Waking up in the darkness is almost worse than falling asleep too it. Thomas Devlin continued this monotonous agenda for thirty years behind the bars of Joliet Correctional Facility. The walls that incarcerated him shrunk daily and seemed to tighten shackles around his wrists and throat. These walls made his body slow, and rugged, making his skin wither and welt.  He could no longer tote two ten gallon barrels over both shoulders, nor pick a lock as he once could in 1895. They made his joints crack and ache, along with his liver that grew to twice its normal size. Thirty years sober.
Thomas Devlin was a disheveled man, peeled from him manhood and placed in the middle of an unfamiliar bewilderment. He could scarcely manage to stand up straight without the constant opposing threat of his acute nausea, imposed by his withdrawal. His hands rattled, his forehead dampened, and the night had hindered his eyes to the point where his head would spasm invariably. His hair was now crinkled down to his ears and his jawline was embedded in a dark grey shadow, and the beer belly he once inherited from his father was now empty and aching. This was Thomas Devlin, a broken hollowed out version from the likes of it. Although his body fought him he still tried to keep the faith, faith in sobriety. Despite his past decisions Thomas was strong, and cunning. He refused to let his past become him once again.
Time is a concept created by humans, some people are old at twenty-five and young at fifty-five but whos counting. Age doesn't matter, what really matters is how you age and how you choose to spend your time living… And Thomas did not use that time to his advantage. Of course, to Thomas Devlin, it was not age who stole his youth, it was the walls. The walls that enclosed him from his freedom and youth, has stripped him of his pride and dressed him in black and white striped rags. Thirty years enslaved.
Thomas arose from his metal bed to the heavy moans and to a sharp whistle that brisk morning, “Up! Inmate 345, accounted for.” The guard spoke to the man clutching a clipboard and pencil and glanced at the paper. “Well well Devlin, thirty years tomorrow and your home free huh? Hows it feel?” Biting his lip and chuckling, the guard flicked up his hat bill, so Thomas could stare into his eyes. Thomas erected his shoulders and tucked his chin to his chest.
“A trap” he mumbled. The guard furrowed his brow and leaned into Thomas, running his finger across the muscular bars separating him from civility.
“It’s a different world out there since you’ve last been in it Devlin. Times are changing and certainly not to your advantage. You best suit up.” He seized the clipboard from underneath the other guards armpit and squinted. “You’re on kitchen duty today Devlin, enjoy it while you can.” And with that, opened the cell doors. Thomas stood there for a moment just like he did every morning, and closed his eyes. Wine is a mocker, Thomas recited, strong drink is raging: and whosoever is deceived thereby is not wise. He bit down on his lower lip and dipped his head. How could the world not wait for him? How could it revitalize so drastically without a single hint of the process? The walls, Thomas thought, demons! Hiding Thomas away shielding him from the strengthening and new era of Chicago. Thirty years oblivious.
Down in the courthouse kitchen Thomas prepared the broth with the matron and served it to the inmates with three gill-zinc bowls filled with milk. This labor barely compared to the labor he was forced to perform years ago when he was younger. Back then he and the other inmates his age were forced to crush rocks with pick axes or use the crank for up to ten hours a day. That was the only time the inmates were allowed out of their cells. In between meals, Thomas along with the other older inmates, worked in their cells making herring nets for the local fishermen and picking oakum fibers from short lengths of rope that had been teased part. Thomas was expected to pick five pounds of oakum a day, and if more than asked was done, they would get payed for “overwork” the day they would leave the prison. Which coincidentally, was tomorrow.
After lunch Thomas sat in between his walls like a caged bird and thought. He relished in his past memories of the crisp air that once bit at his skin, and the sweat embedded above his upper lip or brow while smiling and not just after a nightmare. The nightmares were yet another gift generously inclined by the concrete rocks that kept him grounded. These nightmare were only inflicted of course when he managed to sleep. Every night when Thomas actually did sleep, he dreamt of the whiskey, and would awake with a stinging pain in his throat, that only a poison could cool. Having to rely on a poison made Thomas have a lot to think about in prison, such as what would’ve happened if he hadn't of sipped that first sip invoked by his father. Maybe Clara his wife would’ve been able to look into his eyes without the fear of God. Hopefully if he never became accustomed to the poison in the first place, he would’ve been able to breath the fresh air that freedom provided, and not have to inhale the stale air recycled by those lost souls enslaved as well as Thomas was.
As the mail cart rounded the corner and stopped at Thomas’ cell, his body tenced.. Thomas stared at his scuffed shoes and walked to the bars like he habitually did every sunday evening. The inmate delivering the mail was a little older than Thomas, maybe late sixties. He had large bags under his brown eyes and stood like he was was hauling bricks over his his back. He sorted and sifted through the beige envelopes and looked at Thomas. “Sorry Tommy” and drove the mail cart to the next cell. Thomas nodded and returned to his bed to sit. Not one letter. Thirty years stuck to rot inside these walls and not one letter from his wife, his friends, nor sister. Thomas’ heart began to pound and throb. Lord where will I go? Little to no money and no place to live, Thomas was blind. He had no one.
For the first time in thirty years, Thomas was finally facing his fear of the outside. Clara used to tell him “You either say how you feel and mess it up, or say nothing and let it mess you up instead.” After being silent for thirty years Thomas finally knew what Clara meant. So frightened of what awaited him outside, so frightened of the urges that picked at his wounds, so afraid of being alone. For all that time Thomas thought that the day he would be released would be the happiest of his life. No more shackles or routines, free to rejoin society. But now, he finally came to the realization that the walls all this time, had been comforting him. Accumulating Thomas’ beliefs and twisting them, making him believe everything he had ever needed was right there in that cell, not outside. “Damn you! You bastards!” He shouted at the walls. He sunk to his knees, covered his ears and grinded his teeth. The walls were killing him with unsaid words and all he could do was shake. Screaming, Thomas began to weep like a woman. He became enraged and began to pound on the walls. He kicked and bruised himself until he began to bleed. He smeared the blood on his face to wipe his tears and yelled once more until the guards came. The guard shook the bars of his cell and gave Thomas an antagonizing glare
“Inmate! Settle down! Don’t make us come in there!” Thomas stumbled to his feet like a drunkard and spit at the guards. The guard huffed at Thomas and puffed out his chest, like a Strongman in a circus.
“Open the cell” He sternly ordered to another guard standing parallel to him. The guard pushed open the doors and it clashed with the wall, as if the wall was laughing at Thomas’ puerility. Strongman entered with heavy feet and swiftly connected his left fist to Thomas’ jaw line. He collapsed like a rag doll. The guard then thrusted his shoe into Thomas’ stomach and spit at him. “You better watch it Devlin! You’re still mine for one more night.” Strongman then exited the cell and left the other guards to close the cell doors. Thomas was once again left alone, with his empty used-out thoughts.
Sometimes Thomas was thankful for those guards, especially the Strongman. Not for maintaining the order, but for making him feel again. The pain was better than the nothingness painted all over his body. It created somewhat of an armor that he didn't want, but tonight, Thomas was overwhelmed with feelings. He decided to quit his battle for the night and give into the walls trickery, and cherish the last night in his bed. I’ve become apart of you haven’t I? He thought to the walls. Thomas’ eyes replied to him by closing and wetting at the corners. Tomorrow he would truly find out.

When Thomas was seventeen years old, his father grew incredibly ill. He always knew his father would drown out whatever veins still flowed with blood. Son of a b**** drank like he was purposely trying to destroy himself and everyone else surrounding him. Thomas recalled one afternoon in November knocking three times on the green, chipped painted door and squeaking it open, just enough to peep his head through into his father’s bedroom. His father was more green than pale that afternoon, wearing a white shirt stained with Thomas’ Mother’s blackberry jam and famous peaches and cream from the night before’s supper. At his feet were the remains of his breakfast that he wasn't able to choke down; a half-eaten hot muffin with hash, the skins of a fried potato, an empty cup of black coffee, and a full bowl of rice. The man Thomas knew to be half a man, became a quarter of one, and his father knew it. He stared at Thomas each morning with such discontent, no longer in Thomas but in himself, he knew he was fading away. Thomas used to feel sorry for him, now the only person he felt sorry for was himself. This being because he finally realized that his father raised Thomas to be the only type of man that his father knew how to be. A crooked one.
As Thomas walked into that room to pick up his father’s dishes, he noticed the wide variety of colored pills that littered his bed side table. God knows what that medicine did to his body, most likely did more harm than good with all those pills in him at once. Probably made some weird toxic c***tail for all he knew. “Have you taken any of those today?” Thomas asked him gently, pointing at the pills. His father closed his eyes for a moment with irritation and exhaled, as if he were smoking a cigar.
“Don’t you have anything better to do than badger me Tommy?”
“Do you have anything better to do than listen to me?” Thomas blew a frail hair out of his eye and stood there for a moment waiting for his response. Thomas was curious. The man never had one moment free to listen to something Thomas had to say, and now that he was practically encumbered and glued to  his bed, maybe he could possibly look Thomas in the eye without rolling them and tossing him away.
“They don’t make me feel right Tommy, some of them are so wide I can barely cough em’ down” He scuffed at Thomas. Thomas rolled his eyes and chuckled.
“Pain never stopped you from swallowing something before.” Thomas muttered. He picked up his father’s dishes and began to walk out of the foul smelling room, until his father stopped him with his belittling. 
“Hey you brat! Just cause’ I’m sick, ain’t mean you got the right to talk to me that way. You will talk to me with some God-damn respect! The respect I deserve!” He coughed as he screamed and heaved for air. Thomas filled with rage like a drink being poured on a counter and spilling at the top. He turned to him and sloppily dropped the dishes on the floor next to the door.
“Look at yourself Dad. You’ve worked your entire to life to become this, sick. And you will remain sick. Do you know how selfish that is? How are Ma and I gonna pay for food? Pay for rent? We can’t even walk down the damn street without getting glares from the neighbors because we kept them up all night with our screamin’. How in the world can I continue to pretend to respect you when you raised me as the street’s drunkard’s kid?  So tell me, what is it like waking up every morning knowing that you are dying?” With that, Thomas huffed and dropped to his knees to gather the dishes he put on the floor and stood. Thomas was in awe of his newly found voice. He had never talked to his father with such a tone before. It gave Thomas a new sense of bravery and made him feel like he was audacious, more durable than his father. As Thomas turned his back on his father for possibly the first time, he could hear his father chuckling at him.
“What's it like to wake up every morning and pretend like you’re not Thomas?” His father asked him. Thomas’ body shook. His chest became dry and his eyes wet. With that, Thomas kicked the green door shut and left his father alone in the dark, as he did to Thomas his entire life.

When Thomas awoke for the last time inside the walls of Joliet, he started to feel like his life wasn't beginning, but potentially ending. Before Thomas was arrested in 1895, Clara once told him that nothing ends poetically, that there are no happy endings. She told Thomas that endings were the saddest part, and that she wanted Thomas to give her a happy middle and a very happy start. Thomas hoped to God that this wasn't his end, because if it was, he had let her down. There was so much he wanted to do with her, things a fifty five year old man now couldn't ever possibly provide. He wanted to take her to Paris, Germany, Morocco, to see the world, to grow old with her. No
w he didn’t even know if he had given her a semi decent starting. Poor Clara. My Clara he thought. He began to recollect the memories he had of her, like the feel of her soft skin and steady breath. The affable hand that used to stroke his back when he was hysterical and laced with brandy, it never failed to calm him. Thomas remembered asking her what she craved most when they first began seeing each other in high school. She used to get frantic over things like books and the woods and music. Plants and seasons. Also freedom. He craved her more than anything and she the same. The love they both shared was impenetrable, now she couldn’t even bother to write a simple letter describing her day.
It was almost 5 a.m., and the guards would be coming soon to collect Thomas and prepare him for his departure, so Thomas began to pack his things. These “things” included some illegal contraband generously given to him by some young folk that sometimes worked the kitchen with Thomas. It was usually just a pack of cigarettes or a cigar. Sometimes some tobacco if he was lucky. Also his toothbrush and glasses and one other striped uniform along with socks and a hat. That was his life, not even a journal was allowed to be kept. Clara was an author, she always encouraged Thomas to write and record everyday things, she said it helped stimulate the brain during recovery. Maybe that’s why she didn’t write me, Thomas thought. Was she waiting for me to write her all this whole time? Thomas got a headache, she has to know they won’t let me write. He laid down for the last time in his cell and closed his eyes.
Bang bang! The guards pounded on his cell bars. “345! Accounted for. Come on Devlin, it’s time”. Thomas stood and breathed, then approached the bars, hands filled with his only belongings. He turned to look at his cell one last time. The cell in which he yearned to leave all his pain in, all of his fears.
“Wine is a mocker” Thomas whispered to himself steadily. The Strongman turned and hit Thomas in the back of his knee and he stumbled to the ground.
“Get going Devlin I ain’t got all day!” Strongman screeched at him. Thomas almost began to weep. Everything he knew was being left behind in that cell, almost as if he were being reborn again with a fresh slate. He hoped.
“I’m ready” Thomas said. One guard entered his cell and began to tear it apart looking for any belongings left. Strongman then snatched Thomas’ neatly organized belongings from out of his arms and roughly cuffed his hands behind his back. Once the other guard finished ripping apart Thomas’ cell he locked the door with the key attacked to his belt, nodded and said to Strongman “all clear”.
Thomas breathed as steady as he could until he reached the wardens office on the first floor. It was clean, nothing like the outside, and looked like a room for a banker. As did the warden, he wore a brown pressed suit and a white-blue patterned tie, and styled his hair to part in the middle with some sticky nonsense. On his desk sat a picture frame containing a polaroid of a pretty broad with dark lipstick and a baby wrapped in a crochet knit shawl. So there really is a life outside the walls he thought. "Sit" ordered the warden, not looking up from his paperwork. Thomas sat on the only steel chair placed in front of the wardens desk as asked. The warden leaned back reclining in his chair and crossed his arms, finally gazing at Thomas. He squinted, as if he was trying to decipher a lie that Thomas hasn't told yet. The guard to Thomas' right unlocked his handcuffs and Thomas rubbed his sore wrists. Strongman, that was on Thomas’ left, then approached the warden with a clipboard that the warden studied for about 15 seconds. “Thomas Devlin” he read “Thirty years at Joliet, three seizures, abnormal blood pressure, a couple low-grade fevers here and there and… oh, your liver isn’t as top notch as it used to be is it Mr. Devlin?” He asked Thomas. Thomas shrugged. The warden looked up from behind his clipboard and sighed, studying Thomas. "Mr. Devlin, do you feel as though you have been rehabilitated?" Thomas crossed his legs and folded his hands on top of his knees, trying to fidget, pretending to act as normal as possible.
"Say again sir?" Thomas asked shyly. The warden rolled his eyes and studied the clipboard once more.
"I said, do you feel as though you have rehabilitated?" The warden asked Thomas again, with more volume. Thomas uncrossed his legs and scratched his knees. He sat there for a moment silently, attempting to organize his thoughts. The warden glared at Thomas and patiently waited for a response. After what seemed to have been several hours to Thomas, he replied:
"My youth was not a time during my life, it was more of a state of mind sir. How can I sit here and tell you that it was, when I spent so little of that time before I was put away? My youth wasn't rosy cheeks, nor was it scraped knees or my prospering imagination. I was raised to make havoc sir, something that I am not proud of. Something that I've been trying not to subdue to for quite sometime before I came to Joliet. But once I succame to the influences that pestered me, I was punished, and oh am I glad that I was sir. Without Joliet, I most likely would've ruined what little I had left in my life. I feel like I can start a new beginning in my life, cleansed and purified. What is one old man to your society anyway? A threat? Most likely only a bother. I feel like I have been rehabilitated sir, and with that I can proudly say that I am a changed man." Thomas wasn't sure he believed everything he was saying. The warden looked pleased with Thomas' answer though. Thomas might've even seen him crack a smile. An accomplished smile at that. The warden put both elbows of his wool suit on the desk and pointed his slender finger at Thomas.
"There is a fountain of youth Mr. Devlin: it is your mind, your talents, what you have to offer Chicago and the lives that live within it. When you learn what it is and tap into that source, you truly will have defeated age. A clean slate to put it at that." The warden flipped through the papers attached to the clipboard. "Says here you were attending Chicago University, studying literature but dropped out in 1893, and I have a feeling I know what that was for Mr. Devlin,” He looked disapprovingly at Thomas, exactly as his father once did. Thomas hung his head ashamed; please get me out of here, he thought. “But from the likes of you Mr. Devlin, I predict that there is much more to you than a drunk. You're clever. A straightforward clever man. But times have changed Mr. Devlin, you can no longer live your life as you carelessly did. It is not your duty to challenge corruption as every youth once did.
"Find your meaning Mr.Devlin, it’s never too late. With the evolving of Chicago, you will find yourself changing with it." The warden held out the clipboard to the same guard on Thomas' right and the guard smoothly grasped it and secured it under his armpit, looking straight forward. "You are dismissed" Said the warden. In a blink of an eye Thomas was up on his feet and walking out the door.
When Thomas approached the final gate within a series of gates that led to the outside, he wished that he had a hand to hold. He was frightened. Having been oblivious thirty years to Chicago's new era, how was he supposed to find his meaning if he wasn't even positive he had one? How was the warden so sure that Thomas would be able to adapt to 1925? Life doesn't get easier, or more forgiving, we get stronger and more resilient he kept saying to himself. He wasn't sure if he was ready now. So many memories, so many urges he had to fight off in order to function. But Thomas knew that it gets easier, then it feels okay, and after one step at a time it feels like freedom. He had to try to leave all of those urges in fears behind. If he didn’t, then this would have all been for nothing.
Even then when Thomas was changed into his old suit that fit him when he was twenty-five, Thomas still wasn't comfortable. The stitching was too tight and the fabric too itchy. Being in that striped uniform everyday for such a long time made his skin more sensitive and less susceptible to the environment. His shoes were too small and his wallet held nothing but a coupon to ‘Tony’s drug store’. Wow I wonder if he’s still around, he wondered. Nothing felt right. Emotionally, Thomas wanted to stay, sensibly he wanted to go. As usual he seemed to enjoy punishing himself. The souls always knows how to heal itself, he remembered Clara telling him. You just have to silence your mind Thomas, he tried to reassure himself.
Before he exited those big iron gates, he was handed a yellow envelope containing $8.12. Thomas was baffled. He couldn’t believe his eyes. “What is this?” Thomas asked Strongman. “You're over work payment sir.” Sir? Thomas almost fell down. Did Strongman just call me sir and hand me 8 jacks? Thomas was never treated with that much respect in the big house, ever, especially by Strongman. He accepted the envelope graciously and Strongman tipped his hat to Thomas, bidding him farewell. All those years of working Thomas’ hands to death had rewarded him with a chance, a small one, and Thomas was going to take it. It was almost as if he took a shot of hope that warmed up his frail body, somewhat of an elixir. Strongman Thomas and unlocked the gates, and escaped back into the labyrinth.

