Whenever he visited Annie he always smuggled in a flask of whisky.
Her mind may have been deep in the woods, wandering down deer trails of old memories and dreams, but her taste for whisky remained faithful. Sometimes, it even summoned glimmers of lucidity, and the old Annie would emerge from the depths of dementia and gift him moments of clarity.
They’d sit on the bench down by the lake, on the grounds of the care center, with a blanket over her legs to stave off the autumn chill. He’d look over his shoulder, to make sure the nurses and cameras were a sufficient distance away. And then he’d slip the flask out of his pocket.
“Here you go, Annie, my love,” he’d say with a wink.
And somehow just the sight of the flask awakened dormant synapses in her brain. She’d smile widely.
“Ah, bless you, Walter. Nectar of the Gods,” Annie would say with a grin.
Of course, his name was Peter, not Walter. Walter was her long-deceased brother. But at this stage in the game, any conversation was welcome.
His wife may have succumbed early in life to the curse of Alzheimer’s, but at least he could still talk with her. For a bit longer, anyway. Her body held other maladies, and the doctors felt that time was growing thin.
She sipped the whisky a bit, until a warm radiance washed over her. It made him happy to see her ensconced in the glow of whisky. She seemed to relax and settle into herself.
Sometimes, she even laughed.
It took him back to their youth when they visited the movies on Friday nights and tossed popcorn at their friends in the seats below. Annie would giggle until laughter erupted out of her. Peter missed those moments of joy and frivolity.
He missed everything about their life together before her illness stole their happiness and future.
And so he visited every other day, to see her and pray for moments when Annie’s mind surfaced from the depths of confusion and fog. Moments when, however fleeting, he felt pieces of their old life.
“Oh, Annie. You take care of yourself. I’ll see you in a few days,” he’d say.
The work helped.
Peter volunteered at the local tutoring club. They didn’t have much money to pay tutors, so he waived the meager salary. He leveraged his experience as a retired literature professor to help students make sense of writers like Melville, Hemingway, and Dostoevsky.
Peter knew Annie would have approved. Before her illness, she was an elementary school teacher. Peter and Annie both had a soft spot for kids.
In the evenings, the house was quiet and lonely. So Peter would walk down to Flannigan’s, the local Irish pub. It was always festive with music and the staff all knew him.
What they didn’t know was that Peter was gravely ill.
“Evening, Peter. The usual?” Eddie Flannigan said as he held a glass below the Guinness tap.
“Absolutely, Eddie. I wish to find sympathy and feeling,” Peter said as he slid into a booth near the bar.
“Sympathy and feeling?” Eddie said.
“Oh, Eddie. If you paid more attention in school instead of chasing the lasses, you’d remember my literary friend Fyodor’s observation: ‘And the more I drink the more I feel it. That’s why I drink too. I try to find sympathy and feeling in drink…I drink so that I may suffer twice as much!’”
“And what do you have to suffer for, Peter? What I’d give to be retired like you and free to do as I please.” Eddie walked around the bar and handed Peter his pint.
“I’d happily go back to work and abandon all this idleness if Annie were well and home again,” Peter said.
Eddie slid into the booth. “I’m sorry, Peter. We’d all sacrifice what we could if it would restore Annie. How’s she doing?”
“She’s existing, Eddie. I slip her flasks. Sometimes she laughs. But her mind is adrift. Each day she floats further away.”
“I’ll keep praying for her, Peter.”
Eddie was a kind man. The son of Thomas Flannigan, who originally owned and operated the pub before heart disease ended his life at age 62. And so Eddie took over the place.
“Now leave me be, Eddie,” Peter said as he sipped his Guinness. “You’ve got customers, and I’ve got my thoughts to reflect on.”
Eddie smiled and returned to the bar.
Peter reached inside the small book bag he carried around, and slipped out a well-worn copy of Saul Bellow’s “Dangling Man.” He flipped the pages, re-reading underlined passages and his marginalia notes.
