Fathers Lived in Comic Books

Fathers Lived in Comic Books

Third Draft - Last updated Spring 2007

As the elevator door opened the pain in Rick's stomach returned worse than it had been before, causing him to hunch over in the doorway and dry heave since he had not eaten yet that day from anxiety. The elevator door dried to close again but Rick forced it back open, unwilling to move from its path, still crippled by his pain. The pain finally subsided. Rick gathered himself and continued down the hall, wiping away the dampness near the tops of his pale cheeks.

Rick's eyes rolled back and forth across the frames of his reading glasses as he counted up the rooms from 200 to 212. He came to door 213, glanced down through his lenses again to check the number, and then looked back at the heavy door. There was no peep hole, only a black metal number. The hallway smelled of burning meat and voices and music shook through the thin walls near each door. It was an ambient noise that made Rick feel out of place. He checked the address on the sheet again, it hadn't changed, so he folded the slip and put it in his right jacket pocket next to the envelope. The tiles to the right of his son's door were filthy, covered with a collection of dried gunk, the remnants of water damage during the past spring. A stain of swollen wallpaper led from the damaged tiles up to the ceiling and a dark pool that caused the weakened drywall to sag. Rick pressed out a bubble from the wallpaper with his thumb. The rough texture under his fingers frustrated him, but still the column of damage seemed appealing somehow. The door was still closed, nothing had gotten better. Rick took off his glasses and neatly closed them into their case, which he slid into his left pocket.

His knocks echoed down the hallway. There was a sound like straining wood and a voice behind the door, and Rick could hear his son turn off his music.

“Who is it?” Eddy's garbled voice resounded through the wall. The door was a barricade more than a passage for his voice, but still he screamed louder than the barrier required.

Rick glanced down the hallway to the elevator.

“What do you want?” He was right behind the door and still screaming.

Eddy yanked on the door, straining the small chain lock, and slipped his face into the opening. “What?” Eddy said to his father. They both became silent.

The door closed. Rick looked back at the stain, then the elevator, and again at the door. He knocked again, softer this time.

“Why are you here?”

Rick got back to the the elevator right as Eddy opened the door again to see if his father was still there. He wasn't.

Monday, Rick though, he would come back Monday.

Nothing was familiar to Rick anymore. He walked this street every night, down two blocks and over three, from his city apartment to Carl Greene's Bar. But the path seemed different that night, something was burning in him, directing his thoughts away from his content monotony, making everything around him seem foreign.

The evening fog was beginning to collect on the ground and freeze as Rick reached the bar. There were seams in the brick where windows used to be, and an intricate molding around the door that may have once been light blue.

Rick stopped at the door and waited for the sharp pain in his belly to pass. It burned in his stomach for a minute, shooting needles into his liver and up towards his heart. He pulled open the door and stepped into the dark smoke.

“Please Da.” A young voice said.

“I don't want to play your records Junior!”

Rick's eyes adjusted to the dark as he lit up a cigarette. Wires ran across the high ceiling and down to lamps that hung a few feet above each table, creating a globe of light that seemed to encompass only the people at each table. The boys were sitting at a table near the far end of the counter as always, their own little forgotten America, and Cassidy had already started up a game of gin. Carl was behind the counter arguing with his son, Junior. Rick walked over to the counter where Junior had laid a record player.

“But I don't want to sit here doing nothin' all night.” Junior was almost eleven years old but he was small for his age. He had a habit of perfectly articulating how much he hated when people rubbed the top of his head or spoke down to him, as if they had something to teach him.

“Alright, fine. But keep it quiet, just loud enough that you can hear it by the bar, okay?” Carl was a young father. Someone must have called in sick that night to force him to work an evening in the bar away from his family.

“You want a pint Rick?” Carl asked.

Rick nodded. He put his hand in his pocket where he found the envelope. He wrapped his fingers around it while he watched Junior file through the stack of records he had stolen from his brother's collection. He had never seen his son at that age. “Well how come you're here tonight Junior? Not a place for a boy your age.”

“Ma's still up visiting Gampy.” Junior carefully selected one and pulled it from the pile.

“I was stuck. His brother's coming to pick him up later.” Carl explained.

“Ah. What's that one Junior?” Rick asked, leaning over to read the record label. He placed his hand on the boy's shoulder.

