‘Mr. O’Brien’

Mr. O’Brien 

Doctor Hazel felt obligated to attend Mr. O’Brien’s funeral. He rose early on a windy Saturday morning, kissed Marie goodbye, and hurried crosstown to Saint Michael’s. This time of the year, the days were brief and severe. Doctor Hazel wore rabbit-fur mittens and his scarf was wrapped tightly around his neck and head. He stood with a clean-shaven heavyset priest and the priest performed the memorial service. There were a few gravediggers waiting to lower the casket but nobody else was in attendance. This was a bit odd, Doctor Hazel thought.

Because for twenty-five years, Mr. O’Brien had been the most famous dramatist in America. He’d achieved every literary award, including the Nobel Prize. He’d been so famous, that Doctor Hazel couldn’t help but to feel uncertain and timid around him. His work with Mr. O’Brien was kept private. Marie was an admirer from her romantic college days and his daughter, Essie, had played a prostitute in a performance of a play that had once won Mr. O’Brien the Pulitzer Prize. Mr. O’Brien was only being fifty-five. There was little to say about Mr. O’Brien that wasn’t personal and mean-spirited. Because of an uncontrollable tremor, he hadn’t written a word in ten years. He was often drunk and his wife had left him.

When Mr. O’Brien died, of cerebellar cortical atrophy, a form of brain deterioration commonly found in horses, the news went around the world. Marie had been troubled because she’d read every play of him when she’d been in college. Then she said funnily that she’d forgotten if Mr. O’Brien was dead or alive. That’s how long it’d been since she’d thought of him. The excitement of Mr. O’Brien quickly dispersed as time went and other worldly events took place. His plays were a bit out of fashion and he hadn’t been so public a celebrity.

The service was restricted to a brief speech by the priest. Mr. O’Brien had been trying very hard to be a Catholic. The priest spoke well of this struggle, and of Mr. O’Brien’s final absolution upon facing death. While listening to this, Doctor Hazel considered that Mr. O’Brien had refused a priest from seeing him at the very end of his life, that last rites hadn’t been given.

After the service, they descended the hill together. Doctor Hazel rewrapped the scarf tighter, for the wind had picked up, and noted that the priest’s flabby face was splotched an ugly purplish maroon. At the bottom of the hill a decorative gate secured the cemetery from the street. The priest made sure the gate-door was securely tight and they continued strolling together as if they were ordinary friends. Saint Michael’s was in a quiet neighborhood of shops and restaurants and there was a thin, but bustling crowd on the streets. It was only eleven in the morning, but Doctor Hazel badly desired a glass of beer and a cigarette.

“Well, that’s over with,” Doctor Hazel said as they stopped at a corner. He’d said it to say something. “That was a good memorial given the circumstances. You spoke very well.”

“Did you say something?” the priest asked.

Doctor Hazel coughed. “I thought a few people would’ve shown.”

“Why would you think there would be more people? He was an older man.”

“He has children and other family somewhere.”

“Is that right?” the priest asked. “Yes, you’re right.”

Once everyone had wanted to know what he’d thought about this or that, but Mr. O’Brien withered from depression and was prejudiced towards most people. Everyone had been vanquished from his life. One of his children had committed suicide by jumping out a window. His other son was addicted to opiates, like Mr. O’Brien’s mother had been. His daughter was estranged because she’d married an older man – they had several children and lived well in Los Angeles. He hadn’t known his daughter well because he’d been separated from her mother upon her birth. He’d left her for another woman, had made this woman his wife, and had driven this wife out. This wife was living in New Jersey. These were facts Doctor Hazel head learned.

“I liked what you said up there,” Doctor Hazel tried with the priest. He realized he didn’t know the priest’s name. “I don’t know your prayers or anything, but I liked what you said.”

“Thank you.”

“Did you know him well?”

“No, not very well,” the priest said. “His wife wrote me, saying how he would’ve wanted a Catholic service. I said that was fine.”

Doctor Hazel nodded and felt the cigarettes in his pocket. “He would’ve liked that you did the service because he tried very hard to be a Catholic and was always resentful that –”

“It’s not so hard to be a Catholic. He didn’t want to be one.”

Doctor Hazel took out the cigarettes, looked at them, and put them back into his pocket. “It was hard for him to stick to it. His mother was a Catholic, of course.”

“That’s what she told me, that it was a struggle.”

“Yes, one play would be about God and the next wouldn’t.”

“Did you read them?”

“My wife knows all his plays.”

The priest nodded and asked for a cigarette. Doctor Hazel lit it for him and they smoked together as they went on. It didn’t feel very odd to walk with a priest, and Doctor Hazel even allowed himself to feel a little epiphanic and holy himself.

“It’s a bit unfortunate, this whole thing,” the priest said. “Stop for a beer?”

“I was thinking the same thing.” Doctor Hazel looked up at him. “They let you in bars?”

“Nobody will care,” the priest said with a little laugh. He looked up at the grey sky and shook his head. “It looks like it might rain and there won’t be anything to do on a day like today except go back and sit for a while inside.”

“It’s a day for a funeral and a day for getting a beer with a priest,” Doctor Hazel said.

