HONOR GUARD

by Tom Barlow

Clintonville

Tommy is on his usual rant as I drive him to O'Reilly's Pub to celebrate Veteran's Day with a couple of their monster cheeseburgers. He's wearing the ball cap I bought for him online, with the insignia of the USS Yorktown. He's showered with the soap-on-a-rope I made the mistake of buying him for his birthday, so he reeks of Old Spice.

"Well, shit," my father says as we turn onto High Street from Weisheimer Road, in the heart of the Clintonville neighborhood where he's lived for fifty years. He points to the empty lot catty-corner from Panera Bread. "They're putting up another apartment building where Novak Funeral Home used to be. I seen a lot of my buddies laid out there. They already tore down that other funeral home, I forget its name, for more fucking restaurants. By the time I pass there won't be a place left for me."

"I thought you wanted to be cremated," I say. His sister Alice and I have commiserated about this new propensity of his to curse. He was always so decorous back when he was entirely in his right mind.

"I still want a service. And I want you to get ahold of the Navy, arrange some sort of honor guard. I didn't spend four years on that boat for nothing."

Tommy refused to even discuss his time in Vietnam when I was a boy, denying me the chance to take pride in his service. But since Mom passed he's not only opened up about it, he's become quite the bore.

All the way through our three-mile drive, he keeps up his tirade against the gentrification of Clintonville, which is driving property values up so fast he's struggling to pay his taxes. When we pass Dough Mama he blames the millennials for that and all the other locavore restaurants that are rapidly replacing the modestly priced places like White Castle and the A&W drive-in that once populated the neighborhood.

"Who the fuck eats at these places, anyway?" he says. "All those queers? They must have a lot of fucking money is all I can say." He isn't happy with Clintonville's new reputation as a particularly gay-friendly neighborhood either, although his cousin Bob Harper has been out of the closet for decades and he never held that against him.

Rag-O-Rama, a swanky used-clothes place, draws disparaging comparison to the Volunteers of America on Indianola, where Tommy buys his shirts secondhand on half-price Tuesdays. When we pass Cup o' Joe, he launches into a harangue about people who would spend five bucks on a fucking cup of coffee, when they could get one for a buck fifty at Nancy's Home Cooking just up the street.

I used to argue with him, back before I understood it was senility speaking. Back when he was still "Dad" and not "Tommy." He improved slightly when they put in four stents a year back, but it didn't last. Now, I just bite my lip and hope no one can overhear us. Although I'm out of the real estate game after having failed to sell even one house in a year when the market was red hot, I still remember the agency manager pleading with me to try to make a habit of cultivating goodwill with strangers.

When we finally reach the pub, most of the parking spaces out front are filled, although it's only one p.m. on a weekday. Tommy leads as we climb the two steps into the bar and darkness. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust before I discover most of the booths are full and there are only two empty stools side by side at the bar.

"Where you want to sit?"

"Come on," Tommy says, pulling at the sleeve of my jacket. He leads me to the left through the dining area and out the side door onto the smoking porch, where we grab the only table available.

"What are you doing?" I say. He knows I've just quit cigarettes after twenty years of enslavement and he hasn't smoked since his Navy days. However, as soon as we take a seat at the only open table, he pulls a pack of Marlboros from his jacket pocket, sticks one in his mouth, and, with hands shaking, fires up an old Zippo lighter that carries a Navy insignia. I've never seen it before.

"Since when do you smoke?"

"Don't tell my sister," Tommy says, winking at me. I add this to the symptoms of his growing dementia. Alice has been on his ass to go to a doctor, get diagnosed, get help, but he's so deep in denial there's not a chance he'll ever agree.

I glance around the porch. Half a dozen tables are set on the asphalt in an area walled in by wooden lattice, allowing the late-fall wind to blow the smoke out the back. The crowd is all men.

A moment later a barmaid steps out of the building carrying four bottles of Budweiser and a plate of chicken wings, which she deals to the table of men around Tommy's age seated behind us. One of the men is wearing a USS Yorktown ball cap identical to Tommy's. I can predict a maudlin scene if Tommy spots him, so I hold my peace.

The barmaid turns to us. "What can I get for you?" She is cursed with a baby face—fat cheeks and Kewpie lips—but exudes an air of contentment that I find appealing. I have an ex-wife of sour disposition who taught me a lesson about choosing looks over attitude.

I suggest we celebrate the day with a couple of ales from Lineage Brewery, just across the street, but when the barmaid tells Tommy they run seven bucks a glass he glares at her before ordering a Busch. She waits for his food order, and I have to remind him how much he likes their cheeseburgers.