“Country Joe and the Fish.” said Junior through a smile, he understood just how silly it sounded.

“What? What is that hippie music?” asked Carl. He was polishing the spots off a mug for Rick.

“It's folk Da.”

Junior slowly removed the envelope from its thick sleeve and then gently pressed his fingers against the edges of the vinyl and slid the shiny record from the paper envelope.

“He's a good boy you got here Carl.” Rick rubbed the back of Junior's head with his pale cushioned hand.

“Yeah, he's a smart boy.” said Carl, letting the head run off of Rick's beer.

“I'd like to rent him from you if I could.” Rick pressed the ash of his cigarette into a glass tray on the counter.

“What?”

“I'd like to rent him. I got some business to take care of over the next few days, I'm an old man, it'd be nice to have some help. Nothing serious. Couple of days.”

Carl laughed. “Well I dunno, it's fine with me,” he held the beer out on the counter for Rick to take, “ask him. What'd you think Junior, you wanna spend a few days with your Uncle Rick?”

Junior looked at his father, more afraid than puzzled, and then his eyes got extra wide. “Like a sidekick?” He asked.

“Sure. First sidekick I ever had.” said Rick.

“Can I really Da?”

“'Course, that's better than having you sit in the house reading all day.” Carl answered.

Rick picked up his beer, “Good, I'll come pick you up Monday morning Junior. Sound good?”

Junior nodded in amazement. To other boys a man like Rick would be an uncle, or even a grandpa, but to Junior Rick was a hero.

Rick felt a little bad using the boy like this. He walked to the usual table and sat at the empty seat and waited for Cassidy to deal him in. On the wall near the table was a cork board covered in overlapping photos and newspaper clippings that told the story of men like Rick, swept away by the idea of who they were. Colorful ideals packed into little frames.

During the twenties Rick had been a private investigator, and as was popular at the time, he did his work under an alias. He wore a mask and a signature trench coat with a small metal lapel pin on it from which he got his name, The Steel Eagle. He had gotten so popular that the police force hired him on as the poster-boy for their fight against alcohol. He rarely did anything, but they liked to bring him along for raids because it made for good headlines. The idea that this masked crime fighter was on the job seemed to draw people's attention away from the truth that there was little success during that war.

At the start of the thirties Rick had become more of an icon than a real force for good. Real Crime Comics had purchased the rights to The Steel Eagle from Rick and began printing children's pulp magazines about him. On April 19, 1933 Rick had gotten his first chance to drink since he was fifteen. Because The Steel Eagle and the Mystery of the Golden Soldier had released that day Rick wanted to find a place where he could hide from it's readers so he wandered down side streets away from the clean side of town until he found a small bar which had been converted from an appliance store. He and his friends, the other men who's lives the comics had inflated, still gathered there each night.

Monday morning Rick picked up Junior at his house, they went and got breakfast, and then he took him to Eddy's apartment building.

The hallway was especially dead that morning. There was no music collecting in the hall and only a couple of rooms seemed to even make sound. Rick knocked on the door just like he had a couple of days before. He heard a shuffle inside and then looked down at Junior, who was taking everything around him in as if it were something very exciting.

1. This time when the door opened Rick was there. “Can we come in.”

Eddy looked down at the boy, “Who's that?”

“Edward Shimmel, Junior Greene. Junior this is my son.” Rick looked at Eddy and stuck out his bottom jaw as if he were picking his teeth with his tongue. “I'm watching him for a few days.”

Eddy stood back and let the door swing itself open. The walls of the apartment were decorated with tie-dyed sheets held to the wall with thumbtacks. There was a couch, a table, a chair, and by the window was an old television sitting on a T.V. tray. Behind him he saw that the column of stain reached over to the inside of the apartment too.

Rick took a seat on the couch and Junior sat right beside him. If he could have Rick would have wrapped himself around Junior to reassure him.

Between the couch and the chair where Eddy sat there was a small glass table. Most of the tabletop was stained with water marks and dried alcohol which bottles and cups were cemented to, but one corner near the couch was rubbed clean by a nearby rag.

“Why are you here?” Eddy spread out in his chair, when he breathed his chest seemed to grow wider.

“It took a long time to find you.” Rick said.

“I'm not in the phonebook.”

