A Cup of Kindness

“Happy New Year, my ass! I growl. I take another swig of M. D. 20/20. I’m little more than a shadow in the shadows watching the jubilant celebration in Time Square. People are singing and laughing everywhere. They hold their plastic cups up high, spilling beer and laughing, laughing, laughing!   “Go ahead and laugh, you bastards!” A young couple scowl as I take another hard pull on my bottle. I sink deeper into the shadows. I mutter, “Go ahead and laugh. Live your life as if there is no tomorrow because there’s not gonna’ be one for me. No sir, I’m getting out of here tonight!”

Swaying on rubbery legs, I lean on the concrete wall. The night is cold and windy as I place my shivering hand into my coat pocket. I let my numb fingers play along the steel frame of the 38 Special. My eyelids are heavy and threaten to close, “No! No! I’ve got to stay awake until the ball falls! That’s when I’ll end all this pain and suffering at the stroke of midnight!” Raising the bottle to my mouth, I don’t drink but instead, close my eyes and slip into the past.

                                                             …

   The doorbell rings as I’m preparing supper for my wife, who is on her way home from work. Opening the door, a police officer confronts me.

 “Mr. Sanderson?”

“Yes?”

“Mr. Sanderson, I’m sorry to say your wife has been in an accident.” My heart bangs against my breastbone.

 “My wife, Alice? Is Alice alright? Is she hurt?”

           The officer removes his hat and asks if I can come to the coroner’s office to identify her body.

All sound has left the world except that of my heart pounding. There seems to be little air to breathe. My knees threaten to betray me as I stagger from the house. The officer closes the door behind me.  It all feels unreal, like a horrible dream. As we enter the cruiser, I’m barely aware of the officer speaking.  “ Your wife was driving in the left lane of I-90 when a drunk driver crossed the center lane and struck her car.  The driver was taken to Palisades General Hospital with two broken legs and a fractured skull.” I don’t respond.

Once we reach the coroner’s office, I feel too weak to exit the cruiser.  The officer takes my arm and leads me into a brightly lit room where an attendant waits by a row of stainless steel doors.  The officer nods and the attendant opens a door and slides out a metal platform holding a body covered by a white sheet.  I step closer as the man turns down the sheet. Gasping, I see that my wife’s face is severely crushed! So much blood! The swell makes it so I can barely recognize the woman I married twenty years ago.  However, I do recognize her sapphire earring.  I turn from the horrible sight and collapse to my knees, wailing.

The next day I read the police report in the paper.  The man who killed my wife had his license revoked for driving under the influence for the sixth time. He is also on probation for disorderly conduct under the influence of alcohol.

I crush the newspaper and scream, “Why wasn’t he in jail!?! Why was he left walking around free to be able to kill my wife?” The sharp pain in my chest reduces me to tears.

Alice was everything to me. My life, my love, and my reason for living all came from her. It was because of her encouragement that I started my machine shop. We did modestly well. Now I haven’t the heart to go to work. I tell my secretary to inform the salesperson not to take any more orders, and when the ones we have are finished, I’ll close the shop for good.

My sorrow becomes mixed with anger and bitterness. I hate that man and the courts that let him free to kill my wife. I learned that Vermont, unlike New York, has a “constitutional carry” gun law. It means I don’t need a permit to buy a handgun.  I purchase a 38 Special.

                                                          …

I know his name from the news article, Darrel Storm. I ask the nurse at the front desk for his room number. When I enter his room, he asks, “Who the Hell are you?”

His legs are cast up to his thighs and suspended from a bar over his bed. I approach the bed feeling the weight of the 38 in my pocket.

“I’m the husband of the woman you murdered,” I say softly. Storm sneers as he looks at me with two lifeless eyes and snarls, “I didn’t murder no one. It was an accident.” My eyes narrow as I step closer.

“It wasn’t an accident, Darrel. It most certainly was murder. You climbed into that car knowing you didn’t have a driver’s license because it was revoked for too many DUIs. You weren’t supposed to be drinking because you were on probation for attacking a man while drunk. You did all this knowingly, not caring if you killed someone or not!” Storm looks me up and down, then smirks, “Maybe you ain’t heard it, pal, but alcoholism is a disease.  I ain’t to blame.”

My temple throb as every fiber in my body feels about to explode. I ball my raging fist, and before I know it, I’m punching him in the face.  

Storm’s howling brings the nurse and an orderly charging into the room. The orderly grabs my arms as the nurse shouts for security. I manage to pull free and dash down the hospital corridor. Finding the exit, I flee into the street, running into the nearest alley and start pounding my fist on the brick wall. With tears flowing, I cry, “Why didn’t I shoot him? I had my gun. Why didn’t I just kill him? Why, why, why didn’t I.”

                                                          …

 All I can do is drink, not that it helps.   The bank forecloses on my house, and my car is repossessed because I’m not paying my bills.  But I don’t care. I start living in PiP shelters or the Salvation Army.

My next big emotional heartache comes in the irony of “The Holidays.” What do I have to be thankful for on Thanksgiving?  What do I thank God for? The all-knowing God who knows the past, present, and future but didn’t even try to save my wife? He knew Storm would kill her but did nothing to stop him. That God?”

And Christmas, good will toward men. Where is my goodwill? Am I the new Job being used as a pawn in a deal with the devil to prove my loyalty? “Watch this! I can take away all he owns and kill his wife, and he’ll still be true.” Well, He lost that bet.

                                                        …

My eyes spring open because of a loud blat of a plastic horn. They burn, and I have a hard time focusing. Rubbing them with the backs of my hands, I notice a small knot of people enjoying the holiday. Like everyone else, they are having fun.

A young girl turns from her friends and looks at me. Her flaxen hair covers half of her face as she studies me for a moment.  Someone in her group suggests they go to a club, and they all agree. I hear her tell them to go ahead and that she’ll catch up with them in a minute. She turns and starts walking toward me.

“Sir? I hope you'll pardon me for saying so, but I couldn’t help but notice how sad you look.”

I blink to clear my vision and see her lovely face.  I think she looks like an angel. She continues. “I can’t help but see, no tell, that something very tragic must have happened to you, and for that, I am so sorry.” Then, taking my hand in hers, she professes, “I genuinely wish you a better year, a life-changing New Year.” She leans forward and gently kisses me on the cheek.

All the hurt, pain, and loss I’d been living with begins to melt away.   Her tender kiss conveyed such empathy, understanding, and caring for another human being that I think she must have been sent from above. I feebly thank her and wish her a happy New Year too. As she begins to leave, I ask her name.  Turning, she smiles, “Alice.”

 I walk to a trash bin and throw in my wine bottle and the 38. A cheer rises, and people start singing, “Auld Lang Syne.” I look up, see the big bright ball falling, and think, “Perhaps there’ll be a new New Year after all.”