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  [THE PATH TO APIDAE]

  A NOVEL BY

  T.P. JOHNSON

  Copyright © 2016 Thomas P. Johnson – Illinois (United States)

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in retrieval systems or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author. Published in the United States by 7 Ones Press

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2015905285

  Johnson, Thomas

  Thirty-Nine Sixty

  Print ISBN 978-0-692-26466-9

  eBook ISBN 978-0-692-34522-1

  Author Email: [email protected]

  Author Website: www.tpjohnson.com

  General Editor: Randal C. Powers

  Contributions by: Wendy Johnson, Edmundo Martinez

  Design by: Jesus Cardenas

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events, is purely coincidental. The author uses real locations and places in this novel in a purely fictional manner.

  To Wendy, my wife, and to my children:

  Rachel, Nicole, Lauren, Sean, Joseph, and Patrick,

  for giving me love and hope when I needed it most.

  CHAPTER ONE

  BROKEN ANGEL

  * * *

  Aedan O’Beirne clutched a pink heart shape note as he walked into the kitchen. He searched the room, his eyes settled on Ciara, his wife, placing a baking sheet into the oven. He sneered as he marched toward her—his sweaty bare feet made slapping sounds on the cold ceramic tile.

  Why's she awake and why's she baking at this time of the day?

  His left foot came upon a vintage glass Christmas tree ornament lying on the tile floor. He bore down on the tiny angel. The decorative piece shattered; glass shards carved painful cuts into his left arch. Pain consumed him as he took the weight off his foot. A slight scream escaped his mouth.

  Ciara looked at him. “Are you hurt?”

  “That's a stupid question.” He shook his head.

  “Dad, you broke the angel.” Five-year-old Connor cried; tears flowed down his cheeks. “Mom, Dad smashed the angel. Look, Mom.”

  Aedan grasped the pink note from the floor; he folded it and shoved it into his pocket. He hopped on his right foot to a chair. He tripped and tumbled toward the floor; his head struck the island counter. He dropped in a painful heap onto the ceramic tile. A baking sheet, filled with fresh baked Christmas cookies, fell from the countertop, crashing onto his back; the cookies jettisoned across the room. The heat from the tray penetrated his t-shirt, causing a burn to his skin. He rotated away; the cookie sheet crashed to the floor. He grimaced as pain flooded his senses.

  Ciara slammed the oven door shut. She hurried to help him.

  He thrust his right hand toward her in a stop motion. “Stay away from me.” Pain consumed him as he looked at her. “Why are you up? Why are you baking? Connor should be sleeping. I enjoy having the house to myself.” He glared at her—his eyes narrowed. He grunted through the pain.

  She never understands I have a life and that I have needs of my own.

  Ciara ignored his rant. “Are you okay?”

  Connor cried in the distance, as he retrieved pieces of the crushed angel ornament from the floor. “Dad, why’d you smash it?”

  “You know that I didn’t break the stupid ornament on purpose.” He sat in a nearby chair. Blood ran down his nose and into his mouth. He coughed, the blood and spittle mixture flew into the air, landing with a splat on Ciara’s Christmas pajama pants—it created a nasty stain.

  “Oh, gross, Dad.”

  “Aedan,” she shouted. “What’s wrong with you?” She handed him a clean towel to help stem the bleeding from his forehead. “You might have to go to the hospital.”

  He shook his head in defiance. “No chance, I’m going to work today, soon.” His foot continued to bleed. His wounds caused him to spread blood across a five-foot-square section of floor close to the island. His cuts transformed the kitchen into an injury and blood splatter zone. He sneered as he took calming breaths.

  This can’t be happening to me—not today.

  “You should clean up this mess. I’m not going to do it,” Ciara said.

  He frowned. “I don’t have time; I have to get to work.”

  “Why are you going to work today?”

  He stared at her. “Do I have to remind you, again? You know why. This will not be a good day for me or for the O’Beirne family.”

  “You worry too much. The firm will not get rid of you.”

  Irritation caused his jaw to clench. “Whatever, you have no idea what you’re talking about,” he shouted. He glared at her. “I can’t take a chance that you’re right. Do you know how hard it is for guys like me to find a job in this economy?”

  “They won’t fire you. Stop worrying,” she said.

  “Ciara, I have to keep my job. I don’t want to go to work today, but I have to protect my job.”

  Connor cried as he climbed onto the counter stool while clutching pieces from the broken angel. He placed them in an empty bowl on the countertop. He scrambled down from the stool; he repeated his efforts to fill the bowl with the smashed ornament.

  Aedan raised his eyebrows. “Connor, go to bed.”

  The boy’s eyes flooded with tears. He ran into the living room seeking solace from the bright Christmas tree lights.

  Ciara’s eyes bore down on Aedan. “Stop yelling at Connor; he didn’t do anything to you. If you’re working today, go now.”

  “I have to take care of these wounds.” He wrapped the towel around his foot while looking at her. “You know I hate Christmas. Leave me alone today.”