“You're Aunt Ellen hasn't talked to you either.”

“You went to see her?”

“Called her on the phone.”

“So how did you find me?”

“Steve's cop friend called me when they brought you in for possession.” Rick's eyes peeled away from his son and down to his fingers where he was picking at the couch. It was a roughly textured sofa that purposely felt frayed, as if it was shedding, and Rick's thumbnail was trying to sever a small clump from the armrest.

Eddy tried not to move. “So why are you here?”

Rick removed the clump of fabric, rolled it between his fingers and flicked it away. “I've been having these pains, down in my stomach. So I went to the doctor, I thought maybe it was some kind of heartburn.” Rick paused while his eyes glanced around for something solid to hold on to. “It's cancer Edward.”

Eddy's chest shrank. The two men sat quietly for a while. Junior fidgeted.

The sun outside peaked over the building to the east, casting direct light on the windows. Though the aluminum shades were closed the light forced its way between each shutter and around the edges, laying horizontal beams of light across the room.

“How long.” Eddy finally asked.

“Six months. Less.”

Eddy's chest grew wider. “So what do you want from me?”

The old man looked up from the armrest to see Eddy spread out like the ruler of a kingdom, trying desperately to maintain order. “I don't want anything from you Edward. I just want to fix... this, whatever this is.” Rick wondered if crying would force his son's sympathy, make his son forgive him any quicker. It didn't matter much though, he hadn't cried since he lost a fight in the second grade, but he still wondered. He wanted to reach the finish as quickly as he could, not to avoid the pain of the journey but to guarantee the destination.

There was a slight pain in Rick's stomach, a short burst that went away.

“Oh you do?” Eddy's head bobbled back and forth like a dashboard hula girl on a dirt road. “Well isn't that great. I'm twenty-six years old and you want to fix things. That's... that's great.”

“I know. I've been meaning to talk with you for awhile now, but I guess I thought I'd have more time.”

Rick felt Junior shift his weight away from him and thrust his hands deep into his pockets where he began to play with something.

“Why should I care? I don't even know who you are.” As Eddy began to speak louder his throat became soar and his voice raspy.

“I'm your father Edward.”

“Since when?” More air than sound escaped Eddy's mouth. “You're the last shred of a cartoon fiction that my mother tore apart. You aren't my father. You were never real to begin with.”

“I'm sorry Edward. I'm sorry you expected me to be some hero, but I didn't send you away, she took you away from me. My life was unstable, it was probably best for you.”

“Yeah I know, we're both victims of her wrath.” Eddy laughed up something cynical. “She didn't leave you because you were unstable. She hated you. She hated you and so she hated me.”

The air between the window and the blinds was growing warm and heating the room. Rick's left leg was beginning to sweat inside of his dark green socks where the restrained sunlight was striking his leg. He reached down and pressed his pant-leg against his skin to absorb a teardrop of sweat that was tickling it's way from hair to hair down his leg. It gave him his escape from the sinkhole he found himself in.

“Mind if I get a drink of water.” Rick asked.

Eddy took a deep breath and nodded his head towards the kitchen.

“You want anything Junior?” Rick asked as he slowly pulled himself up from the couch. It was like crawling out of a bucket.

Junior twitched his neck back and forth and shifted in his seat, now alone on the couch.

Eddy looked back at the little boy his father had brought with him. “You read the Steel Eagle comics?” he asked.

Junior nodded.

“Get them from your father?”

Junior nodded.

“You know thats him right,” Eddy's voice became cinematic, “that's the shadow in the dark. The man whom all wrongdoers fear. The Steel Eagle.”

Junior pulled his hands back out of his pockets and crossed them.

“A once magnificent something.” Eddy finished. He took pleasure in the disappointed look that Junior wore.

Rick was pleased by how clean his son kept his kitchen. The counter top was cleared, there were no dishes laying around, only a rag that could use a good washing. While he listened to his son mocking him, Rick opened each cabinet, searching for an empty glass. The cabinets were mostly empty, except for one which was filled with a large bag of rice.

“When I was six they were still printing them. I would buy them at the corner store after school and hide them in my sock because my mother didn't like me reading them.”

Rick found a glass and held it under the faucet. At first the water was pink, but the color quickly faded. He turned off the water, sat the glass upside-down on the counter, and walked out of the kitchen.

