Queequeg
by T.R. Healy

Croyle, his beads in his hands, silently recited the rosary, hoping it would relieve some of the pain he had felt the past couple of weeks. It never did, though, however many rosaries he said. Still, he continued to come to the old waterfront church as soon as he got off work, not knowing where else he should go to find solace after what happened to his son. Some afternoons he prayed until the bones in his knees began to ache, then he sat down in the creaking pew and just stared at the crude wooden crucifix behind the altar.

He not only wanted some kind of explanation but he wanted to be healed. "Lord, I am not worthy to receive you," he always said at Communion, "but only say the word and I shall be healed." Day after day he came to the old church, waiting to hear a reply, but all he ever heard were his only feeble requests. Sometimes he felt like a castaway on some deserted island, straining to hear in the silence of the empty church the slightest signal.

Not anymore, he decided, as he slid out of the pew. He would not return to the church tomorrow, maybe not the next day either, maybe not ever again, because he was tired of listening to his own voice. He certainly didn't have any answers. He had no idea whatsoever why his son, who was only nine years old, was run down in the street like a stray dog. No one he had spoken to did, which was why he started coming to the church in the afternoon. But not even there could he find an explanation for such a senseless death.

* * *

His cellphone rang three times before he found it in the pocket of his suede jacket. "Hello."

"Clay?"

It was Sharon, his former sister-in-law. She was the only one he kept in contact with after the divorced. Not only had they always got along, but she felt sorry for him when Sarah left for someone she met at the real estate agency where she worked.

"How are you doing?"

"I wish I could say better but I feel as bad as ever."

"Of course. That's only natural."

"I just can't believe Brody is gone," he stammered, his voice starting to crack.

"No one can, Clay."

"Whenever I walk past his room, I look in and still expect to see him there lying on his bed."

"If you'd like, I could come over and give you some company."

He sighed, tugging at the small gold ring in his left ear. "I'm really not much in the mood to talk, but I appreciate the offer."

"I just wish there was something I could do to help you cope with what you're going through."

"What I wish is the police could find whoever ran down Brody."

"Oh, so do I, Clay."

"That probably wouldn't make me feel any better, but it might be a start."

"Definitely."

"I don't know what should be done to the person, but whoever it is shouldn't be allowed to get away with it."

"You wish the person could suffer as much as Brody did."

"That'd never happen."

"I know."

"But maybe the person should feel at least some of the pain I am feeling," he said, voice cracking again. "He or she should learn what it feels like to lose your only child...your only real friend in this damn world."

* * *

Late one night rummaging around in the attic, Croyle came across the scarred, old javelin he had practiced with in high school. It lay in a corner beside a box of Christmas ornaments, wrapped in a striped bed sheet. He had not looked at it in ages, not since he quit competing in all-comers meets soon after he got married. Carefully he touched the point, which was still sharp enough to draw blood, then picked up the stick and held it in his throwing hand. It felt a little heavier than he remembered but otherwise was as comfortable in his grip as a golf club. He was confident he could still throw it pretty far, though nothing close to the distances he threw in high school. He was tempted to go outside and give it a toss but knew that would not be very responsible. His throw might be so erratic he'd strike one of the many cars parked on the street, then he would have a huge repair bill to pay. So he set the stick down and wrapped it back in the dusty bed sheet.

His father had thrown the javelin in high school and introduced him to the sport with a sawed-off broom handle. Almost every night after he got home from the factory, his father would take him out to the backyard and have him throw the broom handle for twenty minutes. Starting out, he had to sit on an orange crate, gripping the handle between his thumb and index finger, and throw it with his elbow coming through at a level higher than his shoulder. Over and over he practiced, struggling to release the handle directly above his head. His father was a taskmaster, rigorously pointing out every mistake he made while always being full of encouragement.

"You learn to toss a harpoon far enough," he told him repeatedly, "you can be somebody people will remember. You might even earn a scholarship somewhere."

Squatting down on a three-legged stool, the tattoo of a crimson spear appeared on his left ankle, Croyle recalled the many times he had promised to show his son how to throw a javelin once he turned ten. He had even sawed off an old broom handle, which was still set aside in the kitchen closet. Though he had turned out to be a pretty decent thrower, he was not quite good enough to earn a scholarship, but he was confident Brody would be much better. He would become the champion his father always hoped he would be some day.

