Mission of Mercy Chapter 4 - The Reunion

The group is gathered in a sticky night, eager to reach Tampa. They feel safe in the bayou, but anxious. The son is in a hospital bed, surrounded by friends and family. He is charming but also emotional and honest. The old man is unsure how to react. They arrive at a hotel near the hospital but are too late to see the son. They spend an uncomfortable night. The sons are described - lazy, self-centered, and lacking in life skills. The middle son is the most capable but also afraid of being found lacking. The youngest son has been abused by his mother and controlled by her. The son's wife is struggling to cope with his impending death. The fairness of life is questioned. Okay, here we go again. Chapter four, the reunion. The night was sticky and swarms of mosquitoes the size of hummingbirds influenced the group's desire for fresh air. Swatting while chewing makes for a twitchy dance of sorts and they did not long remain outdoors. Back inside the conversation naturally migrated toward Tampa. It was in reach now and the captain intended to make safe harbor by evening the next day. Everyone felt past the worst of it, past the desert and the empty flat expanse of all things dead or dying to find the humid mangrove swamps of the bayou. It meant they were safe. It meant they were on the homestretch but it also made them anxious. The captain spoke with those keeping vigil and was encouraged by them to accelerate for the progress. A crowd was growing around the son's bed and tensions were high and getting higher. The wife worked to manage the small room as well as could be expected but was unable to keep friends, neighbors, and co-workers from crowding in. The sentiment expressed was uniform disbelief, sympathy, and a weak effort to affect the mood with what sometimes amounted to gallows humor. It was unintentional of course and the red faces of the guilty were often alleviated by the afflicted himself. These were the moments everyone would remember. His easy charm and quick smile. His folksy way of turning a phrase and self-effacing manner. All these wonderful specks of time were punctuated with the occasional outburst of honesty and emotion that shocked and frightened all those in earshot. These were attributed both the medication and the tumors. Regardless he would be forgiven by all for none of them would ever know where the strength and power came from which allowed him to stare into the abyss and not cower at the specter of death. No one was more ill at ease than the old man himself. It would fall to him to set the tenor of the room and he remained uncertain how he would react. A part of him wished for death not for the son but himself. It was the coward's way and he quickly just abused the notion. No he needed to stay strong for the boy. But how? The clock struck nine when the little car with all passengers and crew landed safely at a hotel near the hospital. Over 2,500 miles and three days of their lives had been spent getting here and still they arrived too late to see him. One more uncomfortable night lay ahead. Pills were dispensed but the exhausted group found sleep uneasily. Each was left to their thoughts. The old man wrestling with his emotions while the crew, duty nearly complete, suddenly and shockingly dealt with the memories and stabbing pain of this reality. This was personal to them as well. Supporting the old man had been their focus and now they permitted themselves in the quiet of the night to prematurely mourn. They are losers, every janjack one of them. Worthless, pitiful losers, said the son in reference to his sons. Three men, all different, one thin, two stout, tall and short. They shared at least one quality, the ability to avoid work and lift money from the gullible. Ambition passed each of them without a pause and they remained blissfully lazy. Not bad men, not evil or criminal, just too smart for the working world. Couch planners, bong geniuses, big idea men. Unfortunately for them, not operational experts and follow through was a trait lacking in them all to one degree or the other. It would be a grave mistake to assume they would be of value during this difficult time. It was a safe bet they enjoyed being stoned far more than being of any assistance to the son or his wife. They were millennials, self-centered man children with limited life skills and an overwrought attachment to their cell phones, for which, of course, they did not pay. The kind of person without a dime in their collective pockets, but with definitively refined taste and a connoisseur's disdain for the ordinary. They despised value, never had used a coupon or purchased anything because it was on sale. Epicureans without means and the worst kind of pretentious swine with pockets extending to their ankles, or so it seemed. No Budweiser for them. The boys preferred craft IPAs and wouldn't choose not to indulge if it meant compromising their ridiculous standards. The oldest, a hulking lurch of a man in his 30s and frightening to look at was without an iota of social skill. A type of beast best caged and forgotten, which shockingly, belied the fact that his damaged past did a surprising amount of intelligence. Normally, he beat a fast retreat into his world of weed and video games, where he was king and the outside world merely a distraction, but was now trapped in a hospital room. He was in the corner, taking up space and little more. Camped out in one of two chairs, head buried in his phone, he ignored the son's jibe. That he could require such a large percentage of square