All's Cheerless, Dark, and Deadly

'Dad, I'm going to Gary's house.'

Mr. Shane sat on a tattered leather chair in the sitting room, bathed
in the silver flickering glow of the television. His son Michael was
standing under the archway that led into the hall.

'Dad I'm'

'Shh!' He pointed at the T.V.

Michael stared at his father until he pivoted around in his chair to
face him, making rude squeaky noises as his body rubbed against the
soft brown leather.

'Gary's?'

'Yeah, Gary's.'
Michael's dad nodded.

'Sure, why not?'
He turned around.

'Thanks dad.'

'Shhh!'

He was facing the television, but Michael knew he wasn't really
watching. It was an excuse, a reason not to make eye contact.
Michael turned into the hallway. He grabbed his keys off of the small
beech wood coffee table by the stairs. The phone on the table rang and
Michael picked up the receiver.

'Hello?'

'Hey Barry, this is-'

'Eh, no, no Jim, it's Michael.'

'Oh Michael. How ya doin' kid? Is your dad around?'

'Yeah, hold on.'
He placed the phone down on the table.
'Dad-'

'What is it?'

'Jimmy's on the phone.'

Barry smiled and sprung out of his chair, pushing past his son into the
hall.

'Allo Jimbo! How's the crack? -He, he, he -I know, I know -Fred told
me, Fred McGuinness -Ha, Ha, Ha! What kind of man do you think I am?
-Oh that's what you think is it? -Ha, ha, ha!'

Michael looked at his father, heard his heart sigh.
Why couldn't his Dad ever talk to him like that? They never laughed
together, cried in front of each other. The only time they ever spoke
was to tell the other where they were going. To ask what was for dinner
and to reply. They would exchange answers to meaningless questions.
They never talked, never really talked. Barry noticed Michael staring.
Michael turned away, walked up the stairs to get his jacket.

* * *

'Mom! Dad!'

Gary Donovan ran into the kitchen where his mother was reading the
paper at the table, and his father was chopping up onions and carrots
for coleslaw at the counter.

'What is it Gary?' his mother, Mary, looked over the rim of her reading
glasses at her son.

'I told you Michael was coming over right?'

Mary shook her head and looked at her husband who shrugged.

'No, I don't think so.'

'Well, he's gonna be here in a few minutes.'

John Donovan turned around
'It's a school night Gary. You have homework to do. I'm sure Michael
does too.'

'Nope. You see there was this field trip, for Geography, and-'

'Alright, alright.' He turned around and continued to chop.

'Thanks Dad!'
Gary ran out of the kitchen and up the stairs.

John scraped the thin slivers of carrot and onion into a bowl of
shredded white cabbage.
Mary stared over the newspaper at him and smiled. She put it down, took
off her glasses and slowly pushed herself out of the chair. She slipped
off her shoes and lurked quietly toward him.

'Hey you.'
She hugged him and kissed the back of his neck.

'You hungry?' she asked in a relaxed, sensual voice.

'Nah!'
He twisted open a jar of mayonnaise, scooped a desert spoon full into
the bowl and began to mix it all together.

'Well I'm positively famished. Com'on, lets go to Romero's.'

'Romero's? We haven't been there in years.'
She kissed him again.
'It used to be our favourite place.'

'Yeah, used to be, like ten years ago. That place is young couples and
newly weds.'

'It'll be romantic.'

He sighed.
'Gary?'

'There's a babysitter living just across the street!'

'Mary, I just don't feel like it right now all right? Ok?'

Mary's arms slumped to her sides.
'I just thought we could spend time alone together you know?'

John opened his mouth to speak, but instead exhaled and shook his
head.
Mary pinched John's sides and began pacing up and down the kitchen
floor. John sliced open a fresh onion, oblivious to his wife's restless
striding. She brushed a long curl of blond hair away from her pale,
thin face. She was a woman of sculpted beauty, something John never
seemed to appreciate.

'I can't stand this John; I really can't, not anymore. I feel like
we're divorced parents and you're letting me live hear until I find a
place to stay. You love our son very much and I adore you for that, but
you never share any of that love with me.'

She walked up beside him and looked at his face, motionless, untelling,
except for the tear that had made its way down his face and was
dripping from his chin.

'Why are you crying John? Talk to me! Please!'

He ran his finger across his wet nose and wiped his cheeks with the
cuff of his shirt.

'John? We're wife and husband. We have to be able to communicate or it
won't work John, it just won't work.'

John shrugged.
'These fuckin' onion's sting like hell.'

Mary's eyes were no longer questioning, begging. They were windows to
the fury brimming in her blood. Her jaw muscles tightened and relaxed,
tightened and relaxed. She said nothing. She grabbed her bag from the
shoulder of a chair knocking to the floor, taking no notice, and
silently, like a ghost, opened the door and disappeared into the
darkened streets.

