Unforgiven

This is my journey into a life I never thought I’d have or want. Let’s start on a day that is dreary with an overcast sky. It is November, a time of rain and no sunshine, a time so quiet and lonely that you can hear every sound from outside to the thoughts in your head. The sounds of rain, cars, and trucks flying by, birds chirping and hiding in trees from the cold and the rain.

Opposite of all these sounds is an apartment building that is as anonymous as I’ve always felt. I had lost everything I ever dreamed of having. A life full of love, happiness, a career, loved ones, friends—nevertheless, I still had my conscience and my dog Rosy. In the past, I was a well-known writer. Eventually, I was soon forgotten because of tabloids and paparazzi, but that is a long story to be told later. People have called me a liar, a cheater, a lover, and a mess, but today, it’s just Henry. A man who feels he has no meaning behind his name and has no face.

Today could be seen as my worst day, but maybe it was just a routinely bland day. Like any other day, it starts with me waking up early so I can pretend for a couple hours that I don’t have a job that makes me miserable and completely toxified by misery and discontent by what this life of mine has come to. I’m a book editor for a company that doesn’t really get recognized. My boss hates me for little to no reason other than being late half the time.

I stand in the kitchen that is quite small, which doesn’t matter because I’ve never really liked to cook. I stand still, staring out the window with my bitter black coffee that I drink like it’s water. It may have been just another day to me, but it’s my 40th birthday; although, people might think I look sixty.

Whenever I walk in to my dreary living room, I always gravitate toward a bottle of Jack Daniels. It tastes so good in coffee. A lot of people have told me that I should’ve gone to those AA meetings because they thought I had a problem. Eventually, I got rid of my drinking problem, but let us focus on the time I was a mess. I’m pretty numbed by my alcoholism, but I’m conscious enough to know that I miss my ex-wife. I miss her every day … I should’ve been a better husband to her. I swear sometimes I can still smell her intoxicating cooking.

The little things is what made her incredible. Anything from how she stirred the pot bringing up steam and incredible aromas to how she laughed when I’d tickle her. I guess I was a bit in the clouds too much and didn’t really connect with her. It was all a blur to me—I didn’t even know how we drifted apart or even the reason she left me. Her name still echoes in my head … Cheryl.

Later on I caught on to what the issue was,2 but that will soon be revealed.

Cheryl, such a beautiful name.

“Happy birthday to me,” I say dreading work just like yesterday and every day of my life. Well, my old life.

I can’t believe what my life has become. It’s as if God decided my life will revolve around five things: Misery, my dog, coffee, alcohol, and a job so crumby it takes every ounce of me to get out of the house. Sitting on the sofa that day made me wonder how many minutes, hours and days have gone without me remembering the last time I was happy. Luckily, there was something that distracted me from my loser like mentality. On the surface, it is obscure, but trust me, it certainly caught my intrigue and attention for a moment.

The sound of a squirrel squeaking and a crow cawing in a tree gives me a slight startle. I walk over to the patio glass doors and see the squirrel running down a tree with a small nut in his mouth and the crow hovering over him. The squirrel stops at one side of the street with a big semi-truck coming at top speed just a few meters away. He takes a chance and runs across with the crow right behind him. The crow is so close behind him that by the time the squirrel makes it to the other side, the crow gets hit by the semi-truck. I smile happily, relieved that the squirrel made it. Yes, I was a twisted man.

My attention turns to a wooden clock with my father’s initials—CF (Charles Fields)—that rests above the fireplace. I could never decide how I felt about him. On the one hand, he always showed care and love for my family and me, but his tone and attitude always scared me. Every conversation with him was like being told I was a loser and needed to stop being one in order to succeed. I never argued with him because every time I’d try he’d always get amped up to win the argument. It was as if being wrong or someone disagreeing with his point scared or pissed him off so much that he wouldn’t stop until you nodded your head and agreed with him. I was both terrified and respectful of him. I guess that’s what being a father is, right?

Anyway, back to the story.

Rosy barks at me, and I turn around, staring at her.

She barks again, this time a little more excited.

I look at the clock and realize I am going to be late again. I dump the coffee in the sink and went up to my room to get ready.

I step out of the shower, wrapped the towel around my waist, and walk up to the mirror to wipe the steam off to look in the mirror. I touch the wrinkles around my tired, and weathered with emotion, eyes and cheeks. Too tired to shave or brush my teeth, I grab my mouthwash to rinse out my mouth.

My phone goes off as I take my towel off in front of my dresser and grab my boxers. The caller display reads James (boss).

I grunt out of annoyance then look at the clock still with nothing on holding my underwear. I am a half an hour late.

“Shit!”

“Hey, James, how’s it going?”

“How’s it going? You aren’t here is how it’s going,” James shouted angrily.

