When Johnny was young, he never liked the dark. He would look at me, from his bed, and say, "Put out the night, Daddy." And I’d lean in, kiss his forehead, and click the bedside lamp, and he would go to sleep in a familiar world. 

 

It was so easy then, just turn on the lights. But things are different now. There is no lamp bright enough to kill the darkness the judge brought down. “He has killed a man,” the judge had said, his voice as heavy as a tombstone. “That is forever. That has consequences.” The police enforced those words with steel bars and concrete. And here I am, thinking about all that he has to go through, all that is being uncovered, some of which I will remain oblivious. It is too much for my mind to hold. It is too much for a child to face.

 

I find myself thinking of the old nursery rhyme: Humpty Dumpty sat on a great wall. Humpty Dumpty had a great fall. The king’s horses and the king’s men couldn’t fix Humpty Dumpty. And neither can I undo the current moment. And many more similar moments to come.  For the first time, I realise how stupid the guardsmen must have felt.  Standing here, I feel as useless as those guardsmen. I am incapable, worthless, and realized far too late that I was never even playing on the winning side.

 

A sudden, visceral fear grips my insides. Fear of what awaits Johnny, fear of having failed as a parent, fear of all the things I cannot think of at the moment. The grip of fear is intense and real, like a giant’s hand lifting me toward a sky I don’t recognize. And I realize that fear, like love, has many facets, like a shining star. One type of fear begins when you buy into someone's lies, and later be caught up in the maze of such lies and their profound consequences.

 

Lies. They are terrible. They are strong. They are living things. They grow. They take physical form, outrunning you to reach the future first, overshadowing it with gloom. It’s like standing on a shoreline and being swept away by a sudden deluge. You aren't ready. You aren't fit for the current. As you drown, a feral urge takes over. An urge not to fight, but to surrender. To let the water replace the air in your lungs until you float, lifeless and silent, back to the edge of the world.

 

The thought is surprisingly soothing. It could be easier that way. I could walk through the days, and no one could see me. I wouldn’t touch them, and they wouldn't touch me, like a ghost. It would be nice too. Except for one thing, I could still see too damn much.

 

Just like the night I went downstairs at 1:30 am. I couldn't sleep. I recall, Cindy, my wife, walked through the kitchen door just as I reached the bottom of the stairs. She looked at me, with my pyjamas wrinkled, my hair unkept, and my face sallow; I was nothing much to look at. As for me, it was like seeing Cindy for the first time. She was a vision of disarray. Her hair untied and allowed to fall on her bare shoulders. Her shoes were clutched carelessly in her left hand; her handbag hung on her right shoulder; her skirt was hiked higher than I liked. We stared at each other, like two strangers trying to recall a distant memory. Faint, red halos hung around her eye, the kind that always hung there after doing the act, until sleep washed them away. She knew that I saw them, and that I knew what she had done. Without a word, I pushed past her. There was a strong smell of sex around her. 

 

I dragged myself across the kitchen floor while she walked up the stairs. I felt something crawling up my stomach, a yellow streak I never knew was there. I swallowed hard and retreated to the small room where I kept a case of bourbon. I opened a bottle, took one big sip and swallowed hard. 

 

I should give a medal to the one who invented bourbon. Gin tastes like medicine, rye smells like cheap perfume, whiskey stings like a hornet, but bourbon is the cream of them all. You never get drunk drinking bourbon. It fills up the holes and cracks of your soul and makes you feel sturdy again.

 

I took one more bottle and went back to my room. I heard Cindy singing softly in her room. I felt the yellow streak rise again. I poured bourbon on it. I finished the twenty-second bottle for the day. But even the alcohol failed to close my eyes. 

 

I found myself listening to the sounds that came from Cindy's room. I remember thinking about the days when things were great between us. When she was still a desirable wife, in bed and in life.  For the first time, I realised it’s been over two years since she and I last had it. I guzzled down the second bottle to kill the memory.  Finally, a stupor claimed me, and I disappeared into a blank, hollow sleep.