  “Why are you acting like this?” Ciara said. “Maybe I should stay at my parent’s house for Christmas. You‘d probably love it if I did that.”

  He glared at her. “I told you the last time you stayed at your parents that I would not easily tolerate you doing it again.” He groaned from the pain emanating from his wounds. “Are you trying to start a war with me?”

  What does she want from me? She knows I never wanted kids.

  “I don’t understand—what’s your problem?” she said.

  He reached into his pocket and extracted the note. He raised the pink heart to her. “I read your message. You’re pregnant again—how?”

  Ciara turned away from him. She removed a fresh batch of cookies from the oven. She laughed.

  “Why are you laughing?” He took in fast and shallow breaths.

  “Oh please, do you need me to tell you how I became pregnant? You were there, remember?”

  Silence filled the room as he struggled to find the perfect response to put her in her place. “Well, I blame this newest pregnancy on you.”

  “Okay genius, how do you figure it’s my fault?”

  He realized that his response had failed. “I do blame this mess on you.”

  “Mess? Now you’re calling our second child a mess?”

  “Stop that, you know what I meant,” he said. “You know I don’t want another baby. How many times do I need to tell you? Are you trying to ruin our marriage?”

  She glared at him. “You think another baby will ruin our marriage—”

  “Yes, you heard me. And how are we going to support another baby if I lose my job?”

  She never understands. What’s wrong with her?

  Connor returned to the kitchen. “Mom?”

  “Yes?”

  “Will Santa still come to our house?”

  “Connor, go to bed,” Aedan shouted.

  “Leave him alone,” s
he said. She turned to Connor. “Yes, Santa will stop at our house. But Christmas means more to us than gifts and Santa.”

  “I know Mom. But Dad hates Christmas, and I think he hates me too. Maybe Santa won’t come to our house this year.” Tears covered his face.

  “Look at what you’ve done.” She glowered.

  “Don’t say that—you know I’m not trying to hurt him,” Aedan said.

  “What’s your problem? We’re going to have a second child; the news is an excellent Christmas gift.” Her face softened as she focused her eyes on him in an effort to pierce his outer mental armor.

  Since the day they met, her eyes had a near hypnotic impact on him. He loved her so much, he could never say no to her when she focused her eyes on him. He began to fold under her gaze. He shook his head in defiance, rejecting her effort to lessen his foul mood. He refused to release his anger; he refortified his mental defenses. “I’m angry because you’re pregnant again, and I’m worried about my job. Your eyes won’t work this time, so take those green things off me.” He walked away in a childish pout, stopping to look back at her. “Why do you want more children? One kid is enough.” He strode to the back stairs and dragged his wounded thin frame toward the second floor before she could respond.

  After limping down the back stairwell, Aedan surveyed the kitchen from the third step. Connor sat on a counter stool, giggling as he pushed cereal pieces onto the floor; with each one dropped, he laughed with delight. Ciara continued working with a bowl of cookie dough.

  He pulled a business card from his right pants pocket. A friend, an attorney, specializing in family law, had given him a batch of the cards after he moved to an office in Chicago’s Loop. He returned the card to his pocket.

  He walked to the hallway leading to the front door, his mechanical movements revealed his anger as he attempted to understand why Ciara wanted more children. He frowned as he moved silently away from the kitchen.

  She saw him creeping away. She walked to the hallway. “We have a three o’clock consult with the pediatrician.”

  He glared at her—all attempts at civility vanished. “Oh, come on. You know it’s impossible for me to make an appointment with the doctor today.”

  “We have to be careful this time. I want you there. Please, be there.”

  He gazed at her. He sighed.

  She doesn’t get that I deserve a life of my own. I’m sick of this.

  He ran his right hand into his pants pocket; he fidgeted with his friend’s business card as he set his eyes in a tight, angry stare. He ignored her pleas. “The meeting is today.” His eyes narrowed. “You do remember the meeting?”

  “How could I forget? You’ve reminded me fifty times over the last day.”

  “Then, you know I can’t make it to the consult,” he said.

  Her face reddened. “Your meeting is this morning. The consult is at three o’clock this afternoon.” She forced a smile. “Please, I want you to come to the appointment; it’s important to me. I am worried about the baby.”

  He sighed. “Whatever—you don’t need me there.”

  “I want you there. I’m worried.”

  He sneered at her. He marveled at her ability to ignore his words as if his speaking never reached her ears.

  While crossing her arms tight around her chest, she stared at him. “You should take your car to work, don’t take the train. I called Frank and told him he should go alone. We have the last appointment available before Christmas.”

  “Do you ever listen to what I say?” He watched her as she returned to the large bowl with cookie dough mixture inside. She tossed eggshells into the trash with exaggerated intensity.

  He frowned when he saw tears flowing down her cheeks.

  “Why can’t you be the person you used to be?” Ciara said. Her expression betrayed her sadness. “You used to be so nice—every day I ached to have you home with me. I want that person back.”

