had given up on him.

When the girl was raped, Ellis was cleaning the bathroom in his apartment across town. He had no idea that a few blocks away something was happening that would upend his world. He was just doing what he did every other Thursday afternoon. Using his day off to tidy up.

When the police came around to fetch him later that night, he was not in the best shape to meet them. Cleaning his place wasn't his only ritual on Thursdays, his day off. Another was drinking. The police found him drunk, and he made a real bad first impression.

Ellis couldn’t afford a lawyer, so the county appointed an overworked, inexperience public defender to help him. It was a classic mismatch, with Ellis on the wrong end of it. The prosecutor was running for re-election. And a pre-November conviction of a child raper made for great headlines and powerful ads.

Ellis stuffed the last of his things into the pillow case. He pushed down so he could tie the end closed. He did the same thing with the other sack. Then, he took a long, slow look around the cinder block cell. He ran his hand across the mortar. He pulled his fingers across the blotches of water that formed under the holes in the ceiling. He fondled the iron bars that crossed the small opening in the blocks to the walkway between the cells, the hole where they pushed food to him when he misbehaved and he had to eat alone.

The cell door was wide open; it had been all the while he packed. But he couldn’t seem to walk through it.

“You coming,” the one guard said, with a smile.

“Yeah, I’m coming,” Ellis said.

“Well, come on out. You’re a free man.”

The guard swung the door open as wide as it would go, and motioned for Ellis to come out.

“Yeah, I’m coming.”

Ellis grabbed the pillow cases, one under each arm, and moved through the doorway. As he walked down the hall, the others called to him and yelled to him and waved their hands through the small holes in the doors to their cells. It was some farewell.

When they reached the administrative offices, there was paperwork. Ellis stared at the wall while the forms were filled out and he signed everywhere that they pointed out for him to sign. At long last, the woman behind the desk gave Ellis a small bag with the things that he surrendered to them thirty-two years before. She asked him to check to see whether it was all there. He never opened the bag.

“It’s all there,” he said.

Ellis stuffed the small bag into one of the cases, and stood up. The warden stood with him. He approached Ellis and extended his hand. Ellis shook it.

“Now, Ellis, there are some reporters outside that are gonna wanna know how you feel, getting out after thirty-two years in prison for something you didn’t do.”

Ellis looked down while the warden spoke.

“You thing you’re gonna be okay with that?”

“I’d rather not answer no questions, warden.”

The warden looked at the guards and then back to Ellis.

“Who’s here to pick you up, Ellis?”

“Nobody.”

“Jesus Christ,” the warden said. “Nobody?”

“Nobody.”

“What about your family, the kids, an old friend for Christ’s sake?”

“I ain’t heard from any of ‘em for over ten years, warden. I don’t expect I’ll hear from ‘em today.”

The warden shook his head and breathed a long sigh.

“All right. We’re gonna get you a ride and take you around those news people so you don’t have to talk to them, at least not right now.”

The warden shook his head.

“Not now, anyway. After that you’re on your own. Would that help, Ellis?”

“Yes, sir. It would help a lot.”

The warden motioned to two deputies to get a car, and pointed down the hall to the service exit.

“Take him anywhere he needs to go in the city. And take him that way. I’ll go talk to the press. That’ll give you time.”

“Thanks, warden. That makes things easier, at least for a while.”

“Good luck, Ellis. I don’t know what else I can say.”

Ellis nodded, with a funny frown.

The warden patted Ellis on the shoulder, nodded to the deputies, and turned to walk outside.

The warden spoke in front of the cameras while Ellis slipped out the back.

“What do you have to say to Mr. Troy today, warden?”

“That I’m sorry for the miscarriage of justice.”

“Why do you think it happened, warden?”

“I guess people like to believe the machinery works. Makes ‘em sleep easy. Makes ‘em feel safe after something that shakes their foundation. Maybe the perception of justice is too powerful a thing.”

He paused, and when no question followed he said, “bottom line, I have no idea why this happened.” He was lying.

The Link to My Non-Flash Fiction

http://www.amazon.com/The-Brit-Matt-Cairone-ebook/dp/B0053TZDO6

Here's what an English Professor from the University of California - Riverside said about the novella. He may not agree with the publisher's designation of the work as "existential", but he recommends it:

The Brit tells the story of the professional gambler, T.S. Fowler, and various people who encounter him during his short time in Las Vegas, Nevada. T.S., who is mostly called The Brit in the novel, has come to Las Vegas to improve his earnings at poker, which he plays for high stakes, as does his wife, and they both support themselves in this way.  The Brit is not cheating or working any system besides luck and his knowledge of the game.  But he gets so into playing that he hardly eats, pops amphetamines to stay awake, and drinks, with coffee or gin, depending on whether he wants to keep playing or to crash. On this particular visit to Las Vegas, he seems to be doing well in reconstructing his fortunes.  He is strung out, but he still manages to keep up decent conversational patter, and when he does chat late one night with an attractive corporate lawyer, she is on her guard, but she likes him enough to give him her card. Meanwhile, in London, his wife Edith is trying to cope with a sense that her life has become meaningless.  She visits a counselor and feels for the first time in a long time happy about her prospects and the chance of working things out with the husband, whom she realizes she hardly knows. During his second day, the Brit’s luck turns sour, and he almost instantly loses not only all his gains but everything he brought with him to Las Vegas.  This sends him into a crazed spell in which he does some horrendous things, and the next thing Edith hears is that he is being held in a Las Vegas jail on an indictment for murder. Edith responds to his call and heads to Las Vegas with the little cash she has and no idea where to turn.  In the meantime, the Brit has phoned the lawyer, Mary, explaining his plight and asking for her help.  She says she will try to help him find an attorney, but she does nothing and he is appointed a public defender.  That turns out to be an overworked but very competent and concerned young man, who helps the Brit to shape a defense.  He calls Mary again, however, and asks her to help with his wife. Feeling guilty, Mary agrees to contact Edith and offer her a place to stay when she arrives in Las Vegas.  The two women hit it off immediately, and the intensity of their feelings help them both deal with the crises surrounding them.  I say “crises” because everything seems to go wrong.  The judge rejects a plea—because he is upset that a Lockerbie defendant has been set free in Britain; there is an explosion at the jail; and Edith ends up returning to London alone. It is a simple tale, almost a long short story or a novella, but it is powerful and thought provoking in lots of ways. 

