Willy didn’t die in that accident. Not in the physical way that a person dies, like the way his wife and son had died. But in the way a living human dies when their family is gone; when a child’s chatter is silenced and the aroma of a favorite stew made by a wife is replaced with fast-food burgers eaten on the run. Since the accident, Willy’s emptiness filled with Jack Daniels and Coors every night at Coakley’s bar in Chatham. The bar was one of the few places still standing at the west end of the dock and avoided by New York tourists. Locals called it “the dark side” because of the burned out streetlights, and because the ebb tide beneath the splintered planks washed up cracked seashells and used condoms. Coakley’s was one of the few places in town where dockworkers and shrimp catchers could go without having to shower first. After six o’clock at night, the dark paneled room, decorated with hanging nets and plastic starfish, was filled with burly fishermen who never took off their hats and wore khaki vests smelling of mackerel and cod.

           Willy pushed aside the mug of beer on the counter and looked up at the clock next to the Miller Lite sign. Two o’clock in the morning. Drinkers mumbled and coughed from the cigarette smoke. Chuck, the owner, was closing up the place, giving the bottle caps one final twist, and wringing out the cloths wet from spilt drinks. He swirled a towel inside a glass and stared at Willy.

         “Closin’ up, Willy,” he said. There was a hint of an Irish brogue in his voice that always became more pronounced the later it got. “Don’t ya’ gotta work tomorrow?”

         “I haven’t decided yet,” Willy told him, shrugging his shoulders.

         “Work keeps ya’ busy, man. Keeps ya’ mind off ya’ troubles.”

         Troubles. It had been two months since the terrible accident near Falmouth that took the life of Willy’s wife and son. The police figured Jenny was probably punching in some numbers on her cell phone when she ran a red light and a tractor-trailer hit her and kept going. The truck driver skidded about 100 yards with the car attached to the truck’s front grille before it ran into a tree. The trucker died and they had to cut through the mangled chunk of metal to get her out, her body in pieces. Along with the cell phone, they also found an open make-up case on her broken lap and she was covered in green eye shadow. The cold and drizzly night of the accident, a police officer had stepped onto Willy’s porch, took off his hat but kept his head bowed down as if he were looking for something he’d lost.

       “Are you Mr. William Devanport?” he had asked.

       “Yes, that’s me.” Willy said. He tried to focus on the raindrops beading up on the officer’s jacket.

        “Your wife was in a fatal accident. I’m sorry. You’ll need to come down to the hospital and identify the body.”

        The rain had fallen in sheets and the tide slammed against the pier in the distance. He didn’t cry at first, just took a deep breath. The officer took one, too. There was more he had to tell Willy.

      “You have a son. Tyler. Is that right?”

      Willy’s heart almost stopped. His insides numbed.  “My son, yes. He’s at a friend’s house.”

      The silence was heavy, a million pounds. The police officer kept a steady gaze at his feet.

        “He was with your wife. In the car. He’s dead, too.”

        It seems they had found an emergency contact number, a family picture in her crushed purse, and put two and two together.

        Coakley’s jukebox fell silent. The last song of the night had been a forgettable pop tune about love everlasting. Willy grabbed the beer mug with both hands and took another swig. The remaining customers left, one of them slapping Willy’s shoulder as he stumbled past, another shouting out some joke about a prostitute and a priest. Chuck grabbed Willy’s half-full mug without even asking if he was done, and tossed the beer in the sink.

        “Ya’ gotta go now, Willy,” he said. “Get on with life. Get a companion. There’re lots of nice ladies in Chatham that would love to put their arms and legs around a big lug like you.”

       “Maybe someday, Chuck.”

        “Don’t wallow in the grief. Bad for your health. Get some company. If not a woman, then a pet.”

         Willy threw a few coins on the counter, and left without a word.  He took the long way home, down alleys, and past the lots behind O’Donohy’s Hardware Store and the Matron Tattoo Parlor. The ocean water lapped at the shore like it was knocking, and a lone gull cried at the moon. His shoes crunched down on the sand and stones, and the cool night air danced through his thinning hair and dried his tears. Images ricocheted in his head. Tyler. Tyler being born nine years ago, Tyler’s face when he had caught a football Willy had thrown to him, Tyler’s high-pitched squeals when Willy had gotten him a skateboard for Christmas. Maybe Chuck was right, Willy thought. Perhaps he needed to get himself together and figure out his next step. The pet idea seemed like something he could do in the meantime. Pets don’t live that long anyway.