  His expression betrayed his surprise. “I’m still the same person.” He yanked his hand from his pocket. He looked at Connor. “You know I love you both.” His voice trembled. “How could you doubt that I love you?” He groaned. “Don’t say that I’m not the same. You know that I’m having trouble now—“

  Ciara looked at Connor and back to Aedan. “No, you’re not the same, not even close. I want the real you back—the man I married.”

  His head sank in a sign of pain and guilt. “I’m the same person. But time…time is always stalking me…,” his voice faded, and his eyes drifted away. He appeared as if he had wandered far from there.

  Having seen it many times, Ciara understood his blank stare. She clapped her hands several times. The obnoxious sound echoed through the kitchen. “Aedan…Aedan listen to me. Everyone has to live with time.”

  He broke free from his mental drift. He glared at her. “You know what I mean. Time…well…time…my entire life…you know—”

  She softened her expression. With compassion, she said, “Yes, I do know. I have known since well before we were married. But your trouble with time has nothing to do with my pregnancy.”

  “You know that I love you and Connor.”

  “Do you?”

  “How could you ask that? How can you doubt how much I love you?” He looked into her eyes, pleading for her to understand, and hoping she would offer him patience. He found nothing in her stare.

  She crossed her arms. “Whatever--you should leave. You’re going to miss your precious meeting. And, don’t forget about the three o’clock.”

  He looked away from her, his expression set in an angry scowl. He tried to grasp why she did not recognize that he had needs and wants of his own.

  I love them both. Why doesn’t she understand that I love them both?

  He refused to look at her as he walked to the rear. He slammed the door closed as he headed to their detached garage.

  CHAPTER TWO

  HAIL OF A TIME

  * * *

  They lived in Oak Valley, Illinois, a well-established suburb forty miles northwest from Chicago. Aedan wanted to live in the Loop as they had in the first years of their marriage. Ciara insisted they raise their children in the suburbs. He enjoyed the city with its sports, excellent restaurants, upscale bars, and illustrious museums while she preferred a simpler life in suburbia.

  Aedan stormed into the detached garage through a side door.

  She took everything away from us. Now’s she’s pregnant again. How many kids does she want? And how can she doubt how much I love her? I’m in a rough spot now—that doesn’t mean I don’t love them. What’s wrong with her?

  He flung the garage door open; it sped toward the overhead stops, the force caused it to bounce against the rubber blocks at the end of the tracks. He refused to release his foul mood as he entered his car, a black eighteen-year-old sedan with more than two-hundred and fifty-thousand miles on the odometer. The black outer body had such an extensive layer of rust, his neighbors refused to accept its original color. They had nicknamed the car, Crumbly, an accurate name to describe its horrible condition.

  Ciara begged him to buy a new car. He refused. He intended to drive the car until it reached three-hundred thousand miles on the odometer. Eking out the miles and saving money had become a mission.

  Why should I buy a new car with number two on the way?

  He shoved the manual transmission into reverse.

  I’ll let her close the garage door; serves her right.

  As he moved toward the street, his friend and neighbor, Frank Ausio, approached, causing him to slam on the brakes.

  “Hey bonehead, good luck taking Crumbly downtown.”

  “Get out of my way, Frank,” Aedan shouted. “I have to get to work.”

  “Hey, what crawled up your keister?”

  “Shut up.” He pushed the gas pedal, sending the car backward in a rush.

  Frank leaped away to avoid having his right foot run over. “Hey, what’s your problem?”

  He shoved the trans
mission into first gear.

  What an idiot, can’t he tell I’m not in the mood for small talk?

  Aedan sped away.

  He stared at a massive digital clock resting on concrete posts one-hundred feet from the interstate entrance. He hated time. He wanted to rip down that clock. The incessant ticking and ticking followed him everywhere.

  The drumbeat of time had never ceased haunting him since the day he attended a wake and funeral for his grandfather, at four years old. He loved his Grandpapa, he thought of him as a second father; his death came as a shock, a profound emotional loss for him.

  While attending the wake during the Christmas season, his mother had forced him to view the body in the casket. As he had knelt before the coffin with her, for what seemed to him an eternity, he had heard the ticking sound emanating from the watch wrapped around his Grandpapa’s wrist. Loud, long, slow seconds had ticked by. For thirty minutes, his mother had forced him to kneel with her. Those ticking sounds had come to signify death for him. He hated time; he hated clocks.

  After that, he had despised waiting for Santa to arrive every Christmas Eve. Lying in bed, pretending to sleep, he had waited while his parents had checked on him for the night. He would tuck himself well inside his blankets, counting the minutes, sometimes counting the seconds. Sounds of Santa working downstairs around their Christmas tree had come to him twice, once as a five-year-old and again at ten. His parents had never learned of his troubles, he did not have the heart to tell them.

  Even as an adult, clicking sounds, of any kind, often brought him racing back to his childhood—to that fateful day during which seconds clicked by similar to a slow swinging hammer slamming into a steel table. His mind often filled with the haunting sounds of click, click, boom and boom. He regularly found himself in a full sweat after falling into a realm filled with the ticking and clicking sounds made by the infamous wristwatch.