An Unpardonable Crime

Roger pushed open the door to his apartment. A month ago, he’d have been careful not to slam the flimsy, inadequate door into the equally flimsy and inadequate folding table just inside. Not this time. Weeks-old Chinese takeout boxes clattered against the floor when the door banged against the table they had been piled upon. A week ago, Roger would have noted with a tired satisfaction the mess, the clutter, the total disaster that his studio apartment had become. Not this time. When Roger stepped inside, a stale, familiar odor greeted him on warm air that was a stark contrast to the brisk coolness of the air outside. Yesterday, Roger would have reflexively crinkled his nose. Not this time.

Things were going to be different now.

Roger had finally found his son.

Roger unbuckled his work belt and let it fall to the floor just inside the doorway. At least he’d know to find it there when he went back to work on Monday. He unbuttoned his jacket and made his way to his TV chair, half tiptoeing and half bulldozing around and through the clothes and trash that formed almost a complete layer on the floor.

When he dropped his weight into his faded, stuffing-bare, second-hand chair, it gave slightly, as if threatening to collapse. But it was always a hollow threat. Roger grabbed the TV remote from atop the milk crate he used as a side table and powered on the TV. There was a Christmas movie on, some old one in black and white, though it was difficult to tell since the TV’s colors barely functioned anyway. Probably why the old owner set it out on the sidewalk.

Roger reached into his pocket and withdrew a small box. He cradled it in his huge hands and it was startlingly heavy, but Roger knew that was just a guilty mind playing tricks on him. There was a loose, frayed, faded blue strand of ribbon that was tied limply around the box. Worn and equally faded paper was wrapped over every side. At one time the paper had been white striped with red, though now, nearly two decades later and after being handled in exactly this same fashion hundreds of times, the paper had yellowed and the stripes had all but disappeared.  At a couple corners the wrapping had completely worn away and the green of the box showed through underneath. It was possibly the worst looking gift Roger had ever seen. He had considered rewrapping it dozens of times. Somehow that didn’t seem the right thing to do.

* * *

Roger woke with the sunrise, as he did every day. The bright yellow light of the morning sun poured in from the sole window in his apartment and collided with the bluish white light of the TV. Sitting upon the TV a single, sealed bottle of beer was ablaze with the light it caught from the sun. It looked delicious, refreshing, heavenly. Roger had heard that siren’s call before. He had often succumbed and it cost him fourteen years. Cost his son eighteen fatherless years. And so the bottle sat for him to wake to every morning. A reminder of why. A reminder to say no. Never again.

It took Roger a few moments to shake the sleep from his body. Today was the day, finally. How appropriate that the day Roger had waited for, for years, was Christmas. The gift, still on his lap, was where he had left it. He carefully placed it back in his jacket pocket and winced when he pushed himself out of the chair.

Roger switched off the TV and unplugged it. He pried open the loose back panel and removed a worn, yellow padded envelope. Four years he spent stuffing that envelope, saving everything he could. It wasn’t what he owed, but it was a start. Roger reached down and grabbed the black hat near his work belt. It wasn’t a white Christmas, but still a cold one. He was thankful for the earflaps, even if they looked silly.

For a brief moment Roger hesitated just inside the door. Even after four years, it still felt strange to be able to leave at his own whim. He pulled open the door. It was unlocked. Always unlocked. He had had enough of being locked inside. Mindful of the table, he slipped out into the cold.

* * *

Luck is a strange thing. When asked, Roger had always said he was decidedly unlucky. Luck was real, he said, and he didn’t have it. But now, on the bus and with time to kill, he wondered. Was he lucky? For three years now Roger had worked with the same temp agency, one of few places that would hire an ex-felon. For the last two years, he had worked with the same man, Jim, retrofitting and winterizing houses and office buildings to make them more energy efficient. As much a friend as Jim was, and he was the only one Roger had, they barely talked. And yet, just last week, Roger had finally mentioned how he had spent a few years searching for his son. And here, among the thousands and thousands and maybe millions of people in this city, Jim had the answer that Roger had searched for years to find. Jim knew his son.

“Michael Abramson? Like, Roger Abramson? I know Michael.” Jim had said. Roger didn’t remember much after that.

So was he lucky? Or was he unlucky enough to have spent the last two years searching for an answer that he had within his reach the entire time? Roger had once hired a private detective who led him along, eagerly taking his money and promising new leads, and yet never finding anything. That was as close as Roger had come to unleashing the rage that had gotten him locked up. Had he still been drinking, that detective might have earned the same fate as the bully at the bar had eighteen years ago.

