LIW&B Chapter 15

Happy burst through the trailer door, arms ready for a triumphant return hug to bring both father and son trembling with tears of joy. Mel groaned in pain and brought his son's attention to his horror. The old man was laid out flat on the trailer floor, half in the kitchen with his legs sprawled in the hallway, still and flat as a corpse. Happy screamed and woke the old man from his sickness.

Mel always thought there would be an alarm that would send him scrambling to the doctor. He always thought he would know it was time. Quite often he had considered going to see a doctor, but now he was glad he hadn't. Mel felt it was news best left unsaid, just another thing about which to worry. The time for alarm had passed, changed over to a time for acceptance.

Happy dropped to his knees and shook his father. "Dad! Dad, wake up! I'm home!"
The boy felt frail hands gripping at his arms while Mel managed to lift his granite lids and expose his yellow, bloodshot eyes.
"Happy," His father begged, "Stop shakin' me, please, you're killin' me."

Happy did as he was told. He sat terrified watching his father, lips white and smashed. Mel closed his eyes again and dropped his head back on the floor. A weak, bony hand wiped off his mouth then lay on his chest. He breathed desperately as if he had just pulled his head from a bucket of water, but this withdrew as he came to his senses. He opened his eyes again and looked at the ripped paint on the ceiling when he spoke his son's name again.

"Happy, is that really you?" He asked.
Happy slid forward to cross his line of vision. "Yeah, Dad, it's me, Happy. I came home. I hope you're not mad at me. Are you all right?" He was doing his best not to cry.

Mel looked into his son's eyes, a sight he didn't think he'd see again. The old man hadn't yet been convinced the image was not a hallucination. He could feel his body rotting away and assumed his mind would follow suit. But Mel thought a hallucination would be positive, even euphoric, not the scared child on the brink of tears hovering over him. The decrepit hands reached out to pull his son in for a hug, deciding he needed the embrace whether it was real or not.
"I can't believe you're home," Mel said, alive for the first time in weeks.

Happy squeezed his father like cement, wishing he could never let go. Mel had to beg leniency. The pressure caused his chest to burn and the taste of blood in his throat.
"No, Happy, let me back down," he objected. "Things ain't the same as when you left."

Happy laid his father down. The old man was now dramatically smaller than his son. Mel breathed desperately again as Happy looked around the trailer for the first time. The old man was right. Things had changed. The trailer had never been spic and span, but now it was a complete state of abandon. Mel had been in too much pain to clean the place or even notice. Death keeps no house.

Dust and stains layered every surface. There were objects fallen, furniture tipped, a squatter's campground. There weren't many dishes because he had barely eaten. Nothing digested well except the alcohol which made a component of his bloodstream. Digestion was second to osmosis. Alcohol provided calories and kept him awake.

He fed only on soft bread and canned beans, both easy to chew. He preferred toast but he was too weak to get up twice to cook it. On the rare occasion his bowels would move he would stay on the toilet for hours to restore the strength he lost in the movement. Mel stayed stuck in lonesome recliner most hours of the day. Checks and bills piled in his mailbox outside. Mel was gone and wasn't coming back.

Mel started to explain some of this to his son, but was distracted with parental concern. His vision clouded but the wound shone like a star. He reached up and rubbed Happy's eye, the site where Brian struck him on the first night in the children's home.
"What is this?" Mel asked.
Happy's sorrow turned to shame. He wore a look of guilt and didn't want to answer.
"That happened awhile ago," Happy answered, "At the children's center."
"What happened?" Mel asked, painfully propping himself on his elbows. Simmering anger gave the old man strength.
"I got punched," Happy said. He wanted to lie but he couldn't. He felt the old man would know it wasn't the truth.
"By who?" Mel demanded. His voice returned the angry scratch Happy knew and loved.
"Brian," Happy answered. "He's my dorm mate and friend. But he's not my friend anymore."
Happy didn't want to give more details, but Mel insisted.
"Was this kid beating you up?"
"Yes."
Mel slapped a fragile palm on the floor tiles. "Goddammit! And they said you weren't safe here! Those lousy sons a bitches!"