The guys at the next table are talking Ohio State football. We're only a couple of miles from the stadium, and most of the city is convinced another national title is in the offing this year. I quit paying attention to football when I left the Realtor gig, no longer needing to pretend to share my potential clients' passion just to get into their wallets.

Interrupting my eavesdropping, Tommy says, "So, you planning to go back to the post office?"

I'm surprised he even remembers my situation. I'd carried mail for twenty years before convincing myself I could earn a better living sitting on my ass selling houses, which proved to be false confidence. Now my unemployment is going to run out in a week and alimony is due on the first of the month. "They wouldn't rehire me now," I say. "Not the way I left. Besides, I couldn't do all that walking anyway, not with my back."

"I told you to take that plumbing apprenticeship out of high school, but no, you were too good to do what your old man did. I was never out of work, not once. Good economy, bad economy, people gotta shit." He lays the cigarette pack on the table as though to tempt me.

"I thought you hated being a plumber."

"Who says work is supposed to be fun? Maybe that's your problem."

Eventually the barmaid returns with the beers, and the cheeseburgers, thick and juicy. She places Tommy's in front of him and says, pointing to the adjacent table, "These gentlemen are picking up the tab for your meal. Happy Veteran's Day." She hands me my plate and returns to the bar.

Tommy turns in his chair to face the men. All four are looking his way as he grabs his can of beer and holds it up. "Thanks, guys. Much appreciated."

"No problem," says the one in the Yorktown hat, a guy I'd guess is about Tommy's age. "Thanks for serving."

I can see the moment the man's hat registers with Tommy. His eyes get big and his lips compress. "You were on the Yorktown?" he says. His tone carries a nuance of doubt.

"'67 through '69," the man says. "You?"

"'65 to '69." Tommy stands up and takes a step to the side so that he can extend a hand.

The guy also stands, holding onto the back of his chair with one hand. I note that he cants to the left, like someone with a new hip. They shake awkwardly.

"Ed English," the man says after Tommy introduces himself.

"What did you do?" Tommy says. "I don't remember you, but I don't remember a lot of shit these days."

"I was on the arresting gear crew. You?"

Tommy's forehead creases. "Catapult. You said '67 to '69? In 'Nam?"

"Of course in 'Nam. Everybody was in 'Nam."

"Well, you see, that's funny," Tommy says, taking a step closer to the man, "since the Yorktown left Southeast Asia in June of '67 and returned to Long Beach for a refit. We never went back. I guess any asshole can buy the hat, though." He reaches out and flicks the bill of the man's cap with his middle finger.

"You calling me a liar?" the man says. His cheeks are now bright red and he's let go of the chair.

"You wear that hat just to get free beer?" Tommy says, as I grab the back of his coat and try to pull him away. "Nothing's lower than some shithead that lies about serving."

"Let it go, Ed," one of the other men at the table says. "He's drunk."

"Me drunk?" Tommy says, raising his voice so that everyone in the smoking porch is now paying attention. I don't know what to do. I've never seen my father quite this belligerent.

"I don't care if he's shitfaced," Ed says. "You owe me an apology, sailor."

"I never saw you around the flight deck, and I knew those crews like my own family," Tommy says, shoving Ed English in the chest.

Ed reaches out and returns the shove, and before I can stand and enclose my father in a bear hug, Tommy cocks his right hand and throws a jab, the one he polished boxing Golden Gloves as a young man, as hard as he can at Ed's chin. To my horror, the punch lands right on the button and Ed's head snaps back. He catches his foot on a table leg and falls backward, smacking his face on the chair seat on his way down. Blood gushes out of the cut on his forehead, and Ed isn't moving.

Everyone on the porch is on their feet, craning to see the body. Tommy steps back, rubbing his knuckles, as one of the men at Ed's table kneels next to his friend. Another has his cell out calling 911, while the third grabs Tommy by the arm and says, "You're not going anywhere."

Tommy shakes off his hand and sits down. He turns his chair a little so he can see Ed, and then, to my disbelief, starts to eat his sandwich. I remain standing, helpless.

Nobody leaves before the fire department ambulance arrives from up the street. The EMTs search for a pulse, can't find any, so they try to shock Ed back to life. No success. Nonetheless, they toss him onto a gurney and hustle him out to the ambulance. As they leave, a police unit pulls up.

