Requiem
by Steven Amos

Hades, TX 1976. The grandfather clock's chimes, in the otherwise quiet den, felt like weights added to the already heavy burden of "Big" Sam McDonald. They pushed him down into the familiar sofa and next to Becky, his wife of thirty-four years. Perhaps the decision could be delayed. No sense rushing into things. Sam didn't think he was a coward, but this was a damned big decision. Becky's sigh filled his ear. Finally -- as always seemed the case -- heavy footsteps coming down the hallway interrupted his thoughts.
"Does anyone know the time?" The tall, silver-haired woman glided more than walked into the room. Her thin, erect figure belied her age and Sam wished, not for the first time, that he had inherited her small frame.
She really looks healthy, Sam thought. Maybe . . .
"I have to pick up my Sammy. Can you tell me the time?" Her face had already knotted with the too-familiar first stage of worry. The only positive in this blasted mess was that "Little" Sam, their 13 year old, didn't have to endure his grandmother's foolishness -- at least not today. Sam's throat tightened as he tried -- and failed -- to remember the number of days since he'd last seen his son, who spent increasingly more time "out with his friends" instead of at home. Was it three days? Or four?
It's ten minutes after one, Mom." Becky rubbed her temple as the older woman left the room. "Sam, I hear there's a new minister at the church. We haven't gone in so long. Maybe he can ..."
"No. I've met him. Too young. Too idealistic. Wouldn't be able to understand what we're going through. And we're not the church type. He wouldn't ..."
"For God's sake, Sam! We have to do something." Becky stood, her hands covering her face, and walked toward the grandfather clock.
"It must be hell if she's like this all day long. I hadn't realized . . ." Sam felt the words catch in his throat. He knew Becky drank during the day. He'd smelled it that time, a few weeks ago, when he came home early. She turned, her hands rubbing together like the time they waited while Mary -- their firstborn -- had surgery. And died.

"This dog ain't gonna hunt, Sammy. Let's go home."
Sam recognized his mother's voice behind him, but ignored it and poured himself another drink. He wasn't drunk enough to face her. And he sure as hell wasn't ready to face his daughter's funeral. The amber liquid burned on its way down and he poured another, realizing his hand trembled.
"Samuel Adams McDonald, did you hear me?" She moved quickly, catching his arm before he could suck down the next drink.
"Mom ... I"
"You better believe it's your Mama. Not your god-damned boss that keeps you away all hours or your poor, suffering wife trying to figure out how to tell two sweet little three year olds that Sissy ain't coming home cause ..."
"Mother. Be quiet!" Sam threw out his arms, trying to push her away, but only managed to shove the bottle off the table, smashing it. She hadn't been "Mama" since he went to college and left all things childish behind.
Her face -- frozen in surprise -- stared at him. He covered his eyes, but could still see her anger as he spoke. "I ... I'm sorry. It's all so ..."
He shook his head, trying to ignore the throbbing in his temples. "Damn it, my baby died today."
She didn't say anything, but began rubbing his neck and shoulders like when he was little and the pain of the world overwhelmed him.
"I don't know why things happen like they do." Her voice was softer than the wind that came through the woods back where they used to live. "Nobody knows. But you've got to be there for those that need you, even if it means moving on before you're ready. When your pa died ..."
Sam jerked down his hands and turned on his mother. "That idiot of a preacher tried to tell me it was God's plan that Mary died."
"I know, honey." She pushed him down in the chair just as he realized he was trying to stand. "I heard him and I fired his ass from the funeral. That Methodist preacher Becky likes said he would talk over Mary."
"You did what?" The fog from the afternoon's drinking couldn't part enough for him to understand.
"Did I stutter, or weren't you listening?"
"No ma'am ... er ... I'm not sure." His head had begun to throb again and rising bile choked at his tongue.
"Preacher's don't know any more than the rest of us, so they shouldn't act like they do. I told the new guy to preach 'Jesus loves you' and will comfort those with burdens. Then shut up. He said he would.
Sam felt exhausted under the weight of her words and the spent emotion of the long day, starting before sunrise. She was right. He needed to get home to Becky. The uneven spin of the room, as he stood, surprised him, nearly causing him to fall. He leaned heavily against the table.
"I swear." She moved to Sam's side, trying to steady him with her small body. "If it weren't for Old Norris, I wouldn't believe any boy could ever grow up to be dependable. Left him waiting in the car, but you can bet he's scaring up a couple gallons of coffee to run through you."
Sam stared, realizing that all this chatter was her way of dealing with the pain and the loss. He took her hand, completely covering it with his own. "I already miss Mary so much."
"I know you do, honey. I miss her, too." She hugged him tight, this little woman with the incredible strength of will. For a second, he'd seen her about to cry, then she pulled him close and squeezed. Just as she had done all those years ago, after a four mile hike in the hot Texas sun to get to him.

