Posted by ProdigalFather:

Here’s something I wrote many years ago when one of Gif’s close friends was killed in a motorcycle accident. ��It was originally part of Prodigal Father Wayward Son, but we had to cut a lot of great stories for length constraints – this is one of them. We hope you like it.

Sam Keen.

MORTALITY

���There is not love of life without despair about life.���

��Albert Camus

Full moon in autumn, the aspens turning gold, Winter nipping at the edges of the night.

2:30 am: from fathoms deep in sleep I hear the piercing sound of the telephone and struggle to the surface of consciousness, breathless with panic. Who is calling at this ungodly hour? The faces of everyone I love flash before me. I remember the phone call that came the Autumn of l964 ��� Your father is dying, come as quickly as you can.”

“Hello.”

“Hello, Sam. This is Punky. There has been an accident. John Demetri got killed, and we are trying to locate his parents. We thought Gif might have his address. Is he there?���

“What happened?���

“He left here about an hour ago on his motorcycle and ran off the road down by Black Canyon and hit his head on a rock. I tried to get him to wear a helmet but he wouldn’t do it.���

“I heard Gif’s truck come in a while ago, so I know he is up at his cabin, but he wouldn’t have the address there. Why don’t we wait until morning, and we���ll go over to John’s house and see if we can find an old letter or something with an address on it?���

“O.K., I guess that makes sense. There’s nothing anybody can do now.���

I hang up the phone and climb back in bed. The moon disappears behind the hill and darkness deepens. I try to sleep but waves of feeling and memory smash against my unbelieving mind, undercutting my illusions of safety, sweeping the ground from beneath me. Impossible! Not true! Just this afternoon John was painting my house. At five o���clock he was standing on the porch wiping paint from his hands. The red and white cap he always wore that advertised “Reed’s Electrical Appliances” contained a visible resum�� of the odd jobs he had recently completed ��� a grease spot from the old Pontiac he was always working on, a sprinkling of sawdust from the cabinet he helped you build, brown paint from my house. His tattered Levi cut-offs matched his stringy beard and long, disheveled hair. A little like a lost dog who hadn’t been well-treated even before he left home. You always warned me, “You have to look underneath his appearance. John is a funny sort of guy. He always shows people his worst side first. He acts real stoned and stupid, but if you keep coming after him you see he is a real sensitive man who has a lot of pain he is afraid to let people see.”

While I was paying him for the painting we had talked about his dream of buying a few acres of land. I noticed that he looked pale even though he had been working all day in the sun. As I review my sparse memories of John, sadness grows within me for the death of a man, for shattered frail hope that had just begun to grow. And tears, because in the morning I must tell you that your friend is dead.

At first light I give up the effort to sleep and get up to watch the sunrise. A tangerine glow from behind the mountain heralds the day. The stage lights change rapidly bathing the valley in chrome-yellow, chartreuse, lemon, topaz, daffodil, apricot, copper. With a hush, preceded by a hint of violet, the bronze and burning sun steps over the ridge and takes command of a day that is already haunted by absence. I drink cups of steaming tea and watch the drama from the privileged seat among the living, feeling unaccountably guilty, embarrassed by beauty.

As I walk up the path through the meadow to your cabin, my mind squirms looking for the right words. How do I introduce you to death? You are twenty-two years old, still a stranger to death. You sleep hard, dream vividly, and wake slowly. You don���t like to talk before breakfast. Should I break the news gradually? Give you time to come fully awake? Fortunately, your dog Rastamon sees me coming, barks, and warns you that your territory is being invaded. When I get in the cabin you are half-awake.

“Good morning son,” I say, walking over to the bed and pausing until I can put my hand on your uncovered and vulnerable shoulder. “I have some real bad news. John was killed last night.”

You look at me in stunned silence.

“On his motorcycle?”

“Yes. How did you know?”

“I was at Punky’s last night playing pool and there was lots of free beer. I knew John was going to Omak on the motorcycle to spend the night with a friend so he could see about his unemployment checks in the morning. I tried to convince him to come home and drive up with me today, but he wouldn’t do it….. Dead? He’s Dead?”

“Yes, son, It’s impossible to believe isn’t it?���

���Somehow I’m not really surprised,��� you told me. ���He always said he would die young and violently. It was almost as if he knew. When he came into the bar last night, he took out a quarter and held it up and said, ���This is all the money I got, but I guess it’s all I need since the beer is free and the loser is going to have to pay for the next game of pool.��� I grinned at him and started to leave and he said, ���What’s the matter, Gif, you afraid to play me?��� We traded friendly insults and played a game or two, and when I went out the door he flashed me a big smile and gave me a thumbs-up sign. It was always like that. We understood each other, like brothers, without having to talk about it. Ever since he came back from Vietnam he was in such pain that he stayed drunk or stoned a lot of the time.

���Once I told him, John, I can see all the pain and rage you have bottled-up inside you. And he said, ���I’m glad.��� But we didn’t have to talk about it after that. We were just friends. I think, somehow, it was his time to die. At least he is not in pain now.���

Silence, again.

Gradually the awful fact begins to sink into your heart and you start to cry softly. I also. I want to cradle you in my arms and protect you like I did when you were a baby. As I reach over and embrace you, I feel my body (calloused by frequent grief, covered with scar tissue from the death of my father and friends) form around your sinewy frame as if to shield you from tragedy. I hold you for a few minutes. But we are both too awkward to take comfort for long within each others arms. We edge apart, trying not to notice each other���s tears.

“I guess you never get use to death, do you Dad?”

“I never have.”

I sense you want to be alone, so I leave the cabin. An hour later you come down to the house and I cook thick slices of home-cured ham and eggs and strong coffee. After breakfast we go across the county road to John’s house to look for his parent���s address, which we finally find in a stack of letters in the bedroom. As we turn to leave I see that you have picked up John’s “Reed’s Electrical Appliances” cap and put it on your head.

The flood of sorrow carries us into each others arms and I hear a silent scream welling up from my depths. “Death, keep your goddamn hands off my son! You can have me, but leave my children alone.”

Scenes from three generations of my history flash before my eyes. First, I see myself standing by my father’s grave by a juniper tree in Prescott, Arizona wearing his hat and cursing death. Next, I imagine myself as an old man standing on the high ridge above this farm watching my children and grandchildren eating from the apricot and walnut trees I have planted.

You and I pat each other on the back to signal that it’s time to move apart. Our embrace loosens. Seeing John’s hat on your head, I remember that the universe does not guarantee us a timely death. For the first time, I see on your face the marks of one who has been initiated into the knowledge of mortality.

Prodigal Father Wayward Son

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