The Breeze's Melody

Word count: 4,365

          Brown stubble rose from Peter's follicles like small, erect fence posts.  I could smell the alcohol on his breath as he neared me.  "Big Dog!" he exclaimed, leaning in to give me a hug. 

          "You couldn't get a little dressed up for a family get-together?" I asked, gently clutching the fabric of his cheap t-shirt. 

            He took a step back, seemingly gauging my sarcasm.  "I wear that fancy stuff all week, Big Dog.  My skin deserves to breathe on the weekend."

            I didn't argue.  We sat side by side on the couch.  Peter let out a deep sigh as he sank into the leather exterior.  "We watched some damn good cartoons from this couch back in the day, Big Dog," he muttered.  I nodded in agreement. 

            "Looney Toons...the good stuff," I added. 

            "And Ma used to yell at us every day..."

            "Around ten o'clock.  Yeah"

            I laughed.  "What was it she would say?  'Get your...'"

            "'Lazy asses up and do the dishes!'" Peter yelled. 

            We shared a zealous moment of laughter that was quickly interrupted by our gracious host. 

          "Gents!"

          "Pops!" Peter shouted.  We both rose to shake his hand. 

          "Look at this!" said Pops, "My politician and my businessman are together again."

            Peter forced a smile and made his way back to the couch.  Pops' ecstatic expression fell slowly as Peter sat.  I looked closely at Pops and spun around to join Peter. 

            Pops snatched his newspaper from the coffee table, eyed the front page, and mumbled something about the governor's I.Q. 

            "Well if I've ever seen a better-looking group of gentlemen..." exclaimed a shrill voice from the door. 

            "Ma!  How you been?" Peter asked.  She beamed affectionately at Peter. 

            "Oh just spectacular, honey!  And you?"

            "I'm holding up.  It's nice to have these long weekends.  Everyday has seemed like a sprint lately with elections coming up."

            "How are Philips' chances?"

            "I think he can get re-elected, but it's gonna' take a lot of ground work.  By the way, Ma, where's Morgan?"

            Ma grumbled, "She couldn't make it.  Listen, Peter, make sure you carve out some time for yourself in all of this madness.  There's no reason why the secretary of state can't have more freedom." 

            "Don't worry about me so much, Ma," he said, beginning to stand up.  He made his way for the kitchen.  "I need a beer.  Anyone want something?" he called over his shoulder. 

            We all refused.  Pops turned on the news.  Ma cast me a slightly confused glance and sat in one of the recliners.  When Peter returned, he had acquired a rather keen interest in that night's meal, so Ma darted out to the kitchen to make the finishing touches on the roast ham. 

              After dinner, Peter and I lounged on the back deck under the stars while Ma and Pops tuned in for the 9 o'clock news. 

          "This is nice, man," said Peter, "I wish we could do this more often.  I just don't have the damn time."  Peter slipped a box of cigarettes out of his pocket. 

          "What the...Peter, since when do you smoke?!" I blurted.

          "Relax, Big Dog.  I just need something to calm my nerves every once in a while," he said, holding a cigarette between his teeth. 

            The flame from his lighter danced upwards and illuminated the lower half of his face.  The protruding end of the cigarette crackled and a tiny orange ring appeared.  "I just have a lot going on right now, Big Dog.  I can quit these whenever I want to," he added from behind a smoky veil. 

            "What ever happened to exercise?" I asked.

            "I don't have any time.  Seriously.  I could barely squeeze this dinner in."

            I shook my head.  Some of the smoke cleared and I could make out the deep wrinkles that emanated from beneath Peter's eyes like ripples in a disturbed body of water.  His hands shook as he held the burning cigarette between his forefinger and thumb.  He took a long drag and the smoke seemed to fully envelop him now, but his eyes pierced through and surveyed the stars.  He  was summoning God, the unseen figure in whom he had placed so many years of faith.  He scanned the expanses of infinity for the passing of a comet or a flash of light.  Anything to affirm that his most divine friend was still there beyond the clouds.  He was crying for help behind the prematurely aged flesh of his face, and I couldn't even see it. 

            "These reporters will be the death of me, man," he said, his words mingling with a steady stream of vapor.  "False information...bullshit.  That kind of shit passes today: journalists who can't even print something that resembles the truth."

          "What have they been printing?" I asked.

          "All kinds of shit.  Quotes with so many ellipses they look like they're written in fuckin' braille, accusations of racism...I mean at what point did it become acceptable to publish falsities?"

          He sighed and took another long drag.  "They...they're even talking about a potential scandal," he muttered. 

