Tragedy Off Huntington

At the beginning of this story, our main character, Francis O’Dea, is in the parlor with his girlfriend at his mother’s South End brownstone. The lights are dim and the sun has already gone down despite being 4:37 in the afternoon. The parlor contains the following: A large area rug covering outdated wooden floors, 11 candles (of all different scents), a baby grand piano, two couches, a love-seat, a wood and glass table with an assortment of magazines placed underneath, artwork (by well-known artists and two paintings by Francis), photos of the family hanging along the walls, and a large, flat-screen TV that hung along the wall and has become somewhat of the centerpiece of the room. Francis had left work early after a phone call from Madeleine, his girlfriend. He arrived home to news that she had gotten an abortion. Francis had wanted children since he was in the third grade.

Madeleine: (Crying) Fran, I’m sorry…I wasn’t ready. Don’t look at me like that. You act as if I am a criminal.

Francis: Shut up. Just shut up.

M: Don’t you think it was hard for me as well?

F: Maybe, but you didn’t even talk to me about it.

M: Well you don’t talk to me about anything! You come over after work and sulk, or paint, or watch those stupid foreign films. In fact, the only thing you do talk to me about is politics, and then you get mad at me if I don’t understand you! You’re Mister Socialist Comrade O’Dea, always yelling about how a woman has the right to choose-

F: I told you to shut up, you can be such a bitch. And by the way, it is your choice, but I should at least have an opinion in the matter.

M: Well Comrade, you do have an opinion on it, you have an opinion on everything!

Francis’ mother, Louise, entered the parlor. She was bringing in coffee and trying to hide her smile. His mother had taken a liking to Madeleine, and despite wanting a grandchild, knew that her son wasn’t ready to have a child. He was still figuring out his own life.

F: Mom, what’s that face for? Did you know about this?

Louise: Well, yes…we discussed it and I thought it would be best for the both of you.

F: Once again Queen Louise putting her business where it doesn’t belong, making discussions for her 27-year-old son. Jesus, you’d think you’d want grand kids.

L: Well, I do want grandchildren, but you’re…just not cut out to be a father.

M: Fran…honey, once you have your life figured out, I’m sure you’ll be a great father. But to be honest, I don’t ever want children!

F: Well isn’t this fucking breaking news! Since fucking when?

M & L: Stop overreacting!

M: I’ve never wanted children, in fact I hate kids! I love you, but it’s time to face the facts, you’re busy with a dream that withered long ago, you live with your mother, and you don’t even try to charm me like you used to.

F: Charm you…what am I, a fucking prince now?

M & L: You act like it.

Francis paced around the room while rubbing his messy hair. He was mumbling now. “What’s happening? I’ve gotta think…I gotta run…I gotta…” He kept going on to himself as Madeleine and Louise looked at each other. They both cared and worried for him. They were worried for many reasons.

(LOUISE)Images of Francis popped into her brain, all in black & white as if she were watching his future as a film. She saw him drinking at a dive bar, snorting coke on the counter, and shooting heroin on the bathroom’s toilet. Then she pictured him, exactly as he was eight years ago, in the attic with his wrists cut bleeding, passed out with a cigarette in his left hand and a note in his right.

F: You know what? (Taking a deep breath.) You’re right. I’m going to handle this like a stoic, like Marcus Aurelius. (Madeleine and Louise rolled their eyes.)

M: That’s great Fran…like I said, I love you…but we just need to take some time away from each other.

F: Oh, so this is like, a break up too? (Tears began to fill his eyes.) Okay, I love you…please leave, now.

Louise nodded at Madeleine and they headed for the door.

L: He does love you, but you did the right thing sweet heart. I’ll miss you.

M: I’ll miss you too

With an unpopular election, with an unfavorable result, Francis had plenty on his mind. And whereas a perfectly balanced individual may have had gotten over the break up, a man of Francis’ temperament could not.

