A man in pieces, p.1
A Man in Pieces, page 1
A MAN IN PIECES
HENRY CORRIGAN
Copyright © 2024 Henry Corrigan
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The right of Henry Corrigan to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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Re-published in 2024 by Bloodhound Books.
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Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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www.bloodhoundbooks.com
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Print ISBN: 978-1-917214-55-1
CONTENTS
Newsletter sign-up
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
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Newsletter sign-up
Acknowledgements
About the Author
A note from the publisher
Dedicated to my wife for keeping me in one piece, and to my daughter for being exactly who she is, rain or shine. I love you both. Always.
Friday January 22, 2016
Tom almost smiled, despite the pain.
Maybe it was how the kids laughed, or the way they moved, all flailing limbs and flapping jaws, their shrieks pealing across the street like remote controlled planes. There were four of them, all boys, and the tallest one, broad-faced with a nose like a putting wedge, dove headfirst into a snow drift before rolling easily to his feet. Every inch of him came up frosted, and his smile was as bright as the ice.
Two others, one thin and four-eyed, the other all braces and freckles, wordlessly dropped to their knees and started building a snowman together. The fourth, chubbiest by far, peeked sneakily from behind one of the cars in the driveway, a growing pile of snowballs at his feet.
With only one good hand and leg left to his name, Tom wobbled then hip checked the storm door open. He scowled at the flakes as they swept by. Light as confectioner’s sugar and deceptive as hell; the kind of shit that should fall apart but would pull at your tires in every turn.
The cold put his teeth on edge as he hobbled out on his stoop. Too late; he realized he’d put his keys in his usual pocket. He held his lunch bag between hip and cast and contorted himself until his muscles strained painfully, but the keys came out before any other part of him gave in.
He locked the door behind him, turning just in time to see the door across the street burst open. Out of it bounded a little one, half the size of the rest, same nose, same broad face as the tall one, but she lacked his coordination, and her long dark hair flew behind her like a personal flag.
From his hiding place, Chubby watched her too, and Tom didn’t find it hard to know what he was thinking. The minute she hit the snow she started running around the other three boys in chaotic circles. She wore a parka that was the pinkest thing Tom had ever seen in his life, and she chattered non-stop.
Chubby would peg her first, hard, and she’d probably cry and shriek, which would bring mommy out, but there was nothing for it. It was the way of boys and girls at that age. It’s what Tom would have done if he’d been Chubby.
As if he was keeping to a script, Chubby ducked back down and mashed two snowballs together until he had a real bellringer in his hands. Tom saw him smile and straighten; his arm cocked back with all that flabby weight behind it.
A small, white missile caught him right in the eye.
Chubby yelped like a kicked dog. He wiped furiously at his face. Tom blinked and shook his head in surprise.
The kid sister was beaming like a spotlight, both arms high in a celebratory V. It took less than a second for the other boys to start the pointing and laughing. Chubby’s face turned red, and Tom thought he saw the glint of tears, but that might’ve been the snow melting on his cheeks. Older brother gave kid sister a high five and then they went to help the others with their snowman.
Chubby and his stockpile were forgotten, and play resumed.
Tom glanced towards his car, which seemed a million miles away. The kids couldn’t see how fast it was coming down, or how it was sticking to everything in sight. They wouldn’t have to feel the ice beneath their tires and the ruts and the cracked roadways and the salt and sand so thick it could strip the paint off a car. The most they’d see of it would be watching their parents white knuckling the wheel.
Tom envied them for that. It had only been a couple hours since his last dose of pain meds but already he could feel it. His broken bits were starting to throb again, but it was a groggy kind of pain, almost slipshod, as if someone had laid a shawl across his shoulders that just happened to weigh forty pounds.
In the back of his mind he knew it was a risk heading out, even if he’d been a hundred percent. Already he anticipated the slip of the wheel and the stupid fucks out there driving like traction was something the other guy had to worry about.
Nothing for it, troop. Get your ass in gear.
The voice was right. He never called in yesterday and this was the wrong time to make a mistake like that. Who knew what Asshole Mike had been up to while he was gone? He couldn’t afford to let that sonuvabitch get a foothold, not this close to the end. If he did...if management even thought it was a contest...
Fuck it. Won’t happen.
So what if he hadn’t called in? It was his first sick day in what, a year? Hell, longer than that, had to be. He didn’t need to explain himself. He just had to walk in as he was.
Hey guys! How’s it going? Oh this? Yeah, it was nothing. Had an accident yesterday, but I’m here now. No big deal. Why am I not home, Pat? Come on, man. Got work to do, don’t I?
Nodding to himself, Tom pulled up the collar of his jacket, took a step down the walk, and almost had his feet shoot out from under him.