          "What?  Who is?"

          "There's a journalist from the New York Times who somehow got in touch with Philips and threatened to leak some 'damaging' information.  He didn't say much more than that but he did say that it had something to do with Philips' days as a broker."

          "Laundering?"

          "That was my first impression, but I have no idea.  I had always heard whisperings that he had Swiss bank accounts but I dismissed them."

          "Well, you're safe right?  That seems like something restricted to Philips."

          "Well sure, but my job is contingent upon appointments.  If Philips gets impeached before elections I'm done."

          "I thought these were just rumors."

          "They are, but rumors rule modern media.  If this thing gets out, it'll spread like wild fire.  People will consider Philips a thief before he can even be indicted."

          "So it wouldn't even matter whether or not he was convicted?"

          "Nope."

          Peter didn't say another word.  He had spewed enough of his smoky anxiety. 

          Later that night, Peter called me.  "Big Dog," he said quietly, "I'm going to the 5 A.M. mass tomorrow.  You wanna' come?" 

          During the summer, when we were teenagers, we used to get up very early on Sunday mornings and go to mass.  After, we would get coffee at the shop across the street. 

          "Sure, but the coffee is on you," I said, chuckling.  He didn't laugh. 

          "Alright.  See you then," he said, and hung up. 

          It wasn't until I reached the church steps that I realized our church doesn't have a 5 A.M. mass anymore.  'Is he in there?' I asked myself.  I almost turned around and left, but I felt a sudden, prodding urge to go inside. 

          The inside was dim, but perpetually illuminated by God's glory.  As I began to walk down the center aisle, It struck me that I had interrupted some sort of divine conversation.  That's when I noticed Peter kneeling in the first pew.  I sat in the pew directly behind him and waited patiently.  He didn't move.  After about thirty minutes, he made the sign of the cross.  "Sorry, Pat, I was just paying the Big Man a visit," he said, kneeling.  He kept his eyes closed. 

          "What did He say?" I asked.

          "He said not to worry about the little things."

          "That's some good advice."

          "Yeah.  It's just so damn hard, man."

          I nodded in agreement.  I could hear Peter's deep exhalations. 

          "You know...sometimes I just sit down, close my eyes, and imagine that I'm sitting in a garden," he said, "a beautiful garden with birds of every variety and streams full of holy water.  With cherry trees in full bloom and grass so green and perfect I'm afraid to walk on it.  Mountains stand tall in the background like scales and I swear that I can reach up and touch the clouds.  And the Big Man is there, sitting across from me, wearing cotton robes so fine the fabric seems to glide across his skin.  And every time I show up he hands me a cup of the holy water, and we just sit there for hours by the stream and talk." 

          He paused and tears began to stream down the side of his face.  "I just wanna' go there, man...I just wanna' go there." 

          I stood up and sat next to him.  "I think that cup of coffee is calling your name."

          "Coffee does sound nice right now, big dog."

...

          The following days blended together in a whirl of blind labor and worldly concerns, all of it unrelated to Peter's predicament.  I may have talked to him once or twice during that time, but I forget.  The seduction of productivity was simply too strong. 

            At some point during that tornado of activity, the phone sitting on my office desk beckoned to me.  I finally picked it up and dialed.  No answer.  Twenty minutes later, I tried again.  Nothing.  When I picked up the phone for the third time, I had my sister Morgan in mind.

          "Hello?"

          "Morgan, it's Patrick."

          "Oh what's up?"

          "Nothin much.  Have you heard from Peter lately?"

          "Yes, actually.  I talked to him last night."

          "What did he say?"

          "Not much.  He was prepping for a meeting with the president of Poland tomorrow.  Said he was flying out at nine tonight."

          "Anything else?"

          "Just that I've always been his favorite little sister.  You know...Peter humor."

            I laughed, "yeah I know.  I'll just have to call him tonight before he leaves.  See ya', Morgan."

          "Bye."

          That night, around six, I tried Peter's cell one more time.  No luck.  He must have taken off to catch his flight. 

...

            The papers cried suicide, news anchors spoke of sleeping pills, TMZ spewed rumors of alcoholism, and my Ma...well, she just cried. 

            I think I preferred the sleeping pills theory.  That seemed to be the most appetizing way to go out: one long, warm, conclusive slumber.  Pete deserved that kind of passage into eternity. 

            The cop on the scene, the one who responded first, ignored me for a moment as he spoke to his partner, "Peter Wilkinson...white male...mid to late fifties...full head of grayish-brown hair...it's definitely him."

            "The Secretary of State?" asked the other cop. 

