I'M NOT DEAD: The Journals of Charles Dudley Vol.1 (22 page)

“Nothing you can possibly ever give me,” I answered. I took one last look at him and the walls inside our home. Before I got out the door, he hit me with it. His words felt like a shovel to the back of the head, harder than any one of his fists.

“It was never fair to blame you, Charlie,” my father called out, sounding genuinely regretful.

Blame me?
I thought. “What have I ever done to you to deserve this?”

I really hoped he wasn’t thinking of trying to assault me with one of his warped psychological theories or guilt me into feeling sorry for him, because I wasn’t.

His voice started cracking, like that morning in the kitchen. “You were both supposed to come home, your sister and you. It was the happiest day of my life, Charlie, but… there were…things. There were complications. Yeah, complications, that’s what the doctor said.”

What the hell was he talking about? Goddamn it, I never had a sister.

He’s fucking lying
,
I thought. What complications were there, you drunken old buzzard? I turned one last time to confront him on his bullshit. “What are you saying to me right now and don’t lie to me.”

“When your mother was giving birth to you and your sister, Charlie, your twin sister Maggie, you’s both tangled in your cord, and she stopped breathing. She was a stillborn by the time the doctor freed the both of you. It was too late. She died, son, there was no one to blame, but—that was my little girl. I couldn’t even look at you. You understand right? I never meant to hurt you, you know that, right?

The doctors said you cut the oxygen off to your sister, and then her heart stopped beating—she was dead, Christ, Charlie, she was dead!”

He was old and pathetic. The skin on his face drooped like wet clay as he cried and blathered like a baby.

I know in any other circumstance this would have been groundbreaking and the natural thing to have done was to walk over to him and comfort him, rub his back and tell him that it was okay.

“We were going to get through this together, Daddy. We’re making progress and—
I forgive you.
” No. Not now. Not ever. Fuck You! Fuck You! Fuck You! Fuck You! Fuck You! FUCK YOU!

So I became the punching bag for thirty-two years because my sister died in the womb? I accidentally denied her life? Any one of us could have died in labor, including my mother. If circumstances were different, would he have kicked the crap out of my sister had she lived out her life without me? I doubt it. My father was just a dick, and he could have allowed me a lifetime to mourn my sister too. We spent nine months together in our mother’s body.

There was no evidence of any other man my father claimed to be before the death or birth of any child. Who’s to say my sister would have lived a fulfilled and loving life anyway? If anything, HE denied ME.

My mother fought her wars secretly and was brave while my father walked through life like a frightened bull in a china shop, never taking responsibility onto himself.

Therefore, to answer your question—No, sorry, I don’t forgive you
Dad
and if you really want to know—Mother was fucking Tom Maroni, and I knew the entire time.

I’m sorry, Maggie. I know I would have loved you, and one day we will be together again.

Charlie

ELI CROWE

Sunday, February 9
^th
, 2014

Night terrors, the voices, muffled coming from inside the house
again,
but I can’t make out what they’re saying. Whispering and haunting.

The headache swells.

First they come from upstairs, then downstairs, inside my head and then all at once they go away, but…not tonight. No, tonight the voices called to me.

It came as if someone had slowed time to a halt. The room became cold and dank like an old closet, leaving the bitter taste of copper and musty old wood in my mouth. My body had no weight to it, yet it was too heavy to lift.

I was losing my breath quickly. Each breath shorter than the last, every heart beat harder than the last. I had to try to control my breathing before I hyperventilated and died.

Oh God, I’m going to die in my sleep, I thought. I tried calling out to Jane, but the words weren’t coming out—pushing and pushing to get the words out.

Please God, let her wake up and see that I’m freaking out. If only she could see my eyes, I can signal her with my eyes if she would only wake up and turn around! Damn it, Jane. Wake up! WAKE UP!

What was happening to me? Maybe I was just dreaming. Please, please let this pass, I begged.

I closed my eyes, maybe if I tried to calm down and fall back asleep this will all pass.