Every person on the porch is eager to tell the two patrolmen what they saw, and every one of them thinks Tommy is guilty of murder. Except me. I try to explain that Ed did some pushing too, that it was a fair fight, although Tommy—"My dad," I say—got in the first blow. He sits, seemingly oblivious, smoking.

To quell the chaos, the cops walk my father out to the cruiser and place him in the backseat. I ask to accompany him and they agree. We sit there uncomfortably for a couple of hours while the crime scene people take their photos and some cops in plainclothes show up to interview all the witnesses.

On the way to the station downtown Tommy is fixated on convincing the cops that Ed was a poseur as a Navy man, implying that this makes his actions completely justifiable. I try to shut him up, but he is having none of it until the cop riding shotgun tells him to put a sock in it.

At the downtown jail they treat Tommy like a criminal, which fires him up even further. I am sent to cool my heels in the waiting room while he's booked, but I can hear him protest at the top of his lungs that he is "being treated like a fucking coon!" Half the faces in the lobby are black, and I presume he is going to encounter more in the holding cell. He raised me to treat people of other races without prejudice, and this ugly change makes me sick to my stomach. Nonetheless, if I had any religion I would pray for his safety. Instead, I call my cousin Emily, who is an attorney with Zeller and Beachy, a large firm in town.

She shows up an hour later, appearing more perturbed than sympathetic, perhaps because she has heard about Tommy's increasingly antagonistic attitude toward Aunt Alice, her mom.

Emily talks to the officer staffing the desk and is led inside. It is only ten minutes before she returns.

"I had to explain to him who I was." She shakes her head. "He'll be here until tomorrow at the earliest. There will be an arraignment in the morning if the prosecutors decide to file charges. If they do, a judge will set bail. Can Tommy afford it? It'll be substantial, probably six figures, for which he'll have to pay a tenth in cash to a bail bondsman."

"Yeah, he can afford it," I tell her, not willing to divulge the depth of Tommy's economic problems. The dumbass, working for himself, hadn't given a thought to retirement until he was in his fifties, and the only thing of real value, if you don't count the life insurance policy he's always bragging about, is his house. He has a line of credit on it that he set up to pay his mom's medical bills from the Alzheimer's unit. That debt is almost paid off, but this will set him back big time.

Emily promises to accompany him to the arraignment the next day and sends me on my way. I'm short on cash for a cab so I take the High Street bus back to the bar to retrieve my car.

* * *

The next morning Tommy is taken to the Franklin County Municipal Court around the corner on South High where the city prosecutor charges him with manslaughter. He pleads not guilty at Emily's suggestion and posts bail, drawing on his line of credit to pay the bondsman, and is home by early that evening. I offer to come over and play some pinochle, which we do every once in a while, to take his mind off his troubles. He says he wants to be alone.

A few days later, I'm in line at the bank to cash the check I received when I sold off my ex-wife's ruby pendant, the one she thought she'd lost, when my phone rings. The caller introduces herself as Celeste Brown, the daughter of Ed English, the guy Tommy punched. I recognize the name from his obituary. She claims to have something urgent to discuss with me, but not over the phone. She insists we meet face-to-face. I reluctantly agree, and suggest the Crimson Cup coffeehouse on High near Tommy's house. I did a lot of networking there when I was a real estate agent, so it is familiar turf.

I arrive early and grab a couple of chairs and my usual Americano with an extra shot. A few minutes later a lady about my age enters, scanning the room. I raise my hand.

Her hair is long, dark, thick, and curls when it reaches her shoulders. Her sunglasses are perched on her head like pussy-cap ears. Her lips are slightly lopsided, one of those flaws that makes a woman more attractive. She's dressed in a silky mauve tunic and yoga pants stretching fetchingly over a lithe frame. In another context I'd be attracted to her, but in another context she wouldn't give me the time of day.

She walks up to me and says, "Mark Rucker?"

I stand, nod, and stick out my hand. Hers is soft as chamois. I ask her if I can get her anything. She says pumpkin spice latte, a little pricey but she's hard to say no to.

Once I deliver it, she says, "I asked you here because your father refuses to talk to me." She raises her eyebrows as though we are in sympathy with Tommy's difficulties.

I have to remind myself we are adversaries. "About what?"

She purses those lips. "I talked to one of the witnesses who told me all about the murder. Now, I could go to an attorney and sue your father in civil court for every penny he's got."

"But the city could still decide to drop the case."

"That doesn't stop the civil suit," she says. "Remember O.J.? Anyway, I went to school with one of the prosecutors, and she checked out the case for me. She said they'll push it unless I say otherwise."

