An Apology

Jack, in his chair, awoke with a start and thought: “It’s cold in here! What month is it?” Then, seeing that the Daily Telegraph in his hand declared it to be the twenty-first of December, he retorted to himself: “It’s Christmas, you old fool!”

Not seeing the dog — only mildly panicked (as usual) — he called out: “Buster Brown, where are you?” — and immediately he felt the dog’s snout against his calf.

“You want out?” And, together, they rose, stretched and plodded for the rear.

In the hall, Buster Brown paused, as always, while, for a time, Jack placed his hand upon the wall — beside the hanging photo portrait.

After letting Buster Brown out, Jack put on the kettle — then stood at the window, watching the dog’s circuitous rounds about the garden.

At the top of the street, Vincent stood taking in the familiar, yet unfamiliar, setting — and wondered aloud, with Cockney intonations: “So, what has changed more, eh ... thee or me?”

A few minutes later, after knocking at number 37, he stepped back and waited; and soon enough the door was answered by an old man — and suddenly Vincent could not find the words.

And so, Jack offered, “Hello, may I help?”

Then Vincent managed: “I’m sorry to bother you, sir. I once lived on this road … ahm …” And, again, he was lost for words.

“Well, it’s good to see you, then,” jumped in Jack. “Not many still about … from the old days.”

Vincent: “Mister Johnson?”

Jack: “I am, Jack Johnson.”

Vincent: “I … do you think it might be possible to have a word ... a short word, with you?”

“Don’t see why not,” answered Jack, invitingly. “Kettle’s on … close the door behind.”

In the hall, in passing, Jack briefly placed his hand upon the spot beside the hanging portrait — whose visage, Vincent, following, instantly recognized, causing his legs to weaken.

Later, over tea and biscuits at the small kitchen table, Jack’s guest began: “I’m Vincent Broady, Mr. Johnson. In the eighties I lived with my family at number twenty-two, just down the way.”

Vincent looked up for a reaction, but the old man just smiled and nodded for him to continue.

“Ours was not a happy home, Mr. Johnson. When I was fourteen, I ran off ... and wound up in Aberdeen ... where, when I was old enough, I found work on the oil rigs. Then it was Norway. And then the Middle East. Now, I have a home and a family in Houston, Texas.”

“Oh my. Now there’s a journey from the east end of London!” reacted Jack, tossing half a biscuit in Buster Brown’s direction.

Vincent: “Last year, my daughter … she’s thirteen, now … she was hurt … seriously so.”

Jack: “I’m very sorry to hear that.”

Vincent: “For months, we didn’t know. But she’s going to be okay … right as rain the doctors say ... in time.”

Jack noticed a tear welling in Vincent’s eye.

Vincent: “These past few months, my daughter and I have talked about ... well ... many things.”

Jack filled a pause with, “That’s good.”

Vincent: “One thing I told her … confessed to her, really … had to do with something that happened … something I did, really … back when I was her age … and about which I am very ashamed.”

Knowingly, now, Jack nodded.

Vincent, continuing: “Last month, Becky ... that’s her name ... she suggested … insisted really … that I come to see you, when I was in the UK, for a business meeting in Aberdeen. She saw online, you see, that you still lived here … and so, well ... I took the sleeper down last night, before my flight back home from Heathrow, tomorrow.”

Jack: “Thank you for coming, Vincent.”

Vincent: “I just want to say, Mr. Johnson, that I am very, very sorry about how I disrupted your son’s funeral procession … throwing the rock and spooking the horse, as I did … making the hearse fall over.”

Jack: “You were but twelve, Vincent.”

Vincent: “And I have never forgotten the look on your face, sir. You were grieving what I very much know, now, to have been the impossible … and I just made it so much worse for you, and your family.”

Vincent turned briefly to the portrait on the wall in the hall before continuing. “Your Sam, Mr. Johnson, he was my best friend. We did everything together. And when he got sick ... and then died ... I should have been sad, but instead, I was angry.” Now, struggling, Vincent tapped his heart. “And I want you to know that I have carried Sam’s spirit with me, all these years … everywhere I’ve been … right here.”

Jack placed his hand upon Vincent’s clenched fist, resting on the table.