Breathe, asshole, BREATHE! Was it another panic attack? Have the nerves in my back finally given out on me?

“What do you want from me?” I cried silently.

“Just a minute of your time,” a voice answered, traveling from every the corner of the room.

My heart kicked up into my throat when I heard the grizzly, old voice. Who was that?

I didn’t want to see. I didn’t want to look over there where I could see a shifting black apparition from the corner of my eye—the shape of a man sitting in a chair, a chair I knew did not occupy that corner of the room.

“Look at me,” the old voice croaked, “look…at…me.”

First, I focused my eyes on the floor, slowly glancing over to the corner. I was too frightened to take it all in at once. My eyes crawled—
slow down, don’t look too fast.
First the floor then over to the corner.

There was a man sitting in the chair talking to me, the old man in the suit, tinkering with his pocket watch, sitting in the filthy green chair that once belonged to my grandfather.

He directed those shimmering blue eyes at me again, his icy stare clutching me through the darkness as he spoke once more.

“Oh, Charlie, where does the time go?” he said as he slowly stood up from the chair and sat at the foot of my bed. “We become so lost in our little lives we lose sight of the very thing we take for granted and then…it’s…over, just like
that
. The result is always the same, always the same. The other side doesn’t play favorites and devils don’t like a fool,” he said with sad reflection in his eyes.

I had to have been dreaming, I thought. There was no way the man in the funny suit could have come into my home. I fought to free myself from the grip, yet couldn’t. Somehow, it all became maddening to me. It was funny because I was losing my mind. It was the big one. It was only a matter of time before I cracked, wasn’t it, before I started unraveling and talking to myself, seeing things that weren’t there, laughing at myself, laughing because I was officially crazy?

Wake up Jane. You’re going to miss it!

The old man continued speaking to me, his voice, tired and weary as he placed his hands on his knees, wiping a layer of powdery soot from off his pants.

“My daddy always told me, ‘You can’t buy your way into heaven, and you can’t cheat your way out of hell, no sir. Your money’s no good where you’re going, Eli. You be a man and do the right thing because to be a man costs nothing. To be a fool will cost you everything,’ and, son, was he right, because…he was the biggest fool to believe
their
lies. It cost him more than he bargained for.

That’s my name. My name is Eli—Eli Crowe. My daddy Elias Crowe built this house many lifetimes ago. He was a man of the lord, but didn’t do a whole lot of good for folk ‘round here.

He was a wise man plagued with the impure nature of others, if you will. I’ve seen them all come, and I’ve seen them all go, before you and your family. This house, it is special, Charlie.

Your granddaddy was just a little boy when he first stepped foot inside this house if you’d like to know—a curious little boy.

 For me, well, we all make mistakes, son. My family buried me over by the weeping beeches by the parish church, not too far from here when my time came, the time of the
uprising
. Too nice of a place for me all considering, but I like to come here sometimes to see how y’all are doin’.

What I’m trying to say is, if I may, Charlie. LIFE—it will take you as far as your grave and leave you there with a whole lotta’ baggage and nothing of value but
yourself
. If you don’t have it inside you, then you ain’t going very far after.”

“Why are you telling me this, are you the devil?” I asked, only realizing how weak and stupid that sounded.

“No, no, no. Well…” he paused, smirking as I imagined the devil doing when you asked him if he
was
.

“Who is the devil, Charlie? Are you the devil? Is the little lady lying next to you in the bed the devil? Who’s to judge when God ain’t looking? But, no, I am far from either one,” he continued. “I tell you this because, you and I, we are very much alike, more than you know. I was a good man pushed over to the other side like you. You, you still have the chance to be free and not stay a prisoner of these walls.

 Sometimes you have to let go of your demons, your regrets, if you want to be free, you hear me? Sometimes you have to
go
and
not
look back until you find what it is that you’re looking for.

When you do, Charlie, when you do, then you will find where you rightfully belong.

 Close your eyes now, son, and sleep.” He patted my leg gently with his hand and he vanished.

