"Purpose" - a short story
For Robin Williams, and for all the other people who have lost sight of their purpose.
The alarm beeped noisily, rousing Walter from a deep sleep. He squinted his eyes, trying to focus on the time before he reached to switch off the alarm. 7:05 am. It had taken him five minutes to wake up this time. He found that it was taking him longer and longer to awaken each day. He began to roll over and wake his wife when he remembered she wouldn’t be there.
With a sigh he hoisted his stiff, achy body into a sitting position, gently rubbing the bridge of his nose. Mandy, their orange tabby, hopped onto his lap, purring and nuzzling against his t-shirt. He petted her back gently and gave her a quick scratch behind the ears.
“Hello, pretty girl,” Walter muttered. “Let’s get you some food.” Mandy mewed quietly in response, leapt from his lap, and trotted to the kitchen. Grunting, he pushed himself from the bed, glancing at the side he hadn’t slept on. It looked untouched, the blanket still creased tightly under the fluffed pillow. He felt a lump begin to form in his throat as he compared the two sides: used and unused. After another moment’s pause he smoothed his side, balancing the bed. He cleared his throat loudly, but the lump stuck there while he shuffled after the cat.
Walter bent to set Mandy’s dish on the linoleum, and when he came back to standing he noticed the knife sitting on the counter.
“I don’t remember leaving you here…” He grasped the knife handle in his right hand and slid his left index finger under the edge of the blade, staring at it for a moment. Walter was a habitual man, always putting things back where they belonged after use. It troubled him to find evidence of a memory he no longer had - part of a night which ended in a fog. With his left forearm turned towards him, he could see a single, thin red line that arced across his wrist, just below the bones in his hand. It looked like only a scratch, probably from Mandy.
“Young lady, you need to learn to keep your claws to yourself,” he scolded, shaking a finger at the cat. She only gazed up at him for a second, and then calmly went back to eating. Walter turned his attention back to the knife, which glinted at him from his hand. His memory of the evening before was faded and fragmented, as many of his nights had been for the past few months, and he had difficulty remembering how he had even gotten to bed. With a shrug he returned the knife to its place and continued his morning routine, telling himself that he would worry about it later.
After he fed himself a meager breakfast of toast and coffee, Walter carefully climbed into the shower. Steam billowed up from the clawfoot tub which made the floor of the shower, and he slowly took in the faint smell of lavender. It smelled like the oils that used to slick the tub each day after his wife's baths. He had thrown away the bottles that contained those memories several weeks ago, but he supposed there might still be some oils glazing the tub walls. He would need to remember to clean the shower again.
Once he had toweled off, Walter filled the sink with hot water and pulled out his razor. He liked the feeling of shaving. He always felt fresher with his skin scraped clean and free of stubble. Walter smoothed the thick cream on and began, pushing all thoughts about lavender bath oils from his mind. Just as he was finishing his last stroke, he pressed too hard and nicked the underside of his chin. Blood instantly oozed through the break in his thin flesh and began to drip slowly over his Adam’s apple. Walter watched it for a moment, fascinated. The blood mixed with water on his skin, swirling into marbled droplets that edged their way towards the nape of his neck. He liked the way it changed from a dark, reddish brown to an almost transluscent pink color while it trickled. Just as a drop was about to soak into his T-shirt collar, Walter snapped from his momentary daze and snatched up a towel to clean up the blood. After a few moments of pressure from the towel, Walter left the cut to clot on a small triangle of tissue while he stepped out of the bathroom.
Walter’s closet had always been organized. Suit jackets, slacks and pressed white button-downs hung neatly in a row below shelves lined with carefully folded white t-shirts, boxers, socks, and the like. A modest variety of black, polished shoes rested on a rack on the floor. Although a successful career had allowed him more than he ever needed, his clothing collection looked meager, especially across from the empty shelves on the opposite side of the walk-in closet. Walter made his selections quickly, always keeping his back to the exposed opposite wall, and closed the door behind him.
He returned to the bathroom mirror, took a deep breath and draped a periwinkle tie over the back of his neck. This particular tie hadn’t been worn in awhile, having been forgotten in the corner of his closet until Walter came across it this morning. He stood straight and tall as he tightened the knot up against his throat. Walter picked the tiny piece of tissue from the underside of his chin, gazing at his own reflection. He had once been an incredibly handsome man, one that seemed to command the attention of everyone around him when he entered a room, but the last few months of stress had made Walter appear deceivingly aged. Now, he looked weathered and saggy. Yellowed teeth replaced a gleaming smile. Skin that was once firm and smooth was creased with age, and eyes that had shone with energy were now glazed.