footage without providing support, comfort, or value in a room of this size, made his lump of flesh that much more despicable. As people arrived and departed, he grew increasingly more anxious to exit, and this desire outweighed his outsized sense of self-importance and duty to his mother. The middle son, impossibly veiner and more cocksure than his older brother, was mother's favorite. Thin, athletic, and attractive, he was the exact opposite of his sibling. Whereas the eldest was silently menacing and distant, the middle boy was engaging and helpful. He had survived his mother's divorce, drug addiction, and abandonment with astonishing ease. His friend group was extensive. He was well-liked, despite being a bit condescending and self-righteous. He was the brother who was the most able to survive in the outside world, and had proven it in smallish bursts. These efforts always ended prematurely, as if completion was what the herd would desire. Though he knew better. Being much more erudite and intelligent than the average fool, the middle son knew that the system was fatally flawed, and refused to play by society's rules. He would win without abiding by norms. At the core of it all lay a coward, someone afraid of failing to live up to his imaginary worth. Quitting before having to admit no one found him exceptional. He was the proverbial grasshopper, and the world was comprised entirely of ants. His brother fought demons that were nearly invisible, his anxiety obvious. Middle son's damage was deeper, and much harder to locate. A casual relationship would leave a visitor ignorant of his gnawing desire to be respected. But once one knew him, spent time with him, and got past the bullshit, it became apparent that the outwardly quixotic persona was an act, masking a crushing fear of competing and being found lacking. The youngest son was the worst of the bunch. For while the eldest dealt with social disorders and extreme anxiety, and the middle boy, a charlatan, the pied piper of the pampered and disaffected, the youngest was an absolute tangle of psychosis. He was pale, with red hair he thought of as copper, and greatly overweight. He had been abused by his mother, the son's second wife, and not currently engaged in that role. The others were his brothers via marriage. The birth mother twisted and ruined whatever minute chance the boy may have had to live a normal life. She was agoraphobic, intensely possessive, and a guilt dealing cunt of epic ability. A twin herself, who required more therapy than the worst pedophile victim of a Catholic priest, she prevented his development as a human being. Massively obese herself, she was extremely dependent on her cuckolded and browbeaten son for a connection to the outside world, and she controlled him through intense and unending shame. She turned him against his father, who may have been the only person with leverage to escape her stranglehold. The woman demanded loyalty, affection, and control, and viciously guarded admission to the freak show's tent. The pair of them had nearly driven the son insane with their guilt and boundless needs. No amount of money was enough to satisfy her. She owed everyone and intended to pressure others to cover her debts. As the boy grew older, she affixed herself to him and extracted every ounce of usefulness like a vampire sucking on a vein. That he was her son did not matter. He was a tool, nothing more. A conduit to cash, allowing her additional idle time to fret over the door opening and a stranger entering. Such thoughts paralyzed her beyond rational reckoning. Never an attractive person, she had grown exceedingly sloven since the divorce. No showers, hair uncombed, clothes dirty, mind descending deeper into the darkness daily. Her demise within a few months of the son was viewed by many as freeing. Though absent life skills short of conniving ones, it would doubtless not provide the opportunity for which was hoped. They'd been in the room all morning. The old man wheeled into position of prominence with a captain and mate nearby. Privately, they'd been provided a prognosis by the son's wife. Her medical training gratefully really received and to the captain, it was beyond understanding how she was able to cope without evaporating. Nurses see people leaving this world as part of the job all the time. She herself had seen death many times, both occupationally as well as with her own mother, who withered away in her arms after a lengthy and painful illness. Some clueless clown said that calamities, strength and resolve. But this was her husband, her love, her partner. After so many years alone, she found him in the most improbable place and now he was leaving her faster than she could accept. It was torture and excessively painful. Every glance, every word, a reminder that it was passing out of this life and away from her. The fairness question is not often debated by people with medical background since they witnessed so many horrendous accidents of nature. People of science know that a just God cannot exist. Visitors came to appreciate his seemingly disconnected outbursts, which were gratefully received as mood lightening moments. She had learned to ignore the contents, knowing they were the result of this fucking cancer. Anyone who knew him was aware these bits of Asperger were entirely at odds with his genial bearing. In fact, it was his relaxed view of life that attracted her to him from the moment they met. She loved, to the point of treasuring, his outrageously sunny disposition, along with his 21st century version of