July

Ten

July 12th

It seemed John would never run out of questions.

            “What about your mum?”

            “I haven’t got a mum,” Paul said. He sucked in a breath. “Well, not anymore.”

            John turned a quizzical stare to Paul. He’d taken off his glasses, and Paul wondered exactly how much John could see in the semidarkness. Already, Paul could feel John bumping into him more than was expected, their shoulders almost always brushing.

            “She passed away. Last year,” Paul said, his throat cracking, and his nose thickening with all the unshed tears. He took long, slow breaths through his mouth, willing himself to calm down.

            “My mum’s off living with her husband and kids. Mimi took me in when I was five, and I grew up not knowing her,” John said.

            Paul looked at him in surprise. There was a certain rawness to John’s tone, and Paul felt sympathy rush through him. They’d experienced similar things.

            Some days Paul thought the pain would never go away, and the enormity of “forever,” of always being in this much pain, crushed him and he wondered how he was still alive when every breath seemed a conscious effort, and just when he thought he would faint from lack of oxygen, he’d find himself still alive, still conscious, lying there but still existing, and that was almost worse.

            “The chippy’s right up there,” John said.

            Paul felt as though a well had been opened within him, and he didn’t want to stop talking until he’d let it all out. “Mike was still just a kid at the time, you know? And Da, well, he just sort of went numb. For a long time. And then it was my auntie going round taking care of us, and everything settled eventually, but Mike wasn’t a kid anymore. And now I feel like I don’t even know him, and Da is probably disappointed in me and George probably hates me.”

            “George?”

            “George Harrison. The one with the hair like a turban.”

            John shook his head, and some strange instinct of Paul’s told him to change the subject, and quickly.

            “Why did you pick me for the band?” Paul asked while John asked for four of fish. The question had been weighing on him for quite some time, and he was half scared to hear its answer.

            “I thought you were good,” John said, shrugging as though it were a non-issue.

*   *   *

            Jim stank of alcohol, and it was very late. Two things that came together to create the worst of situations.

            It had been a quiet afternoon. A gray day, you know, one of those where the clouds look like they might just start raining, but they never do decide, and stay that muddled shade, with bright white light, and sponged-on areas of darker gray.

            No one was in the house, and the smallest of noises seemed impossibly loud. Mike was gone, and Paul was gone. Both out with their friends, he supposed. He looked out at the window and sighed. Even for dreary England, this weather was a bit much for July.

            Summer should have been all sunny days, he mused. Summer was supposed to be warm and happy, with people waving at each other across the street, dogs barking outside, windows opened with slight breezes streaming in, letting the musky scent of gardens filter through the house.

            Instead all he had was a pale gray stillness. And a chill enough to make him want a jumper. He sighed as his back twisted and pulled, aching all while he went up the stairs. He was aging, and the most terrifying thing about it was his impotence. What could he do against the destructive power of time?

            The jumpers were in the drawers. He should have just opened the drawers, keeping his eyes down to the collection of woolen garment in a variety of drab colors, he should have taken one, slipped it on, then left the bedroom to go read a book in the sitting room.

            Instead, his hand brushed a wooden frame, and then his eyes were forced to look up at the picture. And there she was. Something about the day, and the silence, maybe it was the light, but there was a new quality to the black-and-white image of her face, and it seemed as though a Mona Lisa smile were dancing on the corners of her mouth. He squinted so much at her that he could see the little dots that had been printed on the paper to create the image.

            He took the picture downstairs. Mary smiled serenely at him, from her perch in the gray field, all in shades of gray to match the clouds outside. He’d poured himself a glass of whiskey, then he’d taken out a second glass for Mary. The liquid had poured easily into both his glass and hers, and he’d downed both of them. Soon he was talking to her, shyly at first, then freely, telling her everything that was bothering him, and imagining the smiling face nodding at the right parts in the narrative.

            Soon it was late and the bottle lay empty, and his earlier elation at Mary’s presence had changed and soured. He saw the empty bottle and recognized the emptiness of the picture. Mary just wouldn’t answer him, no matter what he said, or how much he begged. Everyone was against him today.

            Then Paul came home late, and so did Mike—maybe they’d met outside? Were they talking about him? They were certainly laughing and the sounds all blurred into a mess, and Jim was about to cry out in frustration, wishing everything would stop spinning.

            “Have you…been out late?” he demanded, and his own voice sounded garbled to his ears. “I thought I said…you need to be back!”

            “Whatever,” Mike huffed.

            “Young man!” Jim shouted. He felt himself rise up, and the headache lifted slightly as he stared down his son. Mike’s face showed nothing but irreverence, a single eyebrow raised. Jim grabbed his shoulders and shook him. “You hear me?”

            “Stop it!” Paul shouted, pulling Mike away from Jim’s hold. His older son’s angry face swam in front of his vision. “You’re drunk!” it told him.

            The word pierced through his haze, and Jim felt himself being deflated like a balloon. All the energy seeped out of him, and he let himself fall on the chair. Paul led Mike upstairs, murmuring something. Jim latched his eyes onto something while he waited for the sudden wave of nausea. Mary’s face smiled impassively while he slowly slipped into a coma of alcohol.