 

Headlights

Headlights painted the bend in front of the River Cluster. Tony, awash in the light, saw the cab winding toward him. He felt his heart in his throat. A car door slammed and there was a hard knock on the door.
“I am so sorry.”
She was furious. She did not speak.
“Pam, I can explain...” and she blew past him into his room.
“I need to sleep,” and as he started into the room she said, “Alone.”
“Pam, please let me...”
“Get out.”
She slammed the door in his face.

Wave Runner

Copyright 2014 Matt Cairone

All Rights Reserved

I paid $50 cash for forty minutes.  We got instructions – no 360’s – no riding out of sight – no dangerous maneuvers – yada yada.  

I strapped the safety harness to my wrist, and we pushed the wave runner off of the sand and into the water.  My son, Carl, hung on, not knowing what to expect, and I accelerated.  We went slow at first, but not for long.  We zoomed out into the wide-open water.

The wind slapped at our faces, and the runner banged off of each swell.  This thing was fast as hell. And it was fun.  We made a sharp right turn, skimming past the last buoy on our right and zipping past the shoreline.  The surf spray shot on us, and we let the thing run full out for about a quarter of a mile.  

I let off the throttle and the runner stopped hard, balancing on the water, seeking equilibrium.  When it came to rest, water covered our feet, and the bailing mechanism started to shoot a spray behind us and straight up behind our heads. As soon as I felt Carl relax for a second I stunned him with an abrupt acceleration, and we were off.  This time we headed straight out away from the beach and toward the two large rocks that jutted out from the ocean.  It was exhilarating.  And we both embraced the moment and the speed.

“Let me drive,” he yelled, and I could barely hear him over the wind, the engine, and the water.

“Are you sure” I said as I decelerated. 

“Yeah, give me a shot. See if you can take it on the back.”

“OK.”

We fumbled around to switch places without going overboard.  I was convinced this thing couldn’t tip over, but I knew either or both of us could. I maneuvered to the back and he to the front, we exchanged the bracelet, I told him how the thing worked, and that he would have to hold firm to the handlebars. I stressed this latter point, because the smallest waves gave quite a jolt.
 

He was firmly in control, and I would have given anything to know if he was excited or petrified.  He tried to gauge the feel of the throttle with a few jerky bursts, and we lurched forward and halted several times while he did. I guess he got the feel of it, since the next thing I knew we were flying across the open water, and I soon appreciated the difference of being on the back, and totally out of control.  Talk about a role reversal.

He was digging it. We screamed forward and he was not at all shy about letting it go.  A banana boat was crossing our path, and I knew what he was thinking, because I was thinking the same thing. Go for the wake. Go for the big air. Go for it.

At full speed, we hit the small waves that followed the boat. Bang, up in the air, and bang, even harder back down on the water.  Four huge blasts like that and we were still on board.  He let off of the gas, and we reeled to a quick stop.

“Awesome” he yelled, with water dripping off of his nose and face. “Totally cool.”

“Yeah,” was all I could muster. But it was cool, and I was proud of him.

We spent the rest of our time in fits and starts, sometimes cruising to look at the clear blue water and what was beneath it, and at others riding the waves like a roller coaster.

“You can take over” he said, his adrenalin exhausted.

“OK. Let’s be careful when we switch.”

I took us to the far end of the island, and did a 180. Our time was up, and we sped back.  

We slowed only feet before the sand, and let the last momentum of our ride take the runner back onto the shore where it shook to a stop, like a beached whale.

“Did you have a good time?” asked the young boy.

“It was great” Carl said.

A Shot and A Beer

A Shot and A Beer

Copyright 2014 Matt Cairone

All Rights Reserved

John sat down. The bartender pushed a shot of whiskey and a draft in front of him. The Puerto Rican raised his shot glass. John did too. As they toasted, a shot rang from the door. The bullet missed its target, and plunged into John’s neck. The shot glass dropped, in slow motion. The whiskey slipped out of the glass, cascading. John fell forward onto the bar, and blood spouted from the hole. When everyone got off the floor, the doorway was empty and John was dead.

The Fishermen

 Copyright 2014 Matt Cairone

All Rights Reserved

John's eyes were dry, empty of moisture for today, but his heart wept.  He gazed at the water, and dreamed. The bells and clanging moorings of the sleeping boats played an island lullaby. He fell into a light sleep, subconsciously waiting for his mother’s footsteps on the walkway.  He never heard them. 

In the very early morning, well before the sun was up, the sounds of the fishermen woke him. He heard the scurry of their feet across the wooden piers, and he smelled the strong odor of black coffee that steamed from their tin bottles and cups. And he heard them curse and yell, as they readied their boats and awaited their customers. The cling and clang of hooks and poles and sinkers and line being fitted and spooled, made him anxious and aware.  Closing his eyes, he imagined himself on the deck of a boat, with the white captain yelling for him to make haste and ready all, cajoling him for being late and not fast enough.  He dreamed, and felt warm and safe.

He often heard them tell their fish tales at the local bar, and yearned to be free as they were. Free from filth, free from fat men, free from longing for the love of a mother who did not have to be a mercenary, and, yes, free from the life of paradise that these islands seemed to offer to so many others.

He vowed then, at the age of nine, to be a fisherman.  He promised himself then, to leave every morning to the blue openness.  He vowed then to own a boat, to be the master of his destiny, to captain his own ship.  He vowed then, to kill this new boyfriend in his sleep, and take his mother away from this tiny speck of hell on earth.  As he vowed, he fell back asleep, soundly for the time being.

The Game Ended Late

 Copyright 2014 Matt Cairone

All Rights Reserved

The game ended late, past his bedtime, reminding him that the more tired you are the harder it is to fall asleep.

He started with the thoughts; his mind went a mile a minute.

He drafted things in his head: the notice of the special board meeting, the agenda, and the materials for the directors. Then he revised and revised and revised, until he etched final drafts onto his brain.

The final drafts ease the pressure in his head. He relaxes his fists.

He tosses. He turns. He shakes his hands to rid them of the tingle. He sighs, and one of the dogs stirs.

The wind howls and his house talks back. Light fixtures creak on the deck. He hears one spin on its axis, and a bulb breaks.

His knees hurt. There is a ring of pain from the back to front. He feels like they are swollen. It always feels like they are swollen, he allows himself to think. He feels the fullness in his belly, even though he hasn't eaten.

There are bigger problems than his. There are wars; there are inexplicable violent acts; there are others sicker, weaker, and without medical care. So he stops the bellyaching and he stops the whining and he stops the self-pity. It’s hard to stop. Soon, he is right back at it.

