What Ends Will Bring - Part I

Lost in grief, Albert carries little but his secret and his solitude

Albert crawled into bed. The cotton sheet was cold through his nightshirt and pants. His overhead fan was set to low, swirling the air with a cool breeze. He had set the thermostat to sixty before he left earlier that day, and had not bothered to turn it back up. His pillow sagged under his head, the cold pillowcase building up a wall against each of his ears. He counted the ticks from his clock hanging above his head on the wall. The time of night meant little to him, and he learned from an early age that counting sheep grew tedious. At least, the clock provided some rhythm to his insomniatic nights. He counted to 592 ticks on the clock, each one becoming more diluted in the tumult of his mind before he crawled out of bed and padded across to the bedroom door and down the stairs.

The dog collar had been placed in a rummage drawer for safe-keeping, but he decided he needed it with him. He grabbed it, made his way back to his bedroom, then crawled back under the newly chilled sheet, clutching the dog collar against his chest as he curled into a ball like a small child, and wept for the first time that day. Sleep stole him away, but nightmares accompanied him still.

The next morning, breakfast tasted dull, but whether that was because he hadn’t made his usual cheese and chive omelet, or just the after taste of the day prior, he couldn’t be sure. He sipped his coffee and waited. It wasn’t until he finished his jellied toast and cold bacon that he realized he would need to get his morning paper himself from now on. He got it but could not find the use in reading it after he saw the front-page story titled, “School shooting causes fire to break out; kills seven.” He didn’t want to know if it was the fire that killed seven, the shooting, or both. Somehow, he wished it were both. In his mind, that seemed to mitigate the damage of the catastrophe. He dressed for work, poured his second cup of coffee, and left.

Albert read through his morning emails. Monday always held a more considerable amount of them. He was one of the few who did not bother to read emails over the weekend and just allowed them to pile up. His boss had gotten angry with him on two occasions for this, both for missing time-sensitive emails. Albert was salaried, so it was his job to respond promptly to all emails, regardless of the day of the week. His boss even posted an opening for his position online, but there had been no takers thus far. Albert was confident he wouldn’t get fired. Nobody else in the company was trained to do his job, and it was undesirable. The job was tedious and simultaneously anxiety-inducing, it was salary, but didn’t pay enough. And while it didn’t demand his full attention, he could also not afford to take his fifteen-minute break that was supposedly mandatory.

An email notification popped up. “How’d it go?”

It was from Raymond, who was stationed in the cubicle across from Albert’s and the only person at work he spoke to regularly, aside from his boss. The two of them had become close friends after Albert started working there six years ago.

“I had to put her down,” Albert typed back. He didn’t expect a response to this, not right away. What could a person say to that and not have it sound cliché?

“Do you need me to come over tonight?”

Albert smiled slightly and nodded. Raymond smiled back.

After work, Raymond hitched his bike to the bike rack on the back of Albert’s car and sat in the passenger seat. Albert drove to Raymond’s apartment and waited while Raymond unhitched his bike and locked it to the bike rack by the front step. Albert drove them back to his house with the radio off and the smell of dog wafting up from the back seats.

Without saying much to each other, Albert stationed himself in the kitchen. He busied himself by preheating the oven and peeling potatoes, while Raymond brought in the fur-infested comforter from the back of Albert’s car. Raymond washed it and had done two loads of laundry, including all bed sheets and comforters that evening. Albert began placing the potato slices into a greased iron skillet and drizzled a mixture of cream, herbs, and cheese on top. Raymond started the vacuum on the second floor and worked his way down, finishing in just enough time to allow the gratin dauphinoise to cool. Albert set the table and poured them each a glass of dry wine. Raymond put away the vacuum and joined him. They ate and drank in silence, allowing the bustle of the late evening traffic wash over them through the open window in the kitchen. A slight breeze made its way in, carrying in scents of bread, fresh-cut grass, and hints that rain may be coming overnight. Even still, there was more foot and cycling traffic than passing cars, and the quiet chatter of moody teens and vagabonds alike could barely make themselves known above the restless streets.

The two made their way into the den. Albert brought in a plate of sliced bread and a small bowl of olive oil, and Raymond followed with two more glasses of wine for them. They chatted about the weather to come and how Raymond’s wife, Celeste, was doing with her battle against ovarian cancer. She was doing well, having moved to her parent’s house to be closer to the clinic. Albert supposed she must be close to ending her chemotherapy treatments, and Raymond agreed it would be soon.

They moved onto other loftier and less pressing topics. Raymond mused on about a book he had just finished reading, and Albert nodded along with comfortable interest, sipping his wine and munching on the bread. Raymond attempted to articulate a point of the book that had inspired him, and in doing so, he dropped his slice of bread.