“Where’s my mill?!” Thomas threw the crystal against the flowered wallpaper and brandy soaked the wall. “You dumb broad I know you nicked my mill where is it!?” He stumbled to Clara and heaved over the decrepit rocking chair Clara did her knitting in.
“I didn’t touch your typewriter Thomas! I write I don’t type!” Clara screeched at Thomas. Thomas floundered over to where Clara was standing and shoved his body at her.
“Now don’t make me paste one across that pretty pan of yours again” Thomas spoke quietly, while his finger flitted across her jaw line. Clara could sense his advanced state of inebriation and she stilled. Clara’s lips drew into a straight line and her back did the same. She remained perfectly still as he examined her. His soft blue eyes traveled to hers and he could see her resilience. Thomas snapped his teeth together and snarled. He stepped back and slapped her across the face, making her stumble backwards onto the stained browned rug. She cupped her hand to her cheek and gaped at Thomas in horror. This was where he felt most powerful and in control.
“Thomas, I’ll find your typewriter but I didn’t take it, I swear on it!" With her right hand cupped to her left cheek, she used her left arm to crawl backwards to create distance between herself and her husband. With every crawl she attempted, he stammered closer to her. He was barbaric, almost animalistic.
Then, Thomas stood, this was it. His moment of clarity. The moment distilled from his delusional raging chaos, where he could see for just a moment. He could see the sheer fear on his wife’s face that lit up the dimly lit room. He could see the broken glass from their expensive wedding crystal scattered on the floor, that was given to them by Clara’s mother. He could also see his typewriter sitting on the bay window hidden behind the curtains, watching the ordeal take place. This was the worst part, where he suddenly went from coming home from work and having a beer to standing over his wife cradling a swollen cheek. It is blinding and dreary, and never failed to take his breath away.

Have you ever stared into the depths of the clouds to try and make out what the sun really looks like? You can only look for so long until the sun’s rays blind you for a split second. And in that split second you see darkness, darkness magnified with illusions and fears that you will always have that darkness. But once your sight returns it comes back almost clearer than before, and you’ve never felt more in control.
When Thomas took his first step out of confinement he felt the same way. It was as if he stared into the sun’s glory and was blinded and placed in darkness for 30 years, and he could finally see again.
Chicago was illuminated. Even during the day when the colors on the brick buildings melted into each other, and looked black and white, but the light that emanated from the sun was still so brilliantly blinding. And moving so fast. Thomas could hardly stand still stepping off beyond the gates onto the corner of Foster and Kensington avenue. The streets were swamped and littered with stomping muddy one-strap leather shoes and heels. The women’s dresses were smaller now it seemed, and they wore round hats with flowers to mask their sprayed hair from the smog that sat over the city. The men of 1925 looked sharper, more in charge yet more eager to prove something. Seemed to Thomas as if every man who walked the streets had somewhere to be 10 minutes ago. But the women danced along the pavement and strode to take their time, trying to catch the eye of every man whether he be an accomplice or business man.
Every other building on each block was either made to live through the next millenium or a skeleton of an old one. Everywhere Thomas looked things were being cleaned, built or torn down. Not to mention the evidence of the industrialism that choked the atmosphere, that dirtied the cheeks and clothes of small children and adults.
But the pinnacle point of interest for Thomas’ eyes were the automobiles. He saw one or two in the papers when his mother set him up with a job as a paperboy to pay for tuition fees, but never one in real life. Even in the papers, they seemed alien. Out of his time. The herds of steel behemoths that roamed the poorly maintained roads left him overwhelmed, and taken aback.

Thomas sauntered down the continual blocks of worn concrete in hopes of stumbling across some sort of enlightenment. His eyes were wide with wonder, yet he felt so insignificant in his place of being, so vulnerable. He was a foreigner, wandering the streets that he had once been so familiar with. Now the noises, sounds, smells and general ambiance seemed completely out of the ordinary-an unimaginable contrast to the days that rooted an image of simplicity in his mind.
Another mystery that stuck out to Thomas was the band of people who stood in the middle of the street. Unlike the men who were rushed they stood clutching signs, with gleaming eyes and roaring voices that sounded like thunder. Thomas slowed his walking to stare and was immediately shoved and kicked by passer-goers. His wide innocent eyes stared through the various fur and trench coats to the statues in the middle of the road. He decided that a cigarette might calm his nerves and ranked his mind for where to find one. Tony’s he thought. With that, Thomas could almost feel a small grin peek through his wrinkles.
Well what do you know, Thomas thought. Son of a b**** somehow managed to keep his building made of rocks and glue standing. The building was dirtier, but with the same sign. It’s rustic oara and familiarity eased Thomas’ nerves, and he gracefully walked through the double doors and hear the welcome of the chime above the door and his old friend arms filled with dishes and a pink rag. He looked up from his shoes to the door to see Thomas and stared, eyes wide. “Thomas Devlin?” he blinked.
“Hi’ya Tony” Thomas blushed and grinned wider than he ever has in thirty years. It was like tearing up concrete the glued his mouth in a frown, yet so much easier.
“Well I’ll be a son of a gun, Tommy!” Tony limped over to Thomas and embraced him and Thomas exhaled a sigh of relief and comfort, and patted him on the back. Tony Fiorentino was a large man dressed in white ketchup stained clothes, with gelled black hair. He was about twenty years older than Thomas, but he didn’t look much older. “Jeez Tommy I haven't seen you in twenty something’ years!” He smiled at Thomas.
“Thirty, but who’s counting.” Thomas laughed and looked around the old saloon that was once a second home.
“So how’ve you been Tommy? When did you get out?” He placed the rag and the dishes on the closest table and pulled up a chair for Thomas to sit, and Thomas excepted it.
“You wouldn’t believe it, but a few hours ago.” Thomas said.
“You’re kidding! And the first place you went was to see ya’ old friend Tony.” He lightly punched Thomas’ right shoulder and laughed.  The same booths were still in place matching the old chairs and tables that covered the room, but yet, it seemed more spacious. What did he do with the bar?
“Tony what’d ya do with the place?” Thomas asked slightly embarrassed to ask about the bar. If anyone knew about Thomas’ haunted past it was Tony, after all, he was the one who sold it to him. Tony looked around the room as if he was trying to remember what the room looked like.
“Oh well nothing much, cleaned it up a little bit. The kitchen is just as much of a dump as it was when you were still around.” He squinted his eyes at Thomas and patted his back roughly. “Times have been a little tough lately, what with Diane sick and all. twenty-four years we’ve been married can you believe that? And I can still imagine another twenty-four more of it, if it weren't for her lungs. Guess all that crap them docs have been tellin’ us bout’ smokin’ has been true this whole time.” Tony stopped and looked at Thomas. Tony started picking at his stubbed fingernails, perplexed in remembrance. Thomas could tell he hit a sore spot. Tony kept blabberin’ to ease the awkward oara. “Anyways yeah we fixed the place up a bit nothing big.” He shrugged checking the door for customers. Thomas exhaled and shoved his insecurities aside for his curiosity.
“What happened to the bar Tony?” Tony looked over to the right side of the room where the bar used to stand. It used to be rounded, and Tony would stand behind that bar all day, cleaning various shot glasses and organizing his wide variety of booze. He had every liquor known to mankind, and he displayed them all pretty on the wall. that way you could stare in awe at them when you sat and drank. He also had an old mirror that was wide enough to be hung from one side of the rows of booze to the other. Thomas remembered that mirror so clearly,smudged and slightly foggy from the heat in the room the men gave off drinkin. He could see his younger self staring back at him, hammered.
Tony looked back at Thomas almost confused and shook his head. He squinted at Thomas again. “Oh! Well, we didn’t have much use for it anymore Tommy…” He responded almost as if he wanted Thomas to reassure him of something. Thomas c***ed his head to his shoulder like an old school boy and matched Tony’s confused expression.
“What? Come on, people came from all over Chicago to taste your drinks!” Thomas laughed throwing his hands up in exaggeration. Tony didn’t match his enthusiasm. “What’s the matter?” Thomas asked.
“Well theres no use selling them if no one will buy them.” He said still testing Thomas. Thomas couldn’t stand his confusion any longer. No one buying booze? Thomas stared at Tony and leaned in to get closer. He was frustrated.
“What the hell are you talking about?” He asked sternly. Tony leaned back in his chair in disbelief and rubbed his eyes.
“You really don’t know do ya?” He stated to Thomas. He pushed a laugh and looked at Thomas, as if he were taking away a young boy’s favorite toy. “Thomas, it’s the Prohibition.”

If Thomas had a hundred hours in 1880, he would spend that time conjuring up a plan to travel to the moon. He would contemplate the possibilities and the adventures that patiently awaited his arrival. But when Thomas turned eleven the following year, he decided that his decision would not be impractical, but disheartening. This being because he would never be able to bask in the eminent glow that the moonlight had to offer on Earth.
If Thomas had a hundred hours in 1886, he would spend that time drinking the sky. Not only consuming it, but celebrating it, letting it fill his every being so that he would no longer feel an ache at his core. The sky would make him clear, and light, and blue. It would make him better.
If Thomas had a hundred hours in 1895, he would spend that time trying to revitalize his relationship with his wife from the night before. He would also spend that time crunching numbers in his head over how he would be able to pay for a new window. Or a new shag to cover up the upchuck stain on his carpeted floors. Or he would be figuring out how he was going to repay his tab at the bar. Also pensively deciding on whether or not next time, the cheaper liquor may not be the smartest way to go.
Back then, Thomas couldn’t decide whether drinking at the bar was a smarter idea than drinking at home. You chug down four brandys by yourself at the bar and everyone around you is too busy cheering to wonder how empty you had to be in order to do it. You chug down four brandys at home and you spend that time feeling like you're stuck in a pen, contemplating on whether or not its worth escaping and what it'd be like out in the open. In a pen, Thomas’ mind ran wild with active possibilities of his future, and wondered why it wasn't like that. Why was Thomas not writing best sellers? Why were his pockets not weighed down by his salary? Why was he still living in this trashy, run down home? Thomas needed hope. He needed freedom and a living, breathing invitation to believe better things.

“Prohibition?” Thomas asked. He was confused. What was this foreign word?
“We were voted dry Tommy, a couple years ago actually, 1920 I think. They really kept you in the dark in Joliet didn’t they?” Tony asked Thomas. Thomas shivered over the dark. Thomas sat for a moment and thought for what felt like hours. Was this what the guards meant? This was Chicago’s changing era? It couldn’t be. “Tommy?” Tony snapped Thomas out of his reveries.
“You can’t be serious.” Thomas said almost reassuringly. Tony looked concerned.
“They banned the sale and consumption of any booze you can think of Tommy, it’s ruined me. I can barely afford to pay rent for the apartment. Good people are losing everything.” Tony looked sad. He twiddled with his thumbs in his lap and drew his brows into a line. After a second of Thomas trying to think of something to say that wouldn't make him sound foolish, Tony looked up and interrupted his thoughts. “How are you Thomas?” Thomas wasn't caught off guard, he knew this was coming so he decided to be blunt with his old friend.
“Not as good as I should be. You’d think prison would be an excuse for me to finally sit down and say ‘yeah I probably should lay off the booze.’ And you’d probably also assume that I’d be sharp enough to come to terms with my mistakes and learn from them.” Thomas choked down tears when he tried to look at Tony in the eyes. “But God have I ever wanted anything this bad.” Thomas disguised a muffled sob with a cough and then ran his fingers through his curls. “Boy was I a cellar smeller back then huh?” Thomas laughed, trying to lighten the conversation. Tony tried to chuckle with him,
“You were lit up like the commonwealth every other night Tommy it must have been a tough change goin’ from that to dry.” He leaned across the table then patted his shoulder harshly.
“You’re not weak Tommy, you’re broken. You’ve lost everything. Neither of us can deny that.” Tony replied to him as gently as possible. Thomas covered his eyes and nodded his head repeatedly. Then, he had an epiphany. “Everything?” Thomas looked up at Tony with wide eyes that almost startled Tony. He leaned in to Tony with his palms on the table top.
“Where’s Clara?” Thomas questioned slowly and intensely. Tony’s expression changed. A glimmer of fear shadowed his face right beneath his eyes. This scared Thomas. He saw Tony shift his eyes all around the room trying to find an excuse to leave. “Where’s my wife Tony?” Thomas asked again, a little louder. His silence made Thomas enraged. A drunk blurred anger. Thomas noticed a drip of sweat running down his sideburn, but Tony stayed perfectly still. Without a goodbye, Thomas sat up and as fast as he could, hurried out the door to hear the chime dismiss him, before hearing Tony’s pleas to stay and have that cigarette.
After what seemed to be hours of walking, Thomas arrived at 22 Sycamore avenue. A small, simple, bungalow style home, with green trim and red bricks at its base to keep it sturdy. The white was now somewhat brownish and faded, but it was home. He breathed heavily, and scurried up the wooden staircase to the front door. He bent down under the mat and to his amazement, found a small bronze key, looking as if it was placed there just for him. He shakily inserted the key into the lock and opened the door. “Clara!” He screamed. He rushed in not even closing the door behind him. He scampered into the kitchen to find the cabinets full and open, but no Clara. “Baby, please!” He yelled for her again, tears and sweat mixing together on his cheeks. He turned and hurried to their bedroom. The bed was made, with the same green comforter Clara had made years back. The curtains were drawn and the closet empty except for a few of Thomas’ coats and old shoes. Clara’s fur coats were absent, her mother’s jewelry and flapper hats as well. Along with Clara. Thomas gritted his teeth and squeezed his eyes. He turned in a frantic rush to run out the door but then stopped. He opened his shut eyes and turned his head back to the green comforter. There lying on the bed was a beige envelope, with Thomas’ name on it, written in Clara’s handwriting. He turned his body and started towards the envelope. He suddenly became more aware of his surroundings. He could smell the faint scent of Clara’s lilac perfume and could feel his heart settle back in its chair after 30 years, knowing that it was home. Thomas picked up the envelope, and shakily opened it to several pieces of parchment paper and $50.