September 10, 1969

 Copyright 2014 Matt Cairone

All Rights Reserved

September 10, 1969

They never talked about the spelling test at dinner because the Atomic Energy Commission detonated a 40-kiloton nuclear device 8,426 feet below the ground somewhere in the middle of nowhere in Colorado. His dad couldn’t come home for dinner because he had to stay in Washington an extra day on account of the big explosion. His mother wasn't up to going over the words he missed.

The government was blowing up parts of the country. His best friend's dad was burnt to death taking a hill in Vietnam that the enemy got right back. His father was in D.C., doing something. His mother was smoking a Kent. His friend's mom was drinking cheap vodka and shooting smack in an alley in Philadelphia. He was making good grades, looking forward to a bright future.

The Schoolyard

    A car pulled up and stopped. Marty paid attention. He didn't want any trouble.
    The man in the car watched Marty. He opened the door and stepped out. He was young, probably in his thirties, and well dressed. He had a sport coat, crisp white shirt, and athletic looking tie. He walked toward the gate in the chain link fence.
    Marty thought cop. He was scared.
    “Hey, young man.”
    Marty stopped dribbling and looked up.
    “Yeah?”
    “I been watching you shoot. I been watching you at ACC, too.”
    Marty struggled to remember where he had seen this guy.
    “You been watching me?”
    The man nodded.
    “Why?”
    It was warm, and the man took off his coat and flipped it over his shoulder, moving closer.
    “Because you’re good.”
    Then, it hit him. This guy was the basketball coach at ACC.
    The man came closer and extended his hand.
    “I’m Bill Pergament.”
    Marty reached out and shook his hand.
    “Nice to meet you.”
    “Same here.”
    “Can we sit and talk a minute?”
    Marty nodded and they went to the wooden bench.
    “Look. It’s all good. It’s Marty isn't it?”
    “Yes, sir,” Marty said, wondering how he knew his name.
    “I just wanted to tell you that you’ve got talent. I been watching and I know.”
    “Thanks.”
    “And I wanted to ask you something.”
    Bill scratched his forehead.
    “Why haven’t you come out for the team?”
    Marty shifted the ball from his left to right arm.
    “Never thought I had a chance.”
    “Well, you do. A good one. Does that change your mind?”
    Marty was not used to hearing good things.
    “Well?”
    “I guess.”
    “Great. I wrote everything down.”
    Bill handed Marty a paper and stood up.
    “I’ll be looking for you.”
    Bill stood up and slapped Marty on the back. He put his coat on and walked back to the car. He started the engine, and gave a wave as he pulled the car into traffic.
    Marty unfolded the paper. It had the coach’s name and phone number, the time of the first tryout, and instructions on what to bring. On the bottom there was scribbled handwriting, “If you need a ride, give me a call. Coach.”

The Insurance Exam

"A big pinch," and then the needle plunges into the fattened vein.

"That wasn't too bad."

"Good."

Vials fill with red syrup.

"Now I need just a little sample...."

"I'll try."

Finally, liquid in the cup.

"Success?"

"Yep."

"All finished."

"Great."

"You were a quickie."

Hamburger Hill

    Tony didn’t know Shorty’s father. He just knew that he was in Vietnam. Shorty bragged on him. He was proud of his dad, the warrior.
    Tony seldom saw news about the war, but if his father and mother weren’t in the room, he caught glimpses on the 6:00 news. It was nasty stuff.
    It was Wednesday, and Tony had a baseball game. 
    Far from South Jersey, the 2/4 Marine Battalion was engaged in a fierce fight with a North Vietnamese Army division. The fight was over a piece of dirt. At first, the hill of dirt only had a number: 937. Later, they gave it a name: Hamburger Hill. Sounds better dying over a piece of dirt if it has a name. Shorty’s father was in the 2/4. 
    At the field, parents took places in the bleachers, finding shade from the lowering sun. Dads sat with dads, and moms sat with moms. A few lone men came to the games, too. They said they liked watching the kids play, but everyone knew they came to check out the moms.
    They chatted about this or that. Some complained about the new mayor. What the hell was he doing with the intersection by the school. Idiot. Some talked about whether the team had any chance to make it out of the regional. Some gossiped about what small town people gossip. The lone men tried to catch a peek up the ladies’ skirts. It was an ordinary May evening.
    The first pitch was hurled to Tony; Shorty’s dad was in the fight of his life, over hill 937.  He and his buddies were outnumbered three to one.
    Shorty’s dad was crouched down, trying not to get shot in the head; Tony singled to left field, knocking in the first of the five runs his team would score that inning.
    Tony was in line shaking hands with the opposing team; Shorty’s dad popped his head up to see air support.
    Encouraged by the planes over head, Shorty’s father took up a position in the brush southeast of the Hill. All of a sudden, the planes were gone. It was quiet.
    His sergeant picked four men to push forward into the paths between the smoldering thatch huts. They moved through dead, burnt bodies. Every so often, a hog, a cat, or a dog emerged from the rubble and startled them. The sergeant and his men walked with pronounced vigilance, listening as each boot landed a step closer to the smoldering residue. Each knew the next step could be the last.
    Sweat poured down Shorty’s father’s face. He did not dare move to wipe it off. It dripped into the dirt and made mud under his chin. His hand held fast to the gun and he squinted against the sunshine. The sergeant held up his right hand and his men stopped hard. The sergeant looked back across the space between him and the hole in the ground where Shorty’s father crouched. Before the sergeant could lower his hand, a bullet pierced through his helmet; he fell to the ground and the marines around him dove for cover. All hell broke loose. Brutal fighting erupted, shattering the morning. Snipers were everywhere, and tracer bullets flickered in disorder around the ambushed marines.
    Shorty’s father was firing, emptying his gun into the village. He couldn’t see the enemy. He fired indiscriminately in the direction from which the deadly shot had come. He was shooting at ghosts.
    Shots rang out from behind Shorty’s father. The Viet Cong surrounded him. A VC soldier who had stolen a flamethrower opened the weapon on the dirt hole. Blood curdling screams penetrated the morning. The fiery blasts burnt Shorty’s father beyond recognition. Six of his comrades met the same fate. There was no telling the white from the black.

Dinner 1969

The talk was about his sister going off to college. She was starting her second year at Rutgers. His dad was telling her not to use drugs, not to hang around with the freaks, not to listen to the crazy talk about the marijuana. He told her to stay away from the anti-war crowd; he said you could be against the war without taking over buildings. It was hard to enjoy dinner.

The Appointment

The Appointment

© Matt Cairone 2014

All Rights Reserved

Printed in the USA

This story is fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or the author uses them fictitiously.

The Story

The waiting room was packed. Most looked at the television screens hanging from the ceiling. Others read magazines. No one talked. Peter sat off by himself, his hands folded on his lap. His mind wandered.