Will Rogers' self-deprecating sense of humor. He was endearing, but also relentless. He wore her down and that had certainly taken a fair bit of doing, for she was damaged herself. Divorce, drug addiction, near-death experiences harden a person and it embittered her. He changed all that. He lifted the fog and self-loathing and made her care about life again. So they married and dragged their collective baggage into a single household, hoping to rebuild and repair the ruin. The three losers represented challenges to that new beginning which required special attention. Girl men, but boys, they all needed a well-placed kick and an eight-week trip to marine boot camp if they were ever to leave the Newlyweds alone. But it never happened. They orbited the mothership docking only when funds were low and always overstaying their shore leave. Leeches, grotesquely entitled turds needing to be flushed, but avoiding the encircling drain with strength and cunning, they displayed nowhere else in their parasitic lives. She knew the hyenas would be on her the moment he passed. He was the blockade and without him she would have to contend with their relentless badgering, recognizing this as a recurring idea percolated in her brain. Just run away, she thought. Losers, he repeated. Not one of them has a job. Not one of them has a dollar in their pockets we didn't give them. The longest any of them has held out a job couldn't have been a month. He was staring at Lurch, the eldest. You are 30 years old and you have no idea what you're gonna do to earn a living, do you? Lurch ignored him and continued toying with his phone. Answer me, you loser. What are you gonna do? Still no response. Your mother is not gonna support you. She has her own problems. Don't add to them. Grow the fuck up. Pretty obvious this was not solely the effect of multiple brain surgeries and the ravages of cancer talking. He was trying, with his last bit of strength, to penetrate the Neanderthal's brain. It was well past time for this conversation. They had been enabling these lumps for years and it had to stop. He had to try and stop it. How little respect do you have for her, for us, that you make no effort to be of assistance? When are we finally even? When is it okay to kick you out of the house and refuse you re-entry? Go do something. Now leave the room and stop pretending you give a shit and let my sister sit down. She's been perched on that window ledge while your ass is sprawled all over that chair. Jesus Christ, your mother raised you better. Lurch slowly lifted his bulk out of the chair, looked at his mother and said, fine, I'm kind of hungry anyway. I'll go down to the cafeteria. Got any money, mom? Are you shitting me? the afflicted said. Did you even listen to a word I said? Our can't work. I have to be here, Lurch replied. Who said so? It was implied. It would never improve. The three sons ran from responsibility in any sort of physical labor, short of planting marijuana. They were frauds with impossibly grand schemes and juvenile strategies for achieving them. One played banjo on a street corner. By all accounts, he demonstrated talent and his father was pleased. He was amongst the public, entertaining people and making a few dollars. Maybe this was his calling? The owner of a nearby restaurant heard him play and, on a break, asked him if he would be interested in a paying gig. Nothing major. The offered pay was modest, but it was a start. Copper, as we shall call him, refused. He did not wish to be tied down by the man, reporting that he enjoyed the freedom of playing where, when, and what he wanted. His father reminded him that no one else was queuing up to pay to hear him play and advised him to accept the owner's offer, but Copper would not hear of it. He would not have his integrity compromised. This Renaissance man also showed talent as an artist and expanded his street performance art platform to include an easel, paints, and brushes. He wasn't grifting, he was entertaining. Even had it been grifting, it would have demonstrated more initiative than any of them had ever shown. Naturally, it could not, would not, sustain. One bright blue Tuesday afternoon, Copper was playing along a block of cafes and taverns, typically good pickings. A policeman came by and asked to see his permit, for which, of course, Copper had never bothered to apply. He was asked to pack up his belongings and directed to head over to City Hall, with the cop telling him that the cost of the permit was modest and, once applied for, would be received in just a few days. The man had demanded Copper play by his rule, and Copper, a true disciple of the Pied Piper, didn't believe in following any of those rules. He abandoned his freshly burgeoning enterprise and never went back there or anywhere else. It was his last job. No one in the family understood the boy's lack of ambition. They had uncles who were professional men, doctors, lawyers, role models who were business people, and women who had amazing work ethic, but the one they gravitated to was the agoraphobe who hid inside and blamed everyone else for her station. It was the same with the others. There was no follow-through, which is typical with stoners. Great ideas, conceived in a thick haze of brilliant, that rapidly diminishes with sober inspection. It was true that their mother enabled them because of her own guilt. She married too young, partied too much, and nearly died in a fire of her own making. Her tale is similar to many such people who were prescribed pain medication. She enjoyed the relief the