        Willy skipped work the next day – he figured Ray and the guys could handle the shipment from Argentina without him – and drove to the pet shop in Benton, the next town over. Marty’s Pet Emporium was in a strip mall crowded between a Hong Kong Ruby and a consignment shop selling gently used women’s clothing.

       The bell jingled as Willy opened the door of the shop. The place smelled of cat litter and dog hair. The shelves were filled with pet supplies and cages stacked three high. Some cats roamed free up and down the narrow aisles, while another sat on top of a box as if judging every stranger. Dogs yapped, birds chirped, and the squeals of gerbils added to the noise.

         The proprietor – Willy assumed he owned the place – was an odd little fella with an awful comb-over and clothes that didn’t quite fit. He pointed out each pet to Willy, telling him names, ages, and temperaments.

        “This here is Felix,” he said, his bifocals balanced on the tip of his nose. “I’m guessing he’s around seven years old. Finicky little thing. Likes to curl up in a corner and lick his paws. Over here is Alexander. Could be four or five. Cutest little dog you’d ever want to meet. He’s a mix. You’d be getting four dogs in one, so it’d be a bargain.” He laughed at the joke. Willy smiled back and regretted his decision to come here.

        The owner led Willy around the room, stopping in front of each cage, crate, and glass aquarium as if he was a tour guide. They bypassed one partially-covered cage sitting on a metal table tight against a corner. The cage rattled as they walked by.

       “What’s in there?” Willy asked.

       “Oh, nothing of interest. Here, let me show you this parrot. We call her Matilda. Talks and everything.”

         The cage moved about in frenzy as Willy got closer, vibrating against his big belly. He lifted the cover. Little yellow eyes stared back at him from inside.

        “What the hell is this?” Willy asked.

        The owner took off his glasses and chewed the end of the ear piece. “Oh, that’s just Faust. Cute little sugar glider. Seems he’s been here forever. Well, how about a bird? Make great companions.”

       “Sugar glider?”

        “He’s no pet for a working man. Needs attention. Lots of it.”

         “Let’s see him.” 

         “Really, sir. He’s not for sale.”

         “Then why is it here?”

         “Some woman left him here and took off. She probably couldn’t take care of the little thing anymore. I felt sorry for him. I don’t want to sell him to someone who might drop him off along the road or worse.”

          Willy looked at his watch. The stink of the place was getting to him and he needed some air, preferably ocean air. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” he said. “Let me think about what I want to do.”

          “Oh, yes, sir. Now, don’t cross a feathered friend off your list. A couple of canaries or a parrot might make a wonderful companion.”

          Willy went home, popped open a beer, and sprawled on the couch. Outside, gusts of wind blew off the ocean and the house creaked. His mind filled with images of Jenny’s body broken up like a picture puzzle, and Tyler, his sweet boy, his body shattered. Willy had left Tyler’s room untouched after his death. Pictures of sports heroes remained on the wall, two pairs of dirty socks still laid on the floor, the bed unmade. Willy had shut the door and turned away whenever he’d walk past.  Now he felt guilty denying Tyler the guitar he had wanted, the trip to Disney World that they couldn’t afford, the pet which would have completed the white-picket-fence-family portrait.   

         “C’mon, Daddy. Bobby has a snake and Richie has a gerbil. They’re in cages. They don’t go anywhere!”

        Willy had wavered, almost caving in to his son’s round dark eyes and long lashes.  But Jenny said, “No way.”

         I’ll make it make it up to you, Ty. I’ll make it right. You’ll love this little sugar glider.

          The next day Willy went back to the pet shop where the store owner tried to talk Willy out of choosing the sugar glider even as he signed the credit card receipt and walked out the door with Faust clicking away in his covered cage.

        “They sleep during the day and are up all night,” he warned. “All night.”

        “It’s okay,” Willy said.

       “They need companionship all the time. They can’t be left alone.”

         “There are people like that.”

           Before he left, the owner slipped Willy a “Caring for Your Glider” manual in a final act of surrender.

          Willy didn’t know anything about sugar gliders, but the manual taught him a lot. He placed the cage on the coffee table and removed the covering. Faust watched him, looking like a combination of possum and raccoon with jet black fur circling his yellow eyes, a white arc of fur above that, and more black along his spine. Faust matched the glider photos in the manual except for the eyes – the gliders in the booklet had pitch black eyes, as dark as the black fur on their bodies. Faust’s were almost golden with some sparkle in the middle. His hairless ears jutted from his head like paper-thin propellers.