“Oh no, don’t worry about it. Cherie, come here, girl.” As soon as he shut his lips, Albert knew what he had done, and he began to weep.

Raymond reached out his hand to lay on Albert’s knee and waited patiently for his friend to quiet. Albert pulled a tissue from the box on the coffee table and wiped away his tears while patting Raymond’s hand. He drained his half-empty glass of wine, then let out a long and heavy breath.

“Why don’t you take tomorrow off? You seem like you can use the day and a bit more rest,” Raymond said.

“There isn’t enough time to, between now and then. Therese will not allow it,” Albert replied.

“I will tell Therese that you are sick. Not too far from the truth anyway. She will understand.” Raymond pulled back his hand. “Now, I’ll check on your laundry so you will have nice and warm sheets for tonight.”

Albert let him go without a word. Raymond grabbed both wine glasses in one hand and balanced the dish of bread with the other. He then placed them on the kitchen counter and made his way to the laundry room. Albert felt grateful, if not a little numb, and even felt a tinge of embarrassment. However, it was not for crying in front of his friend, but for being so careless with his memory to assume dropped bread meant Cherie was still alive. He was fully aware when he dropped Raymond off at his apartment later that he would not sleep well that night.

Albert awoke groggy and restless the next morning. He showered and dried off. While brushing his teeth, he noticed the grey bags forming under his eyes. He tried rubbing them away but only managed in reddening them, engendering a feeling of ugliness, which emboldened his anxiety. Breakfast was forgotten.

He made his way outside. It was too early for the morning paper to have arrived yet, and earlier still than he was used to being out on a weekday. It had rained overnight — a cold and misty rain that clung to the trees, leaves, and bushes of his yard. The droplets blended with the fading starlight, and the faint presence of the purple horizon created an otherworldly-looking atmosphere. Albert stood in awe of its beauty until the stars lost their light, and the sun began to sprout over the lavender hills in the distance. The air smelled cold still, but felt fresh and new, and promised a bright day ahead. He wiped off his bicycle seat with a handkerchief and mounted. He froze at the touch of the leather handlebars. The right handlebar had a shallow depression just beneath his hand, where Cherie’s leash would have been slung over; it had rubbed the leather down. Albert closed his eyes and tightened his grip on the handlebar, and exhaling deeply, he pedaled off.

Albert rode east, toward the lavender fields. There was hardly anybody around except for a few folks here and there, leaving their homes for work or smoking their breakfast cigarette. However, for the most part, people were still asleep. He waved to those who waved at him and left the rest to themselves. The houses and side streets slowly faded and were replaced with trees, low green fields, and sloping hills. He peddled on. The lavender fields were within sight presently. He rubbed the depression in his handlebar with his thumb mindlessly, his mind blank and serene. The smell of lavender surrounded and permeated him. A half-hour passed in this way. He stopped. The field was massive, awash in uniform violet, but he knew where he was. He had stopped here for many years to allow Cherie a rest, a drink of water, and a good scratch behind the ears.

She was gone. This place held little for him now aside from the memories of what his life was. How much would it change now? She was his companion, the only companion he ever had. His father wouldn’t have approved of any other companion Albert would have chosen. His father hadn’t approved of many things he did. He was always disappointed with his frail son, perpetually disgusted with his sensitivity, and never once showing pride in his son. Instead, he always treated his parentage as a burden or a job. Albert was never very fond of life; indeed, he would prefer to just not exist altogether. He was forced into this world, unasked, without council, and unamused. Had his father ever even considered the ethics of bringing another life into this world? Of course not. It was a selfish action that only harmed both parties involved. The amount of suffering one endures in a lifetime is never at the forethought of a parent’s mind. Parents are only concerned with their own happiness; their own vision of the perfect son; the carbon-copy temperament of a son who has learned from his father’s past mistakes and lives the same life without any of the trouble; a cloned son; the son that never was. Albert had not wanted to be born; however, he had had no choice in the matter. He was here now, and he would live his life as best he could despite it all. The futility of life was painful enough to bear without the knowledge of how unsolicited it was.