 

But I couldn't sleep forever. The nights were always short and unsatisfactory. Like they are even shorter as I think about Johnny. I walked out on him seven years ago, and seven years is a long time for a father to be away from home. A lot could happen in seven years. A child could grow up and be many things you never wanted for him. In seven years, a child could grow into a murderer. I recall when I was at war on the British side, I had to set the clock back several hours to have the correct time. It was so easy, just turn back the hands of time, and you have several hours to live all over again. I wonder why, if it were that easy, no one had invented a machine that could do it for years. I would turn back the clock seven years, and Johnny would be a free child, smiling and happy. No, I’d turn it back almost sixteen years, back to the night he was born. 

 

I remember those hours in the sanatorium. Cindy was given a Pentothal after delivery and could not even look at the baby in the delivery room. When the nurse rolled up the curtain and showed me my son, I spun. His little red face was sullen with glistening black curly hair, and his little fingers were tightened into angry little fists. My insides twinged. I could feel the pain of being born, the shock that that little soul had had in the first few minutes on earth. I looked down at him, and I knew, even before he opened his eyes and then his mouth, that he was going to cry. We were on the same frequency. He was mine, and I was his. We belonged together. Tears hit my eyes for the tears he couldn’t shed. His tiny wail penetrated my heart. The nurse rolled down the curtain, and I was alone, but I was a father.

 

Little did I know that two years later, I wouldn’t be allowed to touch him, to be his father. Cindy claimed he wasn't mine. I don’t know what to believe. Deep down, I know he is mine, but sometimes I wish I could believe her lie. Everything would be easier, except for one thing, it wouldn’t wash away all the years I had been with Johnny; the years he belonged to me more than anybody else, even his mother. I should have taken him and run. But I didn’t, because I was a bankrupt coward. I thought it took money to raise a child when all Johnny needed was a father’s love. 

 

Johnny was always happy to see his mother, but Cindy never loved him; in fact, she never loved anyone. She always had her work, her projects, and Johnny was something to have around if he wasn’t in her way. If he was any kind of inconvenience, off he went to his grandmother’s.

 

Cindy never cared how the next person felt and wouldn’t share anything she figured was hers. That’s the way Cindy was. The only thing that mattered to her was keeping what she wanted. And I remember our last day in court. Everything had been settled by then. She had had her divorce. I was penniless and beat, and my name was mud everywhere, as Cindy had promised. The only thing left was Johnny’s custody. We went into the Judge’s chambers for that. It was only meant to be a formality. We had already agreed that Johnny would spend thirteen weekends a year and part of the summer with me. I took the seat opposite the judge, while my lawyer explained the terms of the agreement. The judge nodded and looked at Mark Matthews, Cindy’s lawyer, the best lawyer there was, and Cindy could afford him.  “It’s a fair agreement to me, Mr Matthews.”

 

I recall that just then, Johnny, who was playing with his ball on the far side of the room, called, “Catch, Daddy!” The ball rolled across the floor, and as I knelt to pick it, I heard Mark’s reply.

     “It is definitely not, Your Lordship.” I looked at him in disbelief. This was something we had fixed the previous day. I looked at Cindy, her brown eyes seemed to look through me. I rolled the ball back to Johnny. Mark went on, “It is the conviction of my client that Mr Meadows has no parental rights.”

 

    “What are you talking about?” I asked, straightening up. “I am his father.”

 

    Mark’s eyes were unfathomable. “Haven’t you ever thought it strange that the baby was born only seven months after your return from overseas?”

    I struggled to hold my fury. “Mrs Meadows and her doctor assured me that Johnny was okay.” 

 

    “You were naïve, Mr Meadows,” Mark said, turning to the judge. “Mrs Meadows wants to inform the court that the baby was conceived six to seven weeks before Mr Meadows’ return from overseas. In light of that, which she has no doubt that Mr Meadows has long accepted to himself, Mrs Meadows asks for sole custody of her son.”

 

    I turned to my lawyer, my voice a low growl. “Are you going to let them get away with this?”

 

    My lawyer turned to the judge and said, “I’m seriously disappointed by this on the part of Mr Matthews. Your Lordship must recognise that this is contrary to the agreement we reached with him yesterday.”

