Keep Your Chin Up

Keep Your Chin Up

When Raymond came home and told his wife he’d been fired from yet another menial job, that was the last straw.  After eleven years of marriage, Elizabeth finally gave up.  She decided to take their two boys, Sam and Mark, and go to Bridgeport and stay with her mother for a while.  She threw a few things in a suitcase and told the boys to get in the car.  Raymond followed her out to the car and hung onto the driver’s door.

            “I promise you, it won’t happen again.  I’ll get help like you wanted me to.  I promise,” he said.

            Elizabeth turned the key, started the ten-year-old Buick, and drove away, trailing a cloud of blue exhaust smoke down the drive.  The boys waved goodbye out the back window.

            Elizabeth settled in at her mother’s place and got a job at Wal-Mart.  In a couple of weeks her old boyfriend from high school telephoned, but she didn’t want to talk to him even though he coached youth basketball and had a good paying job at the windshield glass factory. 

            “Hello Beth, this is Scott.”

            “Who?”

            “Scott Pennington. Hey, I heard you were back home.  How are you?” he said.

            “Okay.  I’m fine.”

            “Are you sure?  I heard you’re going through a rough time, a divorce situation.  Is there anything I can do?”

            “No.  There’s nothing you can do.  Anyway, it’s not a divorce.  Why did you call?”

            “Well, I just wanted to tell you that I have a lot of regrets.  I mean, I wish things would have turned out different between us,” he said.

            “None of that matters any longer.  That was high school.  That was a long time ago.  I’m married now, and I have two kids,” Elizabeth said.

            “Don’t you remember the fun we used to have?  Somewhere along the way, I messed up.  I don’t know exactly how, but I guess it was me.  I give you that much.  I’m sorry.”

            “Don’t worry about it.  Things turned out for the best,” she said.

            “How can you say that?  I heard your husband hits the bottle, and he gets rough now and then.  How can you say that’s for the best?”

            “That’s not true.  Ray wouldn’t hurt anyone.  You don’t know him.  You have no right to say that.”

            “I know he drinks a lot, and he’s messed up your life.  I know that much.  He’s not stable.” 

            “You’re right.  He’s not a rock.  He’s sensitive, maybe too sensitive for this world.  He’s not like you at all.  Thanks for reminding me.  I want to thank you for reminding me of that.”

            “What do you mean?  Are you saying you agree with me?  I don’t understand what you’re saying,” Scott said.

            “I mean I have to hang up.  That’s what I mean.  Good bye,” she said.

            “Good bye, Beth.  I’ll see you around,” he said.

In the meantime, Raymond went to AA, just like he’d promised.  After two months without a drink, he was able to get a job at the Goodwill driving a panel truck, picking up used furniture and other items for the thrift store.  He helped unload and separate out the junk and stock the good stuff.  Half of the merchandise was worn out or damaged beyond repair and had to be thrown into the dumpster.

When Raymond tried to call Elizabeth, her mother always answered the telephone.

            “Hello.”

            “Hello, Irene, this is Ray.”

            “Hello Ray.”

            “Please tell Elizabeth it’s me.  Tell her I need to talk to her.”

Sometimes Elizabeth would be out, and sometimes Irene said she was there but didn’t want to talk to him.

            “I’m sorry, Ray.  Beth doesn’t want to talk to you right now.  Why don’t you call back in a week or two?  Maybe she’ll change her mind by then.”

Irene was a nice lady.  She had every right to dislike him, but she didn’t seem to harbor any ill feelings.  Raymond didn’t like putting her in the middle of the disagreement. Irene’s husband, Samuel, had been an alcoholic too. Samuel died when Beth was a junior in high school.  He was only forty-three.  That’s when Elizabeth started dating Scott Pennington. She was lonely, and she needed stability.  If nothing else, Scott was stable.

“Are the boys there?  Can I speak to them?” Raymond said.

“Sure.  They’ve been waiting for you to call.  Let me round them up,” Irene said.  Sam came to the telephone first.

“Hello, Dad.”

“Hello, Sam.  How are you?  How have you been?  You sound great!  Are you having a good visit with Grandma?”