“My favorite stories were when he saved little kids from kidnappers. He was a real hero.”

“This is not my fault Edward. You chose this life.” Rick was standing behind his son's chair. “Just because I wasn't around doesn't...”

“My fault? If it's my fault then why the hell are you here?” Eddy interrupted, shooting up from his seat to face his father. “You left me there with her. Alone with that woman. I didn't need a hero, or a symbol, or an idea. I needed a father. I had an idea of you but I needed a father.” Eddy stepped closer to Rick. “And I will never forgive you for that.”

Rick stepped away past his son towards the door. “I'm sorry Edward.” Rick stuck out an arm towards Junior, who got up the couch and carefully walked over to Rick's side.

Eddy had left the front door unlocked, as he often did when he was home, so when Michael arrived he didn't test the door, much less knock, he simply turned the handle and walked in. Michael wasn't one of Eddy's musician friends, he was one of the others. Had the door been locked he would have slammed into it.

Michael was an emaciated man who wore three layers of clothes and a heavy poncho at all times to cover it up. His parents were very proud of their Irish heritage so he still carried an accent thicker than any Rick had ever heard, almost artificial. Rick immediately recognized him as a parasite.

Michael obviously did not notice the old man and his boy.

“How' she cuttin' Eddy, yeh gotta bifter?” Michael was hunched over himself near the door he had left open, searching twitchily through his many pockets for something Rick was sure didn't exist.

“Jaysis Christ Eddy, I'm so fooking knackered.” Michael realized there was nothing in his pockets and looked up to see the old man staring at him, hiding a small boy behind him.

“Ah,” said Michael, “Howdy.” He stuck out his hand for Rick to take. It was pale and bony and his fingernails were misshapen and discolored. Rick imagined the man in a filthy place picking at something unidentifiable. He denied the gesture, instead Rick turned around to look at his son with eyes that clearly communicated his distaste for the newcomer.

Eddy seemed unaffected by this and only said, “Maybe you should go. Michael and I have business.”

Rick's hand moved to clench his belly as he stood between this junkie and his son, but he realized his stomach did not hurt just then.

“Fine,” Rick pulled a stuffed envelope and tossed it onto the table. It knocked over two bottles and landed on the glass with a heavy thud. Every month since Rick had last seen his son he had put two crisp hundred dollar bills into the envelope. It contained thirteen-thousand six-hundred dollars. “I'll be back tomorrow. Let's go Junior.” he said, making his escape.

Rick held Junior by the shoulders and carefully guided him to the door to avoid contact with Michael.

As they exited the apartment Eddy replied, “Don't,” harshly.

Junior kept perfectly quiet in Rick's shadow as they walked down to the elevator. On the way into the building the dark hall had resembled the grimy warehouses and secret headquarters of various thugs in the colored boxes of the old pulp pages, but now the walls were just dirty, the tiles were just old, and the air just made men want to stop breathing.

When the elevator door closed a pale light turned on in the ceiling that felt especially artificial.

“You want me to take you home?” Rick asked.

Junior wasn't sure. He just stood still, refusing to answer the question.

“You want to come home with me for awhile? Play some games.”

Junior didn't think this time, just nodded his head.

Rick's apartment didn't reach expectations. The building was nice and the room was spacious, but the decor seemed to strive for something that it couldn't attain. Rick had a multitude of expensive and beautiful artifacts that he had collected over the years but they were displayed on cheap furniture of various woods. There was a sofa with a faded but still visible stain on the side and everything felt placed in relation to the television. It was like an old man's museum, the building blocks of a tomb but with all its pieces in the wrong place.

Junior took a dark wooden box labeled with a piece of masking tape off a shelf by the television. He carefully undid the small brass latch on the backgammon board and laid it out on Rick's kitchen table. He had a separate wooden box which held the checkers. They were intricately carved from black and white marble with a star on one side and an eagle on the other.

“You want a glass of water Junior?” Rick was pouring himself a scotch on the rocks at a small wooden table just outside the kitchen. The boy hadn't said much to him since they left Eddy's apartment and though Rick understood why, the guilt was beginning to collect inside him.

Junior nodded, trying to keep his attention on the beautiful carving in the checkers.