            The first officer nodded. 

            "Damn."

          They acknowledged me in unison, and identical expressions of uncomfortable sympathy washed over their faces.  All of the tears within me had been flushed out, so I didn't cry.  "Oh my God," the first cop began, "you...you're his brother.  I am so sorry, man." 

          I waved my hands in silent appreciation, "would there be any way for me to see him?  Just a quick look, I mean."

          The first cop placed his hands on his hips and looked at the ground, spitting tobacco as he went.  He cast an inquisitive glance at his partner. 

          "I'm sorry, but we can't," said the first cop, "it's still an open crime scene until we determine otherwise.  The CSI's are working as we speak, and once they finish up with the scene and the autopsy you can see the body."

          "I understand.  You're just doing your job."

          To be completely honest, I had absolutely no idea what to do next.  I couldn't have possibly gone back to work.  My Ma and Pops needed me, so I finally decided to head over to their house. 

          I held on to the door knob as I stepped inside.  I must have stood in the foyer, hand to door knob, for twenty minutes before my Ma heard me making noise and walked into the room. 

          Her tears were lukewarm.  "I couldn't go over there, Pat.  I just couldn't," she cried.  Pops appeared in the doorway, trying extra hard not to cry.  I nodded at him over Ma's shoulders. 

          Ma excused herself and headed upstairs.  Pops watched me closely and remained in the doorway.  I sauntered over to him and extended my hand.  The tense lines in his face broke and tears trickled down to his collar as he clasped my hand. 

          "He was a good man," Pops said, trembling now.

          "It's funny.  I always swore I would go out first," he added.

          Ma started down the stairs and Pops hastily dabbed his eyes with his shirt.  "Morgan will be here in thirty minutes," Ma said quietly. 

...

          God damn it.  Doing the right thing shouldn't be so damn hard. 

          It was Friday, the day the Wilkinson case opened up, and I was sitting in my office at the station.  My rotating chair teetered back and forth like my thoughts.  Rick sat in the cubicle adjacent to mine.  His chair was steady. 

          "What you thinkin' bout, partner?" asked Rick. 

          "Wilkinson."

          Rick discreetly rolled his eyes.  "Paul!  We already talked to the chief about this."

          "Did we do the right thing?  Did the chief even give the CSIs the whole story before they got there?"

          "Paul, they weren't big time CSIs.  They aren't gonna' leak anything.  We didn't have much time to prepare, but we managed to get some solid cover."

          "What about the 'maid'?  The one that 'found' Wilkinson?"

          "I called her last night and let her know what was going on beforehand.  She was somewhat confused, but she didn't object."

          "Was what we did illegal?"

          "I...I'm not even sure.  All I know is that the alternative would have been far worse."

          "The guy could have gotten counseling or something."

          "Paul, he was dead set on following through with it.  We didn't have a choice!"

          I bit hard into the nail of my forefinger, "What will the family do about the wake?"

          "I already set them up with a friend of mine that's a mortician.  After the 'autopsy' is over, he's gonna' take care of it.  I told him to insist on cremation."

          "Aren't they Catholic?"

          "For the most part, yes, but the mother is an Atheist, and when I explained the entire situation to her today she seemed set on burying him at sea, which is only possible, of course, through cremation."

          "That's good, Rick."

          "I know.  You gotta' learn to trust me, buddy."

            I sighed and turned towards my computer.  The writeup in the Washington Post stared me right in the face: Wilkinson Dies by Sleeping Pills.  So that's what they went for.  At least it doesn't sound painful.

...

          "Ma, you have to get out of the house!" yelled Morgan. 

          "I'm just not ready yet, honey."

            Morgan leaned her head back on the leather couch and exhaled deeply.  It was safe to say that Pete's death had taken a toll on her.  The silky, brown hair of her stress-free days was now a frizzy, tangled mess, and her rosy cheeks had packed their bags and moved to a warmer face. 

            In those days, she could have said the same exact thing about me, but I wouldn't have noticed the personal detriments.  My smooth comb over was well-maintained no matter what, and if I felt like I couldn't make it through the week, I collected myself and got a cup of coffee.  I always wore clean shirts, and I never cried in company.  I shaved every night and stayed away from alcohol.  My Ma and Pops couldn't bear to see me at my weakest, so I didn't let them.  It would have only made them weaker.

          Morgan was more honest than I was about how she felt, but she wasn't weak.  She was strong as hell.  Ma didn't leave the house for years after Pete's death, and it ate Morgan alive. 