Thomas-
If you’re reading this, if there’s still air in your lungs on this November day, then there is still hope for you . Your story is still going. And maybe somethings are true for all of us. Perhaps we all relate to pain, and deserve honesty. We all deserve whatever help we need. Our stories are all so many things: Heavy and light. Beautiful and difficult. Hopeful and uncertain. But our stories are not finished yet. There is plenty of time to fix what we have broken. Time to heal, change, grow. You and I are still going.
I must admit that your absence has been a life changing experience. My heart is shattered but no longer are my bones. I miss you everyday but am no longer afraid to have you burst through the door every night in drunken chaos, because I know you will not. I sleep better but colder. I dream about you almost every night, and I want so badly to wake up from these dreams, but cannot, because I realize that is the only time I will ever see you. In the absence of love we hold onto those who we have fleeting moments with, in some naive hope that they complete those times we have yet to live.
For some times though Thomas, these dreams only added to my fury. You left me. You left me alone in a nation of sheep, ruled by wolves. You knew damn well what you were doing, who you were hurting. Don’t you dare for a moment, believe that my kindness makes me anything but insurmountable. I did not unzip my chest to every kind of hurt, and stagger back, wounded and alive, just to hear you call me weak for trying. I opened my doors to heartache- I gave you the key.
So when you open your mouth and call me ‘baby’, understand that I am not your victim, in a laundry list of broken attempts to rekindle our love. I liked to convince myself that you already knew that but you led me to believe that you didn’t.
And so I drank, I drank to forget you, but somehow it always made me remember you even more, as I knew it would. Time after time I would drink to forget you again and as miserable as it made me, I loved it. I loved the alcohol in my veins, it always felt like you. I loved being able to remember you, and as much as I would cry and scream and as lonely as I felt, the liquor cabinet would still make my mouth water. This being because I felt like when I was drunk ,it brought me closer to you.
R.m. Broderick once said, “Love and alcohol are one in the same. They’ll make you feel alive, and invincible or love drunk and heartbreakingly hungover. But no matter what the outcome, you’ll always be back for more.” When we were young Thomas we used to get drunk together and tell eachother everything we were too afraid to say sober. That is when I fell in love with you. I fell in love with the way you said my name in your sleep and the way your arm felt over my shoulder and the how you would get so excited talking about our future together. But now that you don’t sleep, no longer comfort me or dream as you once did, life is bare and frightening without you.
I miss our youth Thomas, I do not miss your present day self any longer because I realize now that you are no longer the man I fell in love with but there is still so much hope. The Prohibition is yet another sign for you to keep moving and growing. Do not give into temptations as I once did, laugh like you have never been lonely, smile like you have never been broken and trust like you have never been left behind. You are such a strong man and deserve a happy ending, and so do I. I had hoped that you would wake up from your oblivion one day Thomas, and everyday you did but the night would be the same. There comes a time when you have to be your own hero, this is my time.
Don’t come looking for me, you won’t find me. Neither will anyone.  Despite everything, I love you Thomas. I love you more than any woman on this Earth could. I believe in you.

Love,
Clara

Thomas collapsed, his old body shaking. Tears smudging Clara’s ink, pain ripping through his pores. He fell, and in that moment he saw her fall. He saw her crash into pieces of half sipped bottles, the night before’s tears and loneliness. He saw her soulless body, her longing gaze, her aching heart, walk out the door. Thomas scanned the letter over and over again, On this November day. Thomas let out a sob and weeped, she was just here. He had lost her, once again. How could she have so much light and hope for such a soulless man who took everything from her? He pulled his knees to his chest like a child and curled up against the carpet. He cried, he cried harder than he did when his father died. He cried harder than he did the night he was arrested and taken away from Clara. There he was, stripped of his hopes that he’d been holding on for for so long, completely and utterly vulnerable and alone. Knowing this, Thomas closed his eyes and counted in order to control his breathing. One… Two… Three… He then gently fell to sleep, fully clothed, fully broken.

When Thomas awoke in yet another frantic oblivion, he was  blinded momentarily by the sunshine peeking through the drapes. It was so warm and foreign to him. It was as if God was looking at Thomas’ remains and shaking his head in discontent, yet still trying to comfort him. Thomas pulled his disheveled body off the floor and stood, shivering in the cold despite the small sneaking light. Suddenly, Thomas suddenly realized where he was standing. He was in his home. In all of its glory standing there quite ordinarily, as if nothing had changed. It was a funny thing to Thomas, the air felt the same, the furniture felt the same, yet it still felt so alien to him. He could barely navigate his way through their home without questioning himself.
The kitchen was a mess, dirty dishes were still in the sink and cabinets were open in array. Their wooden counter tops still sticky and wet with some underdetermined substance that Thomas tried not to inhale. Above the countertop in two wide open cabinets displayed a colorful array of completely and utterly empty liquor bottles. Humboldt, Gibson Rye, Black Head Rum, all of his favorites paraded delicately in a straight, empty line. Clara’s way at a metaphor no doubt, he thought to himself. The living room looked as if it were paused. The chesterfield still had an unfinished sweeping knitting set on the left arm. The walnut oblong coffee table had an empty white glass, placed next to a plate covered in the crumbs of a biscuit Thomas guessed. Clara loved Thomas sister's sunday homemade biscuits. Thomas wandered back into their bedroom blindly, for another glance. It was the same since he last fell asleep on the floor; a dresser with a dainty, upholstered stool and a colonial-style bed coordinate. The greenish-cream bedspread evoked Clara’s soft color preferences and a hook rug with stylized floral motifs covered the foot of the bed.
Everything was the same, yet still unfamiliar to him. Clara would never leave the house this cluttered, and bottle brand's expiration dates haven’t even reached the date yet. Not to mention the only person who could have drank those bottles were Clara, and that thought was absurd to Thomas. When did she leave? Could she still be in town? He needed to sit down. He laid his stiff back on their bed, began to stare at the dim lit ceiling and scanned his mind. I have $58.12, enough to last me for God knows how long, a home, and food. What do I need? He clenched his fists then let his palms drop face down on the bedspread. Answers.

1934 Schomer Road, home of Claude and Margaret Leupold...Claude and Margaret were married a couple years after Thomas graduated high school, before he dropped out of the university. Margaret was a petite, freckled girl with radiantly red long hair that nearly met her elbows. She was an incredibly bright yet stubborn teenager, she never put up with her and Thomas’ father like he did, yet she loved him just as much. He tried to pick his mind and regulate when the last time he talked to Margaret was. His palms sweat as he approached their doorstep. He stood there in fear for a moment evaluating the situation, this could be bad, he thought to himself. They might not even live here anymore, he thought. He wiggled his toes in his patent leather scuffed shoes. He started to take deeper breaths. One… Two… Three… Four…  Thomas raised his right fist to knock, when suddenly, the door was swung open by a stranger. Thomas was utterly startled, it was him. A younger looking him most likely in his late twenties or early thirties, he had ruffled hazelnut hair and cheeks almost rosier than his nose. He was firmly built, and stood about a foot taller than Thomas. His eyes reminded him of Margaret’s, so deep you could swim in them. Thomas stared at the stranger examining him, and the stranger did the same. He wore a frown that could touch the bottom of his chin and looked bothered.
“Go chase yourself ya old dewdropper!” He huffed as he pushed Thomas’ delicate body to the side and trudged off. What a deadbeat, Thomas thought to himself. The stranger reminded Thomas of Strongman, how he held himself someway was familiar to Thomas. As Thomas turned back to gather himself and begin the whole process over again, he was stopped yet again by another stranger. Margaret? No, it could not be. A woman, standing twelve feet away from Thomas, looking as if an alien had walked up to her doorstep and was selling girl scout cookies. Her vibrant hair was now cut to her ears, dull and dry, matching her eyes that were now gray, matching the circles underneath them. Her small body had grown four times its original size and swelled. The house reeked of cigarettes smoke and burnt biscuits and it was messier than Thomas’ house when he entered it yesterday. Lord what is it with this era?
“Thomas?” She squeaked out, she gently approached him, hands squeezing each other right beneath her bosoms. He could faintly see her eyes filling with tears and dripping onto her puffed cheeks. As she stood about a foot away from Thomas now, she brought her hand up to cup his cheek and admire Thomas for a moment. She breathed in her tears and brought her hand down to her side. Then when Thomas was comfortable, she bit her lip, turned her body to the side and slapped Thomas violently across his left cheek. He stumbled backwards but caught himself on the door frame. “How dare you show your face in my household? Scram!” He felt vulnerable, like a lost mutt just trying to keep warm somewhere. What could he do? His cheek throbbed and he cupped it with both of his hands. With his blinding shame that resignated through his bones, he had a moment of insane courage and clarity, and decided to be an adult.
“Margaret, I just need to talk to you I promise no funny business.” He put his arms up in a surrendering motion and began to slowly walk back into the house, cautiously. Margaret rushed back to a door a couple paces behind her and grabbed a broom stick from inside the broom closet. She held it out at Thomas in a threatening motion. She looked like childish, but terrified.
“I’m warning you Tommy, get the hell out of my house!” She scowled at him. Thomas could see her cheeks getting hotter and hotter with every motion he made toward her.
“What are you gonna do? Hit me with a broom? Please I just wanna talk I’m not gonna hurt ya Margaret.” He progressed deeper into the house, Margaret getting weaker and weaker.
“Stop!” She swung the broom with weak arms and missed Thomas by a mile. Thomas dared and moved closer toward her grabbing the broomstick with both his hands, with her refusing to let go.
“Margaret, stop, it’s me.” She stopped, clenching the broom with white knuckles. She dropped the broom like a hot potato and ran into Thomas's chest, pounding her bare fists on it.
“How could you?! How could you!?” She yelled at him with each fist on his chest. She sobbed with each cry and finally, sunk to her knees and wept. Thomas matched her height and gently lowered himself down to her, as to not upset his frail body. He held her wrists that held her hands to her eyes. He cooed and tried to silence her sobs and control her breathing as she started to hyperventilate.
“Margaret stop,” he whispered to her. She looked up at him with makeup streaming down her face, looking almost as frail and innocent as he did. She finally gave into his comfort and threw her arms around him his neck.
“Oh Tommy!” She cried, she sobbed into his coat and shook. “Where have you been? What happened? When did you get out?” She tried to hold her shoulders up without slouching but couldn't do it on her own, so Thomas had to help hold her up.
“Yesterday darlin’, help me out. I’ve been trying to do things on my own but I just can’t anymore I need your help.” He asked her frantically. She was able to muffle out a chuckle through clouded eyes.
“Thomas you haven’t done anything on your own since you dropped out of college.” Thomas erected his back and stared at Margaret in disbelief.
“What do you call thirty years in Joliet, Margaret? A vacation?” He replied, he was insulted. She paused and slowly progressed to cry out again, Thomas sighed. “I’m sorry, you’re right darlin’. But I still need your help.” Margaret scooted away from Thomas and sat her back against the wall parallel to the one closest to Thomas’ back. Thomas did the same. Margaret relaxed a little, and crossed her arms, still sniffeling.
“What did you think on your way over here Tommy? That I would drop everything, forgive you and pretend like everything is right-o? Well bimbo, things ain’t that easy when you ain’t bent,” Margaret snapped at him in disgust. She went into her apron, and grabbed a pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes and lit one at her ruby red lips.
“Don’t get sore on me Margaret.” Thomas leaned into her. She rolled her eyes and exhaled through her nose.
“I know what you want.” She said focusing on lighting her cigarette. She held the butt between her teeth and then exhaled the first puff, it slithered through air and kissed Thomas’ cheeks. Thomas erected his back against the flowered wall paper.
“Where is she?” Thomas inquired, ignoring the sweet fragrance of the smoke. Margaret took the cigarette in her two fingers and blew out another cloud.
“You know I can’t tell you that Tommy.” She said, fidgeting with the tassels on her dress.
“No, I believe you can.” He said to her sternly. “I’m her husband. I have a right to know where my wife is, Margaret, no matter what the circumstance.” Thomas said staring blankly at the top of Margaret’s to avoid eye contact. He knew if he took one look into her fearful eyes he would go to her, reassuringly. He didn’t have time to sit on the floor with her all day and convince her that he is a changed man. He learned a long time ago to not spend time explaining things to people. It misleads them into thinking they are entitled to know everything.
“How dare you.” She whispered through a cloud of smoke. “You’ve been gone Tommy, you were pinched, you went to the Big House. Everything changed! We didn’t exactly wait for you to come back to start our lives again. Look around you! Look at me! Am I the same dame you knew growing up?” She had a point. She resembled an old matron in the prison.
“Please Margaret.” Thomas begged. It wasn't until she wiped away a silent tear until he realized she was crying again. She put the cigarette to her lips and yelled out a cloud.
“She’s gone Tommy! Leave it alone!” She burst out through smoke at Thomas, the outburst slamming his back into the wall. There was a silence. Even with Thomas’ poor ears he could hear her staggered breathing. Thomas didn’t know what to do, he didn’t want to be selfish but he had too.
“Just tell me where she is.” He pleaded to her silently to calm her. She sighed, irritated, but uncomfortable. She knew where she was, Thomas could tell. Thomas tried to cool the burning furnace inside his stomach. It bubbled with every moment passing silently and slowly. After what seemed like hours of waiting, she finally broke:
“She ran off last Thursday. She came over to tell me to not worry, to not come after her. She told me to tell Roy that she loved him. She’s been sad Tommy, that was the first time I had spoken to her in a very long time, in fact, probably in a year. She flew the coop a long time ago Tommy and I don’t blame her. You didn’t leave her with much to live up too.” She said harshly. She had tired eyes, Thomas could tell that she was trying not to sympathize with him, but every time she glanced at him, she could see his pain. It was hard to conceal. “She published her book.” Margaret said with a dim smile, staring at her feet in front of her. Thomas looked at her with wide eyes and a smile slipped through his teeth.
“She sold her book?” He asked breathlessly. She nodded, puffing out another cloud, finishing off the cigarette. He let out a sigh of disbelief. Could I have done that? Thomas was always a little too determined to prove something to Clara, his writing especially. He was always intimidated by not only her radiant beauty but her cunning brilliance. He brought himself back to Margaret from his thoughts, and focused on what she said before. “She’s a couple blocks down how could you have not spoken to her for so long, Margaret?” Thomas planted his old hands on the polyester carpet. She knew that she was alone how could she not be there for Clara? He started to sweat, and bite his lip. He knew Margaret was a little skeptical of Clara at times but she would never leave her in a situation like this one… Right?
The furnace in his stomach had bubbled up to his throat and he couldn’t conceal it any longer. “She was alone!” He screamed at her. Margaret jumped at his yells. Why was she being so passive with his predicament? He needed answers, and Margaret had them. She bit her lip and looked to the ceiling to hold her tears. “She was alone and she needed you!” He burst out again, infuriated, he jumped up from the carpet and started to walk deeper into her house. He passed the broom closet door and slammed it shut with one whack of his hand. “She was alone!” He screamed again, stomping like a child. He turned to see her frightened face, but saw no fear. He saw a woman sitting on the ground, tears streaming down her face carrying mascara, with her teeth clenched, steaming. Thomas could tell she was hiding something from her, and he was gonna find out what it was.  “Tell me ya dumb dora! You know why don’t cha’?!” He yelled at her again.
“Yes!” She finally cried out at him, with clenched fists.
“Then tell me!” He sobbed.
“Leave it alone Tommy! She was irresponsible and cruel! She drank, she slept, she drank, and  she slept again. She was unhealthy and unstable. She wasn't fit to take care of herself! Sounds familiar doesn’t it?” Margaret got to her feet in frenzy. There was something he was missing. Thomas was enraged, the furnace inside him was whistling like a tea kettle. 
“Damnit Margaret what are you not telling me?!” Thomas’ cheeks were red hot and wet. His eyes were blurred from tears and brain fuzzy with rage. It reminded him of his youth he spent drunk. Margaret turned her back and held her hands in her hair and gripped her scalp, frustrated and grinding her teeth as to hold in what she wasn't telling him. “Tell me you b****!” He broke, and pounded his fists.
“She was pregnant!” Her lips leaked. “She was pregnant!” She weeped into her hands and heaved, shocked at her own weakness. “Clara was pregnant.”

