Purgatory (A short story)

Purgatory

The shiny, brass buttons gleam like they did the first day he put the uniform on. The navy blue jacket makes him look slimmer than he is, hiding his now aged and hunched body. Each morning, when Fred Callone wakes up, he takes off the uniform and drapes it over the ironing board. At six in the morning, just like every morning, he begins ironing his outfit. His death shroud. He’s been waiting for death to come take him away for the last two decades. Each and every night, he gears up in his military uniform, and prays he doesn’t wake up. But he always does. And so he continues to iron the navy outfit every morning, so it looks its very best for when he finally does pass.
He was seventy-two when he first started this tradition. Fred had seen it all. He’d fought one of the bloodiest wars in all of history, he’d raised a great family, and he’d been all over the world and seen places most people only see in magazines or post cards. All he wanted was to lay down and never wake up. Each morning, however, his request was denied. The sun was there, just getting up as he was, to greet him.
This morning was, of course, no different. Now ninety-one, his hands are tired. He isn’t sure how much longer he can iron the uniform himself, but will continue to do so until he can no longer do it without help. Thirty minutes after he’s begun, there’s a knock on his bedroom door.
“You up, Pops?” his son, now fifty-six himself, asks, cracking the door open a little bit to peak in. Fred doesn’t speak. He flips the uniform on to the other side and nods his head slowly. “Jeanie and I are going to Missie’s ballet recital tonight. You want to come?”
“I’ll be fine here. It’s gettin’ kind of cold out there anyway. Tell Missie her Grandpa wants to see her before she goes though.”
“Will do, Dad,” he says as he returns the door to its closed position and descends the stairs. Fred finishes ironing his uniform, and hangs it on a steel hanger in the closet, where it will rest until he puts it on to sleep tonight.
The rest of Fred’s day normally involves a long shower. His body is slow to scrub itself, so showering takes longer than it used to. Afterwards, he makes his way down to the kitchen, one step at a time down the long staircase. He fills his brown mug with the coffee left over from what his son made that morning. The newspaper rests on the table like usual and Fred takes his place in the oak chair while he reads it. After he’s exhausted all the articles, he makes his way back up the stairs to his room. He eyes the bookcase of novels and other literature he’s never read before. This is when he normally takes a nap. But he doesn’t today. He can hear Jeanie, his daughter-in-law, yelling in the room down the hall.
“When are you going to tell him, John? Erica needs the room this summer. Her and Don are going to stay here for a while until they get on their feet.”
“I know, but I can’t just kick him out. He’s been here with us for almost twenty years. I don’t think he’s got much time left anyway.”
“So you’re just gonna’ wait ‘til he croaks on us? I don’t want that happening here, John.”
“What the hell do you want me to do?”
“Tell him to leave.”
Fred stops paying attention after that. It had never dawned on him before. His miserable existence isn’t supposed to affect anyone but him. Is he really that much of a burden? He gets up and makes his way to the bookcase, where he pulls the biggest book down from the top shelf. Fred places his fingertips on the book and opens it up. He flips through the pages, not reading any of them, but looking for something. He drops the book on the floor and grabs a blue one on the middle shelf. Again he opens it up, finds nothing, and drops it to the floor. Landing on its spine, it makes a loud clap when it hits the wood floor.
“Dad, you okay in there?” his son calls from down the hall. But Fred doesn’t answer. He grabs another book, and flips through the pages again. John’s footsteps can be heard approaching the door. “Dad, are you alright?” he asks, walking in. “What are you doing? Looking for something?” He is looking for where his life has gone.
“I’m sorry,” Fred says, dropping another book.
“Sorry for what? What’s wrong, Dad?” John asks, stepping toward his father.
“I’m sorry for still being here.”
“Don’t be silly, Dad. I love having you here.” John is dressed in a khaki pair of pants and dark, red sweater. “We’re getting ready to go now. Sure you don’t want to come along?”
“Missie. Did Missie already leave?”
“Yeah, she left a bit earlier. Her friends came over. You know how forgetful kids can be. Last chance, Pops,” he says, rubbing his father’s back.
“It’s okay. I’m heading to sleep in a bit.”
“Okay, you have my cell number if you need us,” and he leaves after those words. Fred sits back down, and looks at the mess of books he’s made. Missie had forgot about him. What if this was his last night? He’d never see her bright, pink cheeks and freckled face ever again.
“What am I doing. I’ve been dead for the last twenty years,” Fred says, looking to the pile of books on the floor. They don’t respond, but he knows what they’d say. They’d call him a coward. They would scold him for giving up on his life, when he still had so much time left.
“So what? She’s been dead for twenty-five years! You aren’t,” they’d yell at him. “Get over it and enjoy your family. Instead of a dead husk of a man, be a grandfather for your grandchildren.”
“But, I’ve done all I’ve ever wanted.”
“You’ve never read us. You’ve never loved another woman.” They would be right. Fred gets up and goes back to the pile of books and picks up the large green one. He carries it back to the edge of the bed and sits down. He begins reading. For an hour he does nothing but reads and breathes. He looks over at the clock on the wall after a the straight hour of reading. Another twenty minutes before Missie would be up on a stage, glissading and pirouetting.
Fred gets up, and sprints as best he can to the closet. He throws his uniform on and straightens it in the mirror. He gets to the phone and dials his son’s number.
“I want to come,” he gasps into the receiver.
“Okay, we aren’t even half way there yet, we’ll come back and pick you up.” Fred slams the phone down and in what can best be described as a hobble, runs to the staircase. What he doesn’t count on were his old legs giving out at that moment. Buckling under his own weight he falls forward. His hands aren’t quick enough to brace himself and his face thumps on the railing while his body slugs down the rest of the stairs and comes to a stop at the bottom. Dressed in his death shroud, Fred lays bloodied and dead, waiting for his son to come home and take him to his granddaughter’s ballet recital.
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Another short story I submitted for a class. I had plans to take this a bit further, and not having the main character die at the end, but I was held to only four pages. This character may still be used in a future story, because I liked the idea of an old man having nothing to live for, and possibly finding something more in life. He does by the end, but he’s wasted so much of his life beforehand, his fate is nearly sealed. Anyway, that’s what I thought.