* * *

Michael was sitting on his bed on top of his jacket, staring blankly at
the photographs of his mother tacked to the frame of the mirror above
his desk. His eyes kept wandering back to one photo in particular. It
was taken at the beach. Michael was beside his father, whose bulky arm
was hanging around his shoulders. Michael's mom was between the two of
them, her right hand on top of his head, her left around the waist of
her husband. They were all wearing sunglasses that day, and they were
all smiling. Margaret Shane was beautiful, or so she seemed to Michael.
Her hair was short and black. Her skin bronzed and sparsely freckled.
She had a distinguishing dimple on her left cheek. If she was not
beautiful, Michael didn't know the meaning of the word. That had been a
happy day. Margaret Shane died six months later as a result of
progressive breast cancer.

* * *

Barry hung up the phone and at that exact moment, without provocation,
tears started budding from his eyelids. Today, the 27th of November,
was the anniversary of Margaret's death.
He hadn't said a word to Michael, hoping he wouldn't have to, hoping
Michael wouldn't know. Today had been like any other. Michael hadn't
said anything, neither had he. It was always that way. They never spoke
about Margaret. N ever spoke about their feelings. Silences were filled
with small talk, about school, work, money. John wanted to talk to his
son, he wanted to really talk, like they used to.
Since Margaret passed away they have been distant, almost unfamiliar
with one another. Barry wished it could be different, he wished it
every day. It could be different of course. He only had to open his
mouth and speak, or so one would think. But anytime he spread his lips
apart, meaningless bullshit would spurt out.
Barry wiped his face with a handkerchief, and returned to the warmth
and comfort of his leather chair.

* * *

'Dad, where's mom?'

Gary looked around the kitchen. His dad was at the table with his face
in his hands, and his mother was nowhere to be seen. There was a
toppled chair on the floor, and a half chopped onion on the chopping
board. John hadn't answered the question.

'Dad? What happened?'

John was breathing heavily through clenched teeth. Mucus was dripping
from his nose, his face and hair were drenched in sweat.

'Not right now Gary.'

'But..'

'Not now!'

Gary knew what had happened here. They had had another fight. He had
seen it, more often heard it, all before. Of course they would never
admit to him that they were fighting, never talk to him about it, and
that's what hurt most of all. That is what hurt more than anything. He
wanted to be told that everything was all right, that it wasn't
serious. He wanted to be told that all mommies and daddies have a
scuffle every now and again. And if everything wasn't all right, if
everything wasn't okay, he wanted to know that too.

Gary smiled.
'It's okay dad.'

John looked up and turned his head. His eyes were red and sore looking.
His hair was a mangled, greasy mess.

'It's alright dad.'

A half smile appeared on his fathers face.

'Come here Gary.' He held out his arm 'Sit with me. Lets talk for a
while.'

Gary's eyes lit up. He walked toward the kitchen table and picked up
the toppled chair.

* * *

'Dad.'

Barry Shane turned around to see his son standing in the light of the
hall like an angel. Barry switched off the T.V and turned around
completely to face him.

'Yes. What is it son?'

Michael felt uncomfortable talking to his father eye to eye. He averted
his eyes ever so slightly.

'I'm, I'm not going to Gary's. He called, something's come up.'

Barry nodded. He focused his attention on his son. Michael had never
seen his father so interested in what he had to say. Well, not within
the past year. Before then, well, he couldn't remember.

'Well anyway.' Michael said.

'Anyway.'

'Night dad.'
Michael turned toward the stairs.

'Son!'
Barry's voice sounded urgent, desperate. His hand was stretched out,
reaching.
Michael turned around. Excited. Hopeful.
Barry's breath was audible and shallow. His lips trembled. He was
crying tears Michael could not see in the dark. Barry closed his eyes.
Every muscle in his body tightened. His heart seemed to be breaking
into tiny pieces. He took one, long, deep breath to tame his shaky
voice.
'See you in the morning.'

He bit into his cheeks until he could taste blood. He wanted to kill
himself. At that moment he wanted to die. And that moment, Michael
wanted him to die too.

'See you tomorrow' Michael smirked '-Dad!'

His feet pounded up the stairs.

Barry's chest tightened with every thump. When Michael slammed his
bedroom door the whole house shook. Barry could feel his heart implode
inside his rib cage.
He grabbed his chest. His face was as red as the blood clogging up his
arteries. He stumbled out of his chair. He could not walk. His legs
felt like lead weights. He crawled toward the light of the hall, but
before he reached the opening he collapsed. His body felt inflated. His
skin felt tight. His chest was throbbing, tightening with every breath.
His face was frozen in a silent scream. His last thoughts were of
Michael, before he drifted into unconsciousness.