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A Furry Inconvenient Truth Finally, after another drink of courage, Samuel Lancaster grabbed the scissors and opened the envelope. His arm knocked the empty Bourbon bottle off the desk. Why would she write me after all these years? What could she have to say? He stood up, and then immediately fell down. His lanky legs collapsed like a faulty ladder. Without assessing the damage, he pulled another Fifth from the cabinet and took a large gulp . . . Maybe she’s dying. In all actuality, Samuel Lancaster was the one not long for this world. An alcoholic’s chance of receiving a liver transplant was dubious at best, especially a fifty-year-old without insurance. He had six months to live. In an attempt to cushion the blow, the hospital administrators exhausted every euphemism in their arsenal. Samuel knew he hadn’t been a “top priority” on anyone’s list for a long time. The room began to spin. Samuel pushed back his stringy, gray hair and rubbed his eyes. He saw his son, Ricky, who wore a toy tool belt and strutted around mimicking his father. Samuel continued to drink, swig after swig. With each swallow, Ricky grew taller. The aging young man duplicated his father’s mannerisms and characteristics with amazing accuracy: speech patterns, eating habits, the way he wore his clothes, every possible inclination—right down to his brand of Bourbon. “Ah-h-h-h-h . . .” Samuel screamed and threw the bottle against the wall. The visions terrified him. He needed to sleep before they reached the horrific conclusion. In fact, it was precisely why he drank, to keep from seeing the end of Ricky’s story. Samuel spent years imposing this extreme form of censorship; he also destroyed his liver in the process. The progression of events—Ricky rushing towards his untimely demise, had never gone this far. Something had changed; the censorship weakened. The doorbell rang. Samuel ignored it. Probably more bill collectors, or the neighbors wanting me to cut my grass. He reached in the cabinet for more booze. A photograph of his son lay on the floor in a broken frame. Samuel shoved it out of his line of sight. Perspiration formed above his lips. He felt ill, and realized that he had wet himself. I’m through fighting. I can’t do it anymore. Soon, it will be over. My deeds will all disappear into a dark hole in the universe. I can sleep forever. Yes. Soon, it will be over. No more fighting off the end of the story. I don’t deserve to live. He remembered an affirmation they recited in worship service, a long time ago, when they were first married: This is the day the Lord has made; let us be glad and rejoice in it. Samuel clutched the letter in his hand. It’s been over thirty years, he reasoned. We were married. Sally loved me, once. Why not read it? What could she possibly say? No! It doesn’t matter what she says or what she wants. My son is dead. I don’t want to hear anything she has to say . . . Why wait for my liver to kill me. The cabinet is stocked full. He took one large gulp after another, consuming half the bottle, and started to destroy the letter just as the doorbell rang. He ignored it, again. Can you believe this person? The visions ruthlessly returned: Ricky was ecstatic that he passed his drivers test, and then beers in the garage to celebrate. Ricky making the football team, more beers. Ricky being crowned homecoming king, more beers. The scenes were coming quicker and Samuel’s head was spinning. He turned the bottle up and gulped it down. The doorbell rang and Samuel dropped the empty soldier, chuckled, and unfolded the single sheet of paper. Dear Samuel, I’ve wasted my life in bitterness and self-pity. It was impossible to live with ya after Ricky’s death. I hated you for being a drinker, and allowing our boy to drink. You should have been stronger, but you weren’t. But neither was I. He was my boy, too, and it was my life. I apologize. I’m sorry for heaping all that guilt on you—it wasn’t all yours to bear. I watched it destroy the man I once knew. I might have been able to save you, but I didn’t even try. I drove you away. I was dying. You weren’t the only one. For years, every night without exception, I saw Ricky burning up in that car: the intense flames, the fire completely out of control. The coroner said the impact from the crash did not kill him. It was the fire. The investigators said it was the worst fire involving a car they had ever seen. I understand why you didn’t go see it. I do. I really do. The chief ask me not to come, but I had to see for myself. Everything melted. If the firemen had arrived a couple minutes later, there wouldn’t have been anything left of Ricky to bury. We couldn’t talk back then. Sally wasn’t wearing her seatbelt—that’s what saved her. Ricky had his on. I constantly harped about that. Everyone said he was just like you, but there was a part of him that was like me. This is what you need to hear. Sally doesn’t blame Ricky, either. She still can’t walk, but she hasn’t given up. Never! I visit her every week. She was Ricky’s first girlfriend. She’s the reason my nightmares finally stopped. A few years ago, she remembered something about the wreck, something I should have told you. It’s taken me all this time to finally come to terms with it. Yes, Ricky was drinking when he had the accident, but something else happened. I withheld it—I knew you would blame me. It took me years to accept that everything in the universe is connected. Samuel, we—you and me and everyone—influence everything and everybody. It doesn’t matter to what degree. We are all responsible. I’m the one that taught Ricky to love animals, even though you hated them. You wouldn’t let him have a dog, remember? That’s the part of Ricky that was like me. When he was little, I read him storybooks about animals. As he grew older, we had long talks about man’s responsibility to the animal kingdom. I instilled in him that all God’s creatures are special. Sally said when they came around the bend there was a chipmunk standing on its hind legs, right in their lane. Ricky swerved to miss it and ran over the embankment. Yes, “your” son was drinking and speeding, and “my” son didn’t want to kill that stupid furry creature. I’m proud of my son. He was a good person. I have forgiven Ricky, the both of us, and the universe, and God. Ricky was a good person. We raised a good boy, Samuel. I know all about your problem. I’ve been researching liver transplants for months. If you want to live, I will help you. I’ve been tested. Honey, we’re a match. Let me know, Sally. Tears streamed down Samuel’s face. The visions didn’t return, but something rang in his ears. It was the doorbell. It seemed louder than ever--extremely loud. He couldn’t believe it was still ringing. He got to his feet, and steadied himself. He folded the letter and put in his shirt pocket. Realizing it was no use attempting to straighten up, he made his way to the front door. A small boy stood holding a cardboard box. “You sure are a persistent little fellow. What do you want?” “I’m selling stuffed animals for my church. You want one?” “What kind do you have? The little boy looked in the box. “ I got a giraffe, an ostrich, and six chipmunks left. Truth is, chipmunks aren’t selling that well.” “Well then,” Samuel said, rubbing the boy’s head and taking a deep breath. “I’ll take all the chipmunks. The End (1335 words)
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