There was a moment, boiled down and distilled so it would become more clear to Thomas. It was in that moment when his knees gave out and caused him to fall, to collapse, to sink more like. He sunk, conscious of his own faults, every single last one of them. From missing the train at the Union’s terminal every monday morning, from skipping dinner to head to Tony’s every other night, to impregnating his wife. This is impossible, Thomas thought. I’ve been gone for 30 years how could she have not told me? Thomas thought back to those desolated nights cold in his cell. So much of those nights were spent pondering about what could’ve happened if he never ended up in there in the first place. He could’ve been a bestseller. Moved him and Clara to New York and bought a big beautiful home like Clara always wanted. With a white fence and green trim, maybe colonial style. They could’ve had a baby.
“Say something Thomas.” Margaret squeaked through the silence. Thomas became aware of her presence and that he had literally fallen to the ground. His fingers were enlaced in the shag rug and his sweat mixed with his tears just at the base of his chin. He arose darkly, starring Margaret down as if he were about to pounce on her like a predator on its prey.
“You’re lying.” He stared at her menacingly. She was still holding back tears while she was shaking her head. “You’re lying!” He shouted at her. She now looked genuinely frightened now that she had lost all her strength from revealing the truth.
“Why would I lie?” She screamed, trying to prove she had some vitality left in her.
“She would’ve told me.” His voice grew solemn as he c***ed his head to the side, meeting his ear to his shoulder.
“And say what? ‘Thomas Im fully aware that you were just pinched a couple months ago, but guess what? I got a bun in the oven!” She threw her hands up in the air and they came back and slapped her outer thighs. A thought came to Thomas, an obvious one that brought him some reassurance. 
“Had you two dolls ever think about the fact that maybe the kid ain’t mine?!” He pointed a bony finger at Margaret, eyes wide. Margaret shook her head as if it was already rehearsed.
“Tommy, we both know Clara, she is a lot of things, but she ain’t a liar.” She had her hands on her hips now. Thomas could tell that she was trying very hard to relax herself, to keep herself composed. This frustrated him, infact it infuriated him. He wanted to scream at her, rip off the wallpaper and tear out every last slab of wood holding that house together so it too would collapse. But he knew that would get him no where. He reavaluated his situation and tried to at least look relaxed. He looked around the living room and found a wooden chair and gently sat himself in it. He folded his hands together and clenched them tight to channel his rage. He unfolded them and ran them through his hair, composing himself. Margaret stared and watched his process, skeptically. After a moment of breathing he tried to mellow his voice and get the answers he so desperately acquired.
“Why would Clara leave town after living here her entire life. Why would she leave her child?” Why would she leave me? He pondered. He stared at his feet and wrapped his fingers around the arms chairs. “Our child.” He corrected himself. Woah.  Margaret sunk her body into the nearest couch and put the back of her hand on her forehead, as if she were feeling faint.
“Well can you think of any other reason besides the fact that they were letting you out?” He was afraid she would say that. He did already know that somehow though. He just wished he didn’t.
There was silence for a moment, Thomas took that time to breath in this reality. I have a child.  Margaret just laid there on her back breathing, trying to intake the situation as well.
“Are you gonna ask if it was a boy or a girl?” Margaret whispered, her eyes wide and glossy. Thomas opened his eyes and looked at Margaret. She had her hands covering her knees where her apron lay and she was biting her lip. The ol’ Devlin trait, he remarked at the lip bite. She looked worried, almost as if she waiting to hear if Thomas wanted anything to do with his son. After too long of a silence she answered for him: “It was a boy.” She whispered to him softly. Thomas closed his eyes and large tear tumbled down his cheek like garbage down the sidewalk. He wiped it away hastily. A boy. Of course. Thomas would never be able to keep up with a girl version of himself, come to think of it, he wouldn't be able to do it with a boy either.
“What’s his name?” He whispered to her. He stared straight ahead so he would not have to look at her tears.
“Roy.”
“Roy?” Thomas turned to Margaret. He could now see her squeezing her wide eyes shut. She was waiting for his response. He breathed out an exasperated sigh, irritated. “Was that your idea?” He asked her accusingly. She shook her head.
“Clara was dead set on it, boy. I admit I tried to talk her out of it.” The name stirred Thomas’ blood, of course, he thought. For it was his father’s name. The same drunk that turned him into the man he was today. Thomas couldn’t hate it more.
“Roy Davidson Devlin II. A very bright boy, lost, but bright,” Thomas furrowed his brow.
“Lost?” He asked Margaret. He gave her a look a look that said ‘Oh please tell me it’s not what I think it means.’ Margaret nodded her head, knowing what he meant.
“Kid is bent off his knocker every other night, though I suppose Roy ain’t much of a kid any longer.” Thomas balled his hands into fists and covered his eyes, dipping his head. Yet another generation of Devlin gone down the drain. Imagine the potential. His poor son. Every second Thomas spent rooting in his cell, was another moment his son spent alone.
“Where is he? Does he know where Clara is?” Thomas suddenly asked hastily.
“Roy was never too fond of Clara, never really opened up to her like he did with me.” She said to Thomas, still lying on her back. Thomas was confused, and slightly angered.
“What do you mean he wasn't fond of his own mother?” He asked Margaret sternly. Margaret chuckled and her belly bounced.
“Boy do you have a lot to catch up on.” Thomas bounced out of his chair and walked  over to the davenport to kneel down where Margaret was lying.
“Clara found out she was pregnant a couple months before they threw ya in the Caboose. Once you left she was afraid Tommy, she had no one. The Prohibition hit Chicago a couple years back and that’s when she got all balled up. She was drinking from the start you left, and right when the law told her she couldn’t drink she did it even more. That happened to almost everyone in Chicago. She decided that she was unfit to take care of Roy when he was about seven. Little things, Tommy, would become a big mess. It wasn't safe for Roy with Clara. So she came to talk to me, thats when she asked me if I could take him.” Thomas inhaled the information with each breath.
“Did you?” He asked her.
“Well of course! What was I supposed to do? Say no?” Margaret said covering her eyes.
“You raised my son?” The words were so foreign when they escaped Thomas’ mouth. Margaret nodded and sighed.
“I love Roy, Tommy. He still comes to visit me once in awhile. He went to school, got good grades, was all set to travel the world and whatnot. Then the Prohibition came and Roy has been drinking ever since. He lost everything. Some say the Prohibition did more harm than good to us, but me? Well I ain’t too sure anymore. Wives are resting easy I suppose, but when you take something away from a desperate man all they want is more. Look at Roy for that matter. Look at Clara.
He was always so set on his future. Just like you Tommy. The way he used to talk about his dreams made me so proud. He reminds me so much of you, in every way possible. Now a days he begins to talk like you, act like you. He even smells like the  Brandy you used to drink, the…”
“Christian Brothers.” Thomas said, finishing her sentence.
“Right the Christian Brothers…” She trailed off. She rested her heart for a moment and sat in the air that surrounded her. She looked frightened, yet somehow relieved, almost as if she had been carrying a large weight above her head for 30 years and it had just been put down aside her.
“Margaret how could you not tell me?” He asked her hurt. How could she not write to him? Visit him? Why did nobody want him? Nobody cared. Margaret sat up on the davenport and grabbed his hand. Thomas could now see her up close. Mascara clumps had embedded right above her soft cheekbones, and were melting down the side of her temples from her tears. Her eyes were more red than they were green now, Thomas wondered if he looked as fragile as she did.
Her eyes went to the ceiling again and her fingers tried to scoop up her her tears. “Tommy I couldn’t… It wasn't mine to tell!” She tried to say through a cracked voice. “What if you didn’t want him…” She trailed off, covering her ignited cheeks with her cracked fingertips. Thomas could see her body trembling on top of the davenport. His body composed itself, unclenching his sweaty hands and loosened his eyebrows from their tightly stitched line. He dropped his shoulders, and slouched. He took off his wool jacket and rolled up the sleeves on his wrinkled shirt. He was relaxed, his mind could now process the information being given to him after all these years of being silence. He knew what he needed, what he wants, and now he just needed to know how to get it.
“Where is he?” Thomas finally asked Margaret. She rubbed her shiny forehead and walked into the kitchen drawer to and unravel a new pack of cigarettes. She took her time, placing the ciggy in between her yellowed teeth that were once polished. She removed a pack of matches from her apron pocket and slowly lit it with shaking hands. As she inhaled the first puff she closed her eyes and removed the ciggy. As she exhaled she exaggerated the puff by issuing a sigh of surrender. Thomas tried his best to be patient with her, after the thirty years he had waited for her information, it was more than excrutiating.
“What time is it?” She asked Thomas. Thomas looked to the window to check where the sun was in the sky, this is how he timed his day in Joliet. It was close to setting, he could tell by the low gleam that kissed the tops of the buildings outside fashioning dark shadows that contrasted with the gold light.
“Four? Five?” He replied to her, scratching his thick hair. Margaret returned to the living room where Thomas was sitting and leaned her hip against the door frame, cigarette in hand.
“Most likely the drum on Charleston.” Margaret rolled her eyes and looked to the window.
Drum? Thomas thought to himself. Margaret could see his confused expression. “The Speakeasy,” she clarified. Speakeasy? “If he followed through with his prior commitments he’d be working in the new Tribune Tower on the Magnificent Mile…” She continued.
Magnificent Mile? Tribune Tower? Thomas’ mind sauntered. His eyes floated around the room as he thought and explored these new phrases. He could feel an ache in the middle of his forehead He noticed Margaret in the corner of his eye with her heavy hands on her hips. Thomas erected his back like a student, just caught distracted by a professor. She rolled her eyes and puffed a cloud. “North Michigan Avenue Tommy, north of the river.” Margaret coughed out a chuckle. He knew where that was. “After he graduated, he miraculously acquired a job working for the Chicago Daily Tribune.” She added. She spoke through the cigarette in her teeth. “I’ve never been more proud of him the day he came home from that interview and they accepted him. He jumped around like his pants  had caught fire!” She took the cigarette out of her mouth and laughed out a cloud. Thomas knew what that was too. The Chicago Daily Tribune is the most read newspaper in the Chicago Metropolitan area, also the 8th most read newspaper in the US (at least, it was the last time he checked. He was impressed, a little threatened in fact. He had known his son for a total of approximately thirty minutes and he was already jealous of his success. He remembered the small talk tossed around his journalism class when he was still school about the Tribune. They called it the “The best newspaper in the world!” The God of all jobs, nearly impossible to acquire when Thomas was Roy’s age. How could his son let a job like that slip through his fingers? Oh right… Thomas thought to himself. Don’t be a hypocrite Thomas He reprimanded himself. Margaret could feel Thomas’ mind beginning to stray. “Why don’t you go and talk to him?” She broke the silence. Thomas jilted his head to look her down. He looked as if he had just seen a ghost.
“Me?” Thomas somewhat shouted in surprise, gesturing towards himself.
“Yes you dummy!” She squawked at him.
Thomas found himself up on his feet tapping his shoes on the shag rug. Talk to his son? What would he say? How would he react?
“He doesn’t want to see me Margaret. Besides what would I say?” Thomas said solemnly to his sister. He sunk into the same chair he had been sitting in in somewhat of a disappointment.
“Well of course he wants to see you Thomas, you’re his old man!” She exclaimed. Once again, there was a moment. You’ve done wrong you’re entire life Thomas, he thought. This is a chance to make things right. Margaret stood in the doorway still, hands still remaining on her hips with a dull cigarette in her mouth. She walked over to Thomas and kneeled in front of him, like his mother used to do. She took the cigarette out of her mouth and placed it in ash tray placed on the coffee table next to Thomas. She took Thomas’ hands in both of her’s and lifted them up so his body would follow. She grabbed the wool jacket he had disposed of and helped him put it back on his decrepit body. She Straightened out the jacket and cleaned some stray hairs off his forehead, tucked them behind his ears and smiled at Thomas, clutching his shoulders firmly.
“Isn’t it peculiar that after everything, it still feels like you are a stranger in my home?” She whispered to him. Thomas tried to give her a chuckle.
“Day by day nothing changes, but when you look back everything is different.” Thomas said to his sister.
Margaret widened her closed grin and put her hand to his cheek where she had slapped him earlier and whispered to him, “go to him Tommy.”
Thomas breathed a quiet murmur and puffed out his chest, like the Strongman used to do. He straightened his lips and began to move one foot after another, not taking his eyes off of them until he arrived to the door. He stopped to looked back and could see her walking towards him. “Remember, North Michigan Avenue. You will see a run down building with boarded windows but lights gleaming out of them, thats the street’s Drum.” She clasped her hands tightly together. “He is a grown man Tommy, treat him like one.” She smiled and gave him a smooch on the cheek. Thomas reached for the brass door knob and twisted. He turned to Margaret once more.
“Margaret?” He asked from across the room. She turned around with a jolt. 
“Yes?” She replied to him. Thomas sighed and placed his embarrassment aside.
“What in God’s name is a ‘Speakeasy’?”