Peter thought of his recent cancer diagnosis. The oncologist, Dr. Sullivan, was optimistic. She had a treatment plan. Without it, he would surely die. With it, the cancer could be arrested. Perhaps even permanently.
But he told her no.
No to the treatment. No to more time. No to more empty days without Annie and their old life. He knew Annie’s time was short, and perhaps the best thing now was to bow out. To drift away together.
“Well, aren’t you the sad old man, huddled with your beer and books.”
Peter looked up to see Father Murphy slip into the booth. The priest looked over at Eddie, held up his finger, and Eddie nodded.
“I see you’re lingering over Saul Bellow,” Father Murphy said. “I don’t know what you see in him. Joseph, the dangling man, is discursive. Too closed in on himself. What was the line? Ah, yes: ‘Some men seem to know exactly where their opportunities lie; they break prisons and cross whole Siberias to pursue them. One room holds me.’”
“I can relate to Joseph. I’m dangling like him, sometimes,” Peter said.
“You remind me of Anne Shirley,” Father Murphy said.
“Anne Shirley?” Peter looked confused. “Is she one of your parishioners?”
“Don’t tell me the great literary professor hasn’t read L. M. Montgomery’s Anne of Green Gables? Marilla Cuthbert and her brother tried to adopt a boy to help on the farm, but there was a mixup with the orphanage and they got a little girl named Anne Shirley instead. And one day Anne says to Marilla, ‘My life is a perfect graveyard of buried hopes.’”
“Please tell me you’re building up to something profound,” Peter said as he took another sip of his beer.
“Well, you remind me of Anne Shirley. In the story, she goes on to explain that she read that line about buried hopes in a book, and she repeats it often to comfort herself whenever life disappoints her.”
“It doesn’t sound comforting,” Peter said.
“Exactly. You see, some people think there’s romance in dreams forsaken in the name of sacrifice. Playing the ‘what might have been’ game sometimes blinds us to what is. Ever since Annie’s illness, you seem to view your life as over, Peter. A graveyard of buried hopes. I’m worried that you can’t see the future, and your part in it.” Father Murphy looked up as Eddie walked over and handed him his beer.
“Peter, you seem a bit withdrawn,” Father Murphy continued. “Not yourself. I’m so sorry about Annie, and God bless you for all your visits. But what about you? Are you doing okay?”
What Father Murphy left out was that he knew Peter had cancer. It’s a small town, and when oncology doctors confess frustration over a patient refusing treatment, a good priest has to explore options and solutions.
“I’m fine. I just wish God spared Annie,” Peter said.
“So do I, Peter. But then, we see so little here. In all of space and time, perhaps we’ll never understand God’s designs. The connections, reasons, and consequences of things.” Father Murphy sipped his beer, letting his words linger.
“You’ll forgive me if I hold a less charitable outlook about God’s plans,” Peter said.
“I understand, Peter.” Father Murphy knew that hardship and loss sometimes turn people away from God and faith. And that some folks hold no religious beliefs. All he could do was try. “By the way, I have a favor to ask, Peter. You’re probably the only one who can help.”
“What’s that, Father?” Peter said with a wary eye.
“We have a youngster from Sacred Heart orphanage who was recently adopted by the Sweeney family. You might recall Mary Sweeney was never able to have children, so they adopted.”
“And?” Peter asked.
“And the child they adopted is 14 years old and struggling in school. Struggling with English and writing. I know you volunteer at the tutoring center. Would you be willing to meet with the kid?”
“What’s the kid’s name?” Peter asked.
“Stacey. Great kid, but a bit remote and hard to figure out,” Father Murphy said. “If you’d be willing to work with Stacey, it might get your mind off your troubles. Maybe you’ll find some breadcrumbs.”
“Breadcrumbs?” Peter asked.
“Yeah, breadcrumbs. Those unexpected, little signs that tell you all is not lost. That life has meaning, hope, and God’s grace.”
“Well, I don’t know.”