Mel reached his peak and fell off. He launched into coughing fit he wasn't strong enough to endure. Fortunately, Happy was there to fetch a simple glass of water, an impossible task small enough to ease the fit. Mel was flat on the floor again when he caught his breath. Happy just sat watching and worried.

"I guess ain't shit changed since I came up." Mel spoke to the ceiling again. "Those homes are just zoos with no cages. How's a kid s'posed to make it like that?"
"It wasn't so bad. Just Brian was mean." Happy thought it over, "I guess some other kids got mean too, but not like him."
"Did you do anything back?" Mel strained his neck to lift his head and look at the boy.
Happy looked at his father sternly. "I kept being nice to him, but he kept beating me up," Happy confessed. "So I trapped him like a rat so he couldn't beat anybody up after I left."
Mel looked at his son and smiled for the first time in a long time.
"That sounds like you won," Mel said.

Happy was glad to see his father smile. "Are you mad at me?" he asked.
Mel frowned hearing such a question. "I'm not mad at you at all," He asserted. "Why would you ask me that?"
"I thought you'd be mad I left the children's center," Happy told him. "I thought I was supposed to stay."
Mel felt sick and angry all over again. "I never wanted you to leave, Happy. But I'm too old to fight the law."
The old man beckoned for another hug which Happy dove to give him, but more gently.
"It's a miracle you're back, Son. I never thought I'd see you again." Now both father and son trembled with tears of joy as Happy imagined. Eight months of separation erased.

Mel groaned again, the war inside bringing him back to reality.
"What's going on with you Dad. Can you walk?" Happy wiped his eyes and asked.
"Ooh, I can walk," Mel replied, "But it takes everything I got. I'm fallin' fast Happy. I'm dyin' to tell you truth."
"You're dying!" Happy shrieked. "What can we do?"
"There ain't much we can do. I was gonna crawl around this trailer until I died like a roach, but now I don't wanna do that. I'm sorry this place is such a mess. Hell, I've felt dead for a little while, ever since we talked on the phone. I guess that's when I let go."

Happy looked down at his father, unsure what to say. He just listened and hoped for something bright, upset at such a tarnished return.
"Well," Mel switched gears, "I guess we should get to a hospital. I'm dying, but maybe they can stretch it out awhile." Mel looked at Happy. "I guess I can drive the truck. I'll just have to have a little rest in the cab after we walk out there."

Happy buried his face in Mel's chest, crying lightly. Mel patted him on the back of the head.
"Come on now, Happy, this is a good time. We're together again. That's all that matters."
Happy looked up, red faced. "Is somebody going to take me back to the children's center?"
"Hell no," Mel answered, "You're never going back to that place. I'll hide you in the yard first."
Happy wrapped his arms around his father's neck again, relieved of at least one concern.

"All right, let's get movin'," Mel said. He felt resurrected even if he was still doomed. "Why don't you go start the truck?" Mel knew his son loved to do this.
Happy got up and grabbed the keys off the kitchen table. His mind conjured a beautiful idea.
"Maybe the doctors will tell you you're not dying! Maybe you're just sick!" Happy dreamed.
"No, I'm dying," Mel corrected, "I can feel it."
Happy lowered his head and continued to the door.
"That reminds me," Mel called from the floor. "We need to stop for booze."

Happy nodded his head to the idea, deaf to the words. His ears still rang from hearing his father so bluntly predict his own death. Happy's mind teetered on a ledge of depression requiring something monumental to pull it back, something incredible and hopeful and loving. He opened the door to the trailer and found the truck buried in a sea of more than 700 purring cats.

The doctors agreed with Mel. He was dying. Cancer had consumed portions of his lungs, pancreas, and muscle tissue. It was too advanced to stop or slow down. The doctor told Mel he could die any day and that he was amazed he lasted as long as he did without medical attention. The doctor described the ravage of his body and remarked on the tenacity of his spirit. He told Mel all of this while Happy sat outside in the lobby.

Mel spared the details when his son came back inside. He had a final parental mission to find care for his boy after he was gone. He would sooner give him a bag of money and tell him to put up his thumb than to send him back to being a ward of the state. He made a phone call from his deathbed and hoped it would be the answer he needed.