As I stooped to pick up the box the man had left, a muffled beeping caught my attention. I looked up, my eyes scanning the yard and vacant lot in front of me. Then BOOM! The lot exploded from the inside out. I saw cement and dirt showering the sky surrounded by a thick cloud of dust before I was knocked backward with the force of a charging bull. My butt hit the grass first sending a shock wave of pain up my spine. Then my head snapped backwards and connected with the cement pathway.....
In the blackness I hear people yelling. I open my eyes to the bright sunlight of a summer day. "Where is that yelling coming from?" I wonder. The yells are coming from my right. As I turn my head, I notice little dots moving in the distance around a field of dirt and grass. Walking toward the sound and movement I recognize the familiar set up. Nine people fanned out on a diamond. Approaching the stands I can clearly see the players' faces. Bob Levowitz stands on first, his pudgy face shining with sweat. Bob and I used to be the best of friends until his habit of eating an extra slice of bacon when ever he could stopped his heart. Next to him on second is old Doug Johnson. He and I were college roommates. We decided to start our own sporting goods store straight out of college. We were really successful before he got into a car accident on route 17 on his way home from a business meeting. I managed to keep the store running and made good money, but ultimately decided to sell it because without Doug it wasn't much fun. The man at shortstop I don't recognize, but on third is Scott Dobbins. Scott used to run the old hardware store down the street before it was knocked down and turned into an tavern. He was always willing to come by and help out anyone with little fix 'er up jobs around the house free of charge. Then he started to come around less and less because he was always tired. During a check up, a lump was discovered and he was diagnosed with advanced thyroid cancer. Three months later Scott died. Squinting into the sun, I look into the outfield with the hopes of recognizing more people, but can't see that far.
"Come on Peter! Strike 'im out!"
The voice comes from behind me. I turn already knowing who I will see. She smiles her wonderful smile as we make eye contact. It has been so long since I have seen her, yet it feels like only a moment ago we were standing at this very field watching a t-ball game. Her eyes move back to the game and with them mine. Peter stands on the mound winding up. But, this isn't Peter the t-ball player, this is Peter the young man. He is so tall and handsome just like I remember. His face is twisted with a mixture of concentration and immense joy. He loves this game. Just before he throws, he sees me and winks. It is our little sign. Strike three! The game is over. He runs over to me.
"Hey dad. Did you see me strike him out? It was my eleventh of the game."
"Yeah I saw it. I'm so glad to see you." I pull him into a big hug. The tears come before I can stop them. It has been so long. The guilt is over powering. It is all my fault. If it hadn't been for me, Peter would be in the major leagues with a life of his own.
"Dad why are you crying?"
"I'm so sorry. It's all my fault. If only I had gone in none of this would have happened." I am finally letting out what has been bottled up inside for so long. I am opening the door to the house I had built out of my guilt.
"Dad it's not your fault. I don't blame you. What happened happened. It's like you're always saying after a bad game, 'Son there's nothing you can do about it. Let it go. You'll make the same mistake a hundred times if you can't accept it and learn from it.'"
It feels so good to look at him, to hear him speak. Then, everything around me begins to dissolve. He is smiling, but I can no longer make out the distinct lines on his face. His face is now less real, almost flat. Then I realize it is flat. I am no longer looking at my son, I am looking at a picture of my son. The picture is lying on top of my face. I suddenly remember everything: the box, the vacant lot, the explosion. A searing pain erupts from the back of my head. I try to get up, but the pain in both my head and back make me nauseous. Instead I just lay there staring up at the sky trying to remember everything about the interaction at the field.
Some time later, though it's hard to remember because I blacked out several time from the pain, an EMT came over and put me on a stretcher. As he raised me on to the stretcher I saw ruins of my house. Splintered boards, shingles, and shattered glass littered the yard. Among the boards that used to be the porch I saw the picture I had left on the floor.
"Wait." I gasped, my vocal chords straining with the effort.
"Sir, do you know where you are? Can you remember what happened?"
The effort to speak was too great, so I pointed to the picture. After taking several moments to figure out what I was pointing at, the EMT ran over and grabbed the picture. He put it into my hand.
Clutching the picture I felt, for the first time since Peter's death, free. Free from grief, free from pain, free from guilt.
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A Peaceful Sunset
I turn to walk back down the stairs and step through the door to the dark, dank hallway. I see a tan girl move towards the door that leads to the other stairwell, unknown to me that probably leads to the other roof entrance. I trudge through the hallway, and walk through my rotting doorway. I grab the flimsy notebook, only glancing at the dreaded page. I walk down the stairs and through the morbid atrium out to the smooth cemented sidewalk. The air is surprisingly dry and cool. Stepping down to the springy turf, I immediately realize what I must do. Barnaby. I cross the street and walk through the minefield of clumpy rock that takes over the natural pavement and grass of the vacant lot. The distinct image of the brown haired boy playing in this very yard so many years ago fogs my vision. The crippling pain of loss, desperation and utter failure shiver through my limbs. Tom, my son. I stop in the middle of my slow gradual descent towards Barnaby's house. I carefully remove three faded photographs from my constant notebook. For once I truly understand. I know these photographs. I know these people. Tom and his childhood friend Peter clasping each other's tiny plump hands. Baseball uniforms. The other photograph is of an older Tom, but he lacks the carefree joy of his juvenescent counterpart. His eyes with slight tears on the verge of escape have dark circles encroaching his brow, and he turns away from me as two men lead him on both sides of his arms. The courtroom. In the other photograph I see Peter full of life, gently smiling. A mirrored opposite to Tom's tormented, slumped over frame. Barnaby does not know. He does not understand Tom's accidental mistake, and Tom's true goodness that was lost due to a heavy metal object in his hand. I must tell him. I approached him yesterday; he did not know me. He did not recognize me with my disheveled gray hair and tattered, unkempt clothes.
I move towards his house knowing the absolute necessity for our conversation. I did not spurn an evil soul. My only memory that never faded: his eyes closing for the last time as the deathly fluid filled his veins. The last look of pure repentance and beautiful potential hiding behind purpled lids. The trigger slipped when Peter entered the Seven Eleven. It was a moment of the fated and unpreventable. Tom's remorse, his pain. I look up at the old house of so many years and memories past. The ground rumbles beneath my feet. A surge. I remember everything. My childhood game of tag, the birth of my son who would leave to a disjointed world of sorrow. The birth of my daughter and the birth of her daughter: Karen. I understand Karen's frequent visits. I mentally send her my love and pray for her future of love with Jimmy. On the outside of my vision I see the recesses of a sunset behind Barnaby in his house. Barnaby falls as the photograph of Peter slips from my outstretched hands; it gracefully finds its way to Barnaby and instantaneously I feel the release of all my guilt and frustration as I close my eyes before the surrounding world notices my existence.
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