          Willy rinsed out a dirty glass and filled it with Scotch and watched Faust as one would a television. The sugar glider started to droop with fatigue. His eyelids fluttered and he curled up in a corner of the cage and went to sleep. Willy poked his finger through the bars of the cage and gently nudged him, but Faust didn’t move a muscle and kept on sleeping.

           The phone rang four times and then stopped. Probably Ray from work, Willy figured. He wouldn’t leave Faust alone, even though he’d be sleeping during the day. Willy wanted to make sure that wouldn’t happen. He didn’t want to lose Faust. Not again.

          Willy sat back, the effects of the afternoon’s Scotch starting to take hold. The sun filtered through the blinds and formed arcs of color. The clock in the foyer ticked the minutes. Soon the mailman slipped some bills and a magazine through the squeaky slot in the door. He heard the soft whoosh of the tide in the distance, the voices of people and children coming home; it all mingled, ascended, then descended in volume. A dog’s howl, the aroma of trout with onions coming from next door, the clank of ice in a glass, water pounding against the shoreline; the normal sounds and smells of the living. Silent, Willy sat there all day into the evening watching Faust as he slept. Every so often his nose would twitch. Soon it was dusk and then night. Willy sat in the dark, coma-like, watching light fade over the dying philodendron, the candy dish, the smiles in the wedding photo sitting on the table. He’d been happy that day; Jenny walking down the aisle in a ball gown of vanilla satin and tulle dotted with beads; Willy in a black suit too tight around his thick neck. He had clasped his cold clammy hand in hers and there they were at the altar, barely able to remember to “repeat after me,” making promises they soon discovered they couldn’t keep.   

          Willy lay down on the sofa, his bed of late, and tried to sleep. Minutes later Faust’s cage rattled as if he was a prisoner desperate for freedom. In a drunken haze, Willy opened the cage door and Faust scurried out, barking like a dog, and in a shaft of moonlight, raced across the room and clawed his way up a curtain, almost to the top, then ran down again in a jagged path; then up again, then down, leaving a trail of urine and droppings. Willy turned on a nearby floor lamp to clean up after him. Just then Faust stopped in his tracks in the middle of the curtain and vertically clung onto the curtain’s hem. Hanging on, he peeked out the window with unusual curiosity. Willy wondered what had caught Faust’s attention and pressed his forehead against the pane to find out. In the gray fog, a man leaned against the clapboard house across the street. Curls of cigarette smoke drifted up from his fingers, and a flickering porch light silhouetted his shoulder-length hair and slim shoulders. He just stood there, so still, staring at Willy’s house. Was he a thief? A drifter needing a place to stay? A drunk?  Can’t a person pick a spot on a road and stand there?

             At dawn Faust was curled up and asleep in the open cage. Willy gently latched the cage’s door and walked across the road where he had seen the man only hours before. The wind picked up and the salty sea air seemed uneasy as if it couldn’t decide which direction to go. The porch light at a neighbor’s house flickered. Willy looked down at the ground and noticed a small pile of cigarette stubs where the stranger had stood.

           “Breezy this morning, ain’t it Willy?”

           Willy looked up, startled. It was his neighbor, the owner of the clapboard house, sitting on his porch and reading the newspaper. “Uh, yeah, John,” Willy said. “Haven’t seen you in awhile. How are the wife and kids?”

             “Fine. Just fine. And yours?”

              He must have realized his mistake because the blood drained from Willy’s face. “Willy, man, how dumb am I? It just came out, it just…”

            “Hey, I know. Don’t give it a second thought. Stuff happens. Hey, gotta ask you something. Have you seen some guy hanging around? Long hair, kinda skinny?”

             “Funny you should mention it. I was going to ask you the same thing. Seen a guy like that staring at your house some nights the last couple of months. Kind of looked familiar, but couldn’t place him. I’m sure it’ll come to me, though. Did he try and rob you?”

               “Oh, no. Nothing like that. Just noticed him last night. You said the ‘last couple of months?’”

                “Yeah. Got this insomnia thing going on lately. I’d come downstairs, looked out my living room window, and saw this long head-of-hair in front of my porch rail. I didn’t tell Darlene because she’d have me calling the cops. It’s not against the law just standing there, right?”

                  Willy’s house looked so run-down from across the street and wondered if John thought the same thing. “He looked familiar, huh? Can you remember where you saw him? Maybe he was a customer at your market?”

