Макс Коллинз - Road to Perdition

When he heard the footsteps at the hall, he’d been sitting on the edge of the bed, eyes shut tight, praying for his father — at this point, just that his father would return. Never mind any of the rest of it.

And then he opened his eyes, the footsteps very near, surprised to see light coming in the window — dawn — and the key turned in the lock... the boy’s hand moved toward the small revolver on the nightstand... and the door opened.

Papa.

The man shut the door behind him and rushed to the boy, dropping to his knees, and Michael threw himself into his father’s arms. Had their embrace been any tighter, it would have hurt.

Then Papa held him by the arms and looked into the boy’s face. “The man who killed your mother and your brother,” he whispered, “is dead.”

“Good... Did he suffer?”

“Not enough,” Papa admitted. “But the world is rid of him.”

“And... Mr. Looney?”

“He’s gone, too. It had to be, son. Don’t ever ask me of it.”

“I... I won’t, Papa.”

His father sighed, smiled tightly. “... And now we can finally go on with our lives.”

“To Perdition, Papa?”

“Yes... but together.”

They hugged again. Michael closed his eyes, blinking away tears — and the brightness of the dawn. The way the sun was pouring in the window, you would never know how hard it had rained last night.

My memories of the drive to Perdition may be less than trustworthy. Everything I remember prior to that day is a winter memory — largely in black and white, like old movie footage, or some people’s dreams .

But the drive to Perdition, in my mind’s eye, is in full color, dominated by the clear blue of the sky and the green of a world that had had been bleak winter yesterday and was glorious spring today .

Surely these recollections are influenced by emotions and time — the last day of winter is not a dead thing, with the first day of spring an explosion of life .

Yet that is how I remember it. And while I have endeavored in these pages to provide the reader with factual background material, the most valuable commodity I have to offer is my memories — however accurate or inaccurate they may, at this late stage of my life, be .

I am, after all, the only one left. I’m in my winter now, recalling the spring day we drove to Perdition .

They had spoken little, on the first day of the trip to Perdition, but a new warmth seemed to bind them. Smiling like the child he still was, the boy was enjoying the spring day, drinking in the sun, hanging his head out the window, letting the wind skim over him and roar in his ears. That his son had retained a certain innocence after this ordeal was a small miracle — that the little revolver O’Sullivan had given Michael had never been used gave O’Sullivan strength, and hope.

The man did not want to spoil the boy’s joyful disposition with what he knew would be disappointing news. He intended to leave Michael with Bob and Sarah — just for a while — until he had started a new life, perhaps in the old country. He wanted to make sure this was really over — that Capone’s people indeed weren’t after them... and that Frank Nitti could be trusted.

Michael would be disappointed, but O’Sullivan would make him understand that this was only a temporary state of affairs. In six months, a year at the most, he would send for his son; and they would start over — clean, fresh... a second chance.

They stayed at a motel in Missouri, knowing they would be at the farm on the lake by the next afternoon, evening at the latest. And now, gliding down paved roads — the sun reflecting off the green leaves so brightly, the man had to stop and buy sunglasses — they began to talk. For the first time, the father and son seemed to share something beyond blood — they liked each other. They were comrades who had shared hardship and weathered adversity, who had helped each other through a difficult, even tragic time.

But there was nothing serious about their conversation, with only a few passing references to Annie or Peter. Michael asked him what it was like growing up as a boy in Ireland, for example; and O’Sullivan was only too glad to tell him. And somehow his son seemed instinctively to know not to ask about his combat experiences in the Great War. They both had had enough of their own war, in recent days.

Then O’Sullivan — feeling more than an occasional twinge of guilt over how little he really knew about the boy — would question his son about his likes and dislikes. He heard the entire story of how the Lone Ranger was the last of a band of Texas Rangers who had been “betrayed and bushwhacked by the Cavendish gang.” He heard about Tom Mix, and Mickey Mouse, and Little Orphan Annie.

And that the boy, it turned out, was really interested in sports — an enthusiasm of Michael’s that O’Sullivan had only been vaguely aware of.

“I’m a good shortstop, you know,” Michael said.

“I bet you are. Are you fast?”

“You couldn’t beat me.”

“Ha. Care to wager?”

“Save your money, Pop.”

“Did you play at the Villa?”

“No... the diamond’s over at Longview Park.”

That cast a slight pall — Longview Park was on 20th Street, across from the Looney mansion.

“Well, maybe I’ll take you to a big-league ballgame,” O’Sullivan said, shifting the subject slightly. “We could see the Cubs play.”

“But we’re going to Kansas.”

“We’ll have our car... Anyway, Kansas is still America, last time I looked.”

The boy was shaking his head. “They don’t have a team.”

“They have a minor league team.”

“What’re they called?”

O’Sullivan shrugged. “I don’t remember.”

“See what I mean? They don’t have a team.”

“I’ll take you to see the Cardinals in St. Louis.”

That excited the boy. “Really? They could take the pennant this year — they’re really good!”

Later, Michael asked his father about music. The boy approached this delicately, and finally O’Sullivan figured out why: Michael only knew his papa could play piano because of the duet O’Sullivan and Looney had played at the McGovern wake.

“Did you take lessons?” the boy asked.

“No... I just picked it up. By ear, they call it.”

“Really? You could hear the notes?”

O’Sullivan, driving casually, one hand on the wheel, shrugged. “Well, you just sort of hit keys and listen and remember... It takes time. My grandmother had a piano.”

Michael’s eyes were wide with interest. “I never met her.”

“No you didn’t. But she died on this side of the ocean.”

“The Atlantic.”

“That’s right, son.”

Somehow it bound them further, this sudden realization that they both had lived lives filled with incident and interests; O’Sullivan looked forward to getting to know his son even better. And he could tell, from the boy’s questions, that Michael felt the same.

By late afternoon of the second day they were on a rural gravel road, surrounded by startling foliage.

“How can Kansas be so green?” Michael asked, as his father pulled up alongside the road, near a dirt trail through high grass leading to lush woods.

“It’s always green, near any lake, this time of year,” his father said.

“... Why are we stopping?”

“Because we’re here.” O’Sullivan considered taking this moment — alone together — to tell his son about his need to leave; but he couldn’t bring himself. Anyway, maybe he could stay on at Perdition. Open a shop in the little town. Or find a farm of his own...

“We’ll walk the rest of the way,” O’Sullivan said, getting out.