But his father died four years ago. His greatest enemy without ever knowing it. And two days ago, his dog died, the only companion he’d ever had. And now, he was sitting on his bicycle in the middle of a lavender field, feeling alone, and hateful. He had played through the same argument with his father in his mind countless times, each time taking a different approach to the topic that could never be discussed. Each time, it ended with Albert walking away, defeated. These arguments continued even after his father died, leaving him feeling cheated out of the actual thing, feeling like his father had won the final round without having any knowledge of a battle to begin with. He was a man without a foe, and now without a companion, which made him what? Just a man? A man wandering listlessly through life, with no direction, no ambition, no love or passion? This is not a man, but the hollow shell of a man, an impersonation, a fraud of a man. C’est la vie, ceci aussi devrait passer, ceci aussi devrait passer. The only genuinely infinite thing in this universe is the impermanence of it all. And yet, somehow, Albert took comfort in that. It was enough. He looked up at the sky. It was as blue and indifferent as his own soul. He kicked off the ground and pedaled away.

He rode on out of the lavender fields and took a sharp turn north toward the city. He did not make it all the way into the city but stopped on the outskirts by the old familiar bakery, Boulangerie Mie Mason. Several people thronged either side of Albert as he walked his bicycle to the bike rack and waited in line for his turn to order.

“Ah, Albert, good morning!” Bellowed a large man behind the counter.

“Good morning, Masson,” Albert replied with a weak smile.

“Garcon!” Masson shouted over his shoulder to young worker behind him, “two croissants for Albert!”

“Oh, no no, just one for today, please.”

“Eh?” Masson turned back with a cocked eyebrow. He leaned over the counter and looked down, seeing only grass and shoes.

“Just the one, please,” Albert repeated gently.

Albert received his croissant a moment later and paid. The benches were all still wet from the night’s rain, so the people were either milling about in conversation or off to their next destination. Albert pulled out his handkerchief and wiped down a small spot on a bench and sat.

The sun was still low and golden above the horizon, blinding Albert and creating long shadows across the grass and pavement beyond. He ate in silence, contemplating what to do for the rest of the day, wishing he could just go into work and distract himself. But he would not compromise Raymond’s word. After all, Albert was sick.

“So, where is Cherie?” Masson asked, plopping onto the bench next to Albert, paying no attention to the water surely soaking into his pants.

Albert looked back to the café before answering and saw Garcon manning the counter for the few remaining customers of the morning.

“Dead. I had to put her down two days ago.”

Masson hung his head and sighed, “Albert, I’m sorry. What was wrong with her?”

“Just old, I suppose,” Albert said. “It happens.”

“Old, eh?” Masson replied, staring down at his shoes. “Well, now, I can remember when you first started bringing her here as a new-born pup. You’d put her in your backpack and ride around all morning, and end your trip here with two croissants. I remember the second day you brought her here. Cherie pissed right on my shoe when I picked her up.” Masson chuckled at the memory. “Eh, that wasn’t so long ago, was it? Just about a decade.”

“Fourteen years,” Albert said.

“Fourteen years,” Masson echoed. “Jesus, I’m getting old.” He turned to look over at Garcon, who was saying good-bye to the last morning customer, then turned back. “Yeah, that seems about right.” He sighed and patted Albert on the knee. “Where does the time go?”

Albert said nothing. The two sat and stared out at the rising sun for a long moment. The bench was nearly dried now by the early autumn heat. A drop of sweat trickled down Albert’s jawline and dripped off his chin.

“I don’t suppose you’d think of getting a new dog right away?”

Albert waved away the notion. “Oh, no. I wouldn’t do that. Cherie was special. She was irreplaceable.”

“That she was.” Masson straightened up, trying to lift the mood merely with his stature. “Did you ever think about getting a wife? Dogs are great, but they can’t give you a family.”

“No, I’ve never thought about getting a wife.”

“Well, now you might want to look into it. I don’t want to see you this miserable every day from now on. Although it is good practice for Garcon.” Masson barked out a laugh that sounded like it hurt.

Albert thought about telling Masson why a wife was out of the question. He had known Masson for almost sixteen years, but this was nothing more than an acquaintance. Albert had never invited Masson over to his house, nor Masson his. They never spoke of anything more than current events, and never once delved into a more in-depth conversation of each other’s character. They remained at arm’s length, merely skimming across the surface of their respective lives, never diving in, never dipping a toe to check the water, never even looking down. A cordial hello-good-bye in so many words. Albert could not be sure of Masson’s reaction to his secret and would just prefer to keep things how they were between them. That was simple and safe. Opening up to people was not, and indeed, could very well be devastating.

“Yes, and Garcon will be running this little café of yours before you know it.” Albert stood and stretched his back. “I’ll be off then. Good seeing you, Masson; I appreciated the talk.”

“Eh, well, you know I’m here for you when you need a good talking to,” Masson replied, his large hands resting on his knees, showing no aspiration to get up and get back to work. Masson remained sitting there, gazing out at the sun as Albert mounted his bike and pedaled home.