             “Nope. Don’t think so.” John stroked his chin. Willy started to leave when his neighbor spoke again. “Wait a minute. Wait just a doggone minute. I know where I saw that guy. Hell, Willy, he was over at your house a lot of times when I’d come home for lunch. When Jenny was still alive. After awhile I remember asking Darlene who the guy was and she figured he was a friend of yours and Jenny’s, or a family member at least. Is he?”

              My brain started to ricochet. I began to connect the dots. Jenny – ordering me lately to stay home with Tyler night after night. Staying out late. Coming home. Smelling of cigarettes and booze. Taking her second shower of the day before coming to bed. Thinking I’m asleep. Every other day the phone ringing once. Jenny listening, stopping in mid-task, smiling. Sure we were growing apart and I tried fighting it. She was putting me down every opportunity she had, calling me fat and useless.

               “You could stand to lose a few pounds, Will,” she’d shout, pinching my belly. “Take a run on the beach. Get on a treadmill.”

             The eye shadow. Not for me, but him. The green eye shadow smeared across her smashed limbs.

              John took a sip of his coffee and cleared his throat. “You do know him, don’t you, Willy?”

            “Yeah. I think I do. Hey, John. When you get a chance, fix your porch light.”

                                                                                                                              ***

                   A week went by before Ray from work showed up at the door late one afternoon. Willy sat on the sofa like a stone. Ray’s knuckles must be turning red from knocking and his throat sore from calling out my name, Willy thought with a chuckle. Ray turned the knob several times and jiggled the door until he gave up and left. Faust slept through it all, the daylight serving as his sedative.

              Faust’s cage stayed on the table where it had been from the start, but he was rarely inside. At night, the little glider had the run of the house and raced around as if on speed. He broke at least one glass or heirloom every other night, and clawed at Ty’s closed bedroom door before moving on to the next scene of destruction. The two shared microwave dinners, beer, and Willy found it funny watching Faust as he frantically tore away at chocolate wrappers.

                One night Willy glanced out the window. There he was again; that long-haired skinny man with a cigarette in his hand. John had taken Willy’s advice and replaced the bulb so now Willy was able to get a better look at the man. He didn’t appear scary – not like he did the first time standing in near-darkness in the middle of the night. If he had been having an affair with Jenny, then we had both lost her. Perhaps he was in mourning and stood in front of the house as a struggle for connection.

                Willy didn’t want to turn the inside light on and scare him away so he groped in the darkness for Faust, found him hanging from a lampshade, and put him in his cage before they stepped outside and crossed the road. Beneath the porch bulb and the flashes of lightning in the distance, Willy saw the man’s body stiffen. He took a deep puff of his cigarette, tossed it on the ground, and snuffed it out beneath his shoe. He began to walk away.

                Willy quickened his steps without running. “Hey, man. I just want to talk to you, okay?” Faust flung himself against the sides of the cage so hard that Willy almost dropped him.

                The man stopped, glancing toward his escape, his face in profile. “I was just standing around, man. Didn’t mean any harm.” He turned and noticed the cage clasped in Willy’s hand. Faust barked and hissed, racing around the cage with a vengeance. Willy felt that sense of urgency that comes when a person is dying and counting breaths. Better now to learn the truth. Better now to find out what, if any, connection had existed between this man and Jenny. How long they had known each other, and was she going to see him the night of the accident?

              The man stopped as Willy slowly closed in. “Hey, mister. I’m not doing anything. Just standing here.”

            “Jenny told me all about you,” Willy lied. “I know everything. Let’s go down to the beach and talk.” Out of the corner of his eye Willy noticed his neighbor, John, waving at him. Willy waved back as a way of letting him know that everything was all right.

                Willy picked up a couple of six-packs at Coakleys. His sandals waved inside curled fingertips as the two drank and walked along the shoreline.

               His name was Bret, a trucker who ran the West Virginia to Maine route. He was divorced with two kids he wasn’t allowed to visit. In the past month his trips were less frequent and he was on the verge of losing his job.

             “Don’t worry,” Willy assured him. “If you want, I can get you a job at the shipping company where I work. I haven’t missed a day in 16 years. Just let me know and I’ll get you in.”

                Bret smiled, relaxed, and popped another beer. They talked about Jenny. Willy told him how he and Jenny met on a blind date in high school then separated after graduation for a year or two but got back together.

                “She and I understood each other and gave each other space,” Willy said. “Things weren’t going well. Jenny and I slept in separate bedrooms, but lived under one roof because of Tyler. I knew she was having an affair, but it wasn’t a problem because I was, too.”