“Please, Peter. We need your help. Let’s give this kid a chance.” Father Murphy finished the last of his pint. He was a hard man to say no to. Peter remembered how often Father Murphy visited during the early days of Annie’s illness.
Peter gazed down at his Dangling Man book, a sort of philosophical diary novel. A story about a man, Joseph, caught between civilian life and induction into military service. Caught between two worlds, free for the first time, facing a year of idleness. He is a dangling man. But then freedom, when not properly used, can sometimes become a hangman’s noose. Perhaps, Peter thought, he is caught between two worlds. The past and the future. Dangling. Just like Joseph.
“Okay, fine. Send the kid to the tutoring center after school on Monday,” Peter said.
“Bless you, Peter. Bless you,” Father Murphy said.
“What in the devil is she doing?” Peter asked himself.
There was a woman across the street, in a parking lot, walking one way and another, her hands swinging back and forth as if she were shooing away imaginary ghosts.
It was Monday afternoon, and Peter was en route to the tutoring center for his first session with Stacey. But curiosity got the best of him. He crossed the street to get a better look.
And then he saw.
There were several quail chicks, scampering this way and that, unable to hop over the short brick wall separating them from their squawking parents. The woman was desperately trying to help.
“Can I give you a hand?” Peter asked, adding, “There’s an opening near the end of the wall. If we work from both sides, we can direct them through.”
“Oh, that would be lovely,” the woman said. And in no time, they ushered the little birds through the gap, where they were reunited with their parents.
“Hey, aren’t you Peter Burke?” the woman asked.
“Yes, I am.”
“Your wife, Ann Burke, was my school teacher. She inspired me to chase my dream of veterinary school. And now I’m a veterinarian. How is she?”
“I’m afraid she has Alzheimer’s disease and is in poor health.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. My grandfather had that. But you know, there were days when he remembered us. Little moments of grace. Well, thank you. And please know how special your wife is.” The woman readjusted her purse, waved goodbye, and strolled off.
“Breadcrumbs,” Peter thought to himself, remembering Father Murphy’s comment in the pub.
Peter double-timed his steps, not wanting to be late at the tutoring center. A few more blocks, and despite being out of breath, Peter swung open the door. He walked into the front lobby, where Claire, the receptionist, looked up and said, “Oh, Peter, there’s a young student named Stacey waiting for you in room two.”
“Thank you, my dear,” Peter said.
He strolled down the hall, readjusted his book bag, and opened the door to room two. Inside, sitting quietly at the study desk, was Stacey. Peter took a moment to study his student. Short brown hair, dark eyeliner and lipstick, and a black tattered T-shirt with an image of Edgar Allen Poe on it. Also, a small lip ring pierced the upper corner of Stacey’s mouth.
Peter didn’t know if Stacey was a boy or a girl, but he rightly didn’t care. Much of society is awash in gender debates, but Peter figured out long ago that such matters could easily be resolved with the Golden Rule. Treat others as you’d like to be treated. With basic dignity and respect.
“So, you’re a Poe fan?” Peter said.
“Of course. Romanticism and the macabre fascinate me,” Stacey replied.
With that, Peter knew instantly that this child possessed an advanced intellect. And most likely psychological wounds. To dress so differently, to unapologetically proclaim one’s individuality in a sea of conformity is to mock derision. Sometimes people with wounds do that. Because in a way it strengthens them. It shows others that they can’t be hurt anymore.
“My name is Peter. And I believe you’re Stacey?” Peter said.
“That’s me,” Stacey said.
“Okay. Tell me about school. I hear you’re having trouble with English, yet you seem to be a reader?” Peter said.
“It’s the teacher. She doesn’t like the way I look.”
“Then maybe we should start there. I’d love for you to write a short essay discussing your style, what it means to you, and why we should never judge a book by its cover.”
“That might get me in trouble with the teacher,” Stacey said.
“No, it won’t. I know the teacher and the principal. As long as you’re considerate in your essay, you’ll be fine.”
“Well alright then,” Stacey said with a grin.
Peter and Stacey worked together for a few months.
