Bequest

March 6th 1992

My attorney just gave me the news. They turned down my appeal, again. He’s banging on about the Supreme Court but I reckon the man’s just making noises, you know? Reckon if the State Governor don’t take the decision to commute then its good-bye Stu Wilkins.
     Now that may seem kinda hard, talkin’ easy ‘bout my own death like that - but hell, you can see where I’m at- this aint exactly no reform school now, is it? Every man on this row can say the same thing; ‘bout how they’re only a short walk from it – being dead, you know? The chaplain, he says that facing up to facts gives us strength and that if we show some courage and dignity, well then, the Lord’s gonna fortify us in our hour of need. Now, I don’t reckon much on that religious gig, you know – but the preacher, maybe he’s right about one thing I guess. See, the way its goin’ dignity may be all I’ve got left.

I was born and raised in Franklin Lakes, New Jersey. Back then it was your typical ‘Smallville’ USA. Colonial style, all shingles and window shutters, a rocker on every porch. Family run stores, two bars, one gas station, a doctor come dentist and a church where everybody met up on a Sunday. It was the kind of town where everyone knew everybody else’s business; Thanksgiving was a communal thing and City Hall paid for fireworks on July fourth.
     My old man, he worked at Jackson’s lumber mill out on Hooper’s Lake. I remember how when he’d come home each day, how his cloths and hair were white with saw-dust, you know? Me and Tommy, my kid brother, we’d have this game where we’d have to beat the dust off of him before Mom‘d let him in the house. She kept that place so spick and span Dad used to swear it was the cleanest house in Bergen County.
     The mill was owned by the local guy, Nathaniel Jackson; his family had been in business since eighteen something or other, I don’t know, and had prospered somewhat. Old Nate and his wife, a big boned Swede from Minnesota, lived in a big old house set on a hill out by Shadow Lake – it sat up there overlooking the rest of town like some kinda castle. Far as I remember, none of us kids ever got near the place – it was completely surrounded by a high white stone wall with big black iron gates set in it – like Fort Knox or something.
     My old man used to tell how the wall was made of marble taken from the same quarries as those Old Italian sculptors used  and how it was shipped over in crates packed with finest lambs wool so as it wouldn’t get scuffed up like. He said as how the Jackson’s had it built so as to show just how rich they where. Mom used to say he should hush and not fill us boys’ heads with such damn fool stories.

Unfortunately for his families continued prosperity, old Nate Jackson was a gambling man who couldn’t tell a horse from a jackass. Grandpa Wilkins, he said it was old Nate’s wife drove him to gambling; reckoned how she had more temper and spite in her than the Devil on a bad day in Hell – never gave the man a moments peace. It was popular rumour as how since he was married, horses were Nate’s only pleasure in life – if you know what I mean.
     Anyways, by the time he drowned himself, he owed so much the family had to sell off the business to pay his debts. The new owners, they kept the mill workin’ alright but shed over a third of the workforce – including Dad – had to do with economics or somethin’. Well, Dad, he took it kinda personal – I can still remember how now and then he’d get drunk and tell the world, loud and clear, ‘bout that ‘rich bitch’ up there in her mansion.; how she’s ruined his life and ‘bout how he’d get even one day.

So Dad finds this job at the Brockhurst Mill over in Wanaque, some seven miles or so away. He’s getting himself outta bed about sunrise to make sure he’s in work on time, you know? And when he got home he was so tired he’d sometimes fall asleep over supper
     As time went by, the old man took to drinking more come Saturday nights. It came about when Mom took a cleaning job to help ends meet. They had a big fight about that. Me and Tommy, we hid in the bedroom listening to him shouting about he’s the bread-winner and how she’s making him less of a man. In the end she just tells him plain that she’s made her decision –and that’s it. We didn’t see Dad on a Sunday mornings after that.

 I remember – must have been ‘bout a year later, I was eleven, twelve something like that – me, Tommy and Joey McGee, we’re swimming down in Baker’s Pool when Mickey Pulis comes by shouting out about how he’s heard his Pa talking ‘bout my old man getting fired for being drunk. I tells him that’s a damn lie and he should take it right back. He keeps right on about how it’s the truth and anyhow the whole town knows Pa’s a drunk. Next thing I remember, Mickey’s on the ground and I’m pounding away at him; his mouth’s bust wide open and his eyes are closing real quick and I just keep hitting him - keep right on hitting him.  I don’t know – maybe I’d be hitting him still if officer Kain hadn’t happened along and pulled me off of him.
     Mom had to come collect me from the police station. She had a long talk with the desk sergeant and the words ‘assault’ and ‘criminal record’ crept in there a few times, you know.
    Anyhow, Mom takes me over to Mickey's place to apologise. His Pa stands there
on the porch giving me this stern look, shaking his head at me all the time – not wanting to know, you know? Anyway, Mickey finally admits that he’s been mouthing off – how he provoked me an’ all and that’s the end of it. 
     Funny thing is, Mickey was right all along. Dad had been fired. He’d gone off that morning to collect what was owed him and just kept on going. He just plain disappeared.