 

   I could tell from the way the judge spoke that he, too, was disappointed, though his language was tactically neutral. “I am sorry, Counsellor, but you must realise that the court cannot enforce any agreements made outside this court.”

 

    My rage finally blew. “To hell with the agreement then. Let’s fight the whole thing out.”

 

    My lawyer took my hand and turned to the judge. “May I have a moment with my client, Your Lordship?” 

 

    The judge nodded, and he pulled me to the window. We stood there facing outside. “Do you understand what that means, Elvis? You’d be admitting publicly that your wife cuckolded you while you were at war.”   

 

     “What of it? The whole town knows she’s screwed her way from the lousiest to the busiest street!” I yelled. 

 

    “Stop thinking only about yourself, Elvis. Think about your son. What will this mean to him if it gets out? His own mother labelling him a bastard on the public record just to spite you?”  

 

    I stared at him, wide-eyed. “She wouldn’t dare try!”

 

    “She already has,” he said plainly.

 

    I didn’t speak. I couldn’t dispute that. Just then, Johnny shouted again, “Catch, Daddy?” Almost robotically, I bent and picked up the ball. Johnny came running and threw himself into my arms. I squeezed him against my chest. Cindy was lying. She had to be. Somehow, I felt it deep inside that Johnny was my son. 

 

   I looked across the room. At Cindy, at Mark, at the judge and his secretary. They were all watching us. All except Cindy. She was staring at some point above my head. I looked at Johnny’s face opposite mine, and felt an ill, crushed feeling rise inside me. My lawyer was right. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t take a chance of hurting my own child.

 
    “What do we do now?” I murmured.

 

    I could see the sympathy in my lawyer’s eyes. “Let me talk to the judge.”

 
   I stood there with Johnny in my arms. He returned a moment later. “Five weekends a year. Four hours on Sundays. That’s the offer?”

 

    “Do I have a choice?” I asked angrily. He shook his head, almost imperceptibly. “Okay,” I said. “God, how she must hate me!” 

 

I looked down at Johnny’s little face. I blinked to keep back the quick, salty tears. “I love you,” I whispered

 

Cindy stood up and came to us. “Come with mommy home, Sweetheart. It’s time to go.” Johnny looked at her, then at me. I nodded as Cindy held out her arms. For the first time, Cindy looked at me over Johnny’s head. There was triumph in her eyes. The same triumph I saw when she had won something she’d worked hard for in her artwork. To her, Johnny wasn't a soul; he was a piece of art she had made, a possession to be kept from others. She put Johnny down, and side by side they started for the door.

     As Cindy opened the door, Johnny turned back. “Are you coming too, Daddy?”

    I shook my head. Tears had come into my eyes, blurring my sight, but I managed to say, “No, dear, Daddy has to remain here and talk to the good men.” 

 

    “Okay, Daddy, bye.”

 

    The door shut after them. I remained there long enough to sign the necessary papers.

 

Almost sixteen years ago. Even that wouldn’t be enough. Sixteen years wouldn’t have stopped anything. Nineteen years would be more like it, for I wouldn’t have met Cindy, and Johnny wouldn’t have been born. 

 

Coming to think of it now, I signed those papers. Signed away my right to protect him. I signed him over to a woman who didn't love him, and a system that didn't care. He is reaping the bitter fruit of my irresponsibility. He is a victim of my cowardice, validated by my own signature.

 

I wish I could see Johnny one last time. I want to say, “I’m sorry, my son. Sorry for all the things I did; the bad decisions I made; the stupid choices my heart went for, like it did when I picked your mother. Sorry for the bourbon, too. I’m also sorry for all the things I didn't do, and those are too many. I understand that you will need many years of therapy for you to be a good man, for the man you were meant to be.”

 

But sorry is a small word for a life sentence. That makes my knees weak, and I kneel. For the first time in years, I find myself trying to remember how to pray. “Oh, gracious Lord, send your guardian angel to my son, heal his wounds and heart; and guide him to the sacred plans of your will. In the meantime, judge me not, oh dear Lord, for what I'm about to do. Grant my soul a little respite and let me rest in peace with my forefathers. . .”