Thomas tried to no avail to dodge the murky puddles on the gray sidewalks. His shoes were already muddied and the water had frozen his toes and wrinkled his skin even more. He shook like the tassels on the women’s dresses that he passed by, surely they must be colder than he was, considering the fact that they were showing five times as much skin as he was. Back when Thomas was young the women wore full sleeved dresses, with extreme width and added flappers. Attractive designs were shown on the skirts and novelty goods of red and dark silk were commonly found at the dinner parties. Out in the streets women wore flowers, dainty dresses of washed fabrics tastefully printed with flowers and matching ribbons forming into bows with long ends depending from the yolk. Pink and white chambrays were worn out in the yards edged with Valenciennes lace, worn by the younger women. Stockings were worn whatever the weather with matching gauntlets and large bonnets or extravagante carriage hats to mask the sun and dirty Chicago air. Everything was so elegant and glorified, every article of clothing was to attract a man’s eye. Now that there wasn't many articles of clothing covering a women’s bodice Thomas saw no reason for a man to scrutinize or enjoy a woman. In fact, they made him feel uncomfortable in his wet shoes. All the women made Thomas do was shiver, reminding him of how cold the air was, he still wasn't quite used to the outside air.
Once he arrived to North Michigan Avenue he slowed down his pace. He stopped to inspect every building, deciding which one best suited Margaret’s description. He then approached a run down building where a few dewdroppers were standing, cigarette in hand. The windows were boarded shut with a faint glow from the inside peeking through the creases, but other then that, the bricks disguised the Speakeasy resembling just another skeleton of an abandoned building, somewhat of a shadow.
As Thomas reached the door, it suddenly swung open. Warm air stenching of booze slapped Thomas straight across his face, making his pores and throat sting. A man with a fedora and loosened tie, stumbled out with two chicks on his arms. He stopped and studied Thomas for a while and c***ed his head to the side, and the women did the same, growing impatient with an old timer like Thomas Devlin. He c***ed his head abruptly to the other shoulder and shined his slimy teeth at Thomas. A moan crawled up his throat and escaped him, causing him to heave over as if he were about to hurl, Thomas stepped back to avoid the splash zone. To Thomas’ surprise he came up clean, and managed to straighten out his body maintaining his goofy looking grin. The man was close enough to Thomas so that Thomas could smell his breath, it made Thomas woozy, can I do this? He asked himself. Just a quick whiff of the air made him weak at the knees. He imagined himself in that state. Not a care in the world, in fact, the world was his oyster. He could do whatever he wanted, say whatever he wanted… In the morning he would find it with a price.
He pushed past the bimbo and his two molls and escorted himself into the joint.
Thomas was choked with the aroma of cigarette and cigar fumes. Every square inch of the room was filled with people, all different shapes and sizes. Burlesque dancers wearing feathers and corsets, well respected businessman sweating through their shirts with lost buttons, and old men facing the back wall with a gin and tonic in hand avoiding the festivities. It was a saloon times ten. The room was lit by small strung lights that covered the wooden ceiling and was illuminated by the sound of the live jazz music playing. A colored man paraded his fingers across a horn, another a sax, and another a piano. One even beat the tops of drums and cans while singing through his nose sounding very nasally. But the thing that hit Thomas the hardest was the stench, of course. He could feel every drop of whiskey, bourbon, beer, scotch slipping through his sinuses, some odors he didn’t even recognize reminding him of the scent of nail polish remover.
It was glorious, a dull extravagance that was just enough to stir Thomas excitement yet completely terrify him and keep him on his toes. A grin appeared across his lips, it made Thomas close his eyes and take in the scene through every pore. He opened his eyes after being tossed aside by drunkards with fancy women and started the devise a plan. What did he know? He knew that his name is Roy Devlin, he was a regular so he might have had a tab there that they must’ve recorded. He decided last resort he would ask, but Thomas had faith that he could find him on his own. He started back to his list again; he knew that he was very similar to Thomas when he was younger, so what would Thomas be doing in a saloon like this?
He looked around the speakeasy; to his left was the band, with a group of fellows dancing and throwing coins at them. Thomas shook his head, he would’ve never thrown away his money at a band, he would’ve spent at the bar. Plus, the bar was for the people who had money to throw away, that corner was for the wealthy.
He looked out in front of him, there was an area that held an oversized, red love seat, big enough to fit seven but was being occupied by twelve. There, women sat on the laps of broken down brokers, twisting their ruffled hair with their polished fingers and trailing their hands down their buttoned shirts. Thomas did a lot of crazy things in his youth, but through and through he loved his wife, Devlins were loyal. He knew his son would be too to whatever lady he had back at home… If he even had one. He looked at the women and scanned the love seat again just to make sure. Thomas would have never approached that love seat without it being empty, he always came to the bars to be alone, to think about his day and what he could've done differently with it, how he messed it up. He went to clear his head of his story and create a new one. He went to freeze those moments of self hatred and to forget the past, so what was Roy doing here? He was experimenting that was what Margaret said, rebelling. But if he was truly doing that he would’ve most likely came with a band of buddies and gathered around the band. He looked toward the band again and examined the crowd. The men were what looked like to Thomas in their early twenties, to Thomas’ surprise maybe late teens. None of them old enough to be Roy.
So Thomas looked to the bar. That’s where Thomas would’ve been in his youth. Back faced to the world and eyes on his drink, eyes on himself shown in the mirror that used to hang in Tony’s drugstore more specifically. His eyes jumped through every old man sitting at the bar, some making small talk with the bartender or with the old timer sitting next to him. Thomas stood on his toes to see beyond an old man’s head until his eyes fell on a young man. His son.
It was Roy, he knew it, he knew it because he knew it when he first bumped into the younger version of himself when he was attempting to gather the courage to knock on Margaret’s front door. That small moment of Thomas looking into a mirror of his past self, wasn’t really his imagination, but his son. He stood there in the crowd for a moment and twiddled with his thumbs, he was beginning to get tossed around again by all the men bent off their knockers, he couldn’t just stand there. He started to regret his decision to come to the Speakeasy. What was he expecting would happen? A big dramatic filled fairy tale ending? Perhaps. Nothing has ever came that easy to Thomas ever, maybe he was hoping this time would be different. What am I doing here? He thought to himself harshly. Turn around! His body did as he was told, and started to shove people out of his way towards the door. Then he remembered Margaret.
He had never done anything that didn’t benefit himself since he graduated high school. He had to do good, he had to make up for those years that he took from Roy. He turned his body around to face the bar again. Oh Lord what do I say? He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Thomas needed another moment of courage, but it wasn't coming to him. He was beginning to get caught up in all the commotion and was losing his focus. The stench of whiskey was becoming more dominant and Thomas could feel his throat beginning to dry and burn. What could he do to gather this courage? He had never felt so afraid. His first time in Joliet seemed like a walk in the park compared to this. He would much rather prefer his first encounter with the Strongman then his current predicament. How was he able to keep going everyday, knowing that he would never see sunlight or smell the air for years? Thomas went back to his past and reminisced in his daily system. Wine is a mocker, Thomas recited, strong drink is raging: and whosoever is deceived thereby is not wise. Thomas remembered to breathe, bit his lower lip and dipped head to stare at his old shoes. That was it, this was it. His feet began to move back and forth until he reached Roy, and quickly snatched a stool seated next to his. It was almost like ripping off a band-aid that had embedded in his skin for thirty years, that he didn’t even know about. He faced Roy for a moment, but then redirected his body to the front of the bar, where Thomas discovered that there too, was a mirror displayed behind the liquors. In the mirror Thomas could see Roy’s sunken face. His eyes held heavy bags underneath them and his face barely held up his lips because of how intense his frown was. He looked somewhat different than when Thomas first met him at Margaret’s house, he seemed more comfortable here, but ashamed of it.  At Margaret’s he looked frazzled, in a hurry to be somewhere and anxious to get there, almost as if the only place he needed to be was at the saloon. Thomas knew exactly what that felt like.  His hair was slightly redder than Thomas’, he inherited that from Margaret no doubt, and his nose was more dainty, it was Clara’s. But that was where the differences stopped, he was more or less an exact replica of Thomas, in statuesque and in character no doubt.
“Can I get ya some giggle water ol’ fella?” A young short man wearing a bow tie appeared with a glass in hand ready for an order. Thomas sat there for a moment contemplating, he looked at Roy. He closed his eyes. Every night cold in his cell, thinking about the poison that could cool his throat, his temptation. He had to keep choosing recovery. over and over again. He was going to have to make that choice five to six times each day. You have to make that choice even when you feel like the world will crash and burn around you if you don’t. It’s not a single choice, and it’s not easy. He had to make the choice for himself, for Margaret, for Roy, for Clara.
“Can I get a coke-a-cola?” Thomas mumbled under his breath, slightly embarrassed. An audience in his head applauded him, and threw the drying of his throat, he beamed of proudness.  The waiter looked at him confused. He ran his skinny fingers through his hair and cupped his hand behind his ear.
“Sorry ol-timer I couldn’t quite hear ya, say again?” The waiter attempted to yell over the roar of the band.
“A coke-a-cola?” Thomas shouted a little louder, he looked to Roy and to his surprise caught Roy staring at him. He stared back for a moment, but then turned back to the waiter when Roy dropped his stare and returned to his drink. He must’ve noticed their resemblance, Thomas hoped he had. The waiter c***ed his head to the side like the drunk bimbo did outside the speakeasy.
“Uh, you sure I can’t offer ya something else? Spit o’ whiskey do ya good?” He waved his arm gesturing to the wide variety of liquors behind him, Thomas gaped at them in beauty. His eyes strolled and explored through every bottle and every label. Thomas remembered every day in Joliet day dreaming about the exact position Thomas was put in now.
“I’m thirty years sober kid.” He said to the bartender. The waiter laughed.
“Then what the hell are you doing here?” The bartender asked, not looking for an answer. He then disappeared through a door to probably find a soda or something along those lines, Thomas wasn't sure.
“A soda-pop, huh?” A voice asked him.
Thomas turned his head in Roy’s direction, where he found his son, waiting for a response. Thomas’ mind went completely and disappointedly blank, so he spit out some words and hoped that they would find each other and form a sentence or two. 
“The booze have probably done me more harm than good in my day, lad.” Thomas tried to sound as casual as possible. Roy took a sip of his beer and placed the glass back on the sticky table.
“Yeah well, probably the same for me.” Roy trailed off, hypnotized by the alcohol in between his palms. Thomas could tell that he was about to lose him, he had to say something.
“What do you do kid?” He blurted out over the crowd. He turned to face Roy, hoping that he would do the same but he didn’t. Roy snickered and then shrugged.
“I suppose I don’t really know anymore.” He replied half heartedly. Thomas felt ridiculous, he could speak to the warden just fine, he had the courage to speak to Clara when he was younger, he could certainly do this. He spit out more words;
“What do you mean? You’re young shouldn’t you be in school or something? Have a job?” Roy looked at Thomas and smiled again, a grin that Thomas knew too well.
“I’m not that young buddy.” He told Thomas. He took another slug of his beer and gently placed it back between his palms. “I’m a writer.” He finally said, shrugging. Thomas raised his eyebrows and pretended to be shocked.
“Wow, pretty neat kid. Where do you write?” Roy turned again and raised an eyebrow at Thomas, he could tell that Roy was beginning to grow suspicious of the smalltalk interests.
“Chicago Daily Turbine.” He said sliding his finger across the ring of his glass. The bartender soon returned with a cup filled the brim with bubble cola, Thomas took a sip and relaxed.
“The Turbine huh? If I recall that place only accepts the best, you got moxy kid.” Roy smiled at Thomas’ attempt at a compliment and then turned to face his body towards Thomas.
“You a writer?” Roy blurted out. Thomas nearly choked on his cola. Could he see through Thomas’ lies? He tried to play it off as well as he could.
“Why do you assume I’m a writer?” Thomas tried to ask calmly and casually. Roy took his beer in his hand so he wouldn’t have to keep turning back and forth to talk to Thomas and take a sip.
“You look like you’re trying real hard to suppress some type a big vocabulary in order to not intimidate me or something like that. I know an educated man when I see one, a writer at that. This is where all the greatest writers hang out anyway.” He motioned toward the Speakeasy and chugged the last sip and then tapped his beer on the counter. The bartender came around and collected his glass, filled it with the same beer and returned it back in Roy’s hand, working like clockwork. Roy was still able to hold eye contact with Thomas through the whole process. Thomas was once again impressed. He laughed then gave out a sigh.
“I’ve been away for awhile, I’m not really familiar with the juvenile customs of the day kid.” Roy laughed and spilt a small bit of his beer on his lap, he didn’t notice.
“Juvenile huh?” Roy sarcastically remarked. Thomas could feel the atmosphere loosening it’s grip on Thomas’ throat. Either Roy was becoming more familiar and friendly with Thomas, or he was getting drunker. Thomas hoped that his social skill had not lacked since prison.
“Well this is a bar son.” Thomas said to Roy, taking another gulp of cola. “As far as I’ve heard those toxins ain’t allowed around here anymore.” He gestured towards the cold beer that Roy was still clutching too. Roy shrugged and let out a sigh.
“I suppose you’re right fella’” Roy laughed to himself. “But I wasn’t always like this.” He began to drop his grin and look pensive. “I had a girl. A great one.” He exaggerated his wording, sounding drunker and drunker through every syllable. Thomas’ curiosity began to peek.
“A broad huh?” Thomas asked, making Roy shake his head violently. Thomas could tell he was getting bent.
“Oh not just any broad, ol’ fella’. Viola Ferenzio. Oh buddy lemme’ tell ya she was something.” Roy began to daydream as Thomas used to do when he would ramble on about Clara in the bar. He made motions in the air resembling her curves and Thomas laughed at it. He was definitely drunk. “She went to school with me, she was studying something about neurotransmitters, something smart like that. She loved pickin’ through people’s brains, finding out what made em’ tick, crap like that.” Roy took a slug of his beer that was beginning to disappear quickly. “She picked through mine alright buddy. She had me first sight. Boy the pins that woman had just made me…” Roy stopped for a dramatic shiver that made Thomas laugh.
“What was she like?” Thomas finally asked Roy. He took another sip of his cola and crossed his legs. Roy put his cup down on the countertop and help out his hands and focused on them.
“She wore this lipstick. She pinned her hair back in this french thing, that really exaggerated the features on that sweet pan of her’s, of course it caught every man’s attention on the street. She knew it too, let me tell ya. I was walkin’ down 5th and Broadway when I turned into the library… You know Newberry?” Roy put out his hand waiting for a response. Thomas knew it too well, for that was where he met his beloved Clara. Thomas tried hard to hold back a chuckle that would possibly disguise a tear.
“Ya well, she was sitting in the fiction section, not my cup of whiskey but I gotta admit, I sorta followed her in there,” Roy laughed and Thomas snorted. “Buddy, red lipstick and heels could put the fear of death in a man and boy, did it do it for me. She was stunning, she is stunning.” He trailed off, he started to resemble a broken man more than he did when Thomas arrived in the speakeasy. “When I finally gathered the courage to walk over and talk to her, she had Francis Burnett in her hands, you know ‘The Secret Garden’? I read the book a couple years back in my lit class, so I started chattin’ her up about it, babbling about complete nonsense. I’m not even quite sure if I remember what I was saying, my heart was pounding so fast. After an hour or so of discussing literature I tried to sound familiar with, I asked her out for a cup of joe, before asking for her name.” Roy split his sides again. Thomas tried his best to mimic him, to show that he was still fully invested in the conversation, which he was. “She came to my university the following year.” He smiled and stared at his hands again, then ran them through his shaggy hair. He turned back to the bar and grabbed his glass again. The kid couldn’t spend five minutes without getting separation anxiety over his God-forsaken drink. Thomas wondered if he was like that. Of course you were you old dewdropper, he reprimanded himself. Thomas could feel the nostalgia in the air, he wasn't quite sure if he felt uncomfortable or not, he hoped that Roy did not.
"What happened to her?" Thomas asked warily. Thomas stared Roy down and hoped that he wouldn’t notice. He swore for a moment he caught Roy sniffle in the slightest way, reminiscing on his beloved Viola. Roy took a two chugs of his beer until the glass had one small spit lying at the bottom of the glass, that was mostly foam.
“She left me for Harry Nicholson.” He spoke quietly, just enough for Thomas to hear him. He had a disgusted look on his face, like he had just swallowed something fowl. Thomas crinkled his nose.
“What an un-extraordinary name,” Thomas tried to sympathize with him. Roy nodded his head slowly, with the same expression pasted on his face. After another sip of beer he finally looked at Thomas
“Our professor.” He added. Thomas leaned back in his chair in surprise and hurt, exaggerating the blow of air that exited his mouth, eyes wide. He ran his fingers through his graying hair and blew out a cough. “That bearcat left me with nothing. We were gonna, you know, have a few kids, scrounge up enough dough to rent an apartment somewhere in the city.” Roy said, starting to dance his finger along the ring of his glass again. They sat there for a moment, perhaps an awkward bond, but Thomas could feel his sorrow. This sorrow resignated through Thomas’ bones and rattled throughout his skeleton. He suddenly had a strong urge to reach for his hand and tell him everything would be alright. What could he say? He thought of his father. He puffed out his chest in a Strongman oara, and lowered his voice.
“Well dames aren’t one for love now a days Roy. Look around this joint, do you think any of these broads are lookin’ to settle down? Lookin’ for someone like us?” Roy did as his father said and scanned the Speakeasy. He shrugged admitting defeat.
“You might be right buddy….” Roy stopped. He slowly turned his head to Thomas, squinting his eyes and examining the old man. Something was wrong. Thomas tried to stare back as casually as possible. Did he do something wrong? “Roy.” He said to Thomas finally. Thomas was genuinely confused, and then it hit him like a ton of bricks. “You called me Roy.” He repeated to Thomas. Roy’s face looked frightened, but angry. Thomas could feel his cheeks getting hotter with every passing moment flying back. He opened his mouth to try and explain himself but nothing came out. “How the hell do you know my name?”

They stood in the what seemed like an ocean of various brands of people. The people came flooding past them in all different directions, making Thomas dizzy and he assumed roy, from the amount and pace he had been drinking at. Thomas just then noticed that it must’ve been getting dark out, it was starting to become a challenge to make out the expression on his son’s face. The flood pushed, shoved, crammed, elbowed, poked and bulldozed through Thomas and Roy, but everything around Thomas still seemed perfectly slowed, and delicate. He could felt his hands trembling around his drink, and a small bead of sweat forming above his upper lip. Thomas moved his hands to the bar and held on to keep him sturdy, physically and mentally. Roy still stood in front of him, with his fedora still placed on top of his brown-red hair. He was still frozen in the same stance he was in when he was lifting his competent body off the stool, as if he were frozen in time. Thomas realized how long he had been standing waiting for himself to come up with some sort of  explanation, but he was overwhelmed with panic.
“What?” Thomas improvised, his voice cracking. Roy shifted his weight to the left and folded his arms, waiting, but impatient.
“I said, how do you know my name, ya old dewdropper?” He shouted over the chaos of the Speakeasy. Dewdropper, the same thing Roy called him when he first met Thomas on Margaret’s front door. His mind was still completely blank, it reminded Thomas of the many days he spent sitting at the typewriter, waiting for brilliance to arrive, but to no avail.
Roy did as his father once did, and puffed out his chest like a toy balloon fated soon to pop. Roy coughed to clear his voice and licked his lower lip. Still waiting. Eyebrows raised.
“I’m an old friend of your Mom’s,” Thomas blurted out, too obvious that he just formulated faux response. Roy unfolded his arms and put them on his hips. He raised his eyebrows in skepticism. Thomas wondered if he was a good liar or not, his mother could always see right through them whenever he came home late past curfew.
“Margaret?” Roy asked, still skeptical, Thomas could tell that Roy was curious to see where this would go, Thomas was too.
“No. Well yes, I am familiar with Margaret as well…” Thomas faltered at his last word. “Your mother I mean,” Roy unfolded his arms, distributed his weight evenly and lowered his eyebrow. He looked like someone had just interrupted him during a deep thought. He parted his lips slightly and the chaos around them became more noticeable. Thomas wasn't sure what to say next. So words began to pour out of his mouth. “Clara, your father and I were very close in school. We were writers, as you are… Or were,” Thomas coughed on the last word hoping that he didn’t insult his son. “I came to find you.” He said clearly. Thomas noticed that it was obvious he was nervous; it reflected in Roy’s eyes. Roy squeezed them shut and then opened them wide again, rubbing his brow with his thumb and index finger. Was he believing Thomas’ story? 
“Join me outside for a moment, will you?” Roy asked to Thomas’ surprise. Thomas blinked his eyes a couple times and finally reached in his pocket to pull out some change for his cola. They both trudged out the doors of the Speakeasy back into the dead of the night.
The streets of Chicago were quiet at this time. All Thomas could hear was the party in the building and the faint sound of honking ship whistles from the Chicago river that Margaret mentioned would be close to here. Roy crossed the street to a lamp post in order to properly see Thomas’ face, Thomas followed on his heels. Thomas could now see his son very clearly. Boy does her look like me, he thought to himself. How can he not see our resemblance? Thomas tried masking his expressions by starring in different directions and turning his head. Thomas could see now that Roy looked very suspicious. Every drop of sweat, every pore was ignited by the harsh lamp light; there was no use to hiding any expressions now. Roy took out a pack of cigarettes from his trouser pocket and a box of matches from the  pocket on the opposite side.
“What’s your name, buddy? What are you really doing here?” Roy sounded slightly more composed outside the festivities. He also looked a little more uncomfortable outside of his element. Thomas took a deep breath and started to once again toss words into the air like a wind does to flower petals.
“Thomas. My name is Thomas,” he told Roy.
Roy leaned in closer to Thomas. “You’re a friend of my folks?” he asked, interrogating Thomas. Thomas nodded his head rapidly then slowed it.
“Yes”.
“Both of them?”
“Yes”.
“You know my father?” Roy asked slightly sarcastically, as if he thought he knew that his father never existed.
Thomas took rolled his eyes convincingly. “Yes, I do”.
Roy puffed a cloud of smoke out into the frosty air.
“Nobody knows who my father is ya old bat. He left us, a long time ago”. Roy spit out harshly. Thomas’ heart commenced throbbing. Thomas hoped that the harsh light of this lamp post didn’t reveal his thoughts as well as his expressions. He rolled his eyes and slowly lowered his shoulders, he needed to relax. He held out his hand for a cigarette, trying to act cool. Roy raised an eyebrow. He slowly grabbed the pack out of his pocket and the match box, and lit Thomas’ cigarette for him. Thomas bit the ciggy between his teeth and sucked, then releasing a cloud that somehow lightened the mood. Ahh, boy that tastes good he thought to himself. He relished the cloud that surrounded his head for a moment and took it in through all his senses. It tingled his skin and lightened his brain. He looked at Roy and noticed him watching the process undergo.
“Well I did,” Thomas said confidently, through an exhale of smoke. “I knew him a long time too. He was a great man, reminds me a lot like yourself.” Thomas stopped right when he knew Roy was becoming anxious to hear about his long lost father. He wanted to keep him interested. Roy awaited his response but it never came, so Roy broke.
“Where is he then?” Thomas held back a grin, his plan going accordingly.
“That’s a bit of a long story.” Thomas said, intriguing Roy a bit further. He was getting a little c***y. Roy huffed like a child. He puffed out a cloud of smoke and threw the cigarette on the ground, crushing the butt with his scuffed shoes.
“Forget this,” Roy exclaimed. “Buzz off creep”. Thomas was losing him. As Roy began to walk off Thomas yelled out to him in the night.
“Your mother’s name is Clara Elizabeth Devlin. She went to school at Chicago university with your father and I and we all studied literature. She was an adventurous women with a mellow attitude towards everything that surrounded her, it was her way of not exciting herself to much so she would never be disappointed”. Roy had stopped in the middle of the street to hear out Thomas. “She was a fine young woman attached to a bad character, he was a good man though through and through. His antics were most likely what led to the woman you know to be, a bent one”. Roy turned to Thomas could see tears in his eyes.
“Don’t you talk about my mother that way,” he snarled through his crooked teeth. Thomas threw out the cigarette that he was holding in between his fingers.
“No one knew your mother like I and your father, Roy.” Roy charged over to Thomas and shoved him into the nearest brick building. He clenched Thomas’ jacket with both of his fists. Thomas spoke rapidly so Roy would hear him out.
“You don’t know me and I’ve never met you in the flesh, but I know who you are. You are a well respected graduate who fell in love with a dame that took your world and made it her’s and that was okay with you, because you loved her. God did you love her.” Roy tightened his grip on Thomas’ wool coat and pulled up. He was nose to nose with Thomas and Thomas could smell the beer on his breath and could nearly hear his teeth grinding. “You had plans to stay home with Margaret and take care of her when you graduated but that all changed when she arrived. Yeah, thats right, you were gonna travel the world weren’t you Roy? You were gonna see all there was to see with her but when she left you all you wanted was to drink all there was to drink because that opportunity too was taken you too. All you wanted to do was something you weren't supposed to, something that wasn't in store for your future. So with all this Prohibition commotion y’all are gettin’ all heated up about up with, you thought this to be the perfect opportunity”. He gestured toward the shadow of the Speakeasy. “You quit your fancy job that you worked your whole life for and you drank it away because you could. Am I getting warmer Roy?” Roy’s cheeks were steaming even in the cold air and his eyes were wet. His teeth were chattering slightly clenched together. Thomas’ heart was racing. He began to wonder if Roy would actually hurt an old man like Thomas, because with every second gone by silent, the tighter Roy’s grip was on Thomas. So Thomas began to speak again. “You sit in this bar every night after supper with Margaret. You still manage to see her even though it hurts to see her face knowing that you failed her. Knowing that you were a disappointment. But going to supper every night makes you more and more ashamed of yourself, because every night alone in that bar you stare at your reflection in that mirror across from you and watch yourself drink, and drink, and drink. Until the image of your failure self becomes foggy and you can’t see it anymore!” Thomas found himself yelling over a flood of people that were no longer there but he kept his tone as stern as it was. “Right after your dame left so did Clara. Your own mother left you, because she was afraid of failing you for the umphteenth time, but you didn’t think that was the reason did you? No, you thought that she was getting tired of watching you disappoint people over and over again. In reality though you were watching her deteriorate from the sideline your entire life! She was always around which made it even worse, because she never bothered to put herself in your life like she should’ve, all she did was stay at home and drink. Every special occasion though she’d show up wouldn’t she? A card on graduation day or maybe a check on your birthday”. Roy was noticeably crying in a drunk stir. “No one was there for you. Especially the father that no one ever had the courtesy of mentioning to you”. Roy looked like he was gonna hurl, his face was turning a faint pale-green color and his breathing was staggered. Thomas noticed that he was out of breath. Roy gathered his strength and yet again, tightened his grip on Thomas
“Tell me where he is dammit!” Roy screeched over the murmuring cheers in the shadows of the Speakeasy. 
“I don’t know anymore!” Thomas’ voice cracked while attempting to match Roy’s volume. Thomas panted and leaned his head back against the brick wall to relax himself. “I don’t know.” Thomas too was beginning to believe his own words. Roy’s shaking fists released Thomas’ jacket.
“Why are you here Thomas?” Roy asked him. Thomas’ heart bounced into his throat each time Roy said his name. What should he say? Thomas felt uneasy without the cigarette in his mouth to calm his nerves.
“I needed to meet you, Roy.” Thomas tried to explain. Is that odd? Thomas thought. He added more to sound more believable. “I also need to know where Clara has gone.” He admitted to Roy. Roy chuckled and threw his hands up in the air.
“So that’s what this is all about huh? You came to find me all cuz’ you got the hots for my mom?” Thomas took a step back and cringed at Roy’s accusation.
“No of course not!” Thomas exclaimed below the lamp light.
“Then why are you here?! Who cares about a deadbeat like me? You said it yourself.” Roy sniffled roughly, trying to maintain whatever dignity he had left.
“Because I was in your shoes believe it or not, years ago. When I thought that there was nothing left for me there was. I just took me thirty years to realize it.” Roy breathed out rapidly. Thomas limped over to where Roy was standing, staring at the cement littered with cigarette butts and gum residue. Thomas put his hand on Roy’s shoulder and breathed heavily, as if he had just ran four blocks. “Never run back to what broke you”. Roy nodded his head. Was he giving in to Thomas? Believing his story?
“I remember reading something this one time by C.S. Lewis, in my lit class. it was something around the lines of, ‘if we find ourselves with a desire that nothing in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that we were made for another world.’ I think about that everyday when I start to believe that my world is ending.” Roy said in a much more hushed tone. Thomas smiled warmly at him.
“Don’t pay attention to the world ending. It has ended for me many times, and has began again in the morning.” Thomas matched his tone. Roy stifled a small snort.
“Where were you years ago when this chick left me, buddy?” Roy added sarcastically. Thomas laughed at this comment. He knew exactly where he was. He knew what he was wearing, where he was sitting and what he was thinking. It was the same everyday in Joliet. Thomas wondered if knowing about Roy in prison would’ve made the sentence more painful or manageable. Maybe knowing that someone was waiting for him on the outside would’ve put his mind at ease. He wasn't quite sure anymore.
The two exchanged glances under the pale light of the lamp post and shared a peaceful silence.
“Are you gonna tell me more?” Roy asked finally. Thomas smiled again.
“There is so much to tell I’m not sure where to begin.” replied Thomas truthfully. What was there to tell? A made up story about Thomas’ father? Or the truth? He twitched his nose and pulled his coat sleeves down to his wrinkly hands to mask the cold. Roy looked around the street and up to the sky. He then started to dig in his pocket for his wallet. He pulled it out and revealed a small business card.