pills provided long after the pain had dissipated, and kept taking them in increasing numbers and frequency so long as anyone could supply, legally or otherwise. Did some regrettable things like most people do under the influence. Borrowed money, neglected children, bad stuff. In time, she found the strength to quit, get a degree, hold down a responsible position, and rebuild her life. Narcotics Anonymous helped. The group provided structure and accountability. She had friends and support, and no one, unlike her immediate family, passed judgment. They were all addicts. In N.A., she got the benefit of the doubt. In life, that was not possible. Trust was lost, and with the self-righteousness and perversely hypocritical fervor of Billy Graham, they turned their backs when she needed them most. Truly Christian behavior. Still, she clawed her way back, injured, but not broken. Weary, but willing. She came, he came, into her life then. A fellow traveler on the sobriety highway, his addictions more subtle and less debilitating. Like his sons, he enjoyed smoking weed. Unlike his son, he held down a job and was considered a model employee. However, once he started blacking out and forgetting the details of the previous evening, he felt that usage crossed the line to abuse. Friends believed he used A.A. and later N.A. as an excuse from the drudgery of being married to a complete basket case. In fact, it was his only choice, since she consumed every company-sponsored health care dollar which he was entitled to in therapy for herself. He attended many of those early sessions in support, and because her phobias did not permit her to drive. After a handful, the therapist dismissed him. He was not needed. The entire period must be devoted to her, and probably with increasing frequency. He was told in confidence that the therapist believed he would publish the case notes, maybe even write a book about her. As a subject, she was fascinating. As a wife, she was a disaster. The son felt responsibility for Copper. The boy was teased and bullied from the moment the bus pulled up at the first of many schools he would attend. As a preteen, he was oafish, shy, and had inherited much of his mother's mania. This became unbearable by the time he hit middle school, with kids picking at scabs, and Copper being one enormous blister. By then, mom and dad had split, and he was living with his mother. She held him out of school, abetting him, and doing little to improve his self-esteem. Soon enough, he stopped going altogether, claiming to be homeschooled, which he was not. He fell behind, and had little interest in catching up. He could draw and play instruments without instruction, so that is what he did. He taught himself piano and guitar, amongst others, staying with it until people paid to listen. He was no means stupid or simple, just deeply flawed. His father tried to help, to be a dad as he knew it, to attempt to interest the boy in something athletic. He took him fishing, carried his bag when they tried to play golf, introduced him to a broader world than he saw out of his mother's dirty windows. But what Copper learned, which is what so many children of divorce learn, is how to manipulate their parents. And when the son and his girlfriend, mother of his stepbrothers, married, he was able to up his game to unheard of levels. His father may have met the woman of his dreams, but Copper benefited most through association with the two men who would become his sensei, his mentors, his guides through life, Lurch and the Piper. It was a bad recipe, but the boys were expert chefs. The main dishes they served were disappointment and sloth, an odd combination made even more unique when cooked up in a broth of oppressive guilt and conflicted demons. The son was not wrong in questioning them and had been concerned about their motives. This movie had a familiar plot. As with all ne'er-do-wells, they gathered when they sensed a potential bonanza and were now dizzy from circling his bedside. Worse, he was calling them out for being what everyone knew them to be, lazy, incorrigible, and useless. As blaggards like that do their best work in the shadows. Whispers at a susceptible moment, a banal yet comforting notion designed to confirm sincerity but devoid of honest emotion. Just words delivered with Shakespearean ease by a practiced actor. They could not afford to stray from the wife's side, could not permit reason and fact to intervene. They wanted her vulnerable because she was most malleable at those moments. It was better before the family came. He was less bold, more concerned with her feelings and fear of the future. The boys could see that he was worried about her and believe she would need her sons to lean on. The devils knew it was in their best interest to be omnipresent, and they fully intended to be. It would be wrong to press for the family's ejection so soon after their arrival. They certainly desired it, but pushing that button could backfire. Patience was required. And what better way to elicit calm than a few well-toted bong hits? He wanted us out, they thought. Well, we can definitely oblige and accommodate ourselves at the same time. They filed out of the cramped room, down the elevator, and out the front door. Sympathetic relatives pressed twenties into their receptive palms. They had cash, keys, and reed. The world, as they saw it, was their oyster. Despite the stay-close strategy, the lure of an unburdened good time was simply too intense. They could even play the role of good Samaritans. Leaving allowed the old man