January 14th 1993

It’s funny, aint it, how a man can come to pin so much hope on another man. Funny how hope can take its toll on a man an’ all, how fear of failure’s worse than failing itself, you know. I got word. Seems the Supreme Court turned down my final appeal – said there’s no new evidence to justify it or somethin’.  My attorney’s telling me this just now, he’s got tears in his eyes like it’s his life on the line, you know? The guards, they keep coming round, spending time – talking with me, offering me cigarettes, that kinda thing, you know?
     Old Leo in the next cell – his names not really Leo, it’s just that he snores like a lion roaring is all – he says this is the worst time you know – when you realise there’s nothin’ more you can do. I just feel kinda numb right now. It’s difficult, you know – the realisation that your life’s as good as over.

We left New Jersey not long after Dad left us. Mom said there were just too many memories there, you know? She was hurting pretty bad ‘bout bein’ abandoned like that and she did what every hurt child does. She packed up what we could carry and took us on home – Omaha, Nebraska.
     It took us three days to get to Nebraska. We missed a connection in Youngstown when Mom realised she hadn’t called to let her old man know we were coming – him bring on his own an’ all; her Mom had got a cancer or something a few years before.  She sent him a telegram and then spent the rest of the trip worrying ‘bout how he’d take it – he’d never got along with Dad and she was sure he’d come with the old ‘told you so’ routine. Then Tommy got sick on the bus and threw up on all over the place. Tell you, by the time we reached Nebraska we were a real sorry sight.

So, there we were, me and Mom and Tommy, just staring up at Gramps’s house. It was like this ranch house, straight out of a western an’ all; ‘cept that it’s built out of brick and has a garage underneath. It just looked out of place, you know? I think we all felt like that an’ all. I could tell Mom was real nervous – she had this way of twisting her fingers together – and I thought we were gonna end up turning  right around and heading on back to Franklin. 
     Anyhow, the front door opens and there stands Gramps. He was a big old man – must have been six-one, six-two easy. He had this thick white hair and a beard that made him look like Santa Claus but he weren’t fat, no way. He had shoulders any defensive end’d be proud of an’ he carried himself like a linebacker – proud and ‘ornery. Well, he comes running down that drive and picks Mom clean up off of the ground. He’s holding her up at arms length looking her up and down, all the while crying out ‘my girl, oh my little girl.’ Then he gives her this great big hug and, I swear, there’s tears rolling down his cheeks.
     Me and Tommy, we’re standing there not knowing what to do. Gramps is crying, Mom’s crying and then Tommy starts to hollerin’ too, just to get some attention I reckon.  So then, gramps puts Mom down and scoops us both up – one under each arm, I swear blind he did – and carries us up to the house. By now he’s stopped his crying and he’s laughing instead – a big old belly laugh that starts us both off too – and I can hear Mom chuckling away behind us. It seemed like years since we all laughed out like that. It felt so good, you know – like the laughing made us safe somehow.

Life seemed to settle down real quick after that. Mom got work over at the ABS Corp. and Gramps helped find new schools for me and Tommy. Come weekends we’d all pile into Gramps’s old ‘69 Chevy and take off someplace – Fort Omaha or the Navy Museum; or we’d head out to Dodge Park there on the Missouri River and me and Tommy’d just go wild, playing ball and such. Summers were long and hot, winters were freezing cold with two, three foot of snow. We met family we never knew existed and had these big get-togethers come Thanksgiving and Christmas. Tommy made the school football team and I fell in love with Beth Fahey.
    Beth’s kid brother played on the football team. I met her at the last game of the season. She had long dark hair and the greenest eyes you ever saw; her smile used to get me all tongue-tied, you know? We sat together, jawing about the game firstly. ‘Fore I knew it I’m buying her a “dog” and soda and asking her out. We’d hang out after school and weekends at first until I got my license. Then Gramps used to let me take the Chevy sometimes so’s we’d get some time alone.
     After High School, I get this job fixin’ mowers and the like over at Sears - the pay was okay and you got to work by yourself mostly – while Beth headed out to Lincoln for college. I’d drive over there most weekends or spend hours on the phone with her. Gramps said that if Mom kept going on about weddings and stuff she’s gonna scare the girl off, you know?

I was just turned twenty when Gramps took ill. Me and Beth had our own place over in Christie Heights – it weren’t nothing much but the rent was low. We get this call ‘bout eight o’clock one night. It’s Mom saying how Gramps is on his way over to County Hospital – seems he took it in mind to clear snow off of the drive a week back – he’d took a chill and got worse ever since.
     Pneumonia took Gramps four days later. I aint never been so tore up in all my life. I didn’t know how to feel; I was crying all the time – getting angry and then sad again. I was so mixed up. Mom took it all quiet and dignified on the face of it – helping us through it all – but Tommy told me how he’d hear her crying all alone in the night.

