been born. He wondered what kind of a mother Melissa would have been—a fantastic one, he was certain—had a man named Simon Ellison not taken one drink too many before trying to drive home.
Vinnie had been home from work only twenty minutes when the police came to his door and told him his wife was dead. The officer, sent to inform the next of kin, had not been at the scene. He simply took the report he was given and told Vincent Tarretti that his wife and son had been killed in an automobile accident.
In the strongbox hidden under two loose floorboards beside Vincent’s bed, sandwiched between his notebooks and the short stack of other yellowed clippings, was the single newspaper report of the accident. A small number “1” was written in the corner, but with no corresponding notation in any book. It was the only thing he kept from those long-ago days, aside from his cheap, gold-plated wedding ring which he also kept in the box.
His memory of life after the funeral, held in the town in which they’d both grown up, was a blur of alcohol. He had died in every sense of the word in that accident with his wife and son. Afterward, he was simply waiting for the van to arrive , as the song went. He was certain, thinking about it in retrospect years later, that death was waiting for him one particular night as he washed his third shot of Jack Daniels down with his ninth beer. If not that night, then soon. He’d sensed his personal limit had been reached, a signal to return upstairs and pass out on whichever piece of furniture was easiest to reach. That night, he’d hesitated, ordered another shot and beer. Once crossed, it was a line that would continue far into some desperate darkness waiting only for him.
While he slouched in a booth, twirling the now-empty beer bottle on the table top and considering without much resolve about going back upstairs, an old—no, ancient was the word that came to him that night—woman slowly slid into the bench across the booth from him. She had garnered a lot of looks from the brooding regulars at the bar. As soon as they saw with whom she sat, people kept their comments to themselves. They’d watched Vinnie’s deterioration and short temper long enough to know not to make any comments about someone who was most likely his grandmother.
She wasn’t his grandmother.
“Is your name Vincent Tarretti?”
“Yea…” he’d said, trying to focus on her face, but not succeeding very well.
“My name is Ruth Lieberman,” she said. “I’m dying.”
Vinnie rolled his eyes. “Well, too bad for you,” he said, and raised the empty beer bottle, trying to catch the attention of the bar’s only waitresses, a thin girl with tired eyes. She seemed to be looking everywhere but in his direction. He lowered his arm and said, “Everyone is dying. I’m dying; you’re dying.”
“In a way,” she said, never breaking eye contact, “you’re already dead. You’ve made up your mind to choose oblivion. Now,” she said, laying her aged hands flat on the table, “forgetting the obvious repercussions of such an act, God has need of you. You will have to stop drinking, forever, and come with me.”
In his state, the fact that this woman was echoing the thoughts blurring through his mind only a moment before did not carry any surprise. He simply smiled and said, “Yeah? Where to?”
“Massachusetts.”
The answer was spoken so assuredly that Vinnie sat up straighter in his chair. Hollywood was full of more kooks and weirdoes than he could ever count, but they never failed to entertain him.
“Mass-a-what?” He chuckled, a gesture that felt alien in those days. “And why would I do that?”
“I told you—because I’m dying, and God has sent me here to find you.” She looked around then, and for the first time Vinnie saw the calm certainty in her expression waver for a moment. “Everything I see, including you, is exactly as in the dream. There’s no question.” Saying that, her
Vinnie had been home from work only twenty minutes when the police came to his door and told him his wife was dead. The officer, sent to inform the next of kin, had not been at the scene. He simply took the report he was given and told Vincent Tarretti that his wife and son had been killed in an automobile accident.
In the strongbox hidden under two loose floorboards beside Vincent’s bed, sandwiched between his notebooks and the short stack of other yellowed clippings, was the single newspaper report of the accident. A small number “1” was written in the corner, but with no corresponding notation in any book. It was the only thing he kept from those long-ago days, aside from his cheap, gold-plated wedding ring which he also kept in the box.
His memory of life after the funeral, held in the town in which they’d both grown up, was a blur of alcohol. He had died in every sense of the word in that accident with his wife and son. Afterward, he was simply waiting for the van to arrive , as the song went. He was certain, thinking about it in retrospect years later, that death was waiting for him one particular night as he washed his third shot of Jack Daniels down with his ninth beer. If not that night, then soon. He’d sensed his personal limit had been reached, a signal to return upstairs and pass out on whichever piece of furniture was easiest to reach. That night, he’d hesitated, ordered another shot and beer. Once crossed, it was a line that would continue far into some desperate darkness waiting only for him.
While he slouched in a booth, twirling the now-empty beer bottle on the table top and considering without much resolve about going back upstairs, an old—no, ancient was the word that came to him that night—woman slowly slid into the bench across the booth from him. She had garnered a lot of looks from the brooding regulars at the bar. As soon as they saw with whom she sat, people kept their comments to themselves. They’d watched Vinnie’s deterioration and short temper long enough to know not to make any comments about someone who was most likely his grandmother.
She wasn’t his grandmother.
“Is your name Vincent Tarretti?”
“Yea…” he’d said, trying to focus on her face, but not succeeding very well.
“My name is Ruth Lieberman,” she said. “I’m dying.”
Vinnie rolled his eyes. “Well, too bad for you,” he said, and raised the empty beer bottle, trying to catch the attention of the bar’s only waitresses, a thin girl with tired eyes. She seemed to be looking everywhere but in his direction. He lowered his arm and said, “Everyone is dying. I’m dying; you’re dying.”
“In a way,” she said, never breaking eye contact, “you’re already dead. You’ve made up your mind to choose oblivion. Now,” she said, laying her aged hands flat on the table, “forgetting the obvious repercussions of such an act, God has need of you. You will have to stop drinking, forever, and come with me.”
In his state, the fact that this woman was echoing the thoughts blurring through his mind only a moment before did not carry any surprise. He simply smiled and said, “Yeah? Where to?”
“Massachusetts.”
The answer was spoken so assuredly that Vinnie sat up straighter in his chair. Hollywood was full of more kooks and weirdoes than he could ever count, but they never failed to entertain him.
“Mass-a-what?” He chuckled, a gesture that felt alien in those days. “And why would I do that?”
“I told you—because I’m dying, and God has sent me here to find you.” She looked around then, and for the first time Vinnie saw the calm certainty in her expression waver for a moment. “Everything I see, including you, is exactly as in the dream. There’s no question.” Saying that, her
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