A plump nurse wearing a red bandana popped out from behind the cubicle and called out, “Mr. Maris.” Peter stood and waved his right hand. She held open the door and went in after him. “Third door on the right,” she said. Peter moved down the hallway and turned into the room.

“Just have a seat. Dr. Cho will be with you in a few minutes.” He nodded his head and sat down. He folded his hands on his lap.

The room was barren. Scopes and lights hung from hooks on the walls. The examination table looked like an electric chair. An out of date computer sat on a small table in the corner, with a screen saver darting back and forth. It said, “UPCC Medical Center: Authorized Access Only.” Peter watched it go back and forth, up and down, and across the screen on the diagonal. It helped to kill the time.

Peter could hear footsteps in the hallway and he could hear papers shuffled on clipboards. When the noises passed Peter relaxed, re-folded his hands on his lap, and fixed his eyes on the screen saver.

Then came a knock on the door and Dr. Cho stuck his head in “Hello, Peter.” The doctor walked in and sat down across from Peter, on the small stool with wheels. 

“Hi, Doctor Cho, how’re you?”

The doctor smiled, wheeled closer to Peter and said, “Just fine, Peter, just fine.” Peter smiled and waited.

“I have the pathology, Peter.” He did not pause for Peter to say anything. “Peter, the pathology shows some irregularities.” He leaned closer. “You have a rare type of B-cell lymphoma.” Peter did not show any emotion. “The full name is ALK-positive large B-cell lymphoma. I wrote it down on this piece of paper.” Dr. Cho folded the paper and handed it to Peter. Peter took it and put it in his shirt pocket.

“It looks like the mass has well defined margins, which is good. We don’t know how far it has moved out of the lymphatic system.”

Peter looked at the doctor, expressionless.

“We have a meeting scheduled for Tuesday morning with the pathology team.”

“I’ll expect to talk to you Tuesday afternoon then.”

“Okay, Peter.”

 Peter stood to leave. 

“What’s the survival rate?”

“Come on, Peter, don’t ask me that.”

“Just tell me,” and he crossed his arms over his chest. “Just tell me.”

“Eleven months, Peter. Just an average.”

With that, Dr. Cho stood up and offered Peter his hand. Peter shook the doctor’s hand. Then he stood and opened the door. 

Peter waved goodbye to the nurses sitting behind the desk in the cubicle. He walked to the elevator and pushed the down button. As he waited for the elevator car he looked back into the crowded waiting room, at the pale, thin patients waiting for their treatments. 

The elevator door opened and Peter stepped inside. The door closed. Peter watched it shut.

Peter left the cancer center and walked out onto Craig St. What a beautiful day, he thought. He put on a baseball cap to shield his eyes from the sun.

He was hungry. He walked down two blocks to the Chipotle. He ordered a chicken burrito. He took a cup for water. He took his burrito and his water and he sat in the booth in the corner of the room, away from the windows. He took his time to eat. Every few bites he took a small sip of the water. He chewed and swallowed.

His appetite was good and he finished the burrito with no trouble. He drank the last of the water. He looked around to see if anyone was close by before he belched. Peter wiped his chin and put the napkin and the small plastic basket onto his tray and threw out the trash and returned the tray. He went to the rest room to wash his hands.

Back on the street, Peter decided it was too loud to call his ex-wife. But he knew he needed to tell her right away; he would have to decide with her how to tell his son. 

He decided to make the call from the lobby in the hotel across the street from the hospital. It will be quiet there this time of day, he thought.

“Peter. What’s up? You haven’t called in forever.”

“I’m sick, Lynn.”

She didn’t say anything.

“Just found out.”

“What sick, Peter?”

“Sick like cancer.”

“Cancer?” Lynn sat down at her kitchen table. “What cancer?”

“Some kind of lymphoma.”

“Brian’s gonna be devastated.”

He took a hard swallow.

“How do ya wanna tell’im, Lynn?”

She fidgeted with the coffee cup. “I guess we should just tell’im. Together.”

He knew she would say that. And he knew she was right. 

Larry's Eye

Larry’s Eye

Copyright 2014 Matt Cairone

All Rights Reserved

I see Larry about once a week. Last week when I seen him he had this wicked ugly black guy. It was really fucking bad. So I says to him hey Larry what the fuck happened. He turns to me and he says hey it's none of your fucking business. So I let it go.

We go to the custard stand. We’re standing in line and I figure I'll try again. So I says to Larry hey really what the fuck happened to your eye, man. 

I can’t even finish and he blasts back. He says it’s none of your fucking business. What the fuck don’t you get about it’s none of your fucking business. While he’s still in his rant a voice shoots back from behind the screen. Whoa, take it easy. There’re kids here, pal.

The guy’s barely done talking and Larry’s on his ass. Fuck you, motherfucker. Stay outta my shit. Who the fuck are you?

I left without a custard. Larry left with another black eye.

Just Thought I'd Stop By

Just Thought I'd Stop By

Copyright 2014 Matt Cairone

All Rights Reserved

I drove into the cemetery. The sky was grey and the wind was cold. Flakes of snow swirled in the air. The wipers swept one after another off the windshield. It had been so long; I had trouble finding the sites. At last, I saw the two worn stones. One with my father’s name, the other with my mother’s. They had been under the ground, here, for many Christmases. Hard to believe how time flies.

I was alone. I thought about bringing flowers, but the idea never took hold.

I zipped my coat before opening the door and stepped out of the car. I walked toward the graves, crunching snow beneath my feet. I stood in front of the stones.

“I’m not sure why I’m here.”

The wind carried my words away.

“I miss you both.”

I pressed a hand on each stone and felt the cold.

I wiped my eyes as I eased the car onto the drive. I looked in the rearview mirror, before leaving them for good.

Pie

She had a distinctive way of eating pie. Really, she did. 

The Immigrants

The Unhealed Cut

Copyright 2014 Matt Cairone

All Rights Reserved

He was born Anthony Mario Cappelletti. But they called him Tony, from the very beginning. 

Tony’s mother and father were Italian-Americans. 

Tony’s maternal grandparents were from Northern Italy, the Trentino region in the foothills of the Dolomites. They spoke Ladin, a rare dialect interweaving Italian and French. Louis Rossetta, his grandfather, came to the United States when he was seventeen; he came to escape hard times, to get a job building the railroads. Louis settled in a small town in northwestern Pennsylvania, smack in the middle of the Snow Belt. He must have felt right at home. Tony’s grandmother, Antoinette, came to the United States via Ellis Island. Antoinette came alone when she was sixteen. She came after Louis was established with a job and reliable income. They were married in a small Catholic church in Port Allegany, Pennsylvania, with no family or friends at the ceremony. The witnesses were railroad workers Louis met driving steel nails into wooden rails. The Italians in Port Allegany didn’t speak Ladin. Louis and Antoinette learned to talk to each other.