“Yeah.  Grandma cooks a lot of good stuff.  She cooks better than you, Dad,” Sam said.  Raymond laughed.  “Well gee, thanks a lot!”  They both laughed.  Hearing Sam’s voice and hearing him laugh made Raymond feel good all over.  It was like being sober.  It was like stepping out of a fog into a warm sunny day.  “It’s nice here.  Grandma likes us being here, but when can we come back home?”

“I don’t know Sam.  I hope real soon.  I think it will be soon.  Your mom will let you know.”

“Mom said we have to wait until you get better.  That’s what she said.  Are you sick Dad?  When will you be better?”

“Your mom’s right.  I’m trying to get better.  I promise you I will be well soon.  I love you, son.”

“I love you too, Dad.  Here’s Mark.  Bye, Dad.”

“Good bye, Sam.”

Raymond earned minimum wage at the thrift store and after one month of solid work and dependability, his boss gave him a quarter on the hour raise.  Things were looking up, and the effects of alcohol were beginning to wear off.  The puffiness and redness in his face went away.  He was eating better, and his arms and legs were getting firm and strong.  Usually he could sleep through the night without craving a drink or getting the sweats.  The toughest part for him was rolling over during the night and reaching for Elizabeth, and she wasn’t there. During the day, as long as he kept busy, he hardly ever thought about booze.  Other down-and-outers came and went at the Goodwill, losing the battle after a couple days, or a couple weeks, but Raymond kept at it; he was determined.  It was the best he’d done in over five years.                                              

            Every day, Raymond controlled his impulse to call Elizabeth; he made one call each week, usually on Saturday morning. He didn’t want to press her.  Raymond figured Irene had caller ID and his wife was avoiding him.  After almost four months, Elizabeth gave in and came to the phone.  It was Thanksgiving Day.

            “Hello, Elizabeth.  How are you?  How are the boys?  I miss you all,” he said.  He didn’t know how long she would talk.

            “We’re okay.  The boys are doing fine in school. They have new friends already.”

            Raymond felt weak.  He sat down at the kitchen table.  His throat was tight and his mouth was suddenly dry.

            “That’s good.  It’s good to hear you.  To hear your voice.  I miss the boys.  I miss you too,” he said.

            He waited for a moment, but she didn’t say anything.  He was afraid she would hang up. He wanted to tell her everything all at once, but he didn’t want to mess things up.

            “I have a job.  I’ve been working at the Goodwill Store for eight weeks.  Elizabeth, I haven’t had a drink since you left.  I quit this time.  I promise you I have,” he said.

Elizabeth was quiet.  She was remembering her dad and thinking about the last time

she’d talked to him about his drinking problem.  “Daddy, don’t you know you’re killing yourself, and I can’t stop you?  How can I get through to you?  Don’t you care for Mom and me?  We love you, but if you don’t stop, we’re going to leave.”  Threatening to leave was a desperate strategy.  Samuel knew his wife and daughter wouldn’t abandon him, but he promised anyway.  He promised Elizabeth he would get help and quit drinking for good.  The next day, Irene found him on the couch, dead, clutching an empty whiskey bottle, eyes bulging, choked on his own vomit.

            “Elizabeth, are you there?”

            “What?”

            “I said I quit.  Did you hear me?”

“That’s good Ray. I’m glad,” she said.

Raymond thought he heard a change in her voice.  It was like when they were dating or maybe when they were first married.  He felt a flicker of hope.  He wanted to tell her his plans.  He thought maybe the timing was right.

            “Hey, guess what.  I’m planning a Christmas dinner for you and the boys,

a tree and everything, put some lights up and a tree, even a gift for you and the boys,” he said. 

She didn’t say anything.  She was remembering the previous Christmas and the one before that: no tree, and no gifts for her or the boys, except for the few things Irene was able to send.

            “Are you still there?”

            “Yes, I’m here,” she said.

            “What do you say, can you come back home for Christmas?”

            “I’m not sure.  Maybe we need more time.  Give me a couple weeks to think it over.”

            “Sure I will.  I’ll call back in two weeks, on Saturday at nine.  Is that okay?”

