Bank Job by James Heneghan Page A

needles in my legs.
    Billy sighed. Then he leaned toward the bed. “We better be going, Dad,” he said in the old man’s ear.
    His dad didn’t move. His faint breathing was barely detectable.
    We left.
    Walking back to Waterfront Station in the rain, I said, “Why did you want me to come with you, Billy?”
    â€œI dunno. It helps.” He shrugged awkwardly. “When he’s awake he never talks, just looks at me. Or he turns his head away and looks at the wall. One day I was there and he cried. I ask him things, but he never answers, never says anything. Just looks at me. I thought if you were there he might say something. A pretty girl in the room might make him talk, you know?”
    I didn’t say anything. I felt like crying.
    We went again the next morning, not talking much during the forty minute trip. The sky train was quiet, even for a Saturday. I’d never seen Billy so down.
    The same nurse was at the desk. “Doctor Watterson just left, Billy. Your father is sleeping comfortably.”
    We sat down and waited to see if he’d wake up. The room was brighter than yesterday. We didn’t whisper this time but talked in our normal voices.
    â€œHave you talked with this Dr. Watterson?”
    Billy nodded.
    â€œDoes he know anything about your dad’s life— before he came here?”
    â€œHe was a regular customer at Mental Health Services where Dr. Watterson works. My dad’s an alcoholic. But he had friends. He tried to help other people like himself. And Dr. Watterson tried to help him.”
    I got an eerie feeling someone else was in the room, and then I noticed that Billy’s dad was awake. He stared at Billy with bright blue eyes. There was no mistaking those eyes. He suddenly looked like Billy.
    â€œHi, Dad,” Billy said quietly.
    His dad continued to stare but said nothing. Then his eyes switched to me like a question mark.
    â€œThis is my friend, Nails. She’s in my foster. Her real name is Nell.”
    The old man tried to speak. The effort caused his thin chest to heave and his brow to wrinkle like corrugated cardboard. He managed to whisper, “Nell.”
    I smiled. “Hi.”
    His eyes turned to his son. “Billy,” he croaked. He tried to say more but couldn’t. He closed his eyes and sank back into his pillow.
    Billy talked to him, but there was no response.
    He was asleep again.
    I asked Billy, “Was it weird seeing him here like this after all these years? Aren’t you mad at him for leaving you?”
    Billy’s eyes widened. “Mad? No, I don’t think so. Not mad. I feel sorry for him, that’s all, for wasting his life.”
    â€œWhat about what he did to your life?”
    He shrugged. “I didn’t have a dad when I needed one. He did that to me. Maybe I should be mad, but I’m not. He was weak, that’s all. I won’t ever be weak like him. I’ve promised myself that.”
    The nurse at the desk downstairs beamed one of her saintly smiles at us as we left.
    By now, Tom knew the cause of Billy’s troubles.
    â€œWant to come with us, Tom?” said Billy on Sunday afternoon.
    â€œOkay,” said Tom. “If you’re sure you want me to come.”
    This time when we got to the hospice, the doctor and nurse were in the room with Billy’s dad, so we had to wait. When they came out, the doctor said, “I’ve given him something to make him comfortable, Billy.”
    The doctor seemed nice. He was wearing a gray tracksuit and running shoes.
    We all went in and sat. The old man’s eyes were closed. His breath came in quick raspy puffs. He opened his eyes and looked at Billy, and without moving his head he looked at me. Then his eyes went back to his son. He didn’t seem to notice Tom. He tried to speak, but all that came out was a grunt. He slowly reached a frail hand out to Billy. Billy clasped his father’s hand in his own big