Walter easily ignored these things, as he had altogether stopped caring about his appearance. He only bathed and dressed each day because it was required by his work, and he would be retiring soon. The day’s tasks listed themselves in his mind while he observed his appearance, and he absent-mindedly tugged open the drawer that contained his tie-pins. There was only one pin that he wore with the periwinkle tie, and it was nestled deep in a pile of other miscellaneous objects that resided in that particular drawer. Walter's fingers groped through the collection until they rested upon something unfamiliar. Slowly, he brought it out, allowing his eyes to focus on the jeweled, green-and-blue flower hairpin. He smoothed the tiny sparkling stones with his thumb, transfixed by the object, until his brain caught up with his eyes.
At the realization of what he was holding, his hand jerked, tossing the hairpin to the sink as though it were burning hot. Tears welled up in his eyes as every memory of that tiny item flooded his mind. He gasped for air and clutched at his chest. Images of his wife, as though in a slide show, appeared one by one in his mind's eye. Walter could see her sitting on a quilt in the park, the hairpin nestled snugly in her hair. That day, the pair had gone for a picnic of Rueben sandwiches and plain potato chips – their favorite meal. She had posed like a model for him, stretched across the blanket, while he snapped photos. Walter saw his wife snuggled next to him in bed while he flipped through the TV channels. When he turned to find her asleep on his shoulder, he saw that same hairpin, forgotten, clinging loosely to a lock of hair. He had gently tugged it out and gazed at it a moment before kissing her on the forehead and setting the hairpin on his nightstand. Walter could see his wife in the ocean near the beach, waving from the waist-deep waves. They were in Hawaii for their honeymoon - a gift from her wealthy parents. She wore a swimsuit with blue and green flowers on it that matched her hairpin. Those were her favorite colors, she said, because "those are the colors you see when you are walking through the woods and you look up." One after another the memories surfaced, appearing and disappearing without limit.
Walter stumbled back from the sink until he fell against the wall behind him, using it as support. The lump stuck harder in his throat and tears streamed down his face. He couldn’t seem to catch his breath, and yet he wailed in misery. His stomach felt as though it had vanished entirely, leaving only an empty hole in his insides. His hands shook as he reached out – for what, he didn’t know. He hoped that the pain and loneliness would consume him and leave him dead, only so that he might not have to bear it any longer.
He wished there was anyone he could talk to, anyone that might help him with his burden, but his recent outbursts had driven away the few friends he had once had. Walter was an only child and he and his wife had never had children, so he had no one to look after him as he aged. There was no one for him to call, no one to visit, no one to comfort him. He had alienated himself from everyone and everything except his money and his cat, and now neither could offer him anything. His world was a world of self-reliance, and his insignificance had finally been revealed to him. He was, and would continue to be, utterly alone.
This thought stopped Walter short of his sobbing as he pressed against the wall. Without his wife he had nothing short of his possessions. The life that he had made, that he had struggled so hard to build, had no meaning any longer. The past forty years had been for her, all for her, and now she was gone. The meaning of it seemed to pull all of the air from his lungs. Through all his grief and struggles over the past months he had remained optimistic, thinking that life would provide him a purpose or a meaning. She had been the purpose, the meaning, all along. Now, things were different, he had realized.
The idea of going to work had left Walter's mind completely as he stumbled, sobbing, to the kitchen. He moved down the hall, yanking his tie free and his shirt open, snapping the buttons off and sending them bouncing on the hardwood. His shirt was only half tucked when he reached the liquor cabinet and began to paw through the bottles, searching for the whiskey. It seemed as though there were fewer bottles in the cabinet than Walter remembered, but he could only think enough to be thankful that it made his search easier. He found the whiskey and, not bothering to grab a glass, turned and took a long pull from the bottle.
Walter drank hastily and paced the house, drawing a path from the kitchen to the living room and back again. With each drink, brown liquor poured down his face, soaking his shirt and stinging in the cut on his chin. Every drink made it slowly harder to walk, harder to see, harder to feel. Sometimes he would weep as he wandered, stopping only to lean against a wall or a door frame for support. At other times he seemed almost a zombie, always staring blankly ahead at the same fixed point. On one trip through the living room, Walter noticed an empty vodka bottle sitting on the side table next to his recliner.
“So this is what I’ve been doing each night?” he shouted at no one, taking the vodka bottle into his free hand. “This is why I don’t remember?!” Yelling did not satisfy him any, and it caused Mandy to hiss. At the sound of his cat, Walter turned sharply to face her. She was perched, sphinx-like, on the back of his recliner, studying the scene with wide eyes and ears folded back. “Get out of here!” Walter slurred, taking another drink. Mandy only stared at him and crouched lower. “Didn’t you hear me?” he roared. “I said go away you stupid cat!” He took a step forward, launching the empty vodka bottle at the front door. It shattered, showering the floor with glass and sending the cat darting from the room.