“Yes.  That will be fine,” she said.

            “Tell the boys I miss them,” he said.  And then he said, “Tell them I love them.”

            “Okay, I will.  I’ll tell them what you said.  Goodbye, Ray.”           

            The next two weeks passed slowly.  Raymond marked off each day on the kitchen calendar with a big red X.  Working at the Goodwill store helped pass the time, but still, the days were painfully long.  In the evenings, he watched TV or did laundry then went to bed early.  He woke up several times each night and lay awake listening to the furnace kick on and off and thinking about the up-coming telephone call and his Christmas plans.

When the day finally came, he got up early as usual and tidied up the house then did busywork for a couple hours.  He was eager to make the call but forced himself to wait until nine o’clock.  Irene answered the phone.

            “Hello,” she said.

            “Hello, Irene.  This is Ray.”

            “Hello, Ray.  How are you?”

            “Fine.  Still working at the Goodwill. I got a quarter on the hour raise.”

            “Good for you!  You’re moving up.”

            Raymond laughed.  “I guess so.”

            “You sure are.  You keep up the good work,” Irene said.

            “Oh, I will.  I’ll do that for sure.  You can count on me,” Raymond said. “Hey, the reason I called, is Elizabeth there?”

            “No.  She took the boys to basketball practice.  I don’t know when she’ll be back.” 

            “Oh. Well, I just wanted to know about Christmas.  She said to call back today. Did she say anything?  Did she leave a message for me?”

            “Yes, she did.  She said maybe the boys can visit.  The boys want to come and get their gifts.  We’ll wait and see.  That’s all she said.  I’m sorry, Ray.”

            “Does she want me to drive over and pick them up on Christmas Eve?  I can drive now.”

            “No.  She said maybe Scott could take them Christmas Day.  Leave here after they open their gifts and drop them off at your place by early afternoon.  It takes three or four hours to get there, doesn’t it?

            “You mean Scott Pennington from high school?”

            “That’s right.  He’s been calling and came over a couple times.  He offered to help out.  He coaches basketball.  He’s good with kids. Doesn’t yell at them or anything.  The boys seem to like him.  I hate to be the one to tell you, especially since you’re working now, and you got a raise and everything, you know.  Maybe she just needs more time to see if, well you know, to see if your job works out for you.  She’s been through a lot.”

            There was a long pause at the other end.  Raymond couldn’t think of anything to say.  Finally he said, “Yeah, I know.  I know she has.”

            “Believe me, Ray, Beth isn’t seeing Scott.  She wouldn’t do that.”

            “I know. I know she wouldn’t.  Well, I’ll let you go.  Tell the boys I’ll be looking for them.  Tell them not to eat too much candy on the way.  I’ll have Christmas dinner waiting for them, a big turkey and everything.  Tell Elizabeth I miss her,” he said.

            “I sure will.  I’ll tell her about Christmas.  I sure will, Ray.  I’ll tell her about your raise too.  You’ll be running that place some day!”  They both laughed.

            “Thanks, Irene,” he said.

            “Bye, Ray,” she said. “Keep your chin up.”

