Month: May 2019

                                                                                    September 21^st, 1998

Jerry –

            Kid, I am sorry. Really, I am. I hope you can give me that. I shouldn’t have acted the way I did over that burial. I know I shouldn’t have, but there was a lot of history there and you know the trouble I have with the bottle, and how I go spouting off, acting out. I wish I’d done it different. It was complicated. I hope you can understand.

            If you’re reading this, I must be dead. I wonder how I went. For the longest time I couldn’t wait to be gone, was desperate for it really, but I didn’t have the courage to make it happen. If what it takes is courage. 

            I assume it was the drinking that got me. It doesn’t matter. Somehow, I figure my death might be the only reason you come home. I saw the stubborn determination in your walk when you left for college a couple of weeks ago – yeah, I was watching out the window when your Ma got you in the car to go – and I could tell you wouldn’t be coming home again. You’re stubborn. It runs in the family.

            I’m a prophet though, right? How many times did I tell you we all end up back in the earth, so we might as well do what we want while we’re above ground? If only I’d followed my own advice…No, I have no regrets. It all happened the way it was supposed to. But I was right in what I said, so now you have to believe all the stories I used to tell you.

            There are a lot of things I should have told you. I know you wouldn’t have believe them at the time, but they still would have been true. I’ll try now, though I’m not going to be emotional or sappy about it. It’s not in me.

            Will you look at this bullshit? I’ve written five paragraphs and haven’t said a word about it. I guess I’d been lying to myself for so long, I didn’t think a few more lines would matter. It’s time to stop hiding, to face down the truth.

            Brother, I am sorry for how I acted. It was my own weakness, my own anger driving me to do it. I can blame it on the bottle all I want, but it wasn’t the bottle’s fault. I was the one who couldn’t face this town or myself and fell into the bottle in the first place.

 I had a complex relationship with Billy Braithwaite. No one knows about it except for your Pap. Maybe someday have a chance to tell you, though I doubt it. Just know, he deserved what he got in this life and whatever sort of torment he may get in the next. What makes me angry is how he drove us apart.

            I shouldn’t have let it happen. I should have been bigger about it, but I was caught up in my own rage at life. 

            I had seen it in your face so many times, just how much like the old man you looked and I’d always denied it could be possible. I thought he was too upright, too good, too much a creature of habit to have strayed from his normal path. I thought he was too pure. I idolized him.

            And for years I took the abuse of this damn town, these inconsiderate, short-sighted, ungrateful slobs as I fought for his name. It was a ridiculous burden. One I should never have taken up. I was jealous of you not having to carry the weight, carry his name and it came out as we buried that asshole Billy. 

            Maybe it would have been better if Pap hadn’t confirmed it for me – I wouldn’t have carried the jealousy – but I think he knew his ticket was about to be punched. He loved you and your mother and wanted you looked after. He made me swear to never say a word about my knowing to either of you. Said he’d come back from the grave and haunt me the rest of my life if I did. If anyone was going to come back from the dead to exact revenge, it would be Pap. He was more stubborn and hard-headed than any mule.

            So you see, you come by it rightly, from both sides of your family.

            Yes, I’m still beating around the bush. We are family. We are brothers. Even now, having known for over a year, it feels strange to write the word familyto you. Thinking of you as a brother has never been a problem. I think that’s always how I’ve treated you, or at least how I’ve tried to anyway. I couldn’t get angry with you like I do the rest of the town, your family’d been too good to me, and you were such a sweet kid.

            Now I sit and really think about it, you are a lot like Dad, a kind, good soul.

            The soul. I know I come off hard, but I have to protect my soul. Every barb from these people, it’s like a knife in the stomach the way it cuts into me, taking the wind from my lugs, stabbing deep inside me. This town has worn me down in such a short time. I’ve had to build up these walls of callousness to keep the shreds of my soul from escaping through the cuts of their words.

            And I know they’re just words, but they make me so angry. The anger doesn’t solve anything though. I’ve hated this town hard for almost 20 years and it hasn’t done anything except left me feeling alone. And when you recognize that at the end all you’ve got coming is a dirt nap, you want something more than solitude. You want someone, or some few people with you, to provide some sort of comfort as you head out on your way. I don’t know how much longer I have to go before my light goes out, but I do know it’s too late for me to find someone. I’ve hardened off my heart.

            Don’t you do the same thing. Don’t be alone at the end. Bring people in close. It’s the one thing Dad wasn’t ever good at. He could sell someone on just about anything, but he couldn’t bring anyone in close. I won’t say it’s what drove my mother away. I don’t think she cared for him. I think she much preferred his money and prestige of the name Holmes. But he cared more for Berwick than he did for her, but he didn’t have anyone in the town he was close to. I knew he loved me, but he still kept me at arm’s length.

            His love for the town above people left him alone at his end too. I can only imagine what he felt. I don’t know it for a fact, but I have no doubt he let himself burn up in that fire. The only thing he really loved didn’t love him back, where else could he turn? What else could he do? It’s not how I would have wanted to go, but I’m sure whatever gets me will have it’s own form of intolerable pain.

