“What the fuck are you doing here?” “Please, Hank, let me explain.”
I stand in the middle of the Columbia County Jail in a tie-dyed tank top, swimsuit and flip-flops, my fists clenched. Uncle Mitch stands opposite me, unshaven and smelling like body odor, still in the same pitted-out button-down and blue jeans from our wedding two days ago.
Beth grabs my elbow. “Hank, let’s just leave.”
I yank my arm free of my wife. “Answer me, Mitch. What the fuck are you doing here?”
He steps tentatively toward me, his outreached hand nearly touching my arm. “I couldn’t let things end like they did the other day. I had to see you. I overheard someone going into your wedding say where you were going for your honeymoon, so I got a room at a motel down here and just waited things out. The moment just kind of presented itself when I was having a cup of coffee on the town square and saw you being taken in handcuffs into the police station. Indecent exposure? I can only imagine what you were—”
I poke him in the chest. “You can only imagine what, Mitch? Being there with me, just like old times, so you can grab hold of my little pecker?”
Uncle Mitch stumbles backward. “Hank, I—”
“You what?”
“I only want your forgiveness.”
“Never.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“I don’t?”
“You are your father’s son. His capacity to forgive is inside you. I know it is.”
“And what the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“You don’t think he knew?”
“Knew what?”
“About me?”
“Fuck you!” I shout. Officer Don walks back into the station just as I pin Uncle Mitch against the wall, my elbow in his throat.
Beth is crying. Uncle Mitch gasps for air. “W-we were teenagers. He caught me with another guy, one of his bandmates. I swore to him it was a one-time thing. He promised to never tell anyone, but he had to have known. He just had to have known, Hank.”
I knee Uncle Mitch in the groin. He falls like a sack of potatoes. I reel back my foot for another blow. Just as my foot connects with his exposed ribs, Officer Don checks me into the wall.
He spins me around, pins my arm behind me, immobilizing me. “Mr. Fitzpatrick, that’s enough. There’ll be none of that in my station, yuh hear?”
Both of our backs are turned away from Uncle Mitch. Beth is the one who sees him reach into his pocket.
“Gun!” she screams.
Bea Arthur is already on the com in the other room. “We have a four-seventeen in progress at the Columbia County Jail. I repeat, a four-seventeen. Officer on the scene. Request backup.”
Beth drops to the floor. Officer Don lets go of my wrist. We both turn to the assailant.
“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to put that gun down,” Officer Don says. “We don’t want to see anyone get hurt here.”
“Spare me your bullshit, officer,” Uncle Mitch says, waving the handgun in our faces. “I know how this works. I just pulled a loaded gun inside a fucking police station, plus I’m a convicted sex offender. The math just isn’t working in my favor on this one.”
I reach out to my godfather. “Uncle Mitch, please…”
“Going with Uncle Mitch again, huh? Smart boy.” He motions toward me with the handgun. “Come here.”
I walk toward him. “This is just between you and me, so let’s have it out, then.”
“Yes, Hank,” Uncle Mitch says. He places the barrel of the gun directly between my eyes. “Let’s have it out.”
I raise my hands, recognizing the gun. I’m suddenly short of breath. The room goes black for a split second. When I open my eyes, I feel like a part of me is outside my own body, hovering above the scene, watching Uncle Mitch force me to undo his life, to absolve his sin. But I’m not afraid anymore. I’m pissed off.
“Humor me, Uncle Mitch,” I say, trying not to sneer. “How can we make this right?”
“It’s simple, really. Say you forgive me.”
“And that’s all?” My hands are raised. Beth is sobbing now.
“Yes, Hank,” Uncle Mitch says. “That’s all. I need your mercy. I need your father’s mercy. Please, set me free.”
“No,” I say.
“What?” Uncle Mitch pushes the handgun harder into my forehead.
“You heard me. I know you’re a monster, but I also know there’s a small part of you who was my godfather and Dad’s best friend. You’re a sick fuck. But you’re not a killer.”
He steps closer to me, drops the barrel down from my forehead and pushes it beneath my chin so we can stand face-to-face. “You don’t think I’m a killer, huh? What if you’re wrong?”
“If I’m wrong, then I’d rather die knowing I never forgave you than live knowing I offered you even an ounce of hope for your miserable existence.”
Uncle Mitch’s eyes open wide, manic-like. He grabs me by the shirt with his free hand, pushes the handgun harder up into my chin. The room is spinning. We’re both sweating. His three-packs-a-day breath is stifling.
Then, as suddenly as he grabbed me, Uncle Mitch just backs away.
“You aren’t your father’s boy, Hank.”
“What?”
“You heard me,” he says. “John Fitzpatrick forgave everyone, but forgiveness doesn’t come easy to you. Your dad was always too busy being humane to be human. You’re tougher. And in a weird way, I feel like I had something to do with that. Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For setting me free…son.”
Uncle Mitch sticks the barrel of the gun in his mouth. The bullet is through the back of his head before Officer Don can even raise his sidearm.
A godfather’s love measured by the diameter of his exploded brain matter.
They’ve moved us to another wing of the building, away from the carnage. Beth and I sit in Officer Don’s office.
“You okay, honey?” Beth says, squeezing my hands.
I squeeze back. “Some honeymoon, eh?”
Officer Don enters the office. “You two can go now. Paperwork is pretty much done here. We have to hold the assailant’s gun until the investigation is officially closed, but I assume you’ll eventually want it back.”
I stand up. Beth follows my lead. “Want it back?” I ask.
“Yeah,” Officer Don says. “The gun is nice, all things considered. It’s a Smith & Wesson three fifty-seven Magnum. We did a trace on it, and records show it’s still registered to—”
“John Fitzpatrick,” I say.
“You knew?”
I rub my mouth. “I knew it the moment he pulled the gun on me. That’s why I didn’t do it.”
“Didn’t do what?”
“Forgive him.”
“You didn’t forgive your uncle because he had your father’s gun in his hand?”
I open the door to Officer Don’s office. Beth walks out of the room. “I didn’t forgive Uncle Mitch because I knew my father was about to kill him.”
On cue, my wife vomits in the hallway of the police station.