            The next day at work, while sorting through a bin of “slightly used” toys, Raymond found a worn-smooth basketball.  He held it in both hands like a chest pass then he tried to palm it with one hand, but his hand was not quite big enough, and the leather ball was too slick.  He thought about the previous year when he had attempted to help out with Pee Wee basketball.  It was a time when he was more or less sober for a few weeks.  Sam and Mark were excited to have their dad at the gym, just like a normal dad.  Coach Lambert stationed Raymond under a basket because, as the coach said, Raymond didn’t have any “knowledge, skills, or abilities.”  Raymond’s sole responsibility was to catch the ball as it dropped softly through the net and toss it back out to a shooter.  As much as he could, Raymond bounced the ball back out to Sam or Mark, which caused Coach Lambert to blow his whistle and yell, “Spread the ball around!”  Sam and Mark were happy and proud of their dad, oblivious to the fact that retrieving basketballs really wasn’t a skilled coaching position.  And then one day, one of the other parents thought she smelled alcohol on Raymond’s breath, and that was the end of it.  Arching his thumb toward the bleachers, Coach Lambert immediately dismissed Raymond in front of everyone.  Raymond denied the allegation, but the coach was firm in his decision.  Raymond walked off the court with his head down like a banished criminal.  He sat alone in the top row of the gymnasium for the remaining twenty-five minutes of practice.  No one replaced him under the net, and the shooters did just fine rebounding their own shots.  Occasionally, Mark or Sam looked up at their dad and then quickly looked away.  Raymond waved one time, a little half wave, but his boys pretended not to notice.  Now and then, some of the other boys looked up at Raymond, elbowed each other, and snickered.  After practice, Sam and Mark ran to the car and didn’t say anything during the drive.  Raymond offered to take them to the Dairy Queen where the other boys were meeting, but they wanted to go straight home.  When they arrived home, Elizabeth already knew what had happened.  Coach Lambert had called ahead and told her he didn’t want Raymond hanging around the team. 

“He’s a bad example.  We can’t have any of that going on around the kids.”

Elizabeth met Raymond at the door.  She wasn’t angry, just sad and disappointed.  She was past the anger stage. 

“What happened?  You were okay when you left this morning.  I can’t believe you’d do this.  Where did you get the booze?” she said.

“Nothing happened.  I didn’t do anything.  I had a menthol cough drop.  That’s the only thing I can figure.  That woman must have smelled the cough drop.  Some of the parents are paranoid about me being there.  I swear I wasn’t drinking.  Ask Sam and Mark.”

“Don’t bring the boys into this.  Lord knows they’ve been through enough.  I’m about ready to get them out of this mess.  Can you imagine how they felt?”

“I was there.  Imagine how I felt,” Raymond said.  “Put yourself in my shoes.”  This all happened the day before Raymond got fired, and everything snowballed, and Elizabeth took the boys and left for Bridgeport.  She didn’t know what else to do.

Being falsely accused gave Raymond the excuse he needed to go out that night and get drunk.  If no one believed him, what was the point in trying?  When the tavern closed, he didn’t want to go home; he didn’t want to face Elizabeth.  He slept in his car and showed up the next morning at work hung over and a wreck.  It was easy to spot.  His hair was a mess, and he needed a shave.  His clothes were crumpled, and dried vomit stuck to his flannel shirt.  Going to work in that condition was asking for trouble, but he wasn’t thinking straight.  Going home after being out all night would be worse.  Besides, he couldn’t face Elizabeth or the boys.  So he went to work and got fired.

When Christmas day finally came, Raymond began looking out the window at eleven o’clock, even though the boys weren’t due to arrive until one.  He made sure the gifts were prominently displayed under the little Christmas tree.  The gifts were wrapped in green and red paper, and it said “Merry Christmas” on the paper.  Raymond spent the morning and afternoon going between the kitchen to check the turkey and the front room to look out the window for the boys, but they didn’t show up.  Every now and then he heard a car out on the highway, but it wasn’t them.  By three o’clock Raymond began to worry that the boys had been in a wreck caused by a drunk driver.  He kept imagining a swerving car crossing the centerline and a head-on collision.  Raymond couldn’t stop imagining the boys injured and bleeding and trapped in the wreckage.  He couldn’t stop blaming himself for the accident.

            At four o’clock, with the eight-pound turkey sitting cold on the kitchen table, Raymond called Elizabeth.  He didn’t want to frighten her, but he needed to know if the boys were okay.  Irene answered the telephone.

            “Hello, Irene, this is Ray.”

            “Oh, hello, Ray.  Merry Christmas to you,” she said.

            “Are the boys there?  Are they okay?”

            “Yes, they’re here.  They’re upstairs playing video games.”

            Raymond was relieved that the boys were okay, but his face flushed, and the back of his neck felt hot.

“I’ve been waiting all day for them.  Didn’t Elizabeth say they’d be here around one o’clock? Someone should have called me.  Elizabeth should have let me know.  I was afraid.  I mean, since they didn’t make it here, I was afraid something might have happened.  Maybe an accident on the road, or something like that.”

