Second Annual Wild Violet Writing Contest Winners (2004)
Fiction
— Second Place
Gift
of the Father
By Tom Glenn
(continued)
"I tried to forget," John said. "I loved you, more than you knew." He blinked. "But you were better off with your mother."
Pain shot through Mike's chest. It wasn't true. "I want to forgive you."
"You're better off hating me."
"I can't hate and save my soul."
"Bullshit," John said. "Forget 'saving my soul' and 'God's forgiveness' and all the pious crap. Talk to me about living."
"I want to love you."
"Good. You're getting the hang of it."
"Goddamn you," Mike shouted. "Stop patronizing me."
"You want to heal your soul, Mike. That's good. Don't muddy the water with ascetic lies."
"My faith was the one thing I've had to hang onto all the years I didn't have you."
John tried to push the tubes away. "Stop whining and blaming. Face the ugliness I gave you. Hate me if you want. But do it without flinching. Then you can talk about religious stuff." He craned his head toward Mike. "Leave the priesthood, Mike. You went into it for the wrong reason. Live for awhile. Find out how your body works. And your mind. And your soul. Then go back if you want to. Otherwise, you'll turn into one of those withered celibate lechers who feed on misery."
"My God," Mike said. "My vocation..."
"Mike, listen to me. Life gives you gifts. Took me forty years to learn that they were gifts and another twenty to find out how to use them. Now it's too late for me. But not for you."
"So," Mike said, "first you abandon me, now you want to destroy what I built without you."
"You're not listening." John's head fell back. "I'm getting tired. That's the second phase. After that comes sleep. Until pain wakes me." He straightened his head on the pillow. "After you left last night, after my shot, I remembered those years when you were little. Happy years. I wanted to go back, but I couldn't. Then you came back. I thought. 'Mike didn't want me to die alone.' I was kidding myself. You wanted to punish me. I don't blame you. I was fool enough to hope."
John's eyes closed. No signs of breathing.
Mike darted to the bed and put his ear close to John's nose. Breath, faint and sour. He touched the old man's throat. A regular pulse, slow, distant. John's face was already the face of a mummy, skin tight and dry over protruding cheekbones, eye sockets hollow. The eyelids looked out of place, like remnants whose time has passed. The inner comers were wet. Mike bent close. The white eyelashes were moist. He swallowed the hurt in his throat, rested his hand on John's shoulder. Through the hospital gown, he felt bone under stretched skin. He hesitated, then kissed his father's forehead. The bags swung like slowly shaking heads.
The next night, Mike found the room dark. John's face was twisted, his
mouth open. He was mewing like a kitten.
Mike took his father's hand. "It's me, Papa."
John groaned. His hand gripped Mike's. "It wasn't my fault. It's the genes."
Mike nodded and squeezed his hand.
"It's not a curse, Mike. It's a gift."
"Yes, Papa."
"Say it. 'Gift'."
"It's a gift."
John's mouth turned up at the corners. "'Who...'" He stopped, mewed again. "'Who will rid me of this troublesome priest'?"
Mike's eyes watered. "'And the knights there assembled withdrew, saying one to another, 'We know the king's will.' And they went and found Thomas a Becket and slew him on his altar'."
"'And when King Henry'..." John's body tensed. He moaned. "'And when King Henry heard the tale, he wept and cried out, 'My friend, my friend'."
Tears blurred Mike's view. "Papa."
"I hurt, Mike."
Mike pushed
aside the tubes and took the old man in his arms. "'Ever thereafter,
the king mourned. And the people said of him, 'Truly this man is forgiven,
for he so loved the priest'."
