Joe's Black T-Shirt by Joe Schwartz Read Free Book Online Page B

trouble.”
The agitation caught Mike off-guard. He was accustomed to the soft-spoken, laconic man his father normally was.
“Now if you’re smart, you’ll tell me the truth. I’ll do everything I can to make it look good that you confessed.”
His Father was awake, but not in the present. Not knowing what else to do, Mike decided he would try and play along.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Sheriff.”
“The hell you say.”
    This game wasn’t fun. His Father had helped him a few times with advice on interviewing clients. How to discern the truth from the lies, the facts and not the feelings, no matter what the alleged crime.
    He recognized this as a rudimentary backseat-interrogation, some ghost of Christmas past come to visit. Whoever Father was speaking to, he had them dead to rights. In a blatant disregard to his own best advice to clients, Mike confessed.
    “You got me Sheriff,” Mike said. His intonation reminded him of a black-and-white cowboy movie, maybe something staring Gary Cooper or Henry Fonda. “I’ll be happy to oblige you and show you where the gold is buried.”
    The rage that poured from his Father was a volcanic fount. His face became red, enraged by the obvious insolence. “Son-of-a-whore! Son-of-a-bitch!”
    Father’s words struck out and felt cold against his cheeks. It was as if he had stepped into an unexpected winter storm. His face burned with shame.
    “After what you have done, you’re in no position to play games,” Father said.
    Above a whisper, he answered him in a voice he hadn’t used since he lived under the man’s roof. “Yes, sir.”
    “Good,” Father said. His rage seemed to have left him as quickly and suddenly as it had found him. He was still mad, but the meds were doing their job. Unable to differentiate pain from outrage, the crystalline water dripped faster into him, releasing its magic formula. “Now, let’s start over. Where is…the…girl?”
    “What girl?” Mike asked. He asked again shaking Father by his softened bicep, “What girl, Dad?”
    His spirit dwelled somewhere else again, far away, waiting.
    Mike, now wide-awake, sat with great attention toward Father. The man never discussed his work with him, even after law school. Now he was walking down a nightmare version of memory lane holding his father’s hand and praying to God for the strength to continue.
     
     
    ***
     
     
    His mother came into the room promptly at six. She took pride in being on time and likened tardiness to sin itself. Mike hadn’t been less than fifteen minutes early for an appointment, meeting, or casual party since puberty.
    “Right on time,” Mike said rising to salute Mother with a ritual kiss upon her cheek.
    Her focus was immediately drawn toward Father. The machines that surrounded his bedside clicked and beeped with their electronic efficiencies. Mother studied them for the smallest changes. Whether good or bad she wanted to know. Every moment at this point was precious.
“Did he talk to you last night?” she asked as she sat in the chair.
The question surprised Mike. “He did, a little.”
“He talked to me yesterday,” she said. “He thought we were getting married. I think he is remembering all the good things.”
    Mike didn’t know about that. Mother had been with Father every day for the last thirty-five years. It was no surprise to him there could be a surplus of good memories for her. How couldn’t there be? He, on the other hand, had not been making much time for Father since college. Over the last five years, he saw him purposefully two days a year: Fourth of July and Christmas. Beyond that, they talked mildly on the phone. Outside the subject of law, they didn’t have much to discuss.
“Will you stay for breakfast?” Mother asked.
Her question brought him back to the present. “Yeah, sure, Mom,” he said.
As the day nurse came on, talking with Mother while simultaneously administering to all of Father’s needs, he had a