            “Oh no, nothing like that.  No, they’re fine,” Irene said.

            Raymond felt like he’d been given a reprieve. “I’m really glad to hear that. That’s a big relief off my shoulders,” he said. “Can I talk to Elizabeth?”

            “Sure, let me see.  I’ll check,” she said.

            He waited a few minutes.  He could hear voices in the background.  He could hear a man; Raymond thought it might be Scott Pennington.  (It wasn’t Scott. It was Elizabeth’s Uncle James, Irene’s younger brother.) He could hear Elizabeth and Irene, but he couldn’t make out what they were saying.  Finally, someone picked up the telephone.

            “Hello.”  

            “Hello, Elizabeth, this is Ray.”

            “I know,” she said.

            “I thought the boys were coming over for their gifts.  I cooked dinner for them too.  I thought they were coming home today,” Raymond said.
            “I’m sorry.  I know I said they could come to see you, but after thinking it over, I decided it wasn’t a good idea for Scott to take them there.  I mean, I really don’t want to deal with Scott, and I don’t know how you feel about him.  I didn’t want to have trouble. I’m sorry, Ray,” she said.

            “I have a tree and gifts for you and the boys.”  He motioned toward the little Christmas tree and the three gifts as though Elizabeth could see.  “I even baked a big turkey.”

            “That was very nice of you,” she said.  “Listen, I don’t think I’m ready for a Christmas gift.  I don’t know what I’m ready for.  I need more time.  I’m proud of what you’re trying to do.  You can call me again if you like.  You don’t have to wait until Saturday.  I have to go.”  Then she hung up.

            Raymond stood frozen in place for a while like the icicles hanging from the gutter, squeezing the telephone until his hand was cold and white.  Then he consciously loosened his grip and gently placed the receiver back on the cradle.  He went into the living room and stood beside the Christmas tree and stared out the picture window.  It was getting dark, and snow was coming down in big wet flakes.  He was glad the boys were safe and warm and playing video games.  He turned the house lights off and the tree lights on, and sat on the couch watching the lights twinkle red and green and blue on the gifts under the tree.  Just to be sure, he held his hands up in the blinking light.  His hands were perfectly steady.  Outside, snow was falling into a deep white blanket on the house and yard, muffling the sounds of passing cars.  Monday he would return to the Goodwill Store and his job as though he had had a merry Christmas.  He would be a dependable worker and get another twenty-five cents on the hour raise.  He would help sort the clothes and furniture, and odds and ends people had given, with good intentions, during the holidays.  Some items would be used to restock shelves, but the damaged items that could not be repaired would be discarded.

Happenstance

Happenstance

            Remarkably, I woke up this evening and found myself in this terrible nightmare, for you see, they say I killed a man.  They say murder, a heinous crime against society.  But I don’t remember it at all.  I don’t remember any of it.  I woke up and here I am in prison, exactly six years and six days after the fact, all those hours not recorded in my brain cells.  Nevertheless, here I am.  Besides that, they have pictures of me the night the police caught me.  The police report says that I was walking along the main highway, in the middle of the road, an amazing story in and of itself.  They say I was carrying a hatchet, my handy little ax from my tool shed.  And there it is!  Yes, it is my hatchet, no doubt about that.  I keep it exceptionally well honed.  I use it to cut off limbs and clear out wild roots and other such things that might vex me.  I am in the picture holding the hatchet just before the cops knocked me down with those blasted rubber bullets.  Dreadful! There is no denying it.  And the blood covering my hands.  Oh how horrible!  The arresting officer testified that I must have used the ax; they have these pictures to prove it!  Therefore, I wake up in this horrible place, a killer, a condemned man on death row.  I try to make sense of it, but I don’t remember.  I remember my wife and two children, Martha my devoted wife, Evelyn my daughter, and Franklin my son.  How precious they are!  I think we must have been a happy family, very close, but who can remember clearly under the circumstances?  My thoughts are fractured.  I don’t remember my friend the man they say I killed.  They say we were friends until something happened.  No one can tell me what happened.  Most distressful!  If only I knew the reason, maybe it would help.