                 Willy waited, feeling the cold ocean tide pressing against his ankles while the soft sand sunk beneath him. That and the beer made him feel as if he floated. Bret opened up. He had met Jenny six months ago at Coakley’s when she was out with a few of her girlfriends on ladies night. The two of them clicked and he’d made it a point of stopping in Chatham along his route so he could to see her. Sometimes he’d call in sick or feign engine trouble just to spend a few extra hours with her in a motel room or the cab of his truck. When they weren’t together, he’d call and let it ring once to let her know he was thinking of her.

                It explained the phone calls, the smiles, the excuses, the absences. As Bret and Willy walked along the shoreline, Faust continued his noisy nocturnal ways. Bret pointed at the cage. “What is that thing?” he asked, his annoyance clear.

               “It’s a sugar glider. They’re only active at night and then you never know what they’re going to do. Sometimes they’re real calm and loving; other times they’ll tear apart anything in their path. But they can’t be alone. Never alone.”

              There was another question Willy wanted to ask; one stuck in his throat like a bone blocking air. He swallowed hard, looked out at the seascape painted with lightning and dawn. “Had you met Tyler, my son?”

               Bret picked up a broken shell from the beach and flung it into the choppy current. “Oh, yeah. Sweet kid,” he said with a matter-of-fact manner that turned Willy’s ears scarlet. “I always picked up a toy or game for him. He loved it. Called me Uncle Bret. Now he’s gone.”

              Willy put the cage down because his hand ached from Faust banging around inside like a bumper car. “Ever have a stopover in Falmouth, Bret? You gotta go there sometime. Nice little shore town.”

            “Been to Falmouth lots of times. I guess that’s my one regret. Jenny would probably still be here if she hadn’t gone there to meet me.” 

            “Meet you? But why was Tyler with her?”

               “I don’t know how to tell you this, Willy, but we’re pals now, right?” He slurred his words, the result of many beers. “We’ve told each other everything, buddy. We’re all that’s left.”

             “Yeah. All that’s left,” Willy assured him.

             “You see, she wanted Tyler to get to know me better. She had it in her head that we could be a family since I couldn’t see my own kids. She picked Tyler up from his friend’s house that night and we were all going to have some pizza and see a movie. Hey, don’t get me wrong. He was still your son. I wasn’t out to take your place. But Jenny wanted out of her situation and wanted me to adopt Tyler”

               Willy’s face burned. “You betrayed me.”

              “I thought we were friends, man.   

                Willy didn’t think twice about doing what he did next. He grabbed Bret’s shoulders and pushed him backwards, his skull thudding against gravel and stone. Stunned, Bret turned and crawled along the shore, his fingers leaving imprints in the sand until the tide came in and made them disappear. Gathering strength, he came at Willy full force, wrapping his hands around Willy’s throat and pressing down. 

                Against the half-moon in the sky, a blur of black and white with yellow eyes flew into the air and latched itself onto Bret’s face. The trucker released his grip on Willy’s neck and screamed in pain as Faust’s claws dug into skin and created bloody streaks along Bret’s forehead and cheeks. Willy inhaled a few deep breaths and grabbed Bret’s long hair like a leash, pulled him into deeper waters before thrusting his head into the sea. Bret pushed his head up and against Willy’s hands with such force that it threw him backwards. Willy latched onto his hair again, wrapped some strands around his fist, and plunged his face below the water’s surface. Bret gurgled and heaved while Faust barked and chirped on shore.

                Willy kept pushing Bret’s face downward. Finally, Bret’s struggle eased and he went limp. Willy emptied Bret’s pockets and floated him out into the ocean as far as he could until the waves tickled his chin. Bret floated face-down on the water, his long hair spread out like a fan and his arms stretched out.  Willy figured that Bret’s body would wash ashore and someone would find it. The police would be notified. Maybe they would investigate, ask some questions, look at some photos of possible perpetrators. Maybe they’d reach a dead end. Maybe not. Willy didn’t care much, but he wasn’t taking any chances.

                The sun struggled to break through the clouds as Willy waded through the water and returned to shore. Faust had returned to his cage, his eyes like large golden buttons staring into space, his face a study in contentment, his fur wet and sandy. Sleep will make him forget. Willy wished he could say the same. He picked up the empty beer cans and tossed them into Faust’s cage. The sugar glider didn’t move a muscle. Just laid there sleeping. Willy will let John know the whole story over a pitcher or two of Coors at Coakley’s.  He has children. He can keep a secret, and he’ll understand. 

                                                                                                            [END]