"Okay, I'll bite. What do you want?"

"Two hundred grand. If I go the lawyer route, I could get five times that." She is leaning forward and her hair hangs like curtains framing her face.

The only way Tommy could come up with that kind of money is to sell the house, and then where would he live? With me in my tiny one-bedroom walk-up in Olentangy Village? That isn't even an option; my love for him demands some distance.

"And an apology," she says. "In the Columbus Dispatch." She pulls out a sheet of paper and hands it to me. It appears to be a screenshot from the Internet, a list of the crew of the Yorktown from 1969. Ed English's name is highlighted. I go down the list and find Tommy's name too. So Tommy was wrong. Figures.

"So the money and the ad, that will make up for your loss?" I can't help but sound a little acerbic.

"You don't know anything about me. But you should know I'm serious, and I need that money fast; Dad was helping support my husband, who's dying of Lou Gehrig's disease, and he has bills. Tell your father he has until Friday if he wants to avoid losing everything. And if he tries to bring an attorney into it, I'll have to do the same, and the deal will be off the table." She stands, and, leaving the balance of her latte on the side table, does a dramatic exit, head held high, not looking back. I can't help but notice she has a great ass.

That evening I'm drinking with a bowling buddy of mine who dropped out of law school, and naturally I tell him about the situation. His considered opinion is that she has a good case, both civil and criminal. He advises me to settle.

* * *

I stop by to talk to Tommy the next afternoon. I find him standing atop an extension ladder trying to snake a hose into the downspout of the gutter on the northwest corner of his house, the one that a towering silver maple has been filling with whirligigs for twenty years. He's dressed in a threadbare T-shirt, although the temperature is in the forties.

I try to get him to let me take over, but as usual he doesn't trust me to do it right. He does let me turn the spigot on for him, and a geyser of water comes flying out of the top of the plugged-up downspout, soaking him. He teeters on the ladder for a long moment while I hold my breath, before his balance returns. He descends pretty briskly for a seventy-year-old.

He leaves the ladder in place and we enter the house through the screened-in porch. Once inside, he drops his sodden trousers on the kitchen floor, then kicks them into the corner. Standing in his underwear, he pours us both cups of coffee from the ancient electric percolator that he inherited from his mother, which makes coffee the consistency of molasses.

I broach the subject of Celeste and her demands after he settles onto a kitchen chair across from me. "She's got a case," I warn him. "She could cause you a world of hurt."

He gives me a raspberry, and I feel a mist of spittle reach my hand. "The guy had his fucking chance. It's not my fault he didn't defend himself. If that took place on the flight deck of the Yorktown, you'd have had officers stopping the fight until they could make book."

"You sucker-punched him," I say. "Any jury would see that."

"He got what he deserved. You really think I'm going to give up my house to pay that bitch just because her old man was a fraud?"

Telling him about the evidence Ed's daughter had shown me of his service on the Yorktown—proving Tommy screwed up—would just rile him up more, so I don't mention it. "I think you need to come to some sort of agreement with her if you want to stay out of jail. She seemed desperate to me, so she might just take less money. I'm thinking we offer her fifty grand cash if she agrees to drop her civil case and convince her friend in the prosecutor's office to kill the charges."

"You're pretty quick to give away my money. And who put you in charge, anyway? This is my business." He pulls a pack of butts out of the Porky Pig cookie jar on the table and fires one up. I lean forward to catch some of the smoke.

"Remember," he says, "when that kid bullied you in fourth grade?"

"Yeah." I'm shocked he remembers. "You did nothing." Paul Peters had kicked the crap out of me every day for a couple of weeks, and Tommy pretended like nothing had happened when I came home with a black eye or a ripped shirt. I heard him and Mom arguing about it the first night it happened. She never won such battles with Tommy, though; he'd simply prolong the dispute until she grew exhausted and gave in.

"I thought eventually you'd get the idea," he says, "that you can't expect other people to stand up for you. To this day, you still let people walk all over you."

"And that's what you were doing when you killed that man? Standing up for yourself?" I slide his pack of Marlboros my way and tap one out. I'm not going to smoke it, but my hands need something to do.

He's rapping the table with his thumb. "You don't get a fucking honor guard for turning the other cheek," he says. "Where's this bitch live?"

"I don't know. Why?"

"Maybe I'll pay her a visit."

"For God's sake, don't make this worse."

* * *

Eventually, he dismisses me so he can take his daily stab at the crossword in the Dispatch. I've been looking at them after he's done and he's taken to filling them in with gibberish.