          Pops took over all of the household responsibilities when Ma started to have her breakdowns.  He tried his absolute hardest to cheer Ma' up, but even fifty-six years of marriage couldn't reignite the energy that once charged their home.

          "Kate, just hear Morgan out.  Please!" Pops chimed in.

            She didn't utter a word.  Morgan leaned in, expecting an eventual response.  Ma buried her face in her intertwined hands.  I looked at Morgan encouragingly, but her weary blue eyes looked past me and she started for the kitchen.  "I need more coffee," she muttered. 

            I followed her in and went for a mug.  "Pot's empty," she said, reaching for the cabinet overhead.  "Pat," she whispered, "check this out." 

            I turned and peered into the cabinet.  What I saw resembled the candy aisle in a drug store at 9 P.M. on Valentine's Day.  Jelly beans, chocolates, truffles: all of Ma and Pops' favorites were sitting in a gift-wrapped box. 

          "Pops!" called Morgan, "What's all this candy doin' in the coffee cabinet?"

          "Your uncle Todd sent all that," Pops replied.  Morgan's face contorted and she dashed into the living room.  "Uncle Todd?  We haven't seen or heard from him in five years, Pops."

          "Oh, I know.  I found it a bit odd myself.  I imagine it's a silent admission of guilt for not attending Pete's funeral."

          Morgan nodded and pursed her lips.  I waltzed into the room.  "Listen, Pops," I said, "I gotta' catch a flight at eight and I haven't packed yet so I have to split."

          "Oh right I almost forgot: you have a conference in California," said Pops.

          "Yeah.  The merger we've been working on is nearly finished."

          "Good for you, Pat!  Good luck."

          I looked over at Ma, expecting some input, but I suppose my hopes were too high.  "Bye, Ma," I said.  She mumbled an unintelligible farewell as I planted a small kiss on the crown of her head. 

          When I finally found my way through the maze of security at Reagan National, my first-class seat proved to be an unusually enticing sight.  I have never loved flying, but the thought of having six hours to myself at 30,000 feet seemed, at the time, like a pleasurable proposition.

          It only took about forty minutes for the pilots to surpass the clouds. 

          I've always convinced myself that I don't have time to escape work.  Hell, that's why I'm still unmarried.  What I never realized is that the best escapes have always been right under my nose.  Like I said, I'm not flying's biggest fan, but disappearing for a few hours to scrape the sky isn't a half bad way to do some thinking. 

            Whiskey in hand, I got to wondering what it would be like to sit on the wing of a 747 in flight.  What would it be like to have the wind disperse your hopes and dreams?  To have each fragment of your thoughts fall slowly into the fertile soil below?  To grab God's paintbrush and decorate the sky with a mural of sentiments?  To watch one's livelihood sprout up from the soil of hope and blossom into a robust peach tree: now that is the American dream.  I think that is exactly what Pete did: he labored in the field of his aspirations until his own peach tree arose.  Pete painted his mural on the blue ceiling of the sky, and the sun shone on his field.  The only problem was that, over time, his tree spawned some sour fruit.

...

          LAX was packed, so making it to baggage claim proved more hectic than expected.  Somewhere within the sea of bodies that hovered around the flow of luggage, a man wearing a white sun hat low over his eyes spotted me attempting to penetrate the crowd and hauled my suitcase off of the chain.  "Thanks," I said, somewhat surprised that he knew which bag was mine. 

          "No problem, Big Dog," he replied in a friendly tone. 

          I stared at him blankly. 

          "You all right, man?" he asked, looking concerned.

          "Y...yeah.  Sorry.  Thanks again for grabbing my bag."

          "Don't worry about it."

          I shuffled outside as quickly as possible and flagged down a cab.  "Throw that case in the back.  It's open," yelled the driver. 

          From the moment my legs glided across the leather interior, I began, as I always did to pass time in traffic, reading into the cabbie's personality. 

          Cab drivers are, ironically, some of the most interesting people you will ever meet.  Future stand-up comedians, self-promoting rappers, former security guards, nocturnal screenwriters, you name it; they all seem to end up driving cabs. 

          The cabbie who happened to be taxiing me that day was the loud-mouth type that read the newspaper cover to cover each morning.  His coarse accent was indicative of a New Jersey childhood.

          "So what are you up to in L.A?" he hollered as we pulled away sharply. 

          "I'm here on business."

          "Oh okay!  A big-wig businessman wearin' a fancy suit.  I never would have guessed.  So, Donald Trump, where you from?"

          "Williamsburg, Virginia."

          "Ahh,  I see I see.  Nice spot nice spot.  I had a niece who went to college down there."

