CONSEQUENCES

Consequences

          The old man clenched the pipe between teeth discolored by age and smoke. It was not just his favorite pipe, it was his friend. While the leather cover on the Meerschaum pipe had turned from light ochre to ruddy brown, his hair had changed from ruddy brown to light ochre, and in sections, both were thinning badly.

         His leathery skin was filled with furrows deepened beyond restoration. But it was the eyes that hypnotized: bright blue, inquisitive, sparkling with a mixture of mirth and wisdom. They were the kind of eyes you wished you could get behind to view the world from his perspective.

         He was lying back in a wicker rocker, gazing from his porch into the glittering darkness, with the attentiveness of someone dreaming of a planet where life might begin again.

         Shabby khaki pants, which didn’t quite reach his ankles, were fastened to his tall frame with fatigued braces. The woolen, plaid shirt hung loose about his body, the cuffs pulled high up on his wrists. His arms dangled as if they had been racked three inches longer. The breast pocket had lost its button, the flap curling upward behind the collection of pencils.

         The veined hands were huge with long, thick fingers and flat, broad thumbs. When he packed his pipe, he resorted to a metal pick, his index finger too big to push into the carbonized bowl. They were hands formed by hard work, painfully evidenced by several arthritic knuckles.

         He leaned forward over his knees, and with his hands on the rocker arms, pushed up, rising slowly to his full stature. Even bowed with age, he was a tall man – still a magnificent model of the human race.

         With steps shortened by age, he ambled into the house and down the hall to the kitchen. Adding a full teaspoon of Nescafe to his cup, he poured hot water onto the frothing mixture. Setting the cup on the table, he dropped into his chair.

         On the table before him stood his second best friend - an old Underwood with a wooden cover. He had an hour before fatigue would force him to lie on the sofa in the corner. With index fingers bowed but stiff, he began to peck out the start of his new novel: T-h-e    o-l-d     m-a-n    c-l-e-n-c-h-e-d     t-h-e    p-i-p-e    b-e-t-w-e-e-n   t-e-e-t-h     d-i-s-c-o-l-o-r-e-d    b-y    a-g-e     a-n-d     s-m-o-k-e.

* * *

         Paul Branchton's was a happy child, but at the age of eight circumstances changed, twisting him like a sheet of tin in a tornado.. His mother died. It was a devastating blow. When the crowds gathered at the house for sandwiches and cake, he never understood why they were celebrating her loss.

         As he was rebounding from that horror, his father died when he was twelve. He was left with a high-strung sister, ten years older, unable to understand his rebellion or able to meet his needs. “Paul, I can’t take it. Just get out. I don’t care where you go – just go.”

         “I’m gone." He was as happy to leave as she was to see him go. Becoming a loner evolved naturally.

         By seventeen, the town was whispering of his transgressions. At twenty, he was arrested and convicted of second-degree murder. His depression, loneliness and rage had exploded to destroy a man, a man who had charmed his girlfriend from him. She had been Paul’s one contact with love. It was a final, unacceptable loss.

         Prison accelerated his downward spiral. He learned the art of survival and that power, whether obtained through fear or cunning, trumped weakness and submission. But you couldn't be a loner in prison; he survived by choosing a gang and abiding by their laws.

         In 1975, father Callahan arrived. A wee bit of a man, he brought twenty years of parish wisdom – and a smile that, along with his size, projected the image of an old leprechaun.

         He held chapel, gave absolution on death row and prayed in the infirmary. Since Paul avoided those settings, their paths never crossed. He might never have met the Father, except he pummeled an inmate trying to steal his radio. He was given two choices: attend chapel service for six months or spend one month in solitary. He chose the cushy option.

         At the first service, he was fascinated by the little man, who seemed naïve.
“You’re welcome in my home anytime,” Father said with hands outstretched. “And I’ll tell you this, if you’ll but stay with me a month or two, you’ll find my home quite comfortable. Let us pray.”

         Paul laughed. Home had never been comfortable and he doubted this place would be either.

         By the second month, he was beginning to enjoy chapel services – not the liturgy, but the music. It was certainly more soothing than the rattle of spoons on bars.

         In the third month, he heard the words that would change his life.
“You have only one responsibility in this life: to choose. And no matter who you are, you can’t avoid it. You can choose not to choose – but that’s still a choice."

Paul was listening raptly.

         "And there’s more. Choices are but one-half of a two-part system. The other half is consequences. Choices – and consequences, that’s the world we all live in. You can’t escape it. The truth is it brought you here - and it determines your life here. Only if you believe that can you control your choices – and not have them control you.”

         The words were electrifying. He was free to accept them because Father Callahan was practical and tolerant. He never preached sin or rebuked actions; he simply pointed out the consequences. In fact, he carried a little book where kept a summary.

         Choice - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Consequence

         911 spit on a guard - - - - - - - - - - - - - -two days in solitary
         1043 stabbed an inmate - - - - - - - - - - fifteen years added to sentence
         3257 served in church - - - - - - - - - - - -extra free time

         3257 was Paul. He had become a regular at church. He would often talk with Father Callahan after preparing the altar. “How can I be in control when other people make the laws? The laws were unfair. The rich manage to avoid them. The poor are trapped by them."

         “Lad, I never said you could make the consequences – only the choices. And whether that's fair or not does not belie the fact that all choices have consequences. Only when you can identify them can you make an intelligent choice. You may not agree that the punishment for murder should be sixty years, but had you stopped to think about that consequence, I mean really thought about it, would you have still committed the crime?”

         It made Paul think. “Probably not, but I didn’t have time. I just exploded.”

         Father Callahan leaned forward. “I understand that Paul, but it doesn’t negate what I said. You see, choices follow patterns, and when the first choice is bad – it’s probable that the second is too – and it grows like icicles in freezing rain.
Can you recognize what early choices may have led to your exploding like you did? Why you were so angry?” He was touching Paul’s arm. He knew how painful it was to recognize for the first time that you were responsible for your life.

         Paul continued to see Father Callahan. He would meet him in the library and they would talk for hours. These talks helped Paul change. His anger was replaced by sadness that he had not learned what he now understood.

         He passed his time in service: preparing the altar, cataloging books in the library and making toys in the workshop. One day Father Callahan came to him in the library. “I have news. They have asked me to tell you you’ll meet the parole board next week. I think you have a good chance to be released. I’ll be there with you lad. You’ve come a long way.”

* * *

         The old man woke up with a start. It was dark, but the breeze was teasing the curtains in the room. He felt the heaviness in his chest. His right arm and leg were numb. He wondered if he slept on them the wrong way.

         He lay there. The pain in his chest increased. Then he realized what was happening and tears slipped down the furrows in his cheek. He was distressed that he hadn’t finished the book. He would change that. With great effort, he put his feet down, wiggling them into his slippers. His knees creaked as he straightened, but they obeyed. With one hand holding his chest, he toddled to the table. The pain was severe, but he forced himself to continue. He needed to finish the book.

         His daughter found him when she brought his package of tobacco. He was slumped over the table, his pipe next to his Underwood. She rolled the page from the platen and read the last line. C-h-o-i-c-e-s    h-a-v-e     c-o-n-s-e-q-u-e-n-c-e-s.