Roy Devlin
Journalist
Chicago Tribune
1934 schomer road

Thomas’ face lit up like a the lamp post above them.
“If you ain’t busy next Tuesday, I’d like to get to know you.” He spoke like he was arranging an interview or business meeting. “It’ll give you some time to organize your thoughts.” Roy handed Thomas the small card. “I want to know where my mother has ran off to too believe it or not.” He said to Thomas’ surprise. Could he have an idea? Did she say anything before she left? Maybe they could find her! Thomas blinked a couple times to focus on the matter at hand.
“That sounds like the bee’s knees Roy.” Thomas grinned at Roy. Roy flashed a crooked grin right back at him.
“Are you familiar with Tony’s drugstore?” Roy asked Thomas.
Thomas laughed, “I sure am.”
“I’ll meet you there Tuesday, 7 o’clock.”
“And how.”Thomas replied casually, sealing their arrangements. Roy held out his hand for Thomas. Thomas shook his son's hand and watched Roy turn around and disappear into the dark street of Chicago.
Thomas bite his lower lip in a small excitement. Roy actually wanted to see him! Well… not exactly him.
What would he say? Lie and tell him he was sent off to the war and died an honorable hero? Something like that maybe…
Or maybe that he was sent away to Europe to write novels for the King and Queen.
Or the truth.
That he was sent away for thirty years to rethink every past mistake he has ever made, to rot.
Or that he was his true father, and was the one who drove away his mother, who made her who she was.
Thomas was frightened and torn. He had no idea what the right thing to do would be. But Thomas had an entire week to contemplate the matter. To organize his thoughts like Roy had said. For the first time in his life, he was going to take his son’s advice.

Thomas had no idea what to do. It was Tuesday morning and Thomas was still lying in his and Clara’s bed, staring wide eyed at the ceiling. The sun was peeking through the drapes once again, and they shined right down on Thomas’ old cheeks, trying to warm his peace of mind. He hoisted his body up out of bed. Over the past week this process had gotten much more strenuous. The aches and pains have become more palpable and his hearing was getting poorer. He could barely hear the barks and howls of the people in the streets as well as he used to when he first got out of jail. Perhaps it was just becoming more noticeable to Thomas, not actually worse. Now being back into society and getting more or less used to a new routine Thomas’ age was much more obvious than they had been before. Although he slept in his bed, a full night’s rest was something Thomas was not able to acquire since the day before he was put into Joilet.  His withdrawal systems were fading away, which was the opposite of what he feared would happen once he got out of jail. Out in society he could feel his progression through recovery much better than he did in prison. In Joliet, it felt like it was taking twice as long as it should’ve been. Perhaps it was all the excitement the outside was offering Thomas that was so distracting to him from the alcohol. Or maybe the fact that it was harder to come by because of the Prohibition. Thomas was not one to obey the rules of society, but he knew one thing, there was no way in hell, that he was going back to Joliet. Ever.
Although his symptoms were fading away after what seemed to be a thirty year recovery, the long term effects of the drink were also becoming more noticeable to Thomas, that weren’t as distinguishable in Joliet. He felt pain in his abdominals, and constantly felt like he was undergoing a horrid hangover.
He tried to eat as often as possible but it was still difficult for Thomas to choke down food, even the sweet delicacies that were sold on every street corner. Eating the ripe strawberries sold at the Farmer’s markets were unbelievable, it was funny to Thomas that how such a small thing can berry could bring so much appreciation and happiness. After eating years of the Matron’s watery soup and bread, food was precious to Thomas when he was able to consume it without coughing it back up.
Thomas put on an old pair of trousers and a white button up shirt and placed a fedora on his head. He purchased it downtown a couple days ago in a quaint shop next to the market place where Thomas purchased the fresh strawberries and peaches. He attempted to replicate his mother’s Peaches and Cream recipe one night but failed miserably, so he resorted to eating the remaining peaches that he hadn't already destroyed.
The hat was dark like Roy’s was, and it had a small feather sticking out from the top, Thomas hadn’t seen any men wearing feathers but he liked it, it reminded him of the caged bird he once was.
Thomas was impressed by how educated he had become about the day and age. The vocabulary that the young so freely tossed about were becoming engraved in Thomas’ brain. He was also familiarizing himself with the daily news by reading the Daily Chicago Tribune. This way he got to discover the true meaning behind the Prohibition. He also learned about the Prohibition last Thursday when he was approached by several protesters. They were the first to open his eyes to what the Prohibition was really about.

“Keep Chicago dry! Keep Chicago dry!” The women paraded around the street in front of Tony’s drugstore, holding up signs that displayed the word “Dry” all over them. Some walked in a circle to keep people from running into them and others were approaching bothered civilians with their remarks and protests. Some men even joined the group too, they handed out flyers to passer byers and yelled with the same fury the women had. Thomas could see that most of their flyers were ending up at his feet, crumbled and neglected. He had his hands in the pockets of the same brown wool jacket, when a man and woman came up to him pushing a flyer into his chest. Thomas was slightly irritated by their persistence. He grabbed the flyer with both hands and studied it.
“What is this balloney?” Thomas asked naively.
“It’s not balloney sir, it’s the future of safety. No longer will women and children endure the harsh pain of a man's drunken fist! No longer will they be forced to beg for money on the street while their husband or father is spending away all their money at the local bar! We will no longer subdue our children and husbands to social ills. God has a different plan for us sir!” The woman shouted out militantly. She was apart of the Woman's Temperance Union, to stop the sale and consumption of alcohol. He had read about it in the Tribune briefly.
“God?” Thomas asked squinting his eyes to blind the sun. The two nodded in unison. Thomas studied the flyer once more and looked up. “Tell me, how has this sin affected you personally, Miss?” Thomas asked boldly. The woman looked somewhat surprised, but anxious to get her point across. She looked at the man beside her and he gestured towards Thomas with his gaze.
“Like my many sisters before me, we all have suffered from the drink. Personally, my husband began drinking after we got hitched, I had a baby and I had no job. He came home every night bent off his rocker from the saloon downtown and beat me a fierce sir. I was damned if I ever were to let that man lay a hand on my son. So I took my baby and left the son of a b****!” She pounded her fist in the air.
“Hallelujah!” The man beside her said. Thomas turned to him and c***ed his head to the side like a confused schoolboy.
“Tell me Miss, how has the Prohibition benefitted you and your sisters?” Thomas asked.
“Well sir, we rest easy knowing that our children are safe from the hands of evil. Some of us remained married and were able to sober up our honies which has been a blessing for the most of us. For me I was able to move to Chicago like I had always planned, and put my son in school. Even got myself hitched again.” She smiled to the man next to her and he smiled back. Ohh, now I see, Thomas thought. Thomas pushed a grin out to the couple and tipped his hat.
“God would have wanted it to be this way?” Thomas asked the woman being held tightly by her husband on her side. They both dropped their gazes from each other to look at Thomas intensely.
“Why of course sir, God only wants the best for us.” The man replied to Thomas sternly. Thomas laughed and folded the flyer into his left pocket.
“Sir, if there is a God as you say there is, he will have to beg for my forgiveness.” Thomas tipped his hat at the couple and waved to them. Their expressions more than shocked. “Best of luck to you kind folks.” He pushed through the crown of people blocking his path, and went on his way, with somewhat of a more hateful feeling towards himself than what he had before, and what he been desperately trying to put away.

Thomas went to the front door to receive the newspaper. He gradually lowered his body to the ground trying to avoid bending at his weak torso. His knees wobbled on the way back up but he was able to stand and retreat back into his home with his coffee in hand. He had left a note the day before to the paperboy to please place the paper on the chair that Thomas had placed outside so he wouldn’t have to bend. But he supposed that they hadn’t have seen it.
He opened the curtain drapes and sat in Clara’s old rocking chair with his morning coffee and newspaper and read the headline.
No Goodbye to Dry!
Nov. 12th 1925