Stacey proved to be exceptionally well-read. Because books were an escape from the orphanage. The library there was a portal to other worlds, and Stacey found wisdom and solace in literary travel and exploration.
Together they worked on the roadblocks preventing Stacey from success in the classroom. Peter even visited the teacher and explained Stacey’s background and how impressed Peter was with Stacey’s intellectual and literary knowledge. The teacher begrudgingly admitted that she hadn’t given Stacey a fair shake, wrongly assuming that Stacey was “one of those sulking, anti-authority types.”
“Well, sometimes those sulking, anti-authority types are the ones we need to be the most charitable with. Because you never know, they might just surprise you,” Peter told the teacher.
Before long, Stacey reported that things improved in the classroom, and Stacey was soon performing at the top of the class.
The entire experience surprised Peter. It renewed him. His outlook was changing. Perhaps old Father Murphy was wiser than he realized.
Then Peter got a phone call.
“Peter, it’s Dr. Keegan. I’m afraid I have some bad news.”
It was the phone call Peter dreaded. The phone call he knew would come someday.
Annie’s funeral was a modest affair. A few family relatives showed up, as well as Eddie Flannigan, and the blokes from the pub. Even the veterinarian, whose name he forgot, showed up.
Most pleasantly, Stacey attended the service.
“Hi, Peter. I’m so sorry,” Stacey said. “I don’t know what to say. People at school tell me your wife was amazing. That she encouraged students to embrace learning.”
“Yes, she was passionate about helping students fall in love with learning,” Peter said.
“Then I’ll bet she would have appreciated Edgar Allen Poe’s poetry. He once wrote ‘Ah, not in knowledge is happiness, but in the acquisition of knowledge!” Stacey smiled at Peter, and he could do nothing other than embrace Stacey in a bear hug.
“Thank you, Stacey. Thank you. You’re a special person,” Peter said.
Our lives can be a mystery.
We think the trajectory is set, but then adversity strikes. Annie’s death devastated Peter, and it would have been easy to let nature take its course with his declining health.
But sometimes there are breadcrumbs.
Little, inexplicable events that make you wonder if maybe, just maybe, something grand and beyond your understanding is at work. Something that challenges all your assumptions, conclusions, and plans.
The other day Peter was walking to the tutoring center when he heard a rustling sound. He looked over at the bushes and there they were. The quail family. The parents were leading their brood, minus a few who no doubt succumbed to predators.
“Well look at that,” Peter said to himself. “I guess the veterinarian and I did our good deed. You’re all a fine-looking family today.”
That evening, Peter checked his message machine before heading to the pub. Folks teased him about his antiquated message machine, but it had been a gift years ago from Annie, and he couldn’t part with it.
There was only one message. It was from Dr. Sullivan, the oncologist.
“Hello Peter, it’s Dr. Sullivan. I haven’t heard back from you and I’d really like you to reconsider treatment. I think we can prevail. Please call me.”
Peter put on his coat and headed down to Flannigan’s pub. The usual gang was there.
Father Murphy was in a cheerful mood. “Our Sunday collection was especially generous this weekend,” he said. “Let me buy you a round, Peter.”
They slid into a booth and sipped their Guinness pints.
“I got a phone message from Dr. Sullivan,” Peter said.
“And?” Father Murphy said.
“I’m going to call her back tomorrow and begin treatment. I think Annie would have wanted that. Not to mention Stacey. And an annoying priest I know. Maybe even the quail family.”
“The quail family?” Father Murphy asked.
“Yes, the quail family. You’ll have to ask the local vet. She’ll explain. They’re breadcrumbs, Father. Breadcrumbs of grace.”
And the two of them sipped their beer, knowing thatsome hopes are never buried. Some dreams live on, evolve, and become something else.
But they’re still beautiful.
I’m John P. Weiss. I write elegant stories and essays about life. If you enjoyed this piece, check out my free weekend newsletter, The Saturday Letters.
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This post was previously published on Medium.com.
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Photo credit: John P. Weiss