            And now, at this very moment, I stare at the unadorned calendar hanging on the cinder-block wall.  Someone has X’d out the days and circled today’s date with a red marker pen, most curious!  I don’t remember those days, those X’s.  And yet, here I am.  There is no denying the fact, in this six foot by nine foot cell, like an oversize grave, and I just now, this very moment, awake into this nightmare.  And there, there’s the dinner tray, several empty plates, the remains of a rib steak, the bone gnawed clean, cake crumbs (double fudge, my favorite!); it’s all gone too,  like the last minutes of a succulent life.  But, no matter!  For some strange reason, my stomach is bloated; I am not the least bit hungry.  Astonishingly, I hold the plastic fork in my hand.  See, there it is, floating in front of my face.  And this plastic knife in my right hand.  Very odd and frightening to awake this way!

            Now, I hear noise down the dark hallway.  It’s a heavy door opening on rusty hinges.  There are footsteps on the concrete passageway echoing on the block walls, closer and closer, louder and louder, until they stop outside my cell.  In the next cell I hear nervous rustling. Someone gets up off a creaking mattress and urinates, pee splashing in the toilet bowl; a man breathes out a long sigh like pain or relief or resolution.  Now, a key clinks in my lock and a prison guard opens the door.  “James, it’s time.”  Indeed, my name is James.  I can’t deny that.  But why am I here now?  Where are we going?  “No!”  I close my eyes to escape the nightmare.  When I open my eyes again, in an instant, I’m lying on a sanitary table under white lights, in a white room.

            Yes, this is my arm.  I know the scar on my left thumb.  I burned my thumb playing with my mother’s cigarette lighter when I was ten years old.  Most amazing!  Most horrifying!  This really is me.  Here I am at this very moment, my arms and legs held fast with leather straps.  I do not struggle.  I cooperate completely.  I want to show them that I am not a violent man.  Certainly, I am not capable of violence, of that heinous crime.  Now, the alcohol swab to prevent infection which causes me to laugh hysterically.  And now, the needle.  You see how my vein bulges and offers itself!  I am not a bad person.  I am docile.  I am civilized and docile.  But this nightmare is terrible!  If only I could remember.  If only I could wake up.

            “Mr. Johnson, you’re going to feel a little prick.”

            The needle pierces my vein and I flinch.

            “Sorry.”

            “That’s okay.  Thank you.”

            Thank you?  It seems to me that someone else is speaking, but it is me.  I see a trickle of blood.  This really is happening to me.  A sober man wearing a stethoscope around his neck hooks me up most efficiently.   I see the clear plastic IV bag dripping saline solution.  I see the yellow and red IV bag piggy-backed in, waiting for the signal.

            “James, James.”

            “They are coming to get me out of here.  Coming to rescue me!  Thank God they have come to their senses!”

            “James, do you have anything you would like to say?”

I look through the glass.  There are faces gaping at me.  Excited faces.  Terrible faces.  My heart is pounding.  In an exaggerated manner I mouth the words:  “You are looking at yourselves!”  And my shrill laughter bounces off the security glass. I am terrified.  I can hardly breathe.  It’s like a strong man has a tight grip on my throat.

            “James, please pay attention.  Do you have any last words?”

I struggle to say, “I can’t remember.”

            “Okay, then,” the speaker on the wall says.

            The truth is, I can’t remember.  Doesn’t that count for something?  Can they execute a man who doesn’t remember anything that’s happened for the past six years and six days?  I must be dreaming this horrible nightmare, but I am not.  For sixty seconds or longer, there is no sound.  I begin to think the governor himself has telephoned.  I’m innocent!  They’ve called it off.  All is well!  But wait, what is that noise?  I hear a disturbing “click,” “click,” “click.”  Yes, three low clicks, followed by a soft humming motor.  Over the door, a clock as big as a stop sign says 11:59 and 30 seconds, now 40 seconds.  The yellow IV is flowing down into my waiting vein.  I must receive it.  I feel the burning liquid in my arm, now in my shoulder, now in my solar plexus, 11:59:50.  Now I remember everything.  My wife!