Макс Коллинз - Road to Perdition

Out the window, where the wind whispered through, making ghosts of the sheer curtains, the vast, peaceful expanse of blue that was Fall River Lake glistened in the dying sun.

But by the time Michael moved from his late father’s side, easing the man gently to the linoleum floor, the moon was bathing the gently rippling lake in ivory. Michael removed his father’s coat, bundled it up into a makeshift pillow, and placed it under Papa’s head, so he could rest better.

A scratching sound caught Michael’s attention — the dog at the front door; and when he let the animal in, it led the boy back into the kitchen, and the pantry, where he found the bodies of his uncle and aunt, on the floor between walls of shelved canned goods. He was surprised to see them, but he didn’t look at them close, or touch their bodies — just shut them back in, almost apologetically, as if he’d opened the wrong door and disturbed somebody. The dog positioned itself at the pantry door and whined.

Then Michael took stock of the situation, thinking it through as best he could. Finally, he took the car keys from his father’s right-hand trouser pocket, and lifted the gun from Papa’s stiffening fingers, and stuck it in his waistband. After kissing his father on the forehead, Michael left the kitchen, not even glancing at the sprawled scarred dead assassin in the center of the floor.

The dog scampered after him, and followed him through the woods to the car. From the back, Michael gathered what he needed, putting the stack of newspapers on the seat behind the steering wheel and affixing the blocks to the pedals. As the boy drove off, he was not thinking about where he was going; nor was he crying. He was worried, deeply worried...

... about his father. Papa had asked Michael’s forgiveness, and Michael would gladly have forgiven his father anything, even though the boy didn’t feel there was anything that needed forgiving.

But Michael O’Sullivan, Jr. — like his late father — was a good Catholic; and he knew that he couldn’t give his father forgiveness... only a priest could do that. If a priest had been there, Papa would have been forgiven, that was certain. Last rites... absolution of his sins. And with no priest present, did that mean his father was in hell?

The boy and the dog slept in the car that night, in a park called Indian Foothills outside Marshall, Kansas; and in the morning Michael remembered the sealed envelope with his name on it, which Papa had put in the glove box, saying, “That’s for you... in an emergency.”

Seeing his father’s handwriting made the boy simultaneously happy and sad, but — along with a fat wad of money and some keys — the sheet inside was not a letter, not even a note, just a list of banks with some numbers... wait! There were also instructions; Papa had even drawn a little map for him...

Hammer in hand, nails in his teeth, Bill Baum was working on the new roof for his farmhouse when their visitor came calling. Taking advantage of the generosity of that outlaw father and son, the Baums were rebuilding their farm. But life here remained hard, and Bill was sweating in his overalls, up on his ladder; and so was his wife Virginia, out working in the field.

The sound of the approaching car raised the attention of both Baums, and they turned from their work to watch as the maroon car drew nearer, kicking up dust in its wake. The car pulled up alongside the barn, and the boy got out. A big overeager mutt clambered out of the Ford after him and followed the young man, who — suitcase in hand, bareheaded, neatly dressed in white shirt and suspenders and new trousers — moved across the field toward Sarah.

Bill climbed down his ladder to go join them. Judging by the youngster’s somber expression — and the absence of his father — bullets had finally made an orphan of him. Much as the farmer hated the thought of that, he was pleased to have this boy once and for all out of harm’s way.

And Bill already knew he would repay the generosity of the lad’s father by taking in the son — not just putting a roof over the boy’s head; but giving young Michael a decent Christian upbringing, and heading him in the right direction, down life’s rocky old road.

When he reached the boy, and tousled his hair, Bill found the boy hugging Sarah, desperately; but Michael O’Sullivan, Jr., held back his tears.

He was older now, and his father’s son.

The story of the soldier who was my father ends here .

Over the decades, I read what was written about Michael O’Sullivan, Sr. (and Michael O’Sullivan, Jr.) — newspaper stories, magazine articles, sections of books, even whole volumes dedicated to our weeks on the road. Some have called Michael O’Sullivan a fiend; others an avenging angel. He was described as a modern Robin Hood; and he was termed a cold-blooded hitman .

In 1960, the Robert Stack TV show “The Untouchables ” did an absurdly inaccurate episode about us; and there were three movies, one starring Preston Foster and Jimmy Lydon in the 1940s, another in the mid-’60s with James Coburn and Billy Mumy, and (as I mentioned earlier) a big-budget version with an Oscar-laden cast is in production as I write this .

Since everyone else has had their say about our story, I have finally broken my silence and spoken my piece. For years I rebuffed the advances of editors and would-be coauthors; still, I guess I always knew I’d write the story of the man who was neither fiend nor angel... just my father .

The Baums were Baptists, but — in my young adulthood — I returned to the Catholic church. In recent years, as other, later events of my life have come to light, more questions have arisen. As I’ve reported, my father’s last act was to spare me from killing Harlen Maguire; but I fully expect to be accused of manipulating the facts in this narrative — some will no doubt insist that I indeed did pull that trigger... that, there being no statute of limitations on murder, I have fobbed that deed off upon my father .

Believe what you will. Whatever happened in that kitchen in that house along Fall Rivers Lake, I did walk away with my father’s .45 Colt, inheriting the weapon he brought home from the Great War; and I was my father’s son, after all, with a family tradition of vengeance. That, however, is my story; and this has been my father’s .

Two things may help explain why I eventually chose yet another road for my life. Like my father... like so many of us... I finally came to understand my need for redemption. At the same time, throughout the life I’ve led since Papa’s death, I have been haunted by his dying request for my forgiveness, in absence of a priest .

These are high among the reasons why today I wear a backward collar, and sit on the listening side of the confessional booth. To date, however, I must admit I have not yet heard any sins to compare to those that turned a country priest ghost-white one winter afternoon .

There can be little doubt of what my father exclaimed that rainy night in Rock Island, when he stood against Looney and his army of bodyguards: “ Pray that God never puts you on my road! ”

If you will allow a preacher his sermon, what Papa failed to understand was that he had chosen his road; so take it from an old outlaw hiding out in priestly garb... God has nothing to do with the bad choices men make of their own free will .

Though I would make one simple request of you, in exchange for this wisdom: pray, would you, for the soul of Michael O’Sullivan?

Both of them .

NOTE: This is a slightly revised version of the original acknowledgements essay that appeared with the radically shortened 2002 edition .