He walked the city, listening to protesters, agreeing, but not participating. He was always there, but not. At lunch with friends, he spoke of freedom and liberty and social justice with passion, and yet he was simultaneously thinking of her. He thought of his baby boy Theodore, little Teddy. He thought of the swan boats in spring, summers swimming down the cape, hiking during autumn…all of this consumed him.

Six months had passed and he had finally called Madeleine. He explained, how much better how he was feeling, and forgave her. He just wanted lunch and she agreed. They met at Gaslight on Harrison Ave. He arrived early as usual and she was late, as usual.

M: Sorry, my Uber kept driving in circles! I swear they do that just to keep the meter running.

F: I didn’t think Ubers had meters.

M: Oh well, whatever he was doing he didn’t know how to drive!

F: So, how’ve you been?

M: Just fine.

(The waiter came over and Francis ordered duck confit in steamed Asian buns, and Madeleine ordered a Greek salad with no olives and no feta cheese; Francis kept himself from saying anything about her order.)

F: Are you seeing anyone?

M: (Struggling to keep a sip of water in her mouth) Uh, yea actually. He’s a finance guy, you wouldn’t like him. He works on State Street.

F: Why wouldn’t I like him?

M: Oh don’t play stupid, I know you’d say he’s bourgeois or something like that. He’s really nice to me and has a nice place in Southie, and he’s a great- (She stopped herself.)

F: It’s okay if he’s great in bed, we’re adults, and I still know I was the best you’ve ever had in bed! (He said laughing.)

M: No…Francis, he’s a great father.

The words he had just heard were as if a bullet hit his stomach. His face grew pale.

F: Father, I thought you hated kids! This was the whole thing!

M: Please Francis, I met him and fell in love. He had a rough divorce, the mother was crazy apparently and he really is a great man. He’s been through a lot.

F: Oh, horse shit, what could he have been through that was so hard? (Madeleine didn’t answer. And there was a silence that lasted 43 seconds.) I bet he’s a Trump supporter.

M: (Now angry and excited) See you bring politics into everything! Why do you do that? You know what, he did vote for Trump and I did too! And I don’t care what you say, because, sure he’s a little piece of shit but now we’ll see what happens without the establishment in office.

F: (Standing up, putting money on the table) Sometimes the smallest shits take the longest to wipe. (He had been waiting three weeks to use that phrase, since he thought of it on the toilet at work one day.)

On his way home, he passed Wally’s Café and stopped in to listen to the Berklee kids play jazz. He sat at the bar, and the bartender recognized him. “Francis, right? Gin and Tonic for ya?” Francis’ eyes lit up and without hesitation he ordered Ethereal Gin with tonic and a cucumber. He was happy. The sound of the jazz and the taste of the gin sent shivers through his body and he tapped his shoes to the sound of trumpets and drums. He began to get wasted, and his mood became more aggressive.

He looked over at a couple of college friends and their girlfriends, and went up to them.

F: Look at you fucking people, I bet you don’t even really like jazz you fucking pretentious assholes. Look at your stupid Boston College hoodie. Fuck you.

Without hesitation, the group of college students kicked the absolute crap out of him. After a few punches to the face and a blow to the stomach, one of the students kicked him in his groin. Francis began throwing up and crawling out of the café. He hailed a taxi home.

Taxi Driver: Rough night huh brother? Where to?

F: Mind your business, Clarendon, fast.

TD: Okay buddy, that’s off Tremont, right?

F: Yea…

The Taxi driver was driving fast up Mass Ave. toward Cambridge. And for some reason or another, (most likely the eight gin and tonics, and that shot of tequila,) Francis got the idea that the driver was going the wrong way on purpose. Francis, without thinking punched the taxi driver in the back of the head twice and the driver lost control of the car. The car went through the red light at Huntington Ave. and collided with a mini-van.

When Francis came out of a daze, he got out of the cab and saw the mini-van with the door open. He looked 10 yards up the road and saw a blood covered mother cradling her dead baby, who was flung out of his car-seat through the windshield and killed instantly. Francis knelt on the pavement and looked at the pool of blood which was dripping from his face. He wept, but for once, not for himself.