Thomas read on to read about the uprising rate in crime and violence in the area. Why had they continued on with the Prohibition idea if alcohol was just increasing in Chicago? Idiots only makin’ it worse, he thought to himself. He also remembered reading about this fella named Al Capone. Thomas was very enticed with Capone and his work. He wondered if he would’ve ever joined his gang if he never went to jail. Thomas saw no reason that his younger self wouldn’t have. He had no idea what he would’ve done if he lived as drunk as he used to be through the voting of the Prohibition. Apparently Al Capone was this big hot shot bimbo that the fuzz had been trying to pinch for years, but they could never pin anything on him. He was what they called a ‘bootlegger’. Thomas admired how cunning the man was, he gave him that. He was able to obtain huge shipments of liquor and murder 100’s of people without getting’ clinched. Thomas was amazed by the bootlegger.
Thomas’ days were filled with exploring the new town and the new people, especially the buildings he used to be so familiar with which were now rebuilt into city towers. He noticed the clothing, the automobiles, the buildings, but one thing that Thomas enjoyed much more than he did when he was younger were the books. Books were something Thomas was never able to acquire in prison, but in his youth he read books day and night. Poetry, biographies, fiction, and sometimes even latin. The Newberry library was remodeled, much bigger than it was thirty years ago, and it was painted a burgundy red. The book sections were reorganized so it took Thomas a while to find the just the right book, but when he did he was hooked. The literature of the 1920’s were so adventurous and energetic, Thomas could barely sit still while reading them. Sometimes, he would sit in the library for days from opening to closing. He had acquired a friendship with the young librarian named Leslie. She was short and stubby, and wore these pink funny looking glasses that had bedazzles on the wings.
One day, the librarian offered him this peculiar thing called a book card. It allowed him to take the books home as long as he promised to bring them back. This gave Thomas a sense of responsibility, not to mention it made him practically jump for joy if it weren’t for his weak knees.
It was now the day though. He was allowed to see Roy today and he was very excited to get to know his son a little more. Perhaps it’ll become an annual father son supper? Thomas smiled with this unreasonable thought.
As the sun set on the day, Thomas went through his old clothes to look for something appropriate to wear. Once he decided on a pair of brown trousers, his cream button down long sleeved and favorite brown wool coat, he placed his new fedora on his head, hoping to impress his son with his up-to-date fashion sense. He searched his dirty pant pockets for his wallet and was on his way out the door to meet Roy at Tony’s drugstore.
It was brisk out (as usual) and the corner smelled like sewage and fuel exhaust. Thomas waited outside in the cold for his son, he held his frame together to keep it from shaking in the wind and rubbed his shoulders to create heat. It was 7:42 according to the clock hanging in Tony’s store, he must’ve been held up with Margaret. He dared not go inside, just incase Roy was looking for Thomas and couldn’t find him. So he waited. Still not entirely sure what to say to Roy, he began to construct a plan. If he could move the topic from himself to Roy, maybe Thomas could become better acquainted with him, and then want to meet him next week for coffee perhaps. Plus, they would stray away from their current matter. Perhaps.
Where was he? Has he forgotten our meeting?  Finally, just when Thomas was beginning to lose hope, a dark figure emerged from the foggy streets, it was Roy. Thomas tried to conceal his grin by lowering his hat over his eyes and biting his lower lip. Roy approached him in a brown trench coat and black slacks, his hair was gelled back and to Thomas’ delight, he looked ultimately sober.
“Nice seeing you again Thomas.” He said professionally sounding. Thomas was slightly disappointed in his tone of voice, but his heart still bounced when his son said Thomas’ name.
“How’ve ya been Roy? Come on lets get inside this place give me the heebie jeebies” Thomas tried exercising his modern day vocabulary, he hoped to impress Roy. Thomas escorted Roy inside the drugstore. The rusted bell chimed over head while they entered and Tony appeared right on que.
“Welcome to-” He stopped when he got a glance at who Thomas was with. He must know Roy from Margaret or Clara. Or maybe he had gotten a few cigarettes from Tony, afterall he was the one who recommended their meeting place. Thomas widened his eyes to clue Tony to relax. Tony received the clue and pretended to clear his throat. “Welcome to Tony’s drugstore and diner what can I get you two gentlemen?” Tony asked inadvertently. Roy removed his trench coat and handed it to Tony to hang up on the coat rack.
“Two colas please” He commanded Tony. Thomas looked at Roy and laughed when Roy winked at him. The atmosphere was lightening, and it wasn't from any drinking.
“How’ve ya been Roy?” Thomas asked him again, scooching his wooden chair closer to the table.
“Alright doc, hey listen, I’m sorry if I acted childish. I got heated and acted hard boiled.” Roy’s face flushed. Thomas shrugged the apology aside and waved it away.
“Ain’t a problem, Roy,” Thomas reassured him. There was an awkward silence and Thomas felt his cheeks getting hotter. He finally broke. “So what do you want to know Roy?” Thomas regrettably asked. Damnit! He had already gone against his pan just to keep the God-forsaken conversation going. Roy straightened his back and held his hands together on the table.
“Well I suppose I don’t quite know. I’m not even sure why I came, I thought about skippin’ last minute, which is why I was late.” Thomas’ heart sped up.
“Why were you thinkin’ of skippin’?” Thomas asked urgently to Roy. Roy shrugged.
“Well, honestly I’m not quite sure if I wanna know anything about my father. He never showed up at any point in my life so I don’t see the point in giving him the benefit of the doubt as they say.” Roy combed back his gelled hair with his finger tips. Thomas swallowed hard. Oh boy… This was going to be rough.
“We don’t gotta talk about your ol’ man right now Roy.” Thomas tried to explain to Roy. Roy squinted and leaned back in his chair.
Tony brought two colas to the table and smacked em down right in front of us. Thomas took a fat swig.
“You’re right Thomas. Let’s talk about your father.” Roy said. This made Thomas cough up his drink a bit and struggle for breath. He embarrassingly tried to clear his throat before he spoke again but his voice cracked.
“Mine?”
“Yes” Roy said.
“Why does my father interest you Roy?” Thomas asked him curiously.
“Because you interest me Thomas.” Roy said crossing his arms staring at Thomas. “You can tell alot about a man by his father, that’s what my ma used to tell me anyway.” Thomas’ heart split silently at the thought of Clara telling a small version of Roy that horrifically true statement. Thomas tried to erect his back without upsetting his abdominals.
“Is that so?” Thomas tried to ask calmly.
“Yes” Roy said. “You somehow know more about me than anyone I have ever encountered on this planet and I just met you last Tuesday.” Thomas shrugged and tried to look convincing.
“I knew your parents very well I suppose, I am an excellent judge of character.” He added.
“You remind me of myself.” Roy said. Thomas began to sweat.
“All adolescent or similar in their youth. Now, what do you want to know about my father?” Thomas re-coordinated the conversation.
“What was he like?” Asked Roy. Thomas thought for a moment, he didn’t want to scare Roy off.
“A bastard.” Thomas admitted, Roy laughed.
“Aren’t they all?” He chuckled. Thomas tried to laugh with him. Thomas continued his long lost thoughts about his father.
“Oh well, he was a stern man, and in his early day a hard working one. But like every husband or father they have their flaws, mine couldn’t sit still without a cold one in his hand. He drank away his health his entire life. He was a tough man who liked everyone to know it, especially me.” Thomas trailed off. Maybe it was best if he left it at that. Roy nodded his head listening to Thomas.
“Sometimes I wonder if I was better off without one you know?” Roy said, taking a sip of cola and wiping his lips of the bubbles. Thomas heart was splitting again, but he hesitantly raised his glass in the air, saluting, and then taking a sip.
“My father made me who I am today though, Roy.” Thomas said to him in the quiet diner. Roy snorted.
“Yeah, mine did too.” Roy murmured harshly.Thomas’ eyes were sad. Roy could see it. “But hey, I’m not all bad am I?” Roy said, making Thomas laugh.
“You’re alright, kid.” Thomas laughed. Roy and Thomas both bit their lips.
“Do you even know where my father is Thomas?” Roy finally asked him. Thomas tried to shrug.
“I told you Roy. I can’t say that I do, have you talked to Margaret about it?” Thomas asked Roy.
“Yes, briefly”.
“Well what has she said?” Thomas asked a little too abruptly. Roy ran his fingers through his hair again and smiled.
“Well nowadays it’s hard to know what’s true and what’s not true that comes out of that woman’s mouth.” He leaned into the table and said quietly, almost as if he didn’t want her to hear him. Thomas laughed again. Boy was this kid a riot.
“Well, Margaret has always been a moll, always liked the men and she’d say anything to get them to like her, including you.” Thomas poked Roy’s right shoulder from across the table. Roy laughed at Thomas’ puerility. Roy took another sip of cola and belched.
“Well from what she’s told me years ago, he was spending some time over in Joliet.” Roy replied to Thomas. Thomas went cold. Thomas put down his drink and put a finger in his ear to clean out whatever gunk made him think he just heard his son say that he knew that his father was in Joliet. How could Margret leave Roy with only that to know his father by? He tried to look normal, he intertwined his fingers together on top of the table and crossed his ankles. “Then again she might’ve just told me that to keep me interested.” Roy added. Thomas raised an eyebrow. What the hell does that suppose to mean?
The night went on as Thomas had planned. Roy talked about his childhood accomplishments such as being the high school baseball team’s pitcher, winning best short story at this street fair contest Chicago hosted every year, he even promised to read the short story to Thomas one time. He told Thomas if he remembered correctly that it was about a young woman in New York city named Charlotte, and one day Charlotte was walking home from the saloon when a couple a gangsters cornered her. Roy told Thomas that he didn’t remember the rest and Thomas ridiculed him for leaving it off as a cliffhanger.
“All the pretentious writers end their stories with cliff hangers!” Thomas explained to Thomas. Roy also added that that story was the reason Roy wantedt  o become a writer in the first place.
They talked about politics, the Prohibition and family, they talked about jobs and boring topics not suited for a 55 year old and a 30 year old, but they got along swimmingly.
At a quarter past 9, Roy pushed out his chair and stood abruptly. Thomas did the same, as to not seem rude. It was good to know Thomas still had some manners after thirty years of refinement.
“Well thank you for this Roy, I very much enjoy talking to you.” Thomas said genuinely. Roy smiled back at Thomas and shook his father’s hand.
“And how Thomas!” Roy grabbed his coat from the coat hanger and reached for the door. He turned once more and caught Thomas, standing alone in the diner, with his hands clasped together, smiling. Beaming towards his son. No matter what the others thought, he was very proud of who Roy became to be. Roy smiled at the sight of Thomas, almost as if he knew what Thomas was thinking about him. “Same time next week?” Roy asked. Thomas could feel his heart float between his ribs.
“I would like that.” Thomas said through his smile, and he watched his son disappear into the night, again.
Thomas stood in the diner for a moment to savor the moment. Tony came out from the back and put his hand on Thomas’ shoulder much more gently than he usually did.
“I’m not sure what you are doing Tommy, or what you are hoping to get out of this, but he’s a good kid.” Tony smiled, fully aware of Thomas’ situation. Thomas stifled a tear of joy.
“I know he is.” Thomas said. “He’s my son.”

That winter morning was just like any other winter morning. Thomas had his coffee, read the news, and was genuinely content. For the first time in a very long time Thomas was intoxicated with pure bliss with himself. Everyday was different from the last, he would explore the city and the people, go out to dinner and explore the unique delicacies offered in the vast city and search for the most scenic areas of the city. He had even began to write again, something Thomas thought that he would never again have the pleasure of doing. Though his hands shook feverishly with each push of the keys, his typewriter served him well by helping him achieve the first few pages of what will hopefully be a well over due best seller written by Thomas Devlin. He was very proud of himself.
He also attained a job working in the Newberry library. He spent so much of his time in the bay window behind the historical fiction section, reading whatever he pleased. Through the bay window Thomas could see the people bustle around the streets dodging automobiles and paperboys, it amused him when he wasn't reading his book. Over time Thomas noticed himself squinting more and more at the tiny font of the books and it became harder for him to make out exactly what the text read. He was explaining his sorrow about the matter to Leslie one day, when she let him try on her ridiculous looking glasses to see what good it would do. To Thomas’ amazement the font showed up eleven times bigger! Thomas was more than, pleased he hardly even cared about how foolish he looked. Leslie lent him a pair of her spare ones which were much more suitable for a man.
After weeks of sitting in the bay window either enjoying another novel or writing his own, Leslie thought it might be beneficial to the both of them if she hired him as a part time assistant to work during the day with her. Thomas graciously accepted the offer and got straight to work learning where each section was located in the library. He learned the ins and outs of the library very quickly, as he was already knew it fairly well. He worked 9am to 3pm on weekdays, and sometimes Leslie would have him come in on weekends to just to help categorize the books or send letters to people who had over-due books. Thomas absolutely loved it. He got to read everyday and recommend great books to students, tourists and adults. It was his dream job.
Thomas also got to see Roy every Tuesday night at Tony’s. They decided to strayaway from the Speakeasy for awhile, it wasn't exactly the most ideal place to have a decent conversation with a man. The two of them had become very close friends, which is exactly what Thomas had hoped for. He couldn’t have been more pleased.
Roy had recently got a job interning with an old college professor of his, “not Harry Nicholson!” Roy had exclaimed humorously; the one who was sleeping with Viola. He had now wanted to learn how to teach, he had given up his dreams of traveling the world and becoming a novelist so that he could hopefully encourage others to have and achieve the same goals, which made Thomas very proud. Although, it was still quite a surprise to both Margaret and Thomas, as Thomas grew more familiar with Roy he assumed that he would never return to any type of university or school for that matter. He always talked so poorly of the pointless subjects and the disrespectful teachers, but if it made Roy happy, it made Thomas and Margaret happy.
Roy started seeing another girl as well, her name was Alice Marriot. Roy met Alice threw his internship at the university; she was enrolled as a student studying business, a peculiar job for a woman, but a fine one at that. Thomas found it a little odd that Roy was dating such a young girl, but he held all judgement, for it wasn’t his place. They were both happy and again, that was all that mattered. Thomas actually met her in the library one day reading old newspaper articles about stocks and bonds, Thomas helped her find an assortment of article to her liking. She had blonde curls and plump lips covered in a pink shade. She was much younger looking than Roy had described, but very beautiful. Us Devlins have good taste in women, he thought to himself, laughing out loud.
Thomas was incredibly proud of the man Roy was becoming. Roy even told Thomas that Thomas inspired him, and said that he was somewhat of the father he never had. This warmed Thomas’ heart and made him feel like he had finally done something right in his life.
Roy had limited his drinking to three times a week instead of seven, it was in Thomas’ expertise that he shouldn’t quit cold turkey, that that just might prolong the process and make it even more painful than it had to be. At first it was difficult for Roy, as it was for Thomas. He had trouble sleeping, and had the same familiar stinging in his throat that Thomas still has had after all those many years. Thomas promised to stay with Roy every step of the way though, which encouraged Roy to stick to his plans of limited drinking. Roy would continuously say that he felt a strong bond with Thomas, one that he has never gained with anyone in his life. In other words, Roy felt connected with Thomas,he said he couldn’t quite explain it, so Thomas didn’t make him. Every time Thomas thought about it it made him as giddy as schoolboy; he felt foolish, but loved.
The day was starting, so Thomas gradually lifted his frail body up from the rocking chair, put his dirty dishes in the sink from his morning cup of coffee, grabbed his coat and headed out the door. Thomas made sure to keep the house incredibly neat and tidy for his own personal needs. The minute he started leaving shoes on the floor, was the minute he started to unexpectedly fall, and can’t get up. Keeping the house tidy also gave Thomas a sense of responsibility as well, sometimes Margaret would come over and help with the dishes or teach him how to make biscuits. He really enjoyed those precious moments spent with his sister.
Thomas’ quest to find Clara was coming to an end. He figured that some things were just meant to be left un known,to his dismay. He had really made an effort to find any information on where she might have gone or if she told anyone where she was going too. He and Roy spent an entire afternoon discussing the ordeal, and whether or not they were ready to face her if when or if she ever came back to the both of them. Thomas tracked down every one of her closest friends and tried to ask them for help. The majority of them took one look at Thomas and slammed the door in his face, understandably. He wasn’t the most polite husband that ever walked the planet. The ones that didn’t slam the door on Thomas’ face told him that they had no idea, only that she had become incredibly “unlady-like” and “vulgar”.The others attempted to share sympathy with him and told him that she was a lost soul and was very unhappy with her life, leading to one explanation. Thomas couldn’t bare to think about it. As if Thomas was not reminded everyday when he woke up in an empty bed.
Before Thomas arrived at Newberry that cold morning he stopped at the marketplace to get an apple and water for his lunch break. He was not permitted to eat inside the library, so he would normally cross the street and watch the pigeons peck eagerly at the crumbs hiding in between the cement cracks and eat.
The street was filled with hustling men, women and children trying to get out of the cold. Thomas didn’t mind the cold though, it made him feel alive, grateful that the air he breathed was fresh and crisp. He arrived at the apple cart and started to pick through the apples to find the reddest one. He imagined that the apples were not in season during January, so he dug through the cart to find the ripest one he could, being as picky as possible. Thomas shrugged when he couldn’t find one to his liking, so he strolled along the street until he found another apple cart. These apples were green, Thomas was not quite sure what the difference was but he started to sort through them anyways, checking for bruises and worm holes. As soon as he found a ripe, plump one to his liking, he turned to the woman selling the apple and gave her five cents. Thomas smiled and thanked her, then walked away from the cart. Then he stopped. His breath faltered. He couldn’t breathe. His heart dropped heavily to his stomach like a weight being dropped out of a ten story building and struck pain throughout his abdominal and poor liver. Dozens of people displayed all around him in various colors, shapes and sizes, but one single-one stood out to Thomas.
It was Clara.
Thomas squeezed his eyes shut to wake himself up from this reoccurring dream. He opened them to see that she was still there. Odd, that usually does the trick… She strolled shyly amongst the crown of ordinary people, smiling, greeting them as they brushed her aside. She was wearing a blue dress, white stockings and a bonnet. Thomas was confused, usually in his dreams he sees Clara as the young woman he met in school, but now she was aged. She looked as beautiful as ever. Her eyes still shined and her brown curled locks still fell right above her shoulders. She looked so happy. Surely this was not the depressed woman that everyone was talking about. Was this really not a dream? Thomas shivered in the cold, digging his short fingertips into his palms to test if he could wake up or not. He wasn't waking up.
He tried to move, but couldn’t, he was frozen completely. He tested himself and called out for her amongst the crowd of people.
“Clara?” He managed to squeak out. She did not turn. Maybe  she didn’t hear me, Thomas thought. Thomas cleared his throat and yelled for her again.
“Clara?” Thomas said a bit louder. Once again she did not move. Thomas wasn't even sure if he could hear himself threw the stream of people. Thomas took a deep breath and cupped his shaking hands to his mouth and yelled out once again.
“Clara!” The crowd of people around him started while he shouted her name. She finally turned to him. She looked around the market place for the stranger who called for her and finally met Thomas’ gaze. It was her. That was her. It was truly Clara. Thomas grinned and started to tear up. This isn’t real.
“Clara!” He waved to her in the crowd. Clara’s expression began to fall. Her happy go-lucky grin was falling to a frown, but not quite a frown. She looked terrified, Thomas could see her breath falter as well. Thomas was confused. He looked behind him to see if she was staring at someone else. Nothing was there except for the apple cart he had just abandoned. Maybe she doesn’t recognize me, he thought to himself. He tried to call to her again, surely she couldn’t forget the sound of her husband’s forgotten voice.
“Clara it’s me!” He yelled for her again. His body began to walk towards her. He tried to shove through the people to get to her but as he kept shoving, he would lose her gaze over and over again. Each time more stressful than the last.
“Clara! Clara wait!” He cried out for her again. He tried his best to keep his head above the hats of tall men and women to keep his eyes on Clara, but he couldn’t manage to do it for very long. He finally got to where she was standing, to find his wife missing, yet again. He looked around frantically calling out her name. “Clara! Clara!” He had lost her. Again. He pushed himself up on his toes to try and see over the heads of the Chicago people. Suddenly, in that same moment, he lost his balance being pushed by the passer byers in the street. His knees gave out and he fell to the hard, cemented, pavement. His head bobbed on the dirty sidewalk. He felt blood trickle down into his eye, it stung, so he closed his eyes and squinted, hard. He could see the shoes of people who were beginning to stop and gather around him to see what all the drama was about. He could hear the people call out for help and shake his body to keep him conscious. His body ached all over. He lost her.
Thomas thought back to the first piece of advice he ever told Roy. ‘Never run back to what broke you’. Maybe that was why she was not running to him. She was running from what broke her. Thomas broke her.
“Clara.” He squeaked out of his barely conscious body. He held out his hand in the direction he thought she had gone. Some stranger grabbed it in return, and squeezed it. In his mind he begged Clara to come back, to help him off the ground and to help him stand, because he couldn’t do it on his own anymore. He could never do it on his own in the first place, he was foolish to believe he could live without Clara in his life. Clara is the one who help him up, kept him floating. He tried once more to keep his eyes open, in hopes that he would see Clara’s white buckled heels and stockings. But she wasn't there. Was she ever there?
Before Thomas closed his eyes he remembered something in Clara’s letter that reminded him something of the very moment he was in currently.
‘I dream about you almost every night, and I want so badly to wake up from these dreams, but cannot, because I realize that is the only time I will ever see you’.
Maybe his mind was playing tricks on him now. His head was distracted from Clara but his heart was not, so his brain somehow devised a plan to trick Thomas so that he would become more conscious of his sorrow over his beloved wife. He wasn't quite sure. Either way, she was gone, he had lost her. Again.