“I’m sorry, I must’ve set my clock on daylight savings or something.”

“You impress me, Henry,” he said sarcastically.

For a second, I get excited but sense my boss’s sarcastic tone so I put the phone on speaker then place it on the corner of the bed as I put my underwear on. What an idiot.

“Don’t bother coming to work,” James says in a cold and stern tone.

“Are you firing me?”

“No, I’m giving you the day off—are you kidding me? You are always late, have a useless excuse every time, and half the books you’ve edited get sent to another editor. I can’t afford to keep you. You make the company look bad.”

“Well, can I come get my stuff?”

“That’s fine,” he says as he hangs up.

I sit in my car collapsed on the steering wheel. My breathing somewhat calm with waves of soft whimpering, I look at the empty box beside me in which at the bottom is a little poem.

Let me arise and open the gate,

to breathe the wild warm air of the heath,

and to let in Love, and to let out Hate,

and anger at living and scorn of Fate,

to let in Life, and to let out Death.

Violet Fane

It was a poem I had left in a box just in case I got fired from my job; at the time, I thought poetry was a form of therapy. I’d put a poem in places where I needed them the most as a form of self-therapy. Trust me, I was not a happy camper compared to now.

I get out of my car with the empty box cradled in my arms with a blank stare and a fixated frown. The frustration and fear bubbles up inside of me not knowing what this day might mean for me and what it will bring me tomorrow.

I step into the office while everyone is busy working but perk up as soon as the door closes behind me. Nervously, I walk as everyone’s glare and following eyes give an unnerving feeling of fear that they will trample me with verbal attacks destroying what is left of my psyche.

I stop at my desk and gather all my belongings as the eyes of my now former co-workers focus on me like a pack of wolves stalking their prey. My boss leans against the edge of my desk with a smile so menacing it sends a cold chill down my spine.

Without looking at anyone, I walk out of the door with a look of defeat so evident that if I were to stop or slow down the hungry pack of wolves formerly known as my co-workers would eat me alive.

I open my car door and throw my box in the passenger seat then plop down and scream out of frustration. I run my hands through my hair, gripping and tugging at it in anger and fear. My eyes become red coming close to crying with a single tear rolling down my cold and colorless cheek. Looking back on it, I’ve realized something, I had no spine or backbone. I felt like I was a broken shell of a man and there was no fixing me. Thankfully, I pulled myself out of it, a little too slow, but I still did it.

On the highway, a poem repeats in my mind that always rang in my head every time I felt scared and frustrated.

Fear no more the heat o’ the sun;

Nor the furious winter’s rages,

Thou thy worldly task hast done,

Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages;

Golden lads and girls all must,

As chimney sweepers come to dust.

Fear no more the frown of the great,

Thou art past the tyrant’s stroke:

Care no more to clothe and eat;

To thee the reed is as the oak:

The sceptre, learning, physic, must

All follow this, and come to dust.

Fear no more the lightning-flash,

Nor the all-dread thunder-stone;

Fear not slander, censure rash;

Thou hast finished joy and moan;

All lovers young, all lovers must

Consign to thee, and come to dust.

No exorciser harm thee!

Nor no witchcraft charm thee!

Ghost unlaid forbear thee!

Nothing ill come near thee!

Quiet consummation have;

And renowned be thy grave!

-William Shakespeare

“Hi, sis,” I say into the phone. I’ve been sitting in my garage for what feels like hours. Defeated and feeling worthless.

“Hi, Henry.”

“What’s up?”

“Well, I just got a phone call from the family doctor and …”

There is a small moment of silence.

“And what?”

“Her kidneys are failing, but she can’t find a donor. If she doesn’t find a donor soon she’ll only have a month before she …”

A few minutes go by without anyone saying anything.

“I gotta go, I’ll call you later. Goodbye, sis.”

I put my phone down, grab the box, then go inside. Soon,

I’m on the sofa with a bottle of whiskey in my hand.

I begin to chug it then break down into tears and scream until my lungs give out as I throw the bottle in the fireplace.

Rosy comes in barking and licking my face as I hug her while sitting on my knees.

Rosy takes off when she gets distracted by the sound of a bird or something and runs to the second floor.

I must’ve left a window open or something.

I follow her to the second floor right into the hallway where she sits looking up at the e

ntrance to the attic.

I pull down the ladder from the ceiling and climb up the steps.

Rosy follows me up the steps and into the attic.

I recently made it an area of tranquility. Turning on the lights, I see the bird in the corner. I approach it calmly and pick up a piece of cardboard to shoo it toward the window from where it came in.

As I get closer, it begins to fly around in a somewhat drunken manner then stops at a corner close to the window.

I grab a reflective piece of tape my mother used to put on cherry trees to scare away birds.

Hoping it will just flap its little wings over to the window, I put the tape outside. I thought it was a pointless thing to do since I know nothing about birds, but I gave it a try anyway.

