Chapter 9.
At a quarter to five, John Kilroy gave up on sleep. His night had been long and troubled, marked by bursts of untargeted rage and needless trips to the bathroom. Each time he stood at the mirror, searching for hints to his distress. In his eyes, dark and sunken, he sensed his sanity slipping away.
Thoughts of the car accident, the incident at the store, and a pointless argument earlier with his wife swirled through his head. Even prayer, a companion that had never failed him, was no relief. As desperation eventually turned to hopelessness, he tossed his rosary beads across the room. They shattered and fell to the wooden floor. As each bead rolled to its final resting place, lost and forgotten in the nooks and crannies of the room, he felt a peculiar, though satisfying moment of contentment.
He looked at the bedside clock for the hundredth time, then eased out of bed and dressed. Anne slept on, exhausted. From a different vantage point, she too had spent much of the night in silent contemplation, also searching for an understanding.
Downstairs in the kitchen, he found Rick sitting at the table. Neither seemed surprised to see the other. John was lost for words. He turned to leave, then stopped and stood for a moment.
"I couldn't sleep. I’m going out for a drive. Are you ok?" He paused, waiting for a reply.
Rick looked away.
As John closed the front door, he turned and stared back at the house, his home for twenty-five years. He looked to the heavens seeking guidance. Finding none, he drove away—destination unknown.
Rick had left the house when his mother awoke at six. Anne was surprised not to see John beside her and quickly became troubled when she realized both he and Rick had left the house. Throughout the morning, she busied herself with the usual chores, but nothing provided an escape from the foreboding feeling that was growing with every minute that passed. As the morning progressed, her unreturned calls to John's cell phone increasingly signaled trouble.
-----
After leaving the house, John had driven to the beach. The Irish sun rises early in July. At five in the morning, dawn was breaking. He parked and walked along the seafront and down onto the deserted beach. The air was fresh with the promise of better times and recovery. He found neither as his thoughts turned to Anne. His absence adding further to the worry he had already burdened her with.
A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
He pictured her searching for an explanation for his behavior, a lifetime of predictability erased in an instant. The patterns of their life together had always been mathematically precise. In every action, there was always a predictable and compassionate reaction. Anger was met with calm, regret with understanding, and uncertainty with guidance. Each was equally willing to compromise and move on; differences were always resolved before bed.
He walked slowly, staring at his feet. Each step promised to be his last before returning home to undo the damage he was causing. Each step, however, was followed by another. He did not turn. The need to find an answer to his distress was more important than easing Anne’s.
Eventually, he stopped and looked out to sea. Further reflection, he reasoned, would be unproductive. He started to rationalize and quickly dismissed any worries as simply a response to the accident. He shook his head at his stupidity and looked around, ready to admit to anyone passing what a fool he had been.
He started back to the car with a sense of urgency. Rather than go home, he decided to drive to the school and finish up some paperwork. When he called Anne, he would have the perfect cover story. No need to report a soul-searching walk on the beach.
Approaching the school, he slowed to turn into the car park. Suddenly, in an involuntary action, he pressed hard on the accelerator. The car raced forward. A car coming towards him blared its horn and braked to avoid a collision. The vehicles passed with atoms to spare.
His foot remained on the accelerator. It was numb, yet he felt his leg pushing down, the calf flexed and strained.
With the car going forty miles an hour and a stoplight ahead, he slammed his left foot down on the brake. The car stalled and skidded to a halt. John lurched forward, striking his nose on the steering wheel.
Loosening his grip on the steering wheel, he pushed back in the seat and breathed slowly, working to quiet the voices that were again growing in his head.
In the mirror, he saw blood flowing from his nose. Shit. He found a tissue in the glove compartment. The morning that had looked so promising moments before was now slipping away from him.
His cell phone shattered the silence. It was Anne. He let it go to voicemail, then turned it off.
He headed north out of town along the coastal road with no particular destination in mind. At Ballycastle, he stopped to eat a full Irish breakfast. Then on to Cushendun, a seaside village he and Anne had often visited when they were courting. As he drove down the main street, vivid memories flooded back. Their cinematic brilliance unnerved him. Leaving the village, he wiped tears from his eyes.
On then to Cushendall and Carnlough, before turning inland and west toward Ballymena. With each mile, he felt the demons returning, seeping inexorably through his porous defenses. For John, the battle was all but lost.
Just before noon, he pulled up in front of a white two-story house on a tree-lined, residential street. He lifted his golf bag out of the trunk and selected his favorite two wood. On a good day, he could drive 230 yards.
Stepping onto the well-groomed lawn, he assumed the stance and took a practice swing.
An older man out walking witnessed the performance from across the street. He was uneasy with the spectacle. The large bloodstain on the golfer’s chest only added to his concerns. John glared at him, and the man took off in a trot.