“Hey buddy, you don’t look too hot.” Someone said to Thomas loudly, in a New York accent.
“Should we call the police?” A woman asked.
“Do you know what happened?” Another voice asked.
“Yeah he just lost his balance and plopped right on the ground.” Another voice inquired.
“Poor guy!” All this talking gave Thomas a headache, or maybe it was just the blow to the head. Thomas opened his eyes and laid on his back in the middle of the street. Everyone around him backed up to give him some room to breathe. Thomas sat up and felt a stabbing pain in his abdominals. He couldn’t get up.
After a moment of embarrassment Thomas shamefully asked: “Would anyone mind giving me a hand?” Thomas held out his hand and several people reached for it. One man with a gold watch helped him to his feet and patted him on the back harshly.
“You okay there big fella?” The man said to him. Thomas rolled his eyes and hoped the man didn’t see.
“Yes I am fine. Thank you everyone.” Thomas waved to them and to his embarrassment they all clapped for his health. Thomas started to remember what happened in the first place
Where had she gone? Did she see me? Perhaps back to the house? Almost as if he was in denial of the whole accident.
For the remainder of the day, Thomas spent it wandering around the marketplace like a lost child, searching for Clara. He walked every black in a two mile radius, asking random women if they had seen her, who all replied regrettably no. All day he searched for his wife but somehow, she had managed to flee the scene without being noticed by anyone, and quick enough to get far away enough that Thomas would not be able to run after her. His entire body ached and the pain in his abdominal was growing more and more excruciating by the hour. Thomas didn’t know how much longer he could stand it. After an hour or two past sundown,he decided that it was unsafe for him to be walking the streets alone and in his condition, especially in this part of the neighborhood.
Maybe she went back to the house! Thomas thought hopefully. He changed his direction and course and started back as fast as he could home.
He wasted no time maneuvering past all the people in the street, but was careful to not cause another scene. After what seemed like several hours of walking, he finally arrived home. He unlocked the front door and attempted to run in the house,tripping over his feet.
“Clara?! Clara!” He yelled for her. He began to develop deja vu from his first day out of Joliet, it felt like ages ago.
He searched every room but could not find his wife, she was not here. He checked the bathroom behind the shower curtains, her rocking chair, behind the drapes that always peeked out a ray of sunshine that reminded Thomas of Clara, and he even checked down in the basement where Clara left all the good wine for company under lock and key.
She was nowhere to be found. Thomas considered going back out into to town, but there was no way Thomas was going to be able to find her now, she could be all the way across town by now, or on a train to God knows where. He retreated to the living room and sat down in her rocking chair to take a breath.  He put his hand on his eyes and could feel crusted blood right above his eyebrow. His head was spinning vigorously and his stomach was throbbing of the worst pain Thomas had ever had the misfortune of experiencing. It felt as if someone had took a baseball bat to his stomach, and pounded on it for hours.
  What was he to do? Nothing. Once again he was powerless.
“No!” He screamed out in a tantrum. He ran to the kitchen in a frenzy. Kicking every chair over and throwing every newspaper article in the air like a child. “No! No! No!” He screamed out towards the universe. He continued to scream out in frustration. He barged through every cabinet and every drawer they had. Then, Thomas had an epiphany. He trudged into his bedroom, and passed the neatly made bed to his bedside table. He reached deep in the drawer and discovered a bottle of Humboldt Brandy. Thomas put it there ages ago for when he needed a little something to keep him warm at night during those cold winters when him and Clara couldn’t pay for heating. He screamed out again for his sorrow. Thomas reached for the cap and twisted it open, releasing the enticing aromas that had been calling out for Thomas for nearly thirty years. He was finally giving in. He looked into the bottle of that sweet brandy and sniffed. The voice deep inside his abdomen was screaming out to him, pleading with him not to do it. But it heart was reaching for the bottle crying out in agony as the temptation rose from his throat onto the bed of his tongue.
Thomas put the bottle to his lips, tipped the bottle backwards, and took a sip.

Thomas awoke on the living room davenport. It was still dark outside, meaning he passed out not long ago and had been sleeping ever since.
What happened? He looked around the room and saw the empty shattered remains of the Humboldt bottle. No… Thomas slapped his hands to his eyes and clenched his teeth. No! He had relapsed. Thomas cried and cried like a child. Why had he done it? He thought back to the beginning of the day,where he had saw Clara. That was it. He wiped his tears. He was still fully dressed in his morning attire.
That small bottle of Brandy couldn’t have made him that bent. Before Thomas went to Joliet, he could down seven of those bottles without even winking. Thomas supposed that after years of no alcohol that the first time back at it would hit him hard, and boy did it.
For all these years Thomas thought that drinking was the only way to cool the stinging in his throat that kept him awake at night, but all it did was make it burn even more.
“Is there no end to this nightmare?” He asked the ceiling, still slightly tipsy.
The lamp from the table was too blinding to Thomas, he attempted to sit up and turn it off, but he was halted by yet another stabbing pain in his abdominal. He heard the liquor sloshing inside of his belly, burning what ever was left of his liver. He felt like he had been chewed up, swallowed, then spit up again. He had never felt this lousy in his life.
The air was stale and hot, he needed some air desperately. He placed his palms on the carpet, bent his knees and hoisted his body off the ground, into a standing position. “Agh!” He cried out in agony.He tried his best to ignore the pain while walking over the coat hanger to grab his feathered fedora. After several minutes to adjusting to the ripping pain in his torso, he was out the door headed into the dark oblivion.
Outside Thomas could think better, despite the overcast it was clearer to him outside. Thomas walked the streets limping, he decided to walk down to the library to see if there was any small chance that Clara might be there.
He cut through building alleyways in the dark to get there as quickly as he could carry his body. The night was getting darker, and he was not up to walking the streets alone this late, it wasn't safe. Not to mention the fact that Thomas was most likely bleeding internally. Just as that thought came across his mind, he heard a voice call out to him behind him.
“Hey!” Following that voice, a tin can hit the back of Thomas’ head. He stopped and rubbed the back of his head, already sore from the blow.
“Stop this Roy!” Someone called out for him. Roy? It was too dark for Thomas to see who was with him, but they looked big. Roy was coming up on Thomas, so Thomas tried to move to the nearest lamp post so he could see Roy’s face. He clutched the lamp post with his cold, trembling fingers. He could now see the figure more clearly. It was Roy, enraged, and the other figure running after him was his sister, Margaret.
“Roy?” Thomas asked confused. Roy threw his hands up in the air.
“Yes. Roy!” He exclaimed at Thomas. Margaret was bouncing up and down trying to catch up with them, Thomas could faintly hear her calling his name.
“What’s this about Roy?” Thomas tried to act naive, but it his emotions were spread very thin.
“Oh, I think you know exactly what this is about.” Roy said to Thomas. Thomas held onto his torso which felt like it was going to fall apart at the words. He tried his best to maintain an un-pained expression on his face. Margaret stood behind Roy but kept her distance, Thomas wasn't sure why.
“Roy don’t do this! This isn’t his fault!” Margaret cried out through tears. Thomas looked at Margaret, concerned.
“What’s going on?!” Thomas yelled over her cries. Margaret tried to control her sobs.
“Thomas he found my will!” Margaret yelled. Thomas was confused.
“Your will?” He asked her.
“Yes! You were in it!” She cried. Thomas’s eyes widened. He looked at Roy. How could she be so careless?! He tried to conceal his anger to focus on the matter at hand. Roy looked like an animal, awaiting for the perfect time to chase after its kill. Thomas was frightened, he wasn’t sure how he was gonna talk his way out of this one.
“Roy, listen to me.” Thomas inched closer to him as calmly as possible, when suddenly, Roy pulled out a small pistol from his trench coat pocket. Thomas froze and Margaret squealed.
“No, no more talkin’. No more lies! Don’t ya come any closer or I’ll shoot.” Roy threatened. Margaret’s sobs were louder now. Thomas put his hands up in the air in a peaceful motion. After a moment of panic, Thomas calmed his heart rate and spoke to his son.
“What do you want Roy?” Thomas asked calmly again.
“I want the truth, I want you to tell me everything now! Where is my mother? Where have you been my entire life and why come back now?” Roy’s hands shook. He was crying, almost harder than Margaret was. And boy was he lit. Thomas gulped and began to tear up. Thomas saw no way out of this one. He decided that it was time to stop running, it was time for the truth.
“My name is Thomas Devlin. I married Clara Devlin when I was 19 years old, we had just graduated college together. I was an excessive drinker, a severe alcoholic. I did a lot of bad things that I am not proud, and I was put in Joliet Correctional Facility for a sentence of thirty years. Your mother gave birth to you while I was in jail and never told me about you. I was released in November, that was when I first went to go see you, I had to meet you.” Thomas said staring at Roy’s tearing eyes. He was drunk and hysterical no doubt about it. Thomas had no idea what to do. “I had to meet my son.” He added.
“Roy leave him be!” Margaret cried out from behind him.
“Shut up you dumb dora!” He screamed at Margaret, turning around and pointing the gun at her momentarily. That shut her up real quick. Roy licked his lips and felt up the gun in his two hands.
“Why.” Roy said sternly to Thomas. Thomas froze. He cleared his throat and breathed slowly.
“Why what Roy?” Thomas asked naively. Roy rolled his eyes.
“Why’d you go to the big house ya dewdropper?!” Roy yelled. Thomas couldn’t tell him. He couldn’t say it out loud. Roy grew impatient and took the gun off safety, Margaret squealed again. Thomas flinched, and the pain in his stomach grew stronger. Thomas managed to keep his hands on the air throughout the entire process. What was he going to do? He still hadn't quite come to terms with what he did. He looked at Margaret who was staring him down worrisomely, she could see the fear in Thomas’ eyes, she knew why he was scared. She nodded her head in the dark, just enough for Thomas to see, as if she was telling him that it was okay. He had been in denial for thirty years, and wasn't sure if he could choke up the right words. He had to do it, somehow. To save Margaret’s life, to save his own… To save Roy’s.
His eyes fell to the ground in sorrow. He closed his eyes and let the words spill out of his mouth after thirty years of silence. “I murdered my father.” Thomas heard himself say. It made his blood crawl, and knees weaken. He somehow managed to keep himself standing. He could see Roy’s expression under the lamp post, completely shocked and caught off guard. Roy looked back to Margaret who again was nodding her head in agreement. Roy shook the gun in his hand, smiling.
“Why, would you look how the tables have turned” Roy began to say.
“Thats the worst part Roy,” Thomas said. “I was completely, and utterly sober.” Thomas admitted. Roy’s eye twitched. “This is nothing like what happened to me and my father, you wanna know why Roy?” Thomas stepped forward and began to slowly lower his hands, intimidating Roy. His grip tightened on the pistol. “Because I loathed my father. He was a bad man Roy, he beat me, my mother and Margaret senseless every night after he came home. And he hated us right back.” Thomas wasn't speaking through his pain, but with his pain, somehow making it more bearable.
“Don’t come any closer” Roy warned Thomas, Thomas ignored him.
“But you don’t hate me Roy, because you have no reason to hate me.” Thomas said threw his teeth. “I have spent the last thirty years feeling sorry for myself, reflecting on all my bad decisions and how they impacted everyone I loved, but it was not my fault that your mother didn’t tell me she was pregnant.” Roy was noticeably shaking now.
“I said don’t come any closer!” Roy shouted over his tears. Thomas ignore him again.
“You’ve known Roy, you’ve known this entire time hadn’t you? You knew from the minute you saw my face that there was no way we weren’t related somehow. You just wanted a reason to get bent, and now look what you’ve done.” He gestured towards Margaret cowering in fear over her nephew. “I have lost everything Roy, I was created so you could see that, see me in all my failure. So you would not make the same mistake. I see that now. Don’t let my failures go to waste, don’t make the same mistake I did.” Thomas pleaded. Roy trembled with rage, and fear.
“Thomas, if you don’t back up by the time I count to three…” Thomas cut him off.
“I can’t back off Roy, I can’t let your life be thrown away like mine.” Thomas was not afraid. “I'm doing this for you.” He realized then that the only person he truly cared about was his son, and he didn’t want to live on a planet where his son didn’t feel the same way. Roy straightened his elbows out, pointing the gun closer at Thomas.
“One…” Roy started to count, Thomas refused to back up.
“Please don’t do this.” Thomas silently pleaded with Roy.
“Roy!” Margaret begged from behind. This was it, his moment to do good in Roy’s life, he had to stay still, for him. He can’t have Roy make his same mistakes.
“Two…” Roy’s voice shook. He wasn't going to put down the gun. Roy had to learn the hard way, like Thomas did, like his father did before him. There was no other way. Thomas felt a tear roll down his cheek. His only regrets are the wrongs he did against his beloved Clara. Thomas began to comfort himself with the thought of her.
“Wine is a mocker…” Thomas recited. Roy stopped to listen, he c***ed his head to the side, confused. “Strong drink raging…” Thomas continued.
“Don’t do this,” Margaret whispered to Roy, while holding her breath.
“And whosoever is deceived…” Roy gritted his teeth at the words tighten his grip on the revolver. Thomas opened his eyes and looked straight at Roy. “Thereby is not wise.”
“Three.” Roy whispered. Thomas and Roy both closed their eyes.
And the shot was fired.

My beloved Clara,

This seems like the thousandth letter I have written to you, but this will be my first completed one. I can no longer spend hours sitting at my typewriter coming up with more empty promises to convince you that I have changed. I have decided that I can never change. At least I’m aware of it. So, I have decided to do it your way, and sit down at your desk and handwrite it, Maybe then my words can possibly begin to describe the ache I have in my heart, not having you by my side.
I am sorry. I cannot begin to express the sorrow I have in my chest, knowing that every plan we were set out to do, will not follow through because of my careless actions. You were the one I wanted to spend the rest of my life with Clara. You were always the one. Out of all the people I have kissed, you were my favorite, because you never flinched when I curled my fingertips around your soft neck and tightened. Because of the time you stayed with me after I explained to you in a drunk frenzy how all I wanted was to do was wrong, because I had never known a heart, and I wanted to know what it was like to be the brick and not the window pane. You stayed with me through it all.
The hardest part when getting sober is untying the knot and releasing all the problems and feelings you’ve been blocking out for so long. You drink to forget something, but somehow, I always remembered perfectly in the morning. If you live through defeat, you are not defeated, I have learned. If you are beaten, and acquire wisdom, you have won. Only when we shed all self-definition do we find out who we truly are.
I have discovered that people seriously underestimate the dedication recovery takes. You were trying to tell me this all along too, I just wasn't brave enough to hear it. You cannot avoid it, nor can you speed through it in any way, shape or form. You must take your time. Your path may alter, your rest stops may change, but you will always be stronger for it. Thank you for helping me realize that.
Being alive can be so lonely sometimes, but I’m glad I met you. The loneliest part in someone’s life is when they are watching their whole world fall apart, and all they can do is stare blankly. I feel as if that has continued to happen to me throughout my 55 years.
Sometimes I miss my father, his pat on the back after I came home from grade school, or his nightly complaints about the office banter at the dinner table before his drinking began. That monotonous routine became my anchor as a child, I clinged on to it as hard as I could while my father sunk deeper and deeper into his booze. And I wonder if I could have stopped it somehow. I hated myself for not stopping it somehow, and I hated him for not having the strength to do it himself. You showed me how to love again, to have hope in not only myself but in others as well, which was all I ever needed. You cared about me, you cared so much it was eating you away. You sometimes hated the fact that you cared so much, but it was the only thing you knew how to do. You continued to constantly lie to yourself just so you could get through the day. So I could get through the day. How could you stay? Why? I hope one day I can get these answers I so desperately crave, but I know I will not.
I’m not sure if you will ever get this letter, I have no address to send it to, so I’m leaving it on top of your desk, maybe one day by some miracle you come back to me and will get to read it. I sadly know that I will not be there with it, this is the only thing I can promise you.
We are all junkies, drunks and druggies. We are all addicted to something that numbs the pain and strips us down to our core so we are perfectly exposed, so things don’t have to work to touch our bones or radiate through our tendons. We are nothing, but we try so desperately to escape the inevitable with our addictions. But our one true addictions aren’t those of pills or cigarettes or alcohol- we are addicted to feeling real. You made me feel real again.
I love you Clara

Love,
Thomas x