He teetered and staggered, nearly fell, managed to get his balance but at the cost of his bad foot hitting the ground hard. The bones twisted and howled, sending tracer rounds of pain across his whole body. Tom cursed loudly and sucked in a great big mouthful of burning winter air and then he was hacking like he’d never stop. He coughed ’til his chest burned, ’til his eyes watered, like there was something wet and sickly inside him he couldn’t get out.
He ended up bent over double with a bitter taste in the back of his throat. He breathed as deep and slow as he could ’til his heart stopped its panicky scramble, and he could see straight again. Straightening slowly, he filled his mouth with all that gunk, and spat it, long and wet, into the snow.
Being sure to keep his head high, he turned towards the kids, a hard glare ready for any of them stupid enough to be staring. But the effort was wasted. None of them noticed. Chubby had rejoined the ranks and their play had evolved into a bastardization of football and dodgeball, one kid tasked with making it to the curb before the others pelted the living hell out of him.
Tom wiped his chin and thought about the drive ahead. It would be a bitch, no doubt, but if he got his ass in gear, he could still make it with time to spare. That was all he needed, really. Just enough to fend off Asshole Mike and prove that he deserved to be there.
Stepping carefully, limping heavily, he inched his way down the walk. He’d forgotten his gloves inside, so by the time he cleared the headlights and all the windows, his hands were as white as porcelain and ready to crack.
It took more maneuvering but eventually he opened the door, and his ass met the front seat. As soon as the Crown Vic barked to life, Tom cranked the heater as high as it would go. He couldn’t afford to give it any warmup time, but he forced himself to sit there for a couple minutes anyway. The Vic was ten years old and not in the best of shape. Stressing it, even a little bit, in the middle of winter, was a bad idea. He stared at the dashboard clock as the seconds passed. The clenching in his gut, the way his skin and bones and fucking everything itched to get moving, made it seem like the seconds were taking their time. Out for a stroll through a warm and sunny park Tom would never find.
He closed his eyes and sucked in one long breath, hoping it would steady him, but before he could get that far, the hacking came back, stealing away what little breath he had.
This coughing fit hurt even worse than the last, and when all that wet filled his mouth again, he rolled down the window and hocked it into the snow. By the time he looked back at the dash, the last minute had passed. He threw the car in gear and peeled out of the drive. The kids didn’t notice his passing and he paid them no mind. He was too busy praying for a break in the lights.
Out in the street, he twisted the wheel, and headed for the main road. As he picked up speed, the wind stripped away everything he was too weak to reach - the icicles off his bumpers, the slush off the wheels, even the little bit of red off the door, the thin, drooling streak that stretched from the window to halfway down the paint. It slipped away unnoticed in the gray and white morning.
Sunday January 17, 2016
January was a murderer, as Mike’s mother used to say.
It didn’t simply end each day. It killed them remorselessly; gone too soon, and with so much still to do.
The sunlight was nearly dead as Mike pulled the Explorer u p the drive. He grabbed the grocery bag out of the backseat, he popped the door, muscles already tense against the cold. Before he cut the engine, the readout on his dash called it eight degrees outside. The air was as motionless as a mannequin, but even without it, the night wrapped its arms around him and scooped the breath out of his lungs.
He hunched his shoulders and ran past his wife’s Corolla and was still frozen by the time he slipped the key in the lock. Clack, push, scrape and he was in the warmth of the house. January’s crushing arms walked in with him but faded quickly as he stood there.
“Hello!” he called, kicking the door closed behind him.
“Hey, babe!” Claire’s reply was muted, distant, propelled from deep in the house.
The front door opened into a carpeted living room, white walls, a cushioned L-shaped couch, flat screen TV in the corner by the window. Mike stripped off his coat and draped it over the padded easy chair, a colorful strip of cloth crammed into one of the creases catching his eye.
He plucked it out and stared at a familiar, woollen patch of red and green, the needles hanging off the ends like a half-assed wind chime. He rolled the whole thing up along with the remaining, apple-sized ball of wool and stuffed it in his pocket and headed down the hall. He found Claire at the kitchen sink, sponge in hand, soap past her wrists. Her smile was worn at the edges.
“Hey, handsome. Thanks again. I’m sorry.”
They’d painted the kitchen a summer yellow last year, and depending on where she stood, the halo of bright color around Claire’s black hair reminded him of sunflowers. He crossed the distance between them and kissed her, the touch of her lips loosening a couple of knots in his chest.
“Don’t worry about it, beautiful.”
“I can’t believe I forgot we were out of mayo. I’m so sorry.”
Mike cracked the seal on the jar. “Oh, would you stop? I told you it’s no big deal.”
“Yes, it is. But thank you for being kind.”
He shook his head but decided to move on. “How’re the two of you doing?”
He laid a hand on her stomach and felt the cooling dampness of dishwater. Claire put her hand over his and kissed him again.
“We’re fine. He’s been helping me clean up what remains of lunch.”
“Oh yeah? How’d he do that?”