Tony’s paternal grandparents were from Southern Italy, the small village of Positano on the Amalfi coast. They were accustomed to warm summers and mild winters with an abundance of lemons, tomatoes, olives, pasta and wine – la dolce vita.  Tony’s grandfather, Andrew, came to the United States when he was nineteen to build the railroads. Andrew ended up in a small town near the coast in southern New Jersey. Tony’s grandmother, Maria, came with him; they were already married. They set off right away to grow vegetables, grapes, and adapt as best as they could to the new land.  

Italy is a big country, culturally distinct from north to south. Tony’s grandparents were Italian, but very different: stoic figures who could survive the cold, harsh life in the mountainous region, on the one hand, and free spirits content with the sweet, soft life by the seaside, on the other.  They adapted to life in a new country, taking and using their respective, disparate backgrounds to meet the challenge.

From these new Americans came Tony’s parents, Joe and Angie.

Angie was born and raised in Port Allegany. Angie had two sisters and one brother. She grew up in hardscrabble Northwestern Pennsylvania. Winters were long and cold and hard. Summers were short and hot and humid and filled with bugs. 

Joe was born in Malaga, New Jersey, and he grew up near the shore, one of eighteen children. He grew up in a square, white clapboard house with a large garden. There was a chicken coop for eggs and meat, grapes for the wine, and vegetables to help feed the huge family. Joe was somewhere in the middle according to age.

He was one of three in the family who went to college, graduating from LaSalle in Philadelphia during the height of the great depression. He majored in finance and accounting, but there were no jobs when he got his degree. He got work where and when he could. Frustrated, he joined the Army in 1940. The Army shipped him to a paradise in the South Pacific called Hawaii. The army trained him on a base there, at Pearl Harbor. He was there on December 7, 1941, the day paradise was lost.

The army moved Joe to North Carolina. He enrolled in officer training. When he completed the training, he shipped off to northern Africa to fight in an anti-aircraft unit supporting Patton’s army against the desert rat, Rommel. He stayed in the war until it was over. His youth spent, he returned to South Jersey and took a job with the government as a special agent in the Treasury Department.

Angie moved to the small town in New Jersey where Joe lived because her older sister found work and a husband there. She found work too, and then she found Joe.  

Because of time lost to the depression and the war, Joe was thirty-five and Angie was thirty-two when they married. 

Life was good. The post-war years were prosperous. Life was easy for most Americans. 

But, there was an ugly undercurrent. Tony grew up with the deep, unhealed sore weeping pus all around him.

Six Months Later

Six Months Later

Copyright 2014 Matt Cairone

All Rights Reserved

It seemed a long time coming, a long time suffering, until the active phase of dying.

Lisa sat by the bed, holding his hand. The breathing was getting worse. The muscles in his chest were too weak to move the phlegm and the mucous. Each breath rattled and gurgled.

There was a foul odor.

Lisa heard a knock on the door. She let go of his hand and placed it on the bed.

“Hello, Lisa,” Lynn said.

“Lynn. I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I know. If it’s weird I’ll go. But I wanted to see him one more time.”

“Come on in. He's in there.”

Lynn walked into the dark room. She strained to see Peter. He was skinny and grey. Lynn thought she might be sick.

Peter sat up with a brief, final surge of energy.

His voice crackled. His dry lips pulled apart with each syllable.

“Where is he, Lynn? Where is he?”

“He’s not here, Peter. I came alone.”

A piercing moan; and he was dead.

The Exchange Student (circa 1977)

The Exchange Student

Copyright 2014 Matt Cairone

All Rights Reserved

The chill belies spring. Cattle are scattered in the fields, penned in by electric fencing. A bull mounts a cow and heaves on her, his breath pouring out of his flared nostrils with each thrust. From out of nowhere, a voice behind me, “C’est un facon de garder au chaud.” I turn, startled, and there is a girl, 19 or so, with a backpack. I reply, “Oui, il est.” She bends her head to the left and smiles. She turns on her heels and continues down the road, leaving me standing on the side of the road. I watch her go, until she vanishes over the horizon. “A bientot.”

The cow is grazing now, picking at the grass and the weeds, chewing between bites at the ground. The bull is lying on his side under a tree, looking the other way.

There are no cars. There are birds, chirping and yapping, there are cows mooing and grunting and chewing, and there are leaves and branches creaking and flapping in the breeze. The wind comes and goes, as the young girl had come and gone.

All of a sudden the fields are filled with soldiers, and the noise is deafening. There are guns and tanks and screams of horrible pain. Cows lay dead in the fields, gaping holes in their sides, heads, and bellies. The smell of rotten flesh, human and animal, fills the air.

The line of young men seems endless. As they pass it is obvious they cannot see me. I am a ghost to them, and they to me. After so long in France, it is funny to hear the American accents. That guy sounds like he’s from Michigan, and that one from South Carolina. Wow, listen to that New York accent, no doubt that guy’s from Boston. They are kids.

Cigarettes are passed out, and canteens handed from one to the next down the line. They look like they’ve gotten the worst of it from the devil himself. I could see the end of the line approaching, and then the last few pass me by.

The fog lifts, the sun shines, and the specters are gone.

The Gift

The Gift

Copyright 2014 Matt Cairone

All Rights Reserved

        The wind blew cold and damp with the bite of the onshore wind. 

Mario had been up since dawn, but he knew better than to get out of bed up until light came through the venetian blinds. He never started Christmas morning on the wrong foot. 

Once he was sure it was safe, Mario bounced out of bed and ran down the hall to his parents’ bedroom. He peeked in. They were awake. 

“Merry Christmas,” his mother said. 

“Merry Christmas. Is Mary Beth up yet?” 

Mary Beth, being eight years older than Mario, was apt to sleep to an undesirable hour on Christmas morning.

“Go and check,” his dad said, which Mario took to be license to wake her. 

He ran into her room and turned on the light. He stomped around like a wooden soldier on steroids. 

“Get out of here,” she screamed, holding the “out” for an extra-long count.

She pulled the covers over her head.

“Come on,” he said. In his best vaudeville impersonation he sang, “Presents!” He took a bow and tipped an imaginary top hat.

“Give me a minute you little turd,” she said.

“You’re the turd,” he yelled.