“I'm sorry about today Junior, I didn't know it would be like that.” said Rick. He took a second glass from his liquor table, filled it with ice and took it into the kitchen. As he passed he sat the scotch across the table from Junior. He had filled the glass with ice leaving plenty near the brim that didn't touch the scotch and drowning the ice near the bottom. Junior watched the ice crack in the glass, popping and twitching uncomfortably in the dark fluid.

“You don't have to come tomorrow. You should just stay at home.” Rick sat down and placed a glass of water next to Junior. “I shouldn't have even brought you today.”

“You didn't need me?” Junior finally asked.

“I don't know.” Rick took a swig of his drink and held it in his mouth for a moment before he swallowed it. He was glad that Junior didn't ask why.

“I've never seen such a nice game board.” said Junior.

“Thanks, I bought it for my father.”

“It looks real expensive.”

“It is.” Rick rolled a two.

Junior rolled a four. “Your da must have really loved backgammon.”

“He did, we used to play together.” Rick took another drink. “It's the oldest game in the world, you know?”

“Really?”

“Sure is. He used to say it made him feel like a part of something bigger. He liked the idea that we were all playing the same games, and we'd been playing them since the start of time. Backgammon made him feel like everything was going to be okay.”

“Did you play it with your son?” Junior asked even though he felt he shouldn't.

“I never got a chance to teach him.”

Junior didn't say anything, he just held the dice in his hand for a moment, waiting for a story. When it didn't come he gently rolled them onto the board, trying to keep them from making any sound. When he was done moving his tokens he stuck his right hand in his pocket and began playing with something.

“What's in you pocket?” Rick asked.

“What?” Junior pulled his hand out and folded his arms in his lap. “Nothing.”

“No, come on. You've been playing with it all day.”

Junior found a spot on the edge of the table and stared at it while blood rushed to his cheeks.

“Tell me.”

“It's my Steel Eagle pin.”

Rick smiled and excused himself from the table. He walked to a storage closet back in his bedroom and returned with a small frame. He laid the picture down in front of Junior. “I want you to have that.”

In the photograph Rick was dressed in his iconic trench coat and lapel pin, small brown mask, and fedora, standing against a rail across from the Eiffel Tower. To his left was Cassidy and in front of them was a soldier with a camera, kneeling down to take their picture. The photo was in a thin black frame with a small chip on the top right corner.

“They sent us to take that picture after the marines took back Paris.”

Junior lifted the picture from the table and held it very close to his face, as if he was tries to step into it. He smiled, “This is so neat.” Junior pulled himself out of the photo and looked past it at Rick, his eyes sagged. “Are you sure I can have it?”

Rick sat down and began running his fingers around the rim of his glass. “We're all just men now Junior. That's all we ever were.”

They played for hours till the early Spring sunset. It began to rain outside just about the time the streetlights came on. The strong clapping against the thin pane glass seemed to echo in the apartment.

Rick had won every game but Junior was getting better. He had considered letting Junior win once but he knew how much he hated to be talked down to.

“I told your father I wouldn't have you back for another hour, so you want to go get supper?”

“Yeah!”

“What do you want to eat?”

“Don't know.”

“There's a diner at the corner, they make triple decker sandwiches.” Rick suggested.

“Yeah!”

“Let's go.” Rick looked out at the heavy raindrops on the window, they seemed to be falling faster than normal. “You didn't bring a coat did you.”

“Nope.”

“That's fine, you can wear something of mine.” Rick went into the bedroom and looked through his closet for a small jacket. Most of his things were full length, which would have left Junior dragging two feet of jacket behind him, or they were made of leather that Rick didn't want to get wet. He found an old thick sweater that he rarely wore and pulled it from its hanger. It was an off white color broken up by crooked brown lines running horizontally across it. Junior was standing in the in the bedroom doorway. Rick held up the sweater in the air as if he were testing it out from a distance to see if it would fit. Junior stuck out his arms, pretending to be a rigid mannequin, a human hanger.

“Here, this should fit.” Rick tossed the sweater over to Junior who caught it with his entire body. He stood there, drenched in the sweater, trying to find the bottom. Junior slipped the sweater over his head, poked around inside till he found an exit and then abruptly stuck out his arms into the sleeves. The sweater came down to his knees and he had to crumple the sleeves up, which made him feel like a body builder. To keep them that way he had to shove his hands deep into his pockets and hold them there. It smelled like soap and dust and it weighed him down like a lead jacket. He stood with the light to his back and his hands in his pockets and stuck out his elbows from his sides, then looked up at an angle.