The priest coughed. “Yes, that’s right. Down here.”

The priest led them down a coiled staircase to a basement bar where a few old men drank calmly. The bartender had long white sideburns. He poured them beer in old-fashioned pitcher-glasses with handles. Partway through pouring Doctor Hazel’s beer, he left to turn on a radio. The radio played a news bulletin.

“I felt that someone would’ve come, even someone who had a little interest,” Doctor Hazel said when they’d sat in the back. He brushed his thinning hair aside.

“I don’t watch plays, so I wouldn’t know.”

“Neither do I. But if you told my wife I was his doctor she would’ve been excited. She knows plays. My daughter acts too. She’s a good actress.”

“You should’ve told them. They would’ve liked to hear about him.”

“I can’t because she would’ve wanted to know too much.” Doctor Hazel sighed. He felt good sitting here in this warm barroom with this priest. He would need to go home soon, but that would happen when it did. “She would’ve asked questions and wouldn’t have liked the answers. My wife is very romantic.”

“What sort of romantic?” the priest asked.

Doctor Hazel considered and decided not to answer the question. He waited a little long, and then changed the subject. “Mr. O’Brien was trying hard to believe in God and all that at the end.” This wasn’t true. “He tried so hard, but he didn’t believe in it at all.”

“He must’ve not tried so hard.”

“I believe he did.” Doctor Hazel paused for a long moment. He stared out the little window that showed the staircase and part of the street. Sometimes a porter would walk down the stairs or one of the old men drinking would stand on the top, looking dully about. “He told me how his mother was one, and that she would’ve liked it if he was too.”

“He should’ve tried harder. Anybody can believe. It’s a choice.”

“Yes, but he had a difficult life, from what he told me.”

“A lot of people do, and they try all the harder. Not that it matters to me. If a person doesn’t try, they only have themselves to blame. It’s no skin off my knuckles.”

Mr. O’Brien would’ve wanted him to say something bold and mean in his defense, but Doctor Hazel couldn’t bear to lie to a priest. “I’ve never sat in a bar with a priest before,” he said and tried to chuckle. “I’ve always assumed priests couldn’t drink, but I guess I don’t know why you wouldn’t. I guess I don’t know much about priests.”

“I don’t drink very much. Sometimes on Saturdays I’ll get one in.” The priest chuckled. “There’s nothing wrong in it.”

“I’ve never drank a beer at eleven in the morning. Frankly, I drink very little.”

“If God invented beer, it was for a good reason.”

“They say that about a lot of things.”

“Beer is alright.”

“Don’t tell some of my patients that,” Doctor Hazel tried to joke.

“A beer here or there hits the spot.” The priest sat with excellent posture. His eyes were closed though they opened a little when he brought the glass to his mouth. Sometimes he seemed to be swaying to a slow ballad. “There are worse things.”

Doctor Hazel nodded. “Do you like being a priest?” He didn’t know he was asking the question and he didn’t know what he would’ve said if anyone asked him if he liked being a doctor. “I’m sorry for asking, but I don’t know.”

The priest said, “Excuse me? What do you mean?”

“It must be interesting to be a priest. A priest and a doctor are alike in ways.”

“We probably are,” the priest said. “However, I still don’t know what you mean.”

Mr. O’Brien had been a wealthy man but much of that money belonged to other people. Doctor Hazel wasn’t sure but he imagined that a great many favors had been asked by Mr. O’Brien’s wife to secure the casket and the priest. She must’ve thought she’d done everything of which God would’ve requested her to do, and that was why she’d stayed behind in New Jersey.

“What should a man like this expect?” Doctor Hazel mumbled to himself as he sat. “What was the prayer you said?”

“Excuse me?”

“The prayer that you said at the service?” Doctor Hazel swallowed, feeling that his head light. He didn’t want to say anything stupid. “I’m only talking aloud.”

“What?” The priest asked and then he stood with a funny shake. He stared down at his hands and then jerked awake. “Want a shot of whiskey?”

“No, thank you.”

“I’m getting myself one.”

The priest went to the bar wearing his coat and his hat. He drank a whiskey given to him by the bartender and then departed the bar. The priest stopped on the staircase to readjust his jacket then went on. His collar shielded his face from the windblow.

Doctor Hazel didn’t think the priest was going to come back, but he watched the window. He didn’t watch the window waiting on the priest, but there was little else to look because of how dim and murky the barroom was and how poor his eyes were from the many years of reading and studying required for him to become a doctor.

He stayed in the bar for far too long after he’d drunk the glass of beer, and it was the afternoon by the time he’d left. He hurried and his face felt frostbitten by the time he was back near his home. Coming up on it, his house looked no different than the others on the block. He’d worked very hard to become a doctor and it didn’t annoy him that the house was small because he supposed being a doctor was no different than any other job. There’d been many plans to do this or that, but everything had been settled in this way a long time ago.

“You smell of cigarettes,” Marie said as she came in. She was busying around the kitchen but she wasn’t doing anything.

“I had a cigarette,” he admitted. “Oh well.”

“Don’t be so loud,” she whispered. “Jonathan is studying upstairs.”

“It’s Saturday.”