          In the mirror, I could see his lips shift to the right and eyes drift upwards as if he was trying to recall something essential. 

          "I'm remembering a big story out of Williamsburg from five years ago," he began, "big politician overdosed on sleeping pills I think.  Yeah, that's it, but it was the Secretary of State."

          I didn't say anything at first.  "You remember that?" he asked. 

          "Yeah I do."

          "I always found it so odd," he added.  "If the guy really died of sleeping pills, why would the family cremate his body?  There wouldn't have been any blood or anything to cover up.  And wouldn't they have wanted to see his body one more time before the burial?"

          I gripped the door handle tightly and looked out the window.  "Can you pull over please?  I need to make a call."

...

          "Rick, your phone is ringing!" I yelled.  Rick, with half of a pastrami sandwich dangling from his mouth and coffee in hand, rushed over to his cubicle. 

          "Hello?"

            Rick listened and looked at me quizzically, "Hey, Pat, how are you doing?  Yes, I'll be in the office until nine tomorrow." 

            He nodded, "Okay.  See you then."  His eyes wandered around his cubicle until he turned to me. 

            "Wilkinson?" I asked. 

            "We're in for it, Paul," said Rick. 

            The next day, Pat Wilkinson stormed into the station, and it was evident that he wasn't keen on sitting down for a cup of joe. 

            "I'm here to see Rick,"  I heard him announce to the secretary at the front desk.  Rick straightened his tie and ran a hand through his balding hair before rising to greet his esteemed visitor. 

          "Pat!" Rick boomed excitedly, "Come right over to the conference room when you're ready."

          Patrick Wilkinson, the successful businessman, fixated his dark gaze upon Rick's cheap suit, establishing a wall between them: a wall that did not permit the passage of trickery and generic statements. 

            Rick looked down and managed a final glance at my cubicle before shepherding Pat into the conference room.  The door to the conference room closed, and in the same instant, the door to Peter Wilkinson's secret opened.  The weight of suspicion had become a bit too much for such an entrance, but I was still confident that Rick wouldn't reveal too much.  After all, the information we had would be too bittersweet to reveal in one day.

...

         "Hey, Ma'," I said, walking into the living room.

            "Oh hey, honey," she said back, "I got a letter from your Uncle Todd today.  Apparently he's living in California now and he wants us to fly out this weekend for a visit."

         "On such short notice, Ma?"

         "Honey, we haven't seen him in forever.  You said it yourself.  Plus, I thought you wanted me to get out of the house."

         "I do, Ma."  I paused for a moment.  "You know what, Ma?  Fine.  We'll do it," I said, rubbing the sagging semi-circles of flesh under my eyes. 

         Ma jumped up from the couch and high-stepped out of the room.  "Terry, pack your bags!  We're goin'!" she hollered. 

...

         "Jesus, Ma!  Where is this place?" I asked, peering forward through the windshield of the rental car. 

         A crimson sun had settled on the pacific skyline, its golden rays painting our puzzled expressions.  Layers of intensifying color piled up and descended like rungs on a ladder towards the water.  With the winding cliffs of Northern California to our left, we drove on into uncertainty. 

         "Calm down, honey.  He said it was just past Westport." 

         "Well, we left Westport five minutes ago, Ma," I said with a sigh. 

         Pops grumbled.  "It's true, Kate," he muttered. 

         Ma shrugged her shoulders and pursed her lips as Pops began to scan the terrain ahead.  "Pat, I think I see something," he began, "It's...it's a small opening to the left of the main road.  See it?"

         "It's worth a try," I said, putting on my left blinker. 

         The bungalow that sat at the end of the drive and seemed to hang over the cliff's edge had an excessively raw appearance.  Its sheer isolation was indicative of an anti-social owner who enjoyed reclining in the company of solitude and his own thoughts.

         Cigarette smoke poured out the front and side windows, and a single lawn chair rested to the right of the house and faced the sun, conveying a silently audacious sense of comfort. 

         The tame grass whispered bits of gossip to the fleeting breeze.  A nearby wind-chime crafted a soft, brief melody that the breeze soon carried away to bid the sun farewell. 

         The sound of a lone, unidentified footstep emanated from inside.  Ma' and Pops took a step forward, attempting to see beyond the wall of smoke.  The initial footstep was accompanied by a second, third, and fourth until a thin outline of a man wearing a low sun hat appeared.  The outline, clothed in bright white pants and a bright white shirt that draped itself over his rugged, tan skin, stepped forward into the doorway and lifted the brim of his hat from his eyes as he turned slowly towards me.

         "What's up, Big Dog?" asked Pete.