I head home, but after considering the situation, turn before I arrive back at my apartment, and instead drive to Aunt Alice's house on West North Broadway, a typical Clintonville Dutch Colonial overlooking the river.

She's cleaning house as usual, although her place is always antiseptic. I'm invited in for tea, which means cookies, which she still bakes weekly although she usually ends up throwing them away for lack of company. Her friends are dying off so fast she has several mourning outfits in case one is at the cleaners when needed.

We take a seat in the alcove where the early-winter sun has raised the temperature enough that both her cats are sprawled on the rug. She knows about the fight, but when I tell her about Celeste and Tommy's threat to visit her, she shares my concern.

She stirs her tea with a tiny spoon until it reaches room temperature. "A week ago he tried to kick Dulcie when she ran between his legs. He can't control his emotions anymore. This must be so hard for you."

"You know how I love him. But I'm afraid if he faces a judge he'll go ballistic. He could lose everything."

"He's reached the point where you have to wonder about his competency. Maybe it's time he moved to one of those facilities like where we put Mom."

"I can't imagine having that conversation with Tommy." I pick up a cookie, then put it back.

"You're his only child," she says, pointing at me. "He had to do that for his mother. Now it's your turn. And after all, it's in his best interest."

"Even if I could convince him, he couldn't afford one of those places." A chill comes over me. Maybe a breeze is leaking through her old aluminum windows.

"You'd be surprised. There's government money, and his house is worth a lot, even after paying off that lady. And I have some of your uncle's life insurance money that I could contribute."

"You'd do that? He treats you like crap."

"I promised Mom to look out after him," she says.

"She's been gone for, what, ten years?"

She shakes her head so slightly it might be a tremor. "A promise is a promise."

"So how much life insurance money do you have?"

We reach an agreement: she'll lend me the fifty grand to buy off the woman, to be repaid from Tommy's life insurance after he passes. She's that sure she'll outlive him.

* * *

Although I now have the cash in hand, I find reasons to postpone calling the victim's daughter. First, I have an interview at Beechwold Hardware. They're in need of someone to fill in during the Christmas season, but as I talk with the owner it's quickly apparent to both of us that I don't know enough about home maintenance to provide the advice that Clintonville homeowners have come to depend upon. I wouldn't know a spud wrench from a spud casserole.

Second, I'm still reluctant to cross the old man. I try to convince myself that paying off Celeste is in his best interest, but that role reversal comes at a cost. If he becomes the one who must be looked after, who will I turn to when I'm feeling overwhelmed?

Then Emily calls to tell me the prosecutor's office is taking the case to the grand jury. She's had the opportunity to look over their case and is worried that it's a slam dunk. I ask her about a plea of mental incompetence, but she is doubtful the court will buy it without a previous history of diagnosis and treatment.

This and Alice's persistent inquiries finally prod me into action. I call Celeste, suggest we meet again. I figure I can negotiate better face-to-face.

This time we meet at the Global Gallery, a vintage gas station a few blocks north of Aunt Alice's house that has been converted into a gift shop and coffeehouse. Celeste is waiting for me as far from the cold wind leaking through the porous overhead doors as possible.

I grab a coffee and join her.

"It's your meeting," she says as I settle. Her expression is steely, telling me she's ready to end this.

I wonder what Tommy would think of me now. He taught me to hate liars, but she's forcing my hand. "You should know that Dad doesn't have much. His mom was in a nursing home for two years before she passed, and he had to take out a second mortgage to pay for it."

"Not my problem." She has makeup on today, or perhaps she's just blessed with the skin of an infant.

"But it is, like it or not. His equity is about shot. You take him to court, maybe you could garnish his Social Security, but he always underreported his earnings so that isn't much either."

"Then why call the meeting?" she says.

"I have a 401(k) with about $50,000 in it. It's yours, on a couple of conditions." I show her the check I've made out in her name, hoping to provoke her greed.

"Go on."

"You agree to not sue him, and you call your friend and get her to forget about the grand jury."

I can hear her heel tapping against the floor as she thinks. "That's the best you can do?"

"Cross my heart," I say.

She takes the check from my hand. "What about the ad?"

I promise her I'll place it that afternoon. She's not happy for the delay, but what can she do?

She has already prepared a written agreement which she pulls out of her purse. She crosses out the 200k and writes in the amount of the check, then we both sign it. She promises to mail me a copy.

* * *

I, Tommy Rucker, hereby apologize to the family of Ed English for suggesting he did not serve on the USS Yorktown from 1967 to 1969. I was wrong; he did indeed serve with honor on the arresting gear crew.