“There, you look great. There are umbrellas by the door.” Rick loved walking in the rain, something about it seemed comforting, like a return to the womb. He would wrap himself in a heavy jacket and feel warm and protected in his own little bubble. The smell was always fresh and clean. He liked that no matter how long it rained it would eventually stop.

The phone rang. It was on a table in the entryway.

“Oh, let me get that before we go, it might be your father.” Rick picked up his long jacket from the bed, threw it over his arm and hustled to the phone.

“Hello,” Rick spoke into the phone but no one answered. “Hello?” he repeated.

“Hello,” a voice finally answered. It was raspy, garbled and wheezing.

“Who is this?” Rick was more concerned than frustrated now. Not many people had his phone number and whoever this was was very sick.

“I found you in the phonebook.” The voice trailed off till Rick could barely hear it, becoming only slow heavy breathes into the receiver. The breathing seemed to sputter like a laugh and then stopped.

“Who is this?” asked Rick again becoming frantic. Through the phone he heard a door close and then a loud vibration, probably the receiver being dropped on a table. It was Eddy's table, Eddy's phone, and Eddy's voice.

Rick took the phone from his ear and held it out away from himself. He tried to tell himself everything was fine. He tried to tell himself it wasn't Eddy at all. He even thought that if something was wrong, then someone else could help better.

Rick turned to Junior who was still standing by the bedroom, his head tilted slightly to the right and a concerned look on his face. The sweater seemed to be devouring the boy, making him seem even younger. Rick didn't know what to do, he couldn't take Junior with him.

The blood must have rushed from Rick's face because something gave him away.

“Edward?” asked Junior.

Rick didn't move.

“Let's go.” Junior didn't hesitate at the situation, he just gathered it all up, sorted it out, and tackled it.

Rick snapped out of his shock, grabbed two umbrellas from a hook on the wall and threw one to Junior.

It took thirteen minutes for the cab to reach Eddy's building. When they arrived Junior ran ahead to call the elevator. Rick made it into the lobby as quickly as he could.

“Let's take the stairs, it's faster!” said Junior.

“Go ahead,” Rick yelled, “I'm faster with the elevator.”

Junior disappeared into the stairwell just as the elevator door opened. Rick tapped the second floor button twice and then held down the 'close door' button till the floor began to move. When the doors opened again he came out to find Junior banging on Eddy's door. He must have raced up the stairs to be that far ahead of him.

“It's locked!” Junior yelled from down the hall.

Rick reached the door and jiggled the handle. Sure enough it was locked. He pounded on the door with his fist, “Edward.” There was no sound from inside. He threw his weight into the door but that only shook his shoulder. Rick stood back and examined it for a moment, searching for some answer.

The column of stain next to his door was alive. The rain was finding its way inside and dripping down behind the wallpaper, making the vertical stripes flow back and forth like waves.

“Junior, take off the sweater.” Even with the umbrella the sweater had gotten wet and it would weigh him down. “I'm gonna boost you up and I want you to punch through the ceiling.”

“What?” Junior shouted through the moist sweater he was pulling over his head.

“See that wet spot? The rain is leaking down through there on both sides of the wall. It's soft so you can tear through it and climb over to the other side.”

Junior grinned like any other boy his size would at this idea.

“Come on, put your foot in here.” Rick interlocker his fingers and held them like a step.

Junior climbed up Rick till his head was near the ceiling. The stain reeked of mildew. A dark sludge was pooling there and dripping down the wall. Junior made a fist and struck the stain with all his might. His hand pierced through the soft material, leaving a wet mush all over his knuckles. He pulled his hand back out, bringing a chuck of wet drywall with it, then grabbed another piece to the left and tore that out. The chunk bounced off of Rick's shoulder as it fell.

The hole was big enough for Junior to get through but there was a metal beam on one side obstructing the path, so he tore out another chunk from the dry area, one much bigger than he needed.