HONEY IN THE HORNET’S NEST

Monday, February 10
^th
, 2014

Nearly two years ago before the accident, I had hopes and dreams just like anyone else. I had ambitions and a restored faith in God. I could flash forward and watch what should have been the
Charles Dudley Lifetime Classic
.

I could sit back and have my own private viewing of the moving pictures inside my head. Rewind, pause, and play again.

I knew life wouldn’t always be so perfect in my world, but in my movie, there was Morgan, Kate, our second child and possibly third. Jerry and his boys were there. We had barbeques and drank cold beer under the summer sun almost every Fourth of July. The Ingrid wasn’t there. She died a horrible death long before.

With lawns mowed and the sprinklers swishing and swashing across them, the children raced around, laughing blissfully about in circles without a care in the world. As adults, we saw the kids through graduations, hardships, and achievements.  They grew up, moved out, and had families of their own. As parents, we became a pit stop for holidays or bailouts.

Jerry and I went fishing on three-day weekends.  We drank beer on the lake, in a canoe, complained about our ailments, and laughed  while placing bets on which one of us would die first.

Morgan and I grew old together, of course. We both graduated from booze to Geritol, social security, and dentures. When we stopped having intercourse because of our arthritis or disinterest, I retired to my favorite chair and watched baseball, between naps, as she knitted sweaters beside me, like Nana once did with Mumford.

I had a model train set up in the basement and an old, shaggy dog named Leonard, who lazily and loyally slept by my feet until he died of old age. Naturally, I buried him in the yard underneath the peach tree alongside Nana, Mimi, and Bonnie.

As I took up space and smoked my pipe, Morgan took up pottery and frequented yard sales, or played bingo at the church with her Sunday friends.

I don’t know. I don’t know what old people do, I’m just guessing.

However, my movie does not end the way I’d like it to. There is never a sequel to one’s life and our improvisation sucks. I have no happy conclusion to this story, and I have no inkling of the future anymore than anyone else does.

There will be no natural death, no burial in an oblong box with beautiful flower arrangements and loved mourners in black ties and tears to end my story.

Instead, I’ll be a big pile of shit or regurgitation on the side of the road, along with Jane, mere hours after we’re both eaten by Deviants.

I will not be buried in the family plot Morgan and I bought for each other.  My swan song will be just one grim sustaining trip into the miserable ever after.

I guess this is Goodbye. I’m sorry I failed you.

Sometimes it’s easy to be afraid and hope that the bad things pass you by. It’s easy to be tough when there’s nothing to challenge you and call you out on your bullshit. It’s easier to say, “Fuck you,” than “I’m sorry.” I know.

I didn’t notice Jane standing there in the doorway of my bedroom, silent, as I sat on the corner of the bed with my head hanging between my legs.

“Want to talk about it?” she asked.

“It ain’t nothin’…”

“It doesn’t look like nothin’…”

“What’s there to talk about? I failed. I failed everyone. I let them all die, and now I’m giving up.”

Jane entered the room and knelt beside me. I burned a little inside having let her see me this vulnerable, but I didn’t have the energy anymore to put the shield up and guard myself from looking like a damn Nancy.

“No, you didn’t fail anyone,” she said, placing her warm palm on my face as my head surrendered to her touch.

“Charlie, there is something I have to tell you,” she said on the verge of tears.

Wonderful, here come the waterworks. What could it be now? 
Hit me with your best shot.

Is she going to tell me that she wants to run and get as far away from here as possible, without me? Is she going to tell me she’s a man? I did use protection didn’t I? I did, I think. I don’t remember. Did she miss her period or have a disease? Did I get The AIDS? I tried to beat her to the punch by guessing what it could have been so it would soften the blow. It must have had to do with what she was holding in her other hand.

God, please don’t let her tell me she loves me.
I hope it’s not a card.

“I didn’t want to upset you, I’m sorry, I should have told you sooner,” she said as her panic produced more tears. Her baby blues welled up with glistening puddles.