“All right you two,” his mother said, pulling the covers off of his sister with a smile. “Let’s get our slippers on and go see what’s under the tree.”

Mario shot into his room, emerged with slippers on, and ran to the bathroom to brush his teeth. He waited for everyone to brush. At last, it was time.

Mario went right for it, right to the square package with round bulges. He knew what it was. The same shape had been under the tree for every Christmas he could remember. It was the one thing he knew he could count on. The square package with the round bulges, once a year, without fail, on Christmas morning.

This was his new basketball. It was his favorite present. Nothing else mattered.

Last year’s ball was on its last legs, as usual. It was balding and slippery. The grip was worn down and the dimples were played off. Mario opened the present, pulled apart the cardboard, and he read the magic words: “Spalding - Official Size.” He picked the ball up to smell the new rubber and to feel the suction-like grip of the new dimples. He put his fingers in each deep seam and made a full circle around the ball. He spun the ball on his right index finger until his mom was compelled to tell him to stop before he broke a light. She had to coax him to put it down and open his other presents, which he did in haste to return his affections to the new ball.

Mario hated snow on Christmas. He put the ball on the floor next to the rocking chair. After breakfast, he said, “Can I go out for a little while?”

“Where are you going?” his mother asked.

Mario’s father, a man of few words, said, “You know where he’s going.”

Mario ran to the schoolyard, the ball under one arm and the snow shovel in the other hand. The frigid wind blew and the snow swirled around him. He cleared a patch under the basket. 

Tony's Birthday

Tony’s Birthday

Copyright 2014 Matt Cairone

All Rights Reserved

August 8, 1963

Tony’s Aunt Angie was born in the house on Philadelphia Avenue, and lived there all her life. She took the bus to work every day save for one, Thursday, her day off. Tony and his buddies went to the big house for lunch, 11:30 sharp, every Thursday in the summer.

Today was special. It was Thursday after Tony’s 5^th birthday. 

Tony and Paul and Kenny and Bonnie gathered on Third Street. The four linked hands. Paul’s mother and Tony’s mother watched them to the end of Third Street, until they disappeared around the corner.  

Aunt Angie waited at the end of the drive. She greeted them with hugs and kisses and herded them inside. 

They got cowboy hats. The boys got holsters with plastic six shooters; Bonnie got a hoop skirt to tie around her shorts. And they all got plastic guitars, with plastic strings to strum.

Aunt Angie got her camera. She went inside and got Tony’s grandfather, now nearly 90, and sat him on the front porch. All the kids gathered around him with their hats, guns and guitars. He patted each one on the top of the head before he went back inside.

“Grandpa looks tired Aunt Angie.”

“Well, he’s getting old Tony. We all get tired when we get old.”

“I don’t wanna get old then.”

She smiled and patted him on the head.

Tony and his friends were hungry. Because it was his birthday, Tony picked what was for lunch. He chose his favorite thing that Aunt Angie cooked, veal with peppers and onions. He loved it. He swore no on could make it like Aunt Angie. His mother tried, his Aunt Theresa tried, and his Aunt Mary tried. But always, Tony announced their failure to live up to Aunt Angie.

After lunch, they played cowboys and Indians, using the chicken coop and the rows of grapes to hide from each other. They climbed trees to set up ambushes. They imagined hospitals to care for the wounded. All the while, Aunt Angie snapped picture after picture.

A little before 2:00, Tony’s mother and Paul’s mother walked to the big house to fetch the kids home. Today, they stayed for a piece of the birthday cake. While they ate cake, Tony and his friends laid under the red mulberry tree in front of the big house, gazing up through the branches at the bright, blue sky. They were exhausted.

“They all had such a good time.”

“They always do,” Tony’s mom said, flicking ashes on the grass.

“Thanks for having them again, Angelina,” Paul’s mom added.

“Oh, heavens. I love it. I think I enjoy it more than they do.”

“Bye, Aunt Angie.”

They yelled and hollered as they walked home, with cowboy hats, guns, and guitars. 

The Window

The Window

Copyright 2014 Matt Cairone

All Rights Reserved

A man awoke with a chill. He rose and went to the window. He could not close it. He sat up until morning, shivering.

When businesses opened, he called the window repairman. The repairman arrived in due course. After a brief inspection, he announced that the window could not be repaired and would have to be replaced. 

The man who owned the window could not afford the cost of the replacement. This he conveyed to the repairman who, unable to provide services for free, left, waving as he went through the door. 

Now the man never left his apartment without closing all the windows and locking the door.  Unable to close the window, he was unable to go to work. Unable to go to work, he was unable to replace the window. 

Nor could the man sleep with the window open for fear of intruders. This went on for days. The man was so tired he could not see straight. With time his poor eyesight was joined by slurred speech. On the eleventh day, he started to hallucinate. While hallucinating, he saw the window close. But for this he may have died.

The Therapist

The Therapist

Copyright 2011 Matt Cairone

All Rights Reserved

“My father never told me he loved me.”

Dr. Casey stopped writing.

“What’s that, Peter?”

“My father never told me he loved me.”

The doctor put his pen down and sat forward.

“You’ve never told me that.”

“I never really thought about it ‘til last night. I was lying in bed. I was thinking about dying. I was thinking about my son. Then I realized it. My father never once told me he loved me.”

“Did your father love you?”

“Yeah, I know he did.”

“Why do you think he never said it?”

“I don’t know. He was quiet.”

Peter looked out the window and crossed his feet. He closed his eyes and leaned back. A light swirled behind his eyelids and he couldn't make it stop. He closed his eyes hard, and then he relaxed them. It was still there. He rubbed at his eyes. It was no use. The light was there.

Peter got up. “I need to use the restroom,” he said.

“Okay.” Dr. Casey stood and walked to his desk. He picked up a fresh notepad.

Peter walked past the restroom. He stepped onto the elevator and watched the door close. He stepped out of the elevator and waved to the receptionist in the beauty salon on the first floor. She smiled and waved back. He walked straight to his car. Dr. Casey saw him from the window, turning left onto Route 19.

“Oh, Peter,” he said. “Don’t do that.” 

He got up and went to his desk. He threw the notepad down and scratched above his left eye.

Dad's Cancer

Dad's Cancer

Copyright 2013 Matt Cairone

All Rights Reserved

I’m starting the Dodge Charger. My dad is coming out the front door. He’s wearing khaki pants and a raincoat, even though the sun is shining and it’s warm. He’s so skinny and weak. His eyes are sunken and his cheeks are hollow. I can’t believe how frail he is, and how helpless. He takes the first step and stumbles. He regains his balance. I can see my mother through the doorway, getting ready to follow him to the car so we can go to Atlantic City for the chemo. He starts to walk toward me. He misses the first step and falls on his face, too weak to extend his arms. The thud is sickening, and I shiver remembering the sound. Face on pavement. Blood on pavement. Fear in my father’s eyes as he wipes blood from his nose and mouth. My mother cries. I try to remain calm. I try to soothe him, telling him it isn’t as bad as it seems. 