"Don't want to admit she's like this, you mean." Becky had that blazing look in her green eyes that came whenever he'd done something to "get her Irish up." She slumped onto the far end of the sofa.
Sam searched the room for a hiding hole, a place to escape from sickening choices. Instead, walls of pictures stared back in an endless procession of his parent's family, his family and now the first pictures of grandchildren. Somehow, reality didn't fit the pattern on the wall. Mary should be grown and up there, with kids of her own. And "Little" Sam -- a surprise, as Becky called him -- seemed out of place, not belonging to any of the generations on the wall.
"God, I hate how fast time flies!" He slid across the sofa and took Becky's hand. "I'm really sorry to have put you through . . ."
"Do you know the time?" Mom had crept into the room without his notice and it surprised Sam that she could be so quiet. Her face had blotched red with the impossible search for her son. There was no look of fear or despair though. Not yet.
What the hell can I do, Sam wondered. This is the god-damned second biggest house in town. How can it feel so small?
The quarter-hour chime from the grandfather clock cut deeply into the silence.
"I really need to know the time. Sammy is expecting me." The old woman's hands clenched into tight fists and she glanced from Sam to Becky. "Can't you help me get there? It's a four mile walk."
"I'm Sammy, Mom. I'm . . ."
"What time is it?"
He couldn't tell if she disbelieved or ignored his statement.
"It's twenty past one." Becky's voice, soft and strong seemed to comfort Mom as much as it did Sam. The older woman's hands had unclenched by the time she again left the room.
"How did you get so tough?" Sam tried to smile, but couldn't force it on his face. He squeezed Becky's small hand in his own large one. She nodded, sadly. He added, "I thought I was the family lawyer."
"It started when I had twins. As I recall, you were signing a contract in Boston." Becky's "new girl in town" expression -- bright as her red hair and as deep as her green eyes -- burned away the darkness of the last six months and, for an instant, gave a glimmer of the young woman he'd met all those years ago. Gone at least for the moment were the troubles that separated them. Sam thought that, at this instant, he loved her more than he ever had.
"You'll never let me forget that will you?"
"No. But there is another reason I remembered it."
"And ...?" Sam had been in enough negotiations during his life to know he wouldn't like what she would say. His stomach tightened.
"Your mom took me to the hospital." Becky's slender face, framed by the still-brown hair, showed as much pain as Sam felt. But she could talk about it and he couldn't.
"I'm afraid I don't understand." He shook his head, trying to drive away the uncertainty. How long has it been like this? When did it all start? He knew the answer as quickly as the question came to mind. It had all started when Old Norris died and Mom moved in with them five years ago.
"It's time," Becky said. "I love her just as much as you do. She's meant more to me than my own mother or sisters ever did. But it is time to get her away from here."

