Mercy Now

I know the economy is melting down, and that eventually I'm going to need to turn my attention to the fact that I now have a lot less money in the bank, and that I may not be employed much longer. But for the time being I'm content to focus on my father, The Man Who Would Not Die.

He was supposed to die Tuesday evening, after we took him off life support. He didn’t. He’s still ticking, although there’s no evidence of brain activity, and his body shows an alarming tendency to twitch spasmodically. We taped his eyes shut because it was too spooky to watch them roll around in his head. And so we’ve waited. My sister Libby, her waiting time now up, will fly back home to California today. My Columbus sister Cathy and I are headed back to work. We figured we’d have him buried by now.

We had a good week anyway. We laughed a lot, and cried a little. We spent time with funeral home staff members, lawyers, doctors, and nurses, but we still had a lot of time left over to reminisce, to compare memories and to try to make some sense out of the chaos of a home that featured an alcoholic, crazy mother and a philandering, adulterous father who would grab his car keys and drive away whenever the butcher knives appeared, my mother’s weapon of choice to torment the kids. He ran away from us all his life. Now he can’t run anymore.

He’s left behind a mess. His estate, such as it is, was left to a former roommate who is now dead. His latest will, which was supposed to designate my Columbus sister Cathy as the recipient of his home, was never signed, and so the good State of Ohio gets to figure it all out. My dad’s house apparently goes to the estate of the former roommate. Whoopee. I’m washing my hands of the whole affair, even though technically I’ve been named as the executor of his will. It’s what I told him I would do, and would not do when he told me he was leaving the house to his roommate. I refuse to execute injustice, at least if I can help it.

My dad was not the kind of man with whom most sane, healthy people would want to spend time. He was mean-spirited, abusive, self-centered, and couldn’t remember what I did for a living or the names of my daughters. He remembered the name of my wife, Kate, because she looked good and belonged to the right gender. He took all his retirement savings and used it to buy love. It didn’t work. The various exotic dancers and prostitutes who spent time with him over the last twenty years of his life were happy to take his money, but left him as soon as the money was gone. He lived profoundly alone, except for periodic visits from my sister Cathy, who is more kind than I am, and who endured his abuse and cooked and cleaned for him. She is now being denied any part of his estate for her troubles.

He tried, early on, to be a good dad. I have positive memories as well, more than my younger sisters do, in fact. He spent summer and fall evenings tossing baseballs and footballs with me. He taught me how to play chess. He helped me with my homework. And he’s gone missing for the last forty years of my life, even though we’ve mostly lived in the same town. His primary pursuits have been women and gambling, in that order. He’s lost at both. We’ve kept up the pretense of family to some extent. Once a year he has come to our house, eaten Christmas dinner with us, opened our presents, and gone back home. He doesn’t want to be there. Some years he’s brought exotic dancers along, and seventeen Christmas presents, all for the exotic dancers.

I’m thankful for the good, early days. I’m saddened for the person he became. I said my goodbyes to him last week. Now he lies in a hospital bed in a vegetative state, a husk of a dirty old man. This is who he is, or was. I pray for God’s mercy. The hospice workers call me, a hint of judgment in their voices. They don’t ask me what I know they want to ask me: why aren’t you here? I’m not there because there’s no one there. There hasn’t been anyone there since my dad was without oxygen for several minutes after his heart attack more than a week ago. There hasn’t been anyone there for almost forty years. But I pray for God’s mercy. It’s what my dad needs. It’s what I need, too.

An Almost-But-Not-Quite-Dead Rootsy Playlist

Fixin’ to Die Blues – Bukka White/Bob Dylan
Please Don’t Bury Me – John Prine
He Stopped Loving Her Today – George Jones
In My Time of Dying – Blind Willie Johnson/Led Zeppelin
T.B. Sheets – Van Morrison
To Daddy – Dolly Parton
O Death – Ralph Stanley
The Angels Rejoiced in Heaven Last Night – Gram Parsons/Emmylou Harris
Sing Me Back Home – Merle Haggard
Cold, Cold Ground – Tom Waits
Hospital Vespers – The Weakerthans
Mercy Now – Mary Gauthier

My father could use a little mercy now
The fruits of his labor
Fall and rot slowly on the ground
His work is almost over
It won't be long and he won't be around
I love my father, and he could use some mercy now

My brother could use a little mercy now
He's a stranger to freedom
He's shackled to his fears and doubts
The pain that he lives in is
Almost more than living will allow
I love my bother, and he could use some mercy now

My church and my country could use a little mercy now
As they sink into a poisoned pit
That's going to take forever to climb out
They carry the weight of the faithful
Who follow them down
I love my church and country, and they could use some mercy now

Every living thing could use a little mercy now
Only the hand of grace can end the race
Towards another mushroom cloud
People in power, well
They'll do anything to keep their crown
I love life, and life itself could use some mercy now

Yeah, we all could use a little mercy now
I know we don't deserve it
But we need it anyhow
We hang in the balance
Dangle 'tween hell and hallowed ground
Every single one of us could use some mercy now
Every single one of us could use some mercy now
Every single one of us could use some mercy now
-- Mary Gauthier, “Mercy Now”