It was about three weeks after the funeral that he turned up. I got a call at work off Mom saying how he was stood on the porch, banging on the door hollerin’ to be let in and could I get right over.
     He was dressed in a dirty raincoat and jeans all torn and frayed. His hair was long and straggly and he smelt like a dumpster, you know. He didn’t recognise me right off, he just goes on banging that door and yellin’ ‘til I ask him what the hell he thinks he’s doin’. He comes right back saying as how it’s between him and his wife and how I should mind my own business if I know what’s good for me.
Wasn’t until I tells him the lady inside aint been his wife since Franklin Lakes that he reckons who I am. Then he starts giving me some ‘Stu! My boy! How’ve you been?’ Well, I’m rightly uninterested by all this and tells him how my Dad’s dead so he’d better haul ass off of Mom’s porch before I haul it for him. He’s getting some attitude now saying as how I’m not too old to go over the old man’s knee and stuff. Well, I’ve had it by now – I just wanna give this guy the whuppin’ he deserves, you know?
     I’m just about laying hands on him when the door opens and suddenly, there’s Mom and they’re staring at each other. Then it’s all ‘Jack’ and ‘Brenda’ and they’re hugging; she’s crying, he’s saying how sorry he is and I’m just struck dumb – I don’t believe it all, you know? Nine years after he walked out of our lives, Dad walked back in.

May 10th 1993

Four days from now, I’ll be dead. They’re coming to take me down tomorrow. You see, once they’ve decided on a date to kill you, they come and take you off of the ‘row’ two, three days before. Take you to a holding cell with guards round the clock, you know? Say it’s to make sure you don’t do yourself no harm – that’s the State’s job from here on in. An’ anyhow, you already did your share of harm, why’re you here otherwise?

Thanksgiving that year was a downright disaster. Dad’s too drunk to stand but just drunk enough to insult the whole damn family. Aunts, uncles and cousins just slipped away as the day wore on. Ends up with Mom in tears and Beth holding me back from busting Dad’s head.
     We didn’t see much of Mom after that. I’d call over from time to time but it was so damn strange, you know? He’d be there, running off at the mouth while Mom was quiet, keeping to the background kinda thing. Tommy used to tell as how Dad would just bum around all day and drink all night. He said how he would hear them arguing ‘bout his drinking; how money was tight and stuff. When I’d ask, she’d say not to worry, everything was alright.

Late January, I get a call off Tommy. He’s all upset, saying how Mom’s face is bruised up an’ all. Says she reckons she slipped in the bathroom but he heard her and Dad shouting ‘bout some money going missing or something.
     I go over there but she’s staying with the story. Dad’s sitting there in his vest going on about how I should stay clear of his affairs and such stuff. Ends up, I lose it and tell him how the next time Mom slips anywhere, me and him – we’re gonna discuss it out in the yard. He starts laughing at that, Mom could see how I’m getting’ riled an all so she cuts in, going on at me, ‘leave it alone Stu; it’ll be alright, it’s alright.’ So I’m outta there, but behind me – he’s still laughing.

Mom called over to our place more regular after that. She seemed more relaxed, went on about how Dad was getting some kind of counselling or something for his drinking, how he was doing alright now and maybe he’d get a job. Beth would go on about how maybe I should patch things up with him. I would put her off saying how I’d wait and see how things turned out. 

It was November seventh, ‘bout nine thirty at night when Mom called. See wasn’t saying much – just crying a lot and mumbling something about Dad and how Tommy shouldn’t do something or other. I go over and I’m fit to burst, you know? Her face in bleeding all over, her arm’s hanging kinda funny and she’s hurting when she breaths, like her ribs are broke or something.
     I gave Beth a call from over at County telling her how she should she come over and sit with Mom while I see where Tommy’s at. I figure he’s gonna be looking out for Dad so I head over to the bars on Maple.
     I catch sight of him on the corner of one-oh-eight and Maple. He tells me Dad’s across the way on Reilly’s bar. I say how what happens next has got to be strictly between me and Dad and maybe he should go look after Mom. I can see he’s thinking this over real careful like. Finally, he gives me a nod and a ‘catch you later’ and takes off. 

Well, Dad comes out of that bar about one in the morning. He’s telling the world, loud and clear, ‘bout the man he is and bull like that. He soon goes quiet when he sees me heading over, but I’m keeping cool, you know – holding it all in for Mom’s sake. He’s swaying back and too as I’m telling him how he’d better turn around and start walking, and keep walking ‘cause there’s no way he’s coming back home again. I’m just wanting him to leave, you know – make it real easy for everybody.
We’re standing there two, three minutes or so and he’s not said a word. I figure the alcohols scrambled his brain an’ all so I tell him again he’s gotta go, gotta leave us alone. Then he starts laughing to himself, soft and low like, and says how maybe he should take off if this was gonna happen every time he gave a whore a slap.

The arresting officer told the court how he hadn’t ever seen a man beat up like that before. The prosecutor said how it was a savage killing that could only deserve one penalty.
 
May 14th 1993

Tell Mom I’m sorry.