The bird, believe it or not, flies out the window toward the piece of paper like it wants to attack it. I immediately close the window, thankful it took the bait so easily. I sat down in a dark cherry red La-Z-Boy chair that was set beside a night table with not too much light. Probably the best impulse buy I ever made—dark cherry red was always an attractive and comforting color to me. Plus, I always thought it would be the only kind of piece of furniture in my life that I’d ever see. I was wrong in the most beautiful way.

I looked off in the distance noticing a box labeled Charles’ belongings, which, to me, sounded so formal and very Charles of my father to have it labeled that way. His wording was always so sophisticated and dry. It was as if he was once an English professor or something boring like that. Hilarious coming from a writer, huh? Anyhow …

I lazily leaned over from my chair, not wanting to be pulled out of comfort, then grabbed the box and opened it. Now, although this has been in my house for a long time, I never looked in it. I only knew my father for twenty years while he was alive; apparently, according to my mother, he died in a boating accident. The body was not found for a few days. I’ll get to the “apparently” part later, but for now, let’s stick to this part of the story.

I took out this blue leather-like photo album with no title or anything on the front. I opened it and on the first page before the pictures it was written: “Charles Fields and comrades in 1964” at the top of the page. At the bottom of the page, it said: “I hope someday when I have a son he will be a hard working successful man. I know he’ll make me proud.”

I have to pause before going on because that really hits me since I have been successful after he died—well, at least I thought he was. That sentence made it look like I backtracked so many steps. Every time I thought of my father I thought of the amount of times I failed and felt smaller and smaller.

I flipped to the first two pages of pictures that have this warmth and dryness to them. The color a reddish tone. Almost like the heat of the environment my father and his friends were in was so hot it emitted itself in the picture. Even the look on their faces show it was hot. That makes sense knowing my father lived like an hour away from the Mediterranean Sea. I’m guessing that is in Egypt, right? I didn’t really know my father for as long as I’d hope to.

Flipping through the book, I only glance at the pictures.

At about a quarter of the book, an envelope slips to the edge of the page on the right-hand side. Nothing is written on the front or back nor is it sealed. I carefully open it and take out a picture of my father and me on a boat. Nothing fancy or intriguing, just a father and son smiling like we were told to smile. Probably my mom’s idea when she took the picture. God, I miss her.

I remember that day as clear as his overly loud tone, although sometimes he’d whisper or even give a little shrug.

I remember that day …

First off, it was a little white sail boat that could fit three or four people. I never really thought it was exciting or fun, but I did enjoy the serenity of being far away from home.

I was leaning on the left rail of the boat feeling bored out of my mind.

My father was steering the boat wearing beige shorts and a sky-blue sleeveless shirt. When it came to dressing himself, he was the blandest man you have ever met. Well, except for church, he always got dressed up for church.

He pulled a lever or something to put down the anchor and came over to me leaving the steering wheel.

I was actually in a pretty calm and happy mood. I mean, yeah, I was insanely bored but happy.

He told me, “Henry, I know you are at an age where you don’t know what you are meant to do, but …”

I wasn’t looking at him, but I could tell he was trying to have a heart to heart moment; which was very rare but always comforting. I turned my head and looked at him.

“One day, something will happen in your life that will give you the courage to do something of great value.”

That was probably the last time my father had ever said anything that had warmth and emotion. I think expressing his feelings had always been hard for him. It was like he only wanted to express his frustration and love for me through an aggressive and firm tone. Maybe his father talked to him that way so he knew no other way of communicating.

I continue to flip through the book seeing many pictures of my father and his friends being goofs, him being serious in his soldier pictures and dancing with Mom in which both looked so happy. I get to the last page and see a manila envelope that sits in a slit on the inside of the back cover. It reads: “Charles Fields’ Last Will and Testament”.

I take it gently out of its slit and lay it on the desk behind me. That desk held so many memories for me. Many years of hard work trying to maintain my status as a well-known writer.

Son, I have told you that one day you will do something of great value.

So, in the case of my death I have left you the Deed to my old cabin

that holds value, years of family history, and is enriched with art.

I plead that you take good care of it.

I don’t know what made me want to read that, or even know why my father would write a will. He was always keen on making his children feel like they shouldn’t depend on anyone as adults. It was if the idea of being a parent meant only being a damn drill sergeant; on top of that, there would be random spurs of words of wisdom that sounded as sharp and poisonous as a komodo dragon’s blue tongue.

Though, the cabin did sound pretty intriguing.

I look at Rosy and ask,

“What do you think, Rosy? Wanna go for a ride?”

She wags her tail excitedly, looked at me with a smile and sitting politely.

I’m pretty sure she just thinks I just asked if she wanted a treat.

What a wonderful dog.