Second Annual Wild Violet Writing Contest Winners (2004)
Fiction
— Second Place
Gift
of the Father
By Tom Glenn
(continued)
John put his hand to his forehead. The fingers, fixed, already dead, scraped
the skin. "You want my help while there's still time. A last blessing,
forgiveness..." John aped a sardonic smile. "Closure. Libera
me, Domine. 'Who will rid me of this troublesome priest'?"
Mike caught his breath. "You remember. 'And the knights there assembled...' Historie of England. Henry II."
"I remember nothing. I want you out of here. Another parasite, more toxoplasmata eating my brain."
"'And the knights there assembled withdrew, saying to one another, 'We know the king's will'." Papa, say it. "'And when the king'..."
John's lips pulled back from his teeth. "Worse than nagging. Slobbering, fawning, cringing. I want to die without being badgered. I have no son. I am no father. I'm a queer, a homo, a fucking fairy. I don't want you. Just leave me alone!"
Mike bowed his head and put his hand over his father's. "Please."
John yanked his hand away. The plastic bags swung wild. The old man stretched his jaws and howled. Mike leaped to his feet. The nurse and a man in white bolted though the door.
Mike stumbled out of the room. He clattered down the hall and past the nurses' station, sideswiping the potted plants. A woman in sickly green scrubs and surgical cap got off the elevator and scanned him with unsmiling eyes. He slipped past her onto the elevator. At the ground level, he finally found the glass doors to the street. He dashed the block to the subway, down the stairway stinking of urine, out onto the platform with the crowd spreading like a wave on the sand. A train pulled in. Just before the doors slammed, he jostled his way into a car and dropped into the first empty seat.
When his breathing slowed and the tremors eased, he found a handkerchief in his pocket and wiped the skim of sweat from his hands and forehead. A quick glance around the car told him no one was watching. He filled his lungs slowly and closed his eyes. That howl - a cry of implacable pain. It reverberated in Mike, echoed his own cries. He shook his head. Fool. He should have hung in there. He wouldn't let his father abandon him again.
The following night, his father's room was dark. The stench was stronger.
So was the Taboo. Ms. Maybelline stood over John taking off latex gloves.
"Evening, Reverend." She flashed a professional smile. "He's just had his shot. Maybe he'll be a little more respectful tonight." She bothered the bags and tubes into a rhythmic sway before she left the room.
Mike moved the chair to the side of the bed. In the pale light from the hall, the face on the pillow was all grimace. The skin was pulled tight, the teeth opened in a rigid grin.
At last, John moved his head. "Don't talk." The voice sounded like the rustling of dead leaves. "Wait 'til the stuff kicks in. They give me morphine now. Only four times a day. They're afraid of addiction."
Mike waited.
"I said
things I didn't mean," John whispered. "The pain stampedes me.
You were furious."
Mike opened his mouth. "Don't lie, Mike. Not even for piety." John shifted his weight. "Switch on the light and crank up the bed so I can see you."
Mike raised the bed and flipped the wall switch. Shadowless glow filled the room. "That better?"
John's eyes were clear, the pupils dilated. "Turn all the way around."
Mike rotated in place with a silly grin.
"You should get more exercise," John said. "Not bad, though. Large man. Not exactly a hunk, but good looking. If I were well, I'd seduce you. It's in the genes."
"Homosexuality?"
"Good
looks. I used to be a large man."