I have the paper run the four-inch ad the next day, in the food section, hoping Tommy will overlook it. Unfortunately, he still has a few buddies with wives who cook, and one of them wakes him at seven a.m. that morning to point it out to him. When I stop by at ten a.m. to take him on his weekly grocery trip, he's waiting for me.

"What the fuck is this?" he demands, shaking the paper at me. He's perched on the lip of the couch.

"It's what's going to keep you out of jail," I say, too nervous to take a seat. "I met with the guy's daughter; she demanded that. It wasn't my idea."

He snorts. "You think? Then why did Emily call this morning to let me know my case is going to the grand jury?"

He's seated next to an old photo of the three of us. In it he's probably about my age, and I'm about ten. Mom has her arm around him and he's grinning like a fool, as though he'd been into the Jim Beam since breakfast. I have nothing but fondness for the man in the picture, and struggle to remind myself the same guy is ranting at me now.

"The daughter was supposed to tell her friend to drop the charges," I say.

"The bitch that kept calling me? She won't be happy until I'm in jail."

I excuse myself and walk into the kitchen to call Emily on Dad's landline. She confirms Tommy's statement: there's no chance the charges get dropped. I tell her about my deal with Celeste.

She says, "I don't understand. I met with the daughter yesterday. She is planning to sue, and she didn't indicate she knows anyone in the prosecutor's office."

A pall comes over me. "A tall, good-looking brunette?"

"Short, blond. Missing her left arm at the elbow."

I smack the wall with the old phone handpiece so hard the Bakelite cracks around the speaker. I've been played. Demanding the ad, while risky, had been the master stroke. Because of that, I never questioned the woman was who she said she was.

"What made you think the bitch would drop the charges anyway?" Tommy says when I return to the living room.

I tell him about the fifty grand, too embarrassed to admit I'd been conned. I thought he was mad when I arrived, but now he turns it up a notch. "You threw away my sister's money? What? You sweet on that woman? I warned you about thinking with your dick."

"I did it for you," I say. "You'd have done the same for me if I was facing a prison sentence."

He throws the newspaper at me, but it comes apart in midair and sections land all over the carpet. "Let me tell you something, you dumbass. We didn't want you. We were saving up to buy a storefront to start a flower shop. Then you happened, and your mom had to quit working, and there went our fucking plans."

"That's not you talking," I say. "You never treated me like you didn't want me."

"What the fuck was I supposed to do? A man doesn't take out his anger on a child."

"I'm still your child," I say, and am immediately embarrassed for doing so.

He stands, crosses the room to me, and slaps me across my cheek. "What do I have to do to get you to grow up?"

I let him smack me again. He's my father, I owe him that. I barely notice the sting this time.

He smacks me a third time, but now there is less power behind it, and he's breathing hard. "You think I don't know what's going on? I saw my mother lose her mind until she couldn't even remember how to breathe. I can't go through that. You claim you still love me, be a man and prove it." He strikes me again, but this time it has no more sting than a love slap.

"What do you mean?"

"Kill me," Tommy says, hands dropping to his side. "Before I lose my mind. You owe me that much."

"You don't mean that." I grab him by the shoulders. He shrugs me away.

"You know what happens to a man in prison," he says. "And by the time I get out, I'll be a drooling vegetable like my mom."

Out of nowhere comes a memory, Tommy handing me my first ball glove, playing catch with me at ten feet's distance, a big smile every time I snag one of his tosses. Baseball was the one thing I was good at in high school, and he never missed a game. That was the last time I could remember feeling competent.

When I fail to reply, he says, "Just help me clean out the fucking garage so I can get the car in there. I'll take care of the rest."

But in the end, I have to help him with the hose, and I pack some rags under the garage door to seal up the gap once the car is inside. He looks a bit bewildered, sitting there behind the steering wheel. I can tell his grasp on the situation is slipping, and I suppose I could talk him back into the house at that moment.

But I don't, because I love the man. After all, who am I, who has failed at most everything he's attempted, to dishonor his father's decision?

I even momentarily consider riding shotgun, but I'm not as brave as the old sailor. He tells me to go home. I like to think he is concerned that I might be found guilty of abetting. Instead, I return to his kitchen to fire up a cigarette.

There, rolled up in the cookie jar next to his smokes, is his life insurance policy. I'm already furious at myself, but that is magnified when I find myself picking it up to check for a suicide exclusion.

Checking in vain.

Some kind of honor guard I have proven to be.