and the others more access and opportunity. This process repeated itself over the next few days, the son berating and shaming the young man, and they, in turn, ignoring and flaunting his inability to enforce action. Each day they would come, act detached and uninvolved, and then leave once additional visitors arrived. Money was forced on them by the well-meaning, only to be spent as quickly as it was received on ill-intended items of personal pleasure. The wife, too grief-stricken to notice or care, did not attempt to restrain them with words or action. She let them depart, smiles barely repressed for parts unknown. Sometimes, and in order to increase the amount of the largesse, one might offer to purchase coffee or food. Don't hold your breath, the son would say to the fleeced victim. They ain't coming back anytime soon. Increasingly, their absence went unnoticed as more friends, neighbors, and relatives arrived to extend wishes for recovery that was impossible. The old man and his entourage also found themselves making room for the well-wishers, who were greeted with insincere smiles and handshakes. Their primacy was unchallenged, but a hospital room is capable of accommodating only so many people. So the captain and mate visited the cafeteria regularly. They spoke of how well the son looked, or how alert and capable he seemed. It just doesn't seem possible. He's dying, the mate said, looking forlorn and staring into a cold cup of comfort. This is just not right. I came to Tampa last winter and spent time with him. He was fine. No symptoms, not even a sniffle, the mate continued. They were a sad-looking pair, the captain and the mate. Three long days in a small car, followed by multiple trips from the hotel to the hospital, left them in serious personal disrepair. At first, it did not matter. Neither was there for a beauty pageant. But as more strangers arrived, and they were introduced as important to the son, they felt a urgent need to represent the family in a more appropriate fashion. Hey, the mate said to the old man. The captain and I are going back to the hotel to do some laundry. We are running out of clothes and we'll do yours as well. Be back in a couple of hours. Are you going to be okay by that? He was at the side of his, he was at the side, excuse me, pause. He was at the side of the bed, holding his son's hand, head down, wearing a sweater, not normally required in a tropical climate. But lately, he noticed an inability to feel warm regardless of the temperature. Despite his age, he remained tall and full bodied, a man to be respected, dignified, and able in spite of the hose under his sloping and pointed nose. The eyeglass is a concession to age which occurred well after most of his generation. On his feet, he wore blue suede loafers, in whose slots he placed a coin. Everything about his attire normally reflected a privileged upbringing. The old man personified preppy. In fact, he was preppy before the world was accepted into American lexicon. Buttoned down dress shirts with his initials on the pocket or sleeve, colorful blazers or mattress shorts in summer, and a collection of Allen Edmonds shoes cemented his reputation as a well dressed man. Now the brash boy of the main line was in his 80s and grateful, and excuse me, greatly unhappy about his need for generated oxygen. He had always been a genial flirt, but found it difficult to be seen as anything other than a pitiful figure in the last few years. Hard to charm a young waitress with snot dripping down plastic tubing, although it did not deter him from trying. His batting average was, however, at a career low, and it contributed to a crushing amount of frustration and depression. The old man passed from handsome to cute. And for a gentleman of his pedigree, the word and manner in which it was usually delivered was a blow. It seemed to him, but an instant since he had gone from dashing rogue to darling imp. He had no desire to be seen as a fucking imp. The adjectives he associated with were debonair, bon vivant, even dapper, but certainly not some mischievous midget. Where did the time go? At that moment, he was shocked back to life by the mate's question, followed by in short order, by a piercing scream of his portable oxygen machine, letting the world know its battery was failing. Pausing, redoing. At that exact moment, he was shocked back to life by the mate's question, followed in short order by the piercing scream of his portable oxygen machine, letting the world know its battery was failing. This caused a panic at the nearby nursing station. And among those in the son's room, it was just another reminder that his time was just as short as the batteries. As he sat in a wheelchair, powerless to alleviate the ear splitting sound, the mate hurriedly exchanged packs. The alarm ceased, but drove all eyes to him, curious of the impact even a short lapse might cause. The old man knew his condition would never improve. He would never be cured, always to be dependent on others. And suddenly, the room closed in. What? Laundry? Yes, thank you. I'm sure I must have a fair amount in need of a shvok, he said without conviction. And if no one minds, I'd like to stay here. Immediately, of course, support rang out. Many volunteered to return the old man to the hotel if he tired or needed to find a quiet space if he were in need of peace. To the mate and the captain, he was a changed man, no longer in command. Recognizing his reliance on others and oddly accepting of his position, he nodded slightly and resumed a muted conversation with his son.