“By not kicking or giving mommy cramps for a couple hours so she can actually wash the dishes.”
Mike chuckled and pulled her in against his side. “Glad to hear it. Thanks for helping out, Tim.” He drummed his fingers lightly across Claire’s stomach.
“Oh!” Claire jumped and held his hand in place.
A moment later he felt the kick of a tiny foot against his palm. He laughed and kissed Claire’s cheek. “He’s getting impatient.”
“He’s not the only one. And we are not naming him Tim.”
“It’s my dad’s name.”
“His middle name. And it stinks, no offense to your dad. Everybody will call him Timmy. I’ve watched way too much South Park for that to be cute.”
Mike leaned against the counter and shook his head. “Here we go. What do you want to name him?”
“You know me, I’m old fashioned. I want something classic, like Gabriel.”
Mike made a point of staring at her like she’d suddenly turned purple. “Timmy you don’t want. But you’re okay with Gabe?”
“No one’s going to call him that.”
“Well no one’s going to call him Gabriel either so what does that leave him with? ‘Hey, you?’”
She splashed him. “Gabriel’s a great name. People will respect it.”
“You mean the same way everybody called your grandfather Zeke, instead of Ezekiel?”
She picked up the sponge and held it on him like a nickel plated .45. “Do not make fun of my Grampa.”
Mike raised his hands high. “Anything you say, Crazy Lady.”
The corners of Claire’s mouth ratcheted up a couple of degrees. She gestured towards the table with the sponge. “Good. Now sit down. Dinner will be just a few more minutes.”
Mike dropped his hands and gave his wife an exasperated look. “Babe, you know you don’t have to keep making dinner. You’re supposed to be resting. I can make dinner sometimes.”
Claire didn’t look up from the glass in her hand. “You’ve been working all day. I’ve been home. I needed something to do.”
“I thought that’s what this was for.” He pulled the knitting out of his pocket and waggled it.
Claire groaned and put the last fork in the rack to dry. “I can’t spend the next month and a half sitting on my ass and knitting, I’m not a housewife from the 50s. Plus, I’m...Well, I’m not that great at it.”
“Oh, please babe. I’m sure it’ll be cute once you finish it. It’s gonna be a sweater, right?”
“It’s supposed to be booties.”
Mike looked at the piece of stitching again. It was an oblong rectangle, and the colors were so haphazard they all but bled into each other. He looked at his wife.
The sponge came out again and Claire smiled like a serial killer. “If you value your life, I’d advise you not to say anything right now.”
Mike smiled back. “I don’t have to say anything. The whole thing kind of...You know, speaks for itself.”
Several minutes were lost as Claire chased her husband around the kitchen. Mike, arms up, palms out, did his best to shield himself from her fury but the fact that he was laughing his head off did little to help him. Eventually, both out of breath and with smiles that made their jaws ache, they settled into their usual seats at their white, art deco dinner table.
They held hands and were, for the moment, content to sit quietly together in that time before ‘How was your day?’ and ‘How are you feeling?’
Mike ran his thumb across the backs of Claire’s knuckles and looked out the window. It may have been cold as hell, but it was beautiful too. Cloudless, bright with stars and what he used to call a fingernail moon when he was a kid.
All the peacefulness that permeated these quiet seconds didn’t completely unravel the rocks in his stomach, but it helped him breathe better. He glanced at his wife and noted the resigned sadness that pulled at her mouth. He didn’t need to ask what she was thinking. He followed her gaze to the empty clay pots and rows of faded signs. The garden had been their first big project the summer they moved in six years ago.
He lifted her hand and kissed her fingertips. “We’ll bring it back in the spring, Love. Don’t worry.”
She half smiled and squeezed his hand. “I know. It’s just not right. No tomatoes, no fresh veggies. All of it gone to the weeds and squirrels.”
Their backyard was tiny by most people’s standards, but what they had they’d put to good use. Off to one side was a stretch of tilled earth hemmed in by lumber and long, neat planting rows. From the way Claire told it, there’d always been a garden in her family. Mother, Grandmother, Great Grandmother. Her earliest memories were of munching mint leaves and her mother wiping the juice of cherry tomatoes off her chin.
Mike, a dyed-in-the-wool meat and potatoes man who’d never met a salad he trusted, found himself in his late twenties falling in love with fresh cucumbers and homemade salad dressing, and with the beautiful woman who made them.
He thought about those days and couldn’t stop himself from feeling sad about the harvest this year. Claire’s pregnancy had been hard, not only putting her on bed rest, but leaving her physically drained most days. The weather had been no help either. Spring was late getting to its feet, leaving the growth and warmth stymied by a winter which not only pummeled everything, but landed several hard shots long after the bell, too.
Dry, brown and cracked, the ground looked like nothing so much as mistreated leather. The makeshift stalks they’d driven in to help keep the plants upright now looked like stick figures frozen in place, immobile until spring thawed them out.