There was also the kid Roger paid at the library to help him use the internet to look up his son. They found a single small image, but Roger was sure it was how his son would look now, older. There was the miles and miles Roger spent walking up and down the streets, secretly hoping to run into him. All of it and everything he hoped to find had been with Jim the entire time. Luck is a strange thing.

When Roger signaled his stop and stepped off the bus, he smiled. He had walked these streets. He probably passed his son’s house more than once and never knew it. He checked the scrap of paper in his wallet and the address Jim had written for him, though he didn’t need to. He had memorized it the instant Jim gave it to him yesterday after work. Just around the corner.

When Roger got to his son’s street, he started to feel it. Anxiety. Fear. Guilt. What if he didn’t forgive him? What if, after all this time, his son wouldn’t forgive him? What if Jim was wrong? Roger had tried his best to restrain his hope, but the imploding emptiness in his stomach betrayed him. He was desperately hoping this was it. That this was him. Suddenly it was tough to breathe. Tough to continue stepping toward that house. Roger fingered the small box in his jacket pocket. He had already committed one unpardonable crime, turning back now would make two. And Roger would never rectify that second one. He felt a familiar thirst.

And then, he was there. 4022 West Magnolia St.. He stood on the sidewalk, next to the mailbox, and double-checked that address. Triple-checked.

It was a wonderful place. Maybe a little run down, but it was infinitely better than a cell. Or a trashy studio apartment. It was a place a man could be proud of. Where a man could raise a family and be there for them. Every day.

There was a large window to the left of the dark lacquered door. Above the bush Roger could see inside where a brightly lit Christmas tree sparkled in defiance of the late morning sun. Roger remembered the last Christmas tree he had, eighteen years ago. It was a memory like a blurry photograph, perfectly imperfect and painful and joyful all at the same time. Roger could no longer contain his hope.

But there was still that fear. All these years spent working toward this one goal, this moment. And it was here. He removed the box from his jacket pocket. It was startlingly light. He could drop it in that mailbox and go home, broken promise finally kept. His son would know. He’d understand.

And then the door opened.

Roger watched as a man stood there at the door for a moment, clearly cautious and caught off guard. A tiny head poked from behind his knees to get a better view. Roger suddenly felt inadequate and jealous and proud all at the same time. The man at the door shooed him back inside with big, strong hands. Familiar hands.

The man closed the door behind him, never taking his eyes off Roger. He took a few steps until he was just a few feet away.

Impossibly long moments passed. Roger’s heart beat at least a million times though he probably didn’t take a single breath.

“Roger?” The man said. Oh God.

“Merry Christmas.” Roger said. Merry Christmas?

“Mom said you died.”

“She had a right to say that.” Roger couldn’t begrudge her the lie. Taking his son and never telling him where they went, well, that was something else.  He had gotten one letter in those fourteen years behind bars. She had written demanding child support. He never heard anything again.

“She died. A few years ago.”

Roger looked away. Lost. He saw that box in his hand, He had forgotten he carried it. He handed it to this man, this young man, his son. His little boy. Michael.

“Do you remember the last time I saw you?” Roger said.

His son took the box and looked at it. Roger wondered what the boy made of it.

“Not at all. I was eight, though, I think.”

“I made a promise to get that for you. I gave you my word.” Roger said.

“A man’s word is his life,” Michael said. He had remembered. Roger hoped his little boy had done better with the advice than he had himself.

Roger reached into his back pocket and took out the envelope. He handed it to his son.

“And always pay your debts,“ Roger said, “She sent me a letter asking for child support. If she had just given me an address I could have sent something back. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

Roger’s son tucked the envelope under his arm and unwrapped the box. The ribbon and paper melted away and Roger felt like the first man to ever fly. Michael opened the lid of the green box, its color still vivid after all these years behind that wrapping. He smirked.

He handed Roger the envelope.

“Come on inside.”

Jules: This story was written as part of a short fiction contest on a forum I visit frequently. The rules guiding this story are that it can contain no more than 2000 words (this came in at about 1,860 words), must contain each of three randomly chosen words (chosen by the contest sponsor from a random word generator site) and must, in some way, involve or be inspired by a photo chosen randomly on Flickr. The writers are given a period of 60 hours to write the story fresh from when they email the contest sponsor and receive the prompts. It’s a really cool format that blends together a deadline and unusual inspiration to bring out some really interesting story ideas I might never consider writing.

The three words in this case were unpardonable, winterize, and coolness. The photo can be seen here. In addition to those standard rules, this contest carried along a required “Holiday” theme.