I help him sit up and he spits out blood, some of it onto my jeans. My mother hands me some tissues and I start to dab away at the bloodstains. He is cut above the eyes, on the bridge of his nose, and on his lips. He made a three-point landing, and he is stunned from the fall. He looks at me for comfort and reassurance. I say what I can. 

I lift him up like a baby and carry him into the house and place him on the couch in the small living room. I finish cleaning his face and put a pillow under his head. He closes his eyes.

I call the hospital to cancel the appointment. My mother smokes a cigarette, sobbing at the kitchen table. I put my hand on her shoulder as I walk by to check on my dad. He is asleep, scabs forming on his face.  He looks peaceful.

On A Kayak

On A Kayak

Copyright 2014 Matt Cairone

All Rights Reserved

I am floating in a kayak. Small swells rock me, and the soft breeze massages my face. The sun is reaching its peak. I am in a lagoon. I can see people on the beach and the resort buildings and the flags and the water fountains and the beach craft and the toys.  

I head out, away from the lagoon. I round the bend of rocks that forms the breakwater; I am alone.

I look to the shore and see strong trees waving in the wind, black rocks from lava that melted and froze there I don’t know how many years ago, and far off a cloud blanketed, dead volcanic mountain. My arms feel strong and my core pumps power into each stroke, with which I am accelerating in peace. I stop paddling and drift with the tide and the swells and the breeze. The water is quiet, and the breeze is just a whisper.

I lean back and close my eyes, drinking in the moment.

A barracuda, chasing lunch, leaps out of the water and over the bow of the kayak. Life is going on here, thank you very much. There is no escape, no matter where you go or how hard you imagine.

I see a large, dark mass hovering near the surface. I paddle toward it and it takes shape: a beautiful, graceful, gigantic sea turtle. In the water, this animal is fluid, adroit, formidable. Out of water, it is lumbering, slow and clumsy. 

A large eye, just above the surface, spies me, and all of a sudden, he (or she) is gone. 

Shorty's Birthday

Shorty’s Birthday

Copyright © 2014 Matt Cairone

All Rights Reserved

This is fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

August 8, 1963

Shorty’s older brother, John, picked berries at old Mrs. Hamilton’s farm. Mrs. Hamilton took a distinct interest in John, a quiet boy with good manners and a stoic work ethic.

That boy’s going places, she would say at night to old Mr. Hamilton.

Mrs. Hamilton asked John about his family, his life at home, and so it was that she came to know about Shorty’s birthday. She wasn’t able to do anything for Shorty on the 5th, because she was in New York. But she returned to the Harbor on the 7th, and asked John to bring his little brother to the farm for cake and ice cream.

John worked from daybreak until noon every day except Sunday, picking blueberries into an old Maxwell House coffee can that hung on a shoestring around his neck. When the can was full, he poured the berries into twelve, pint containers that were arranged in a wooden box they called a flat. When a flat was full, John took it to the pay station and exchanged it for a coupon worth 10 cents and another empty flat. It was hard, hot work, especially for a young boy. But John came every day when there was picking at the farm, and he brought money home every Friday and turned it over to his mom.

John didn’t tell Shorty why he wanted him to come to Mrs. Hamilton’s farm. He just brought him. Shorty was too young to work, so he sat in the row between the bushes, in the shade when he could find it, and watched his brother pick. Every now and again John would reach down and give Shorty a handful of the plump, bluish purple berries. Shorty wolfed down the sweet berries almost before John could stand up from offering them to him.

The sun arced higher, and the noon whistle blew. Pickers were allowed to finish the flat they were working on when the whistle blew, and John did. When it was full, he retrieved his coupon and hung his Maxwell House can on the nail in the little wooden hut they called the can shed.

John walked to the well next to the stone walkway that led to the house. He pumped the old iron handle until cool, clear water poured hard from the spout. He craned down to drink. When he was sated, he washed his hands, rubbing away the stains from the berries, and he patted some cool water on his hot cheeks. Shorty watched.

“Come on now, Shorty.”

“Where we goin', John?”

“Up to the big house. Mrs. Hamilton has a surprise for ya.”

Shorty beamed.

“A surprise for me?”

“Sure does, Shorty.”

Shorty skipped the rest of the way up the path.

John knocked on the door.

“Come in.”

John recognized Mrs. Hamilton’s voice right away.

As John and Shorty walked in, Mrs. Hamilton came around the corner to greet them.

“Hello, boys. Come right on in.”

Shorty walked behind John, in his shadow, under his protection.

The house was twenty times as big as their house. Shorty had never seen anything like it.

Mrs. Hamilton motioned them into a small sitting room. When they entered, Shorty’s eyes popped open wide. On a wooden table, covered with a crocheted doily, sat a sheet cake with five blazing candles. “Happy 5th Birthday Eloy” was written on top in blue icing.

Next to the cake was a ceramic bowl heaped up high with vanilla ice cream.

Shorty was speechless.

“Say something, Shorty.”

John was embarrassed.

“Is this for me, ma’am?”

“Why, of course it is Shorty. Happy Birthday.”

“Thank you, ma’am. Thank you.”

Shorty felt like he’d died and gone to heaven.

The Island Studio

The Island Studio

© Matt Cairone 2014

All Rights Reserved

The ceiling fan whirled, shaping violent ellipses. It turned hard, as if to unscrew itself.

Candide pulled the chain to slow it down. The air was heavy. The faint breeze made little difference.

The housekeeper climbed the wooden steps, up to the small room on the second floor of the guest house; the room Candide made into a studio for her writing.  There was a laptop on the desk, and behind it was the old Royal typewriter her father used before he died.

"How can I write when sweat is dripping on my keyboard?"

"You're the one with the romantic notion that air conditioning is uncivilized," Emily said, without making eye contact. "I brought you some lemonade."

"Just lemonade?" Candide asked, leaning back and stretching her arms above her head to dry her underarms in the draft of the fan.

"I put a little something extra."

Emily knew she was enabling.

"I know how you like it. And I had no intention of going back downstairs."

"Judging me today, Emily?"

"Not at all, ma'am," Emily said, without a hint of respect.