            You have a chance Jerry. You have a real chance to have a great life. You have his goodness in you, and you don’t have the burden of this town’s hate for the name Holmes. If you keep at life with the work ethic of Pap and your Ma, you will go far and you will do great things.

            I’m proud as hell of you for getting out of this town and into that great school in the city. It’s a great accomplishment. I know you’ll learn a lot, and do good work. And then you’ll have to bring what you’ve learned back to Berwick. This town needs a good kick in the pants by a young blood such as yourself.

            It was jealousy made me behave the way I did. I could have just been angry, but I was jealous of you too. I was jealous and hurt. I was headed on the same course as you and then Dad died, Mother left, and the town let me lie under the weight of their expectations and blame. I had no chance to get out. I was bitter, because I felt how unfair life was.

            It’s been 20 years since I lost my opportunity – some of it was my own doing as well. I can’t believe I held it all inside up until that moment with you. I let my jealousy and my hurt over my father’s actions spill out on to you. I thought he was so good and so pure, and to find he was cheating on my mother, it hurt. In particular because it was your mother, who I loved from afar, and have loved from up close since I came to work for Pap.

            I don’t hold any of this against her. I assume my father talked her into it. He was a great, great salesman. It just stung, admitting to myself that you were his son and he wasn’t quite the man I’d put on the pedestal.

            Or maybe he was? We all have flaws. It’s unfair to expect perfection. Maybe our good works can outweigh our bad? I don’t know. I’m not one to judge, nor worry about the tipping of that scale, given how I’ve chosen to live my life.

            I don’t have any regrets. I can’t change anything that’s passed anyway. All I can do is apologize to you once again. I should have been better. Not being better, that I do regret.

            If I’d had more courage, I would have talked to your mother about my father, and about you and me, because I noticed. Long before Pap said anything, I noticed. But I chose to keep the truth from myself, and became comfortable with the lie. It was easier.

            If I’d had more courage, I could have been the older brother you should have had.

            If I had more courage, I would ask your mother for your address, and put this letter in the mail to you. But I don’t. I’m sure I’ll burn it up or destroy it later tonight once I’ve had a few.

            Your father was a good man Jerry. Your older brother wasn’t as good. Life won’t be fair. You’re gonna end up in the dirt someday, there’s no way to outrun it, so live now.

                                                                                                     Good luck Junior,

                                                                                                                        sh

            So now I’m trying to live. To take a few more chances. Maybe it will all go belly up. Maybe it will all work out. The end result matters, but I’m not going to let it consume me. I’ll be dead someday no matter what.

It may sound strange to hear that I go to work each morning. With the investments in the town and the literary ball beginning to roll downhill, it may seem I could live a life of luxury. And maybe I could, but I do in fact have a job. I like the routine. I need it. It makes me write. And you never know with the new ‘improvements’ we’re trying to implement. It could end up being money flushed, and then I’d need a little something to keep me solvent.

In the year after the passing of my half-brother, Mt. Hope couldn’t find a new caretaker. After so many decades, it didn’t feel right not to have a member of the family in charge.

I’ve moved back in to the caretaker’s cottage. It had remained unlived in since Ma left. Santiago never moved down from the apartment above the shed.

I left the old apartment alone, choosing to leave any memories it might contain to it. I had enough nostalgia to deal with being in the cottage again after so many years away. In my mind Pap still held court at the dining room table and Gram hummed away in the kitchen baking coffee cake. Ma came through in a hurricane of hugs and kisses hopping from one job to the next. I slept in a hammock on the porch the first week I was back, letting the place adjust to having an occupant again.

With the writing before dawn, labor in the cemetery and visits to my new properties, my days were full. I hadn’t done anything more physical than walk a few city clocks during my years in the city. Yes, I had spent time in the gym, but that was nothing compared to a day of manual labor.

For the first month, I would collapse into bed, or the hammock, if I made it out of the chair in the living room. I slept hard, better than I had in the city, where my nights had been haunted by doubts and self-loathing. Now, I didn’t have the energy for either. 

Just after the one-year anniversary of my return to Mt. Hope, I ventured up to Santiago’s apartment. It was the first day of fall and a cool west wind cut a swath of relief through the unseasonable heat in the cemetery. The breeze was a welcome sign of the shift towards the cooler temperatures of the dying season. 

When I brought the tractor into the shed that evening, the sun was falling over the Melanski and shadows were covering the shed. I was about to lock the door and head to the cottage when I heard a creak coming from above me. 

Thinking it might be some high school students who had snuck into the place, I tested the door leading up to the apartment, but found it as it had always been, locked. The floor creaked again. Twice. Almost as though someone were walking upon it.

I was certain it was just the old bones of an old building making their aches and pains known. The cottage reminded me of its age with the same noises each evening. I unlocked the door and started up the stairs just the same.

The steps gave easy groans under my feet as I cut fresh tracks through the thick layers of dust covering them. Had anyone been up there it would have been impossible not to leave a sign.