His eyes edging with tears, he still could not believe that wouldn't happen.

* * *

"Happy birthday, Clay," Sharon bellowed as soon as he answered the phone.

"That's not for another week and a half," he said, startled by the greeting.

"I know, dear, but I wanted to be the first one to tell you. Also, I called to invite you over to the house this Saturday to celebrate your birthday and one of my neighbor's."

"Oh, thanks, but I don't think I'll be able to make it."

"You have other plans?"

"No, but I don't really feel like celebrating much of anything these days," he said, after sipping some Nescafė.

"You know you can't stay cooped up in your home all the time, Clay."

He started to answer her, but instead kept quiet and idly swept a hand across his shaved head.

"I suppose it's easy for me to say, but you have to get on with your life. God knows, you've suffered a terrible tragedy, but you have to try to get over it."

"I'll never get over the death of Brody."

"No, of course not, but you can act as if you have, maybe, and force yourself to get out and do some things."

"I don't know, Sharon."

"Please, dear, come over Saturday. A place will be set for you at the table."

* * *

He did not go over to her party on Saturday but remained at home, planted, as usual, in front of the television set. He scarcely paid any attention to what was being shown, just listened to the numbing voices of the actors so he did not have to listen to the bitter voices in his own head. Two or three times he dozed off, but only for a few minutes, then awoke with a start. Typical, he was full of angry thoughts. He just could not fall asleep for any serious length of time so he had to find ways to tire himself out. For three straight evenings, around eleven o'clock he cleaned the attic. Already he had disposed of several cartons of items he had accumulated over the years and figured, by the time he was through, to have the attic as clear as the basement. Then he could walk in it without bumping into something every other step.

One item he was not sure whether or not he should keep was his javelin. Numerous times Sarah urged him to get rid of it but always he declined, claiming it had a lot of sentimental value, but in truth he kept it because he intended to show his son how to throw it some day. That was no longer possible, of course, so he didn't really see any reason to keep it. And he picked it up and took it out to the garage where he had placed all the other trash for the garbage man to collect next week.

* * *

Early the following morning, standing at the kitchen window, Croyle stared at the javelin lying among all the other things he had hauled out of the attic. It appeared so much longer and brighter in the daylight, he thought, like a flagpole. He then turned away and sat down at the counter, wondering what he would do today. Sundays were always difficult for him because they were so long and slow and dull. He supposed he could return to the attic; there was still a lot to do there, but it was such a pleasant day he preferred to find something to do outside.

On an impulse, a few minutes later, he went out to the garage and slid the stick into his battered Subaru. Then he climbed in, turned on the motor, and slowly pulled out of the driveway. It was still so early the Sunday paper sat on many of his neighbors' front porches. He headed out to the airport, where he drove a shuttle van during the week, hurtling through the nearly vacant streets at a pretty fast clip. Then, almost half a mile east of the terminal, he came to an open meadow adjacent to the southeast runway and parked. After making sure no one was there, he got out and stretched his arms a moment before sliding the javelin out of the back of his clunker. He could not actually remember the last time he had thrown it, but he thought he might as well see if he could still get off a decent toss.

"Punch the sky," he muttered, recalling the advice his father often gave him when he competed.

Drawing a deep breath, he lifted the stick above his shoulders, right elbow pointing forward, and started to run through the knee-high grass. Gradually he picked up speed, kicking up clods of dirt with his heavy boots; then after a few more strides he drew the javelin back, planted his left foot, and hurled it at the sky. It was not a good throw, though. It was much too high and the javelin barely went a hundred feet. He was disappointed but not surprised, since he hadn't thrown for so many years. Croyle was confident he could do better.

Sternly, as he went to retrieve the stick, he began to go over all the mistakes he had made, at times speaking out loud as if someone were there to hear him. Brody, he wished. He knew he sounded just like his father, and knew this too was how he would have sounded if he had the chance to teach his son how to throw.

His next toss was a little flatter, which encouraged him, and the one after that even more parallel to the ground. He stayed out there most of the morning, firing throw after throw, feeling as invigorated as he had in weeks. By the time he was through he realized he would not get rid of the javelin after all, but would continue to throw it until he had corrected all his mistakes, just as he would have insisted his son do.

* * * * *

He was born and raised in the Pacific Northwest. His stories have appeared in such journals as Blink, The Flask Review, Lily, and riverbabble.

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