Walter watched Mandy leave through blurry eyes, and then turned back towards the remains of the broken bottle. Shards of glass lay scattered before the front door and under a nearby window, and Walter's gaze slowly lifted to the view outside his home. He could see cars passing in front of his home, their speed ebbing and flowing with morning traffic. Walter swayed slightly from side to side, occasionally splashing whiskey on himself and the floor in his attempts to empty the bottle. Liquor ran down his arm and soaked into the elbow of his shirt. It drizzled over the cut on his wrist, causing a sudden sting before the pain dulled again. He focused, with difficulty, on the red line on his arm, trying to remember the evening before. His eyes found the remains of the vodka bottle, then slid back to the cut as he connected the two. The previous night's events were pooling into foggy snapshots, his drunken mind's attempt at recollection. Walter found himself once more watching the cars outside.
Suddenly,Walter was marching through the broken glass towards the front door. As he opened it, the door swung under his unsteady weight, nearly tossing him onto the damp yard. Walter's house was positioned on the corner of the block with his garage facing one street and the front porch facing the other, and his concrete front path met with a sidewalk which bordered his front yard. He barely steadied himself on his walk, and only then by clumsily windmilling his arms as he staggered down the concrete path. Passing cars honked in what Walter sure was amusement, but it gave him even more resolve to finish the task ahead. He gritted his teeth together and set his focus on the busy street before him.
At that moment, a neighbor and her son rounded the corner and crossed in front of Walter's yard on the sidewalk. The neighbor had been keeping an eye on her child’s unsteady bike-riding when she noticed Walter. His strange appearance and unsteady steps quickly drew her attention.
“Mr. Mathis! Oh my God! Are you ok? What happened?” She cut across Walter's yard to meet him on the path, leaving her son to wait on the sidewalk. She was still a few feet away when she caught the first whiff of alcohol, and she took Walter's hand while her expression changed from worry to pity. “Oh, Mr. Mathis…let me help you back into your house. Are you hurt?” He shook his head no as best he could, but he kept his focus on the street. Ordinarily, he might have been embarrassed, but he was only glad to be nearer to the busy traffic. To his neighbor’s surprise, Walter broke free of her grasp and restarted his drunken journey to the street. He could see the neighbor's son, who had been patiently waiting and was now fidgeting with one of his bike pedals, beginning to obstruct his path.
“Mr. Mathis, wait! I really don’t think that’s a good idea. Let me walk you back to your house…” Walter's neighbor suggested, following him cautiously. He waved her away when she attempted to take his arm again. A trail of bloody footprints lay behind him on the stretch of concrete, and he had only a few more steps to go. Stumbling forward, Walter saw his neighbor's son push his foot down on the pedal and bring himself upright on his bicycle. The boy wobbled along on the curb, dangerously close to the unending traffic next to him. The boy's mother was so distracted by Walter that she hadn't even noticed, and soon her son began to lose his balance, swinging the handlebars back and forth in an effort to regain control. Suddenly, the front tire slipped off the curb and into the street.
Walter lunged the few feet that separated him and the boy. With numb, shaky fingers, he snatched at the boy’s collar and yanked as hard as he could. He could hear his neighbor scream from behind him as the boy was drug up over the curb and onto the sidewalk, his heels bouncing behind him. Walter continued forward, pushing with his free hand against the unmanned bicycle in an effort to stop his motion. Only a moment before he had wanted nothing but to jump directly into the heavy traffic, stopping the pain and the sadness and, most of all, the memories. Now, inches from the rushing cars, Walter begged all of existence that he might stop short of death. And, he did.
All Walter could do was lie on his back by the street. His neighbor was on her son in a second, holding him to her and scolding him for riding his bike without her help. Walter felt nearly sober as he stared blankly above him at leaves rustling against a cloudless, blue sky. A sickening crunch snapped their attention back to the bike as it was crushed beneath the tires of an SUV. Walter considered, for a moment, what would have happened if his neighbor’s son had still been on that bike.
The next day, as Walter was getting ready for work, he heard the doorbell ring. He certainly wasn't expecting any visitors, much less in the early morning. After he had tightened the knot in his tie, he limped slowly down the hall and into the living room. The previous day’s incidents had left him bruised, but surprisingly, he felt better than he had in a long time. He straightened himself as best he could before he opened the front door, only to find nobody standing there. A small basket rested on the concrete porch in front of his door, its contents hidden by a checkered cloth. A sealed envelope with his name on it was tucked into the inside edge of the basket. He bent and pulled a corner of the cloth aside to find several cookies, a few loaves of nut bread, and some trail mix. Walter looked around for a moment, trying to find who might have left the gift, before he removed the envelope. As he came back to standing, he broke the seal and pulled out a card. It had a cartoon bird flying away from a tree and a big “THANKS!” on the front of it. A tear filled the corner of Walter's eye as he opened the card and read the loopy writing on the inside.
Mr. Mathis,
I really can’t thank you enough for what you did yesterday. If it hadn't been for you, I might not have my son today. I can't even begin to express my gratitue, so I'd like to start by inviting you to share dinner with my family this evening. You are truly a good man with a great purpose.
Sincerely,
Your neighbor
