He touched the old man's throat. A regular pulse, slow, distant. John's
face was already the face of a mummy, skin tight and dry over protruding
cheekbones, eye sockets hollow. The eyelids looked out of place, like
remnants whose time has passed. The inner comers were wet. Mike bent close.
The white eyelashes were moist. He swallowed the hurt in his throat, rested
his hand on John's shoulder. Through the hospital gown, he felt bone under
stretched skin. He hesitated, then kissed his father's forehead. The bags
swung like slowly shaking heads.
The next night, Mike found the room dark. John's face was twisted, his
mouth open. He was mewing like a kitten.
Mike took
his father's hand. "It's me, Papa."
John groaned.
His hand gripped Mike's. "It wasn't my fault. It's the genes."
Mike nodded
and squeezed his hand.
It's
not a curse, Mike. It's a gift."
Yes,
Papa."
Say
it. 'Gift'."
It's
a gift."
John's mouth
turned up at the corners. "'Who...'" He stopped, mewed again.
"'Who will rid me of this troublesome priest'?"
Mike's eyes
watered. "'And the knights there assembled withdrew, saying one to
another, 'We know the king's will.' And they went and found Thomas a Becket
and slew him on his altar'."
'And
when King Henry'..." John's body tensed. He moaned. "'And when
King Henry heard the tale, he wept and cried out, 'My friend, my friend'."
Tears blurred
Mike's view. "Papa."
I hurt,
Mike."
Mike pushed
aside the tubes and took the old man in his arms. "'Ever thereafter,
the king mourned. And the people said of him, 'Truly this man is forgiven,
for he so loved the priest'."
TOM'S TALES