Emily picked up a small pillow and put it on the chair that Candide used for naps. She peeked at the computer screen and frowned at the empty page.

"How's it coming, ma'am. The story, I mean."

Candide was standing in front of the French doors, opened to a spacious patio above the garden. She took a drink and turned to face Emily.

"I'm making great progress in my head."

Emily straightened the painting of a man catching a great fish.

"And on paper?"

"Not so much."

Emily moved toward the stairs. She rubbed at the low of her back, to soothe the ache that wouldn't go away.

"Wait, Emily."

"What is it, ma'am?"

"It's so damn hot."

Emily waited, sure of what was next.

"Bring me another lemonade?"

Emily was surprised at the embarrassment.

She started down the stairs and answered back, "Sure thing, ma'am. Give me just a minute to fix it.” She shook her head with every step.

Candide took the last sip and let the ice cubes rest on her lips. She put the glass down on a side table and sat down at her desk. She laid her chin in her cupped hands and stared over the top of her screen, fixing her eyes on the cat lying on the window sill, seeking relief from the heat in the torpid breeze.

"My, you look content," she said to the cat. "Hot, but content."

Candide pecked on the keyboard and two or three lines appeared on the screen. She stopped, sat back, and read. She leaned in and tapped until everything was erased.

The screen door slammed.  Emily was coming back with the drink. Candide listened to every heavy footstep.

"You are a sweetheart."

Emily replaced the empty glass with the full one, turned and left.

Candide picked up the cool glass and placed it on one cheek and then the other. She stirred it with the skinny straw and took a long drink. She closed her eyes.

"I miss you, daddy," she whispered.

She opened her eyes. Memories of him were everywhere in the studio. The Dolphin fish mounted on the wall. The picture of him with her on the beach when she was a little girl. The writing awards and congratulatory letters. The old fishing pole, with rod and reel well worn. The picture with him helping her hold the first big fish she ever caught, a beautiful tarpon. The worn photo of him, with her mother, in happier times.

So many stories, and I can't write a one.

Death of an Atheist

Death of an Atheist

Copyright © Matt Cairone 2014

All Rights Reserved

Max put the book down. He had lost track of time; he was going to miss his bus. Max shoved the book into his backpack, pulled out his bus pass, and darted across the street, glancing down at his watch.

That’s when it him. He never saw it coming. The driver of the truck stood over him. Max was bleeding in the street. The Coors Light truck was big, it was going too fast, and the driver couldn’t stop: Max was dead.

Funny, Max thought, it doesn’t hurt. It’s just cold.

Max felt silence. He saw a bright light, blinding. The light warmed him; the cold was gone; he was comfortable.

“Am I really dead?”

Max floated through a fog, a mist. He was suspended, light as a feather. A voice from behind gave him a start.

“Hey,” the voice said.

Max turned. On a small chair sat an Asian man with a Blackberry in his right hand.

“Hey,” Max said back. “Who are you? Where am I?”

The man laughed.

“You’re in the doorway to heaven,” he said.

“Heaven?” Max asked.

“Yes, heaven.”

A chair appeared.

“Have a seat, Max,” the man said.

“How’d you know my name?”

“Give me a little credit,” the man said, laughing.

“If this is heaven, who are you?”

The man laughed again. “People call me god. You can call me Frank.”

Max was confused.

“Wow, okay. This is the doorway to heaven and people call you god.” Max laughed. “This is one helluva dream. I don’t believe in god or in heaven. I’m an atheist.”

“I know,” Frank said.

“Okay, I’ll go along. So, Frank… may I call you Frank?”

Max regretted the sarcasm.

“Please.”

“Well, Frank, do you decide who gets in?”

“Yep.”

“Then this should be an easy one, right?”

Frank smiled. “Not necessarily, Max.”

Frank typed something on the Blackberry. He hit the send button and Max heard the swoosh sound.

“Who said believing in me was the key to heaven?”

“Well, it seems pretty clear.”

“Pretty clear from what?”

“From what they say.”

Frank shook his head. “Pity.”

“What’s a pity?” Max asked.

“What they say.”

Frank stood to stretch.

“You know religious people who are total assholes, Max?”

“Jesus, you’re blunt.”

“Answer my question,” Frank said.

“Sure, I do. Plenty.”

“You know any holy rollers who treat people like crap?”

“Sure. Lots.”

“Then why do you think believing the nonsense and spouting off about it matter to me?”

“Don’t know. I figured that’s the way it was.”

“Why, Max? Why?”

“Because I never imagined it any other way. I couldn’t see it any other way.”

“It’s not that way, Max. I never said so.”

Max scratched behind his ear.

“Well, how do you get in?”

“By being good.”

“By being good?” Max asked. “That’s it?”

“My rules are pretty simple, Max. Men hungry for power embellished them. So yeah, that’s it, Max. No assholes allowed in, Max, especially not the assholes who pretend piety. There’s a special place for them.” Frank half smiled.

“But I got hit by a bus. I didn’t have time to make things right. I didn’t have time to confess.”

Frank half fell out of his chair.

“What?” Max looked at Frank.

“What did I say? What’s so funny?”

“Confess,” Frank said, still laughing. “That’s one of my all-time favorites. Just say a few Our Fathers and a few Hail Marys and it’s all washed away. How convenient, Max. How convenient. That’s not from me, Max. That’s some man-made craziness.”

“You mean…?”

“Craziness, Max. What kind of a god would sit still for it?”

Max leaned in.

“There’s no easy way out at the end. Ya think I’m unfair? How’s that right? You got hit by a bus. Some other guy who’s screwed over everybody his whole life gets in because he confesses? Not on my watch.”

Frank leaned in.
“You didn’t believe in me, Max. You didn’t go to church. You criticized the religion men made, not its fundamental precepts. You protested the abuse in the Catholic Church. You spoke out against religious intolerance, about racial intolerance, about intolerance. You spit out the pabulum. You recognized the false word of god for what it is, the word of money hungry, controlling men. You didn’t think anyone cared.” Frank paused. “You were only wrong about the last thing, Max, only the last thing.”

Frank put a hand on Max’s shoulder.

“You were a good man, Max. You weren’t an asshole.”

Frank stood.

“You relied on yourself and you took care of people. You had empathy. Make a long story short, Max, you gave a shit about people.”

Max listened, his mouth open.

“You helped feed people. You helped keep people warm. You stood up for the weak. You embraced differences. You walked in another man’s shoes before you drew conclusions. You did good stuff, Max. Not because you thought I wanted you to, but because it was right.”

Frank offered Max his hand.

“That’s the kind of guy I’m waiting for, Max. Come on in.”