“He’s writing a term paper.”

“It’s Saturday.”

“We can’t bother him until he’s finished. I went up to ask what he wished for lunch and he stormed at me, telling me not to bother him.” She stared at him. “The next time you smoke a cigarette, wash yourself before you come home.”

“It’s Saturday,” Doctor Hazel whispered and sat at the kitchen table.

“I’m going out later,” Essie said from the doorway. “Could I have some money?”

“No,” Doctor Hazel said and covered the folds of his eyes with his palms.

“I did all my homework already. I made sure to get it done.”

“Ask me in a little bit. I’m not in the mood to give out money.” He tried to smile at her. He would give her some money. He only didn’t want to yet.

“Your father is tired, so don’t ask him for anything,” Marie said.

His daughter stared at him for a little while, a dazed expression on her face, before she shrugged and left. She stomped down the hall and her door slammed.

“Essie tried very hard this morning to get everything done,” Marie said with a sigh. “The next time you have a cigarette, clean yourself up before you come home. That’s all I ask.”

“That’s all?”

“For the moment.” She laughed a little suddenly, so she covered her mouth. “What am I supposed to do in a house that smells like smoke? I’m not Mrs. Clean?”

“Cigarettes are alright occasionally. I should know, I’m a doctor after all.”

“Maybe they are and maybe they aren’t, but don’t smell like them.”

“They reduce stress.”

“Do they?”

“Probably.” Doctor Hazel winked at her. “What am I supposed to do after a funeral?”

“Don’t pretend like I’m asking you something unbelievable.”

Doctor Hazel propped his head. “I was the only one there, me and the priest.”

Marie was busying and not listening so closely. “You should’ve given Essie the money. She’s been working hard all week.”

“I’m still not sure why I went,” Doctor Hazel said. “I thought people would’ve gone.”

“You should’ve given Essie the money. It doesn’t matter what happened at the funeral, you don’t mean to your children.” She sighed. “Don’t go to funerals anymore.”

“I need to go to the funerals. It’s part of my job.”

“Not anymore, if it puts you in a bad mood.”

“I’m not in a bad mood. I’m in a thinking mood.”

“One more thing that you must work on.” She grinned. “No more thinking.”

Doctor Hazel shrugged. He’d only seen Mr. O’Brien a handful of time and they hadn’t gotten along. The nurses watched and aided Mr. O’Brien, for there were more consequential patients for him to worry on. Mr. O’Brien hadn’t wanted to be alive at the end.

“You shouldn’t go to funerals if they’re going to depress you,” Marie said. “I mean so.”

“No, I shouldn’t go to funerals. But I must.”

“You can’t go to funerals if you smoke cigarettes afterwards.”

“Alright.”

“I mean, don’t you think so? I’m not taking crazy pills, am I?”

Doctor Hazel put the cigarettes on the table and nudged them across until they were out of reach. Marie looked at them with a funny smile, a youthful smile he’d always liked. He held a cigarette up at her and kicked the chair out. Marie sat after a moment and took the cigarette. He was feeling so good, he crossed himself. She laughed and they heard a door slam from the other part of the house. He liked smoking more than anything, and there wasn’t anything better than when Marie had one with him. She always made him promise on Sunday evenings to quit tobacco and he would make the same old promise again, like always.

“I wonder what you’re thinking on,” she told him. “A penny for your thoughts?”

“I’m not thinking on anything.”

“You know that you shouldn’t keep anything from me.” She blew a cool stream of smoke. “Now, you’re miserable and I can’t help.” She smiled. “I don’t have pennies anyways.”

“I don’t keep anything from you,” Doctor Hazel said carefully. “There are only things I don’t like to say. Anyways,” he said, and stood suddenly. “Jonathan shouldn’t be upstairs writing a paper on a Saturday – he should be out with friends, like Essie.

“Essie is going with friends. But she doesn’t like to go if she doesn’t have money.”

“You interrupted me. You never let me finish. What I was going to say was that she was going to the movies. I was kidding – I’ll give her money. But Jonathan should be going out too.”

“Then go tell him.” She waited. “He’s writing the term paper.”

Doctor Hazel went out of the house to the back. He stood outside Jonathan’s window, looking up at the grey sky. Jonathan came out and stood nearby. His hair was stuck up and there were purple splotches around his eyes. That he was the best student in the school meant he was respected but not much liked. He said that his mother wanted him to stop working.

“Go get Essie and your mother and we’ll go to the movies,” Doctor Hazel said. “It’s a movie day. Wouldn’t that be fun?”

“Essie was looking for money. She was almost crying.”

“Go get her and we’ll go to the movies.”

“I have some more of my paper to write,” Jonathan said. “I’m only taking a break because Mom wanted me to see you.”

“You can work on your paper later.” Doctor Hazel turned to go back in.

“I wanted to finish it today. Movies are stupid.”

“Movies might be stupid, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t watch them.”

“Dad, my paper …”

Doctor Hazel took his son by the shoulder and walked him back in. “It can wait. I’ve decided we’re going to the movies. As a family. Get your coat.”

Hunter Prichard is a writer from Portland, Maine. Follow him on Twitter at @huntermprichard.