I reached the landing and looked into the interior. The fading light cast deep shadows over the apartment. Particles of dust danced in the few shafts that cut through the blinds. 

I walked around, kicking up more dust as I acclimated myself within the tiny space. Memories of evenings spent sharing a beer with the man who was my brother came flooding back to me.

I moved into the small kitchen area and found the same coating of dust. On the table where my brother took his meals was an unopened bottle of Jameson and a yellowed envelope with Juniorwritten across it in a neat, faded script.

I thought to leave the apartment, go back downstairs and pretend I’d never been up there, never seen the letter. I told myself it would be easier. 

But I’d already made tracks through the dust, so I grabbed a glass from its place in the cupboard and opened the bottle of Jameson. I poured a few fingers and took them back at a swallow. I poured a smaller amount and tugged on the chain of the light above the table. It crackled to life. I took a small sip from the glass and sat down to read.

So I came home. Mothers are always right. I was playing a bad hand, living in a city that had taken more from me than it had given, and I needed to stop. 

It didn’t happen over night. I had a few deals to close before I could leave, but by the time of the one-year anniversary of our conversation on the hill, I was back, entrenched in Berwick.

The city had taken something from my soul, sucking out my spirit, leaving me a living version of dead as I had chased a writing dream. I’d been well-received by one of my professors and even had a couple of short items published in the school newspaper. 

Upon graduation I took the clichéd path of writing during the days and working various service jobs in the evenings. Unlike all the greats, it didn’t work for me, and instead I was left bitter, broke and exhausted. 

Late in my 20s I turned to real estate. While not an overnight success, I discovered I had a knack for the business. My focus shifted away from what fed my soul and on to the making of money at all costs. 

But it took something from me, kowtowing to all these people with two much money on over-priced luxury apartments or selling to people with too little money apartments that were still over-priced by lacking in luxury. It was soul-sucking and made me question my purpose. 

I did become wealthy and that was the money that allowed me to come back to Berwick and try to make a difference. Hard work matters a lot, but money is the real game-changer.

I became the majority owner of the Daily Herald, Berwick’s newspaper. I’ve kept my hands off for the most part, asking only that our writers and editors focus on finding truth, no matter how ugly, within the community and surrounding areas. I also asked if I could write a once-a-week column. 

I’ve decided to do a sketch on a person or institution of Berwick to try and raise some interest in the community and its redevelopment. They were kind enough to allow me to do so, which I’d like to think was due to my writing acumen, but I know is more likely due to the perks of ownership. So far it has been well received by our readership.

I also bought the Tavern. It’s a bit run down these days, but with some work I can see great writing happening in a quiet bar with a glass of Scotch to the left of a typewriter, or in this day and age, a computer. I’m a bit of a romantic that way.

My last major investment was the Holmes Mills. The one my father died in is still a burnt out husk, but the other five are still standing in general states of disrepair. I don’t think there’s a single whole pane of glass in the whole place.

Ownership has changed hands a half dozen times in the last twenty-five years. None of the different owners had any idea what they wanted to do with the buildings. They all had visions of grandeur, but ended up with empty piles of bricks due to a combination of a lack of funding, community pushback and a fear of getting started.

            The lessons Santiago taught me have come home to roost. I’m going to be dead at some point, so I might as well do some living in the here and now. It seems such a simple lesson, and yet, fear always seems to have a hand on the wheel of my life.

            No longer. We’re renovating two of the mills, turning them into lofts and apartments, the same thing everyone does to repurpose the abandoned mills in these old factory towns. It wouldn’t be a renovated mill without a pub or microbrewery of some sort, so were adding one of those to the larger of the two buildings.

            The other two are going to remain empty for the moment. We don’t want to rush change to a town that hasn’t had much good going for it.. If all goes well, I’m thinking a coffee shop, but we’ll see. Sometimes people who have been down for so long, they can’t see to pull themselves back up. Revamping the mills isn’t the only answer, but it’s a start.

            I don’t think about death so much anymore. I don’t worry about my feelings towards it. If someone I know from the past or the present dies, I let myself feel whatever I feel, without self-judgment. After all, it is the destiny of all of us.

            Aside from the my column in the paper, I’ve taken up my pen again. I wake before the sun and put my thoughts on the page before I have to go to work. I find it best to get things down before the day intrudes. 

I think I’m getting better. I hope I am. My characters feel more fleshed out, more real, now that I’m interacting with the people who inspired them and the place they all live.

I did have an agent right out of college. There was potential. She’s been a loyal friend over the years, encouraging me to keep going, despite the twists and turns my life took. She also told me I was crazy to move back to Berwick. She wanted to know, if it was my dream to be published, how could I leave the heart of the literary world? It was a valid question.

Now, she thinks it might have saved whatever writing career I might have. She says my writing has never felt so authentic. She has even sold a few of my shorter pieces to small publications and there are whispers here and there about interest in a collection, or perhaps even a novel. As with the reinvention of Berwick, we’ll see. Baby steps.