“That'll do, now see if you can make it over.” said Rick. He watched the boy pull himself halfway up into the ceiling. Junior's legs were sticking out, trying to push off the wall for leverage, so Rick grabbed them by the shoes to give Junior a place to stand.

The sound of the boy's fist breaking through the other side could be heard through the wall. Junior disappeared into the ceiling and Rick heard him land with a thud and a groan.

“You alright?” Rick shouted into the hole.

“Yeah!”

“Good. Don't touch anything just open the door.” Rick placed his hand on the door and waited till he felt it unlock. When it did he turned the knob and pushed it open, slowly at first till he saw Junior was out of the way and then with careless force.

Eddy was sitting on the floor with his back against his chair. He was unconscious and there was a rubber medical tube still tied around his left arm. The phone was sending out the dial tone from where it hung against the table leg.

Rick grabbed his son with both hands and shook him. His eyes were closed, his face pale, and the edges of his gaping mouth were dripping with thick mucus.

“Edward. Edward wake up.” Rick cupped his son's neck with his right hand and laid him down on the floor to check his breathing. He was still breathing but each breathe was weak and short, like a hiccup.

“Come on Edward, hold on.” Rick grabbed the receiver and yanked it, pulling the phone off the table. It landed in the open phonebook on the floor.

Rick dialed the police.

Junior just stood there by the chair he had moved away from the door. He watched Rick the whole time, making the call to the police and waiting for them to arrive. He had never seen this in the frames of the pulp pages, but he was a boy, and boys know heroes when they see them.

When Rick returned to Eddy's hospital room the nurse was replacing the IV drip of naloxone by Eddy's head. Eddy had been asking her about what hospital he was at and how he got there, but his words were still garbled so she just kept telling him to stay down and relax, that everything was just fine.

“You're awake.” Rick said, taking a sip from his coffee. He sat down in the white chair by the bed. He liked this place, everything was clean. “You've been asleep for two days.”

“How did I get here?” Eddy didn't move, he just stared at the ceiling and fidgeted his toes.

“I called an ambulance.”

Eddy laid silently till the nurse left the room. “I should be dead.”

“Almost, but we got there in time.”

“We?”

“That boy Junior helped me get into the apartment. You locked it with a folding chair.”

“I didn't ask you to come.” Eddy still didn't move, there was no inflexion in his voice and no purpose behind his words.

“You called me on the phone. The doctor said you might not remember that.” Rick took another sip of his coffee. It splashed up on something inside of him and burned. The pain shot up his throat. Rick dug his fingers into the chair and held back what seemed like vomit. Once the pain went away Rick sat the cup on a nearby table. “You want anything to drink, I can ask the nurse.”

Eddy didn't answer.

Rick watched his son for a few minutes, not saying anything. It was early in the morning and the curtains weren't closed yet. The sun was low in the sky and it flooded the room with light which reflected off the clean white colors in the hospital.

“I can't believe you came.”

“Isn't that why you called me?”

“No. I didn't think I could hate you any more than I have the past six years, but I found a way.” Eddy chuckled, but it sounded more like a gargle. “I got your number from the phonebook then I shot up and called you.” Eddy rolled his head to the right where he saw the bright blue sky speckled with wisps of white, then rolled his head back over to see his father's face, the wrinkles by his mouth lit up by the abundant light. “I called you because I wanted you to hear me die. Because that was the only way I knew how to hurt you.”

Rick moved his chair closer to his son's bed. “Every day I didn't spend with you was a day wasted.”

Eddy turned over his left hand and his father held it and buried his face in his son's sheets.

Rick finally looked up, “We're going to get you help Edward. We're going to get you cleaned up.”

Junior sat next to his father in the third row at the end of the pew, where he could lean over and peer down the aisle at the casket. It was a week after Thanksgiving and the city had become frigid, so Junior wore the heavy sweater that Rick had given him. Under his right arm was the wooden backgammon box.

The service was about to start when Eddy walked past Junior to the front row. Junior looked up at his father who nodded and pressed gently against Junior's back.

Junior stood up and carried the heavy box up to the front row. Eddy was sitting in a compact position with his arms tight to his sides and his fingers interlocked in his lap. His hair was combed straight back and slicked with a nice pomade. There was an empty space next to Eddy, where Junior set down the box. He didn't say anything to Eddy, just pressed his lips together and nodded. Then Junior returned to his seat.