"I think that's her now." Sam McDonald stretched his nine-year-old body, searching for the car he heard. Please, God, this time it would be her. It had to be. Then an old Chevy crawled around the corner and his stomach tightened. He looked into the red clay of the schoolyard and rubbed the toe of his worn shoe in the dirt.
"Well, I'm sure she will be here shortly." Mr. Norris, the principal of the school, handed a stained coffee mug toward Sam. "Here's some water. It's too hot to stand out in the sun. Why don't you come inside to my office and wait?"
Sam took the cup and drank the sulfur-smelling water until it was gone. "Thank you, but I have to wait out here. Mama told me she would come after school and we would get me some new shoes. Said I was to wait right here."
A crinkled grin cut small grooves into Mr. Norris' face, peeling away the formality which went with his ever-present white shirt, dark tie and dress pants. The barrel-chested Norris, six foot and late thirties, was what folks in town called a stout man. "Son, I'm sure she wouldn't mind us going over to sit beneath a shade tree."
Sam hesitated, but followed and slumped down under the old oak. He didn't know what to say to this big man, soft-spoken and kind the few times Sam talked with him, but known throughout the school as wielding a mean paddle against troublemakers. Mr. Norris loosened his tie and leaned against the tree before looking at Sam.
"Things have been tough for you and your ma, haven't they?" The man pushed his lower lip out and waited, as though for Sam to answer. But Sam didn't know what to say. Things just were, mama had said not too long after pa died. There ain't no fair or not fair to life. Just whether you could bear it and go on.
"Did your mother tell you I had her come in and talk to me?"
"No." Sam felt small and stupid talking to a grown up and he hated it.
"You did very well on the testing we did a few weeks ago. You're a smart boy, Sam. I'd like to see you make something of yourself."
"What do you mean, Mr. Norris?"
"Son, you could be a doctor or a scientist." The teacher shrugged. "Or even a lawyer or businessman. The point is, you could have more of a life than share cropping someone else's land."
"Would I make lots of money?"
"You might, but there's more to life than money."
Sam thought on Mr. Norris' words for what seemed like hours. The last few weeks, with Mama complaining about new bills coming up all the time, money seemed a lot more important than the man let on.
"Sam, I think that's your mother."
They scrambled to their feet, like two buddies caught doing something they shouldn't. It was Mama, but she was walking instead of driving their old Ford. Sam ran to her and she hugged him hard enough to kill three bears. They split apart only when Mr. Norris arrived with more water, this time for Mama.
"Oh, Sammy, I knew you'd be waiting. The car crapped out, wouldn't even start. I didn't know what else to do but start walking. I knew you'd be waiting."
"Mama." He buried his face into her sweat-soaked shirt. "I told Mr. Norris you would come." She would never let him down, just as she could always depend on him.
Mr. Norris' voice gently broke in. "That's four miles in the sun. Why didn't you call?"
"None of the folks along the way have a phone." She shrugged. "We don't have one any more. Times are tough, you know."
Norris began speaking, softly and gently. He would take them to dinner and then home. Tomorrow, he would see what he could do about getting her car fixed. Mama hesitated, saying she didn't take charity. She glanced at the sun, still strong in the horizon, and asked if Mr. Norris's wife would mind him giving them a lift home. The teacher showed his teeth and said he'd never been married, never even close. Mama smiled back and said then she wouldn't mind a ride, but she would cook supper and he could eat with them.

Sam sat without speaking. The weight of all these memories pushed him down, suffocating him. He longed to move out from under them, but they were as much a part of him as his hair, his eyes and his heart.
"The brochure from Shady Grove sounds like they will take good care of Mom. I think we should take her to visit." Becky stood and her hand pulled from his. "You decide. I'm going for the car, Sam. Either you get Mom and come with me, or ..."
She walked across the room, away from him. "If you don't come out to the car in ten minutes, don't expect me to stay. I can't. I'm all used up." Becky passed through the doorway and then glanced back. "I'll honk the horn once before I leave." She was gone without waiting for an answer.
Each tick of the grandfather clock felt like a pin poked in Sam's back. He stood, pushing hard against the twin shackles of guilt and fear. Thoughts never spoken aloud spurred him onward. Most of all, he felt afraid. Becky would leave if he didn't get moving. His fear was that she'd never come back.
The door to his mother's room stood open and Sam looked in to see her crying. She looked up and dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief.
"Can you help me find my little boy? My Sammy. I know he needs me."
"I'm going to take you to a place where they can help you."
"Will they help me find Sammy?"
"More than I can, Mama." He looked from the confused face to his watch. "What time is it, anyway? We better . . ."
Sam caught himself, realizing what he'd automatically asked, and began to cry. He stopped only after the long blast from his wife's Buick stole his breath. The drapes didn't budge as he fumbled with the damned pull cords. He clawed at and then jerked down the drapes from the wall. He finally got the sash raised. Still not seeing Becky, Sam kicked out the screen, waved and caught his wife's attention. She nodded, jaws locked, but not showing surprise as she should have. She would wait -- for now.
"Come on. We have to go." He put his arm around his mother to move her along. It was the first time in a long time that he had touched her -- she felt old and strange.
"Don't cry, Mister." Her gentle voice had, once upon a time, comforted him.
"This place we're going," she asked. "You said they would help us?"
"Yes." Sam wondered how many years he would have before someone -- some stranger he'd once loved -- took him on this same trip. He pulled shut the door to her room behind them and they started down the hallway, the longest walk in his life.

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