Second Chance
"What?"
"You have a choice. Go forward or go back. I'm giving you an option, but I don't really have the patience to wait for an answer. Make your decision."
Clyde didn't know who the figure was. A man for sure. He could tell from his build – tall and overbearing. But he stood out like a body of black ink against the piercing light behind him. When he turned away Clyde could tell. When he looked at Clyde he felt it. but when he spoke Clyde wasn't sure how he understood. The sounds bothered him, hurt his ears. but he knew what he was asking him. Demanding from him. Move on or go back.
"Go back to where?" Clyde asked. He felt tired, like a wave of exhaustion kept rolling over him, hardly giving him time to breath. But was he even breathing? He blinked back into a memory so fresh he hadn't realized it was a memory yet. He lay in rough white sheet, the bumpy worn mattress of a hospital bed supporting his feeble frame. All around him, not leaving a space in the room unoccupied, were his family, friends — people who loved him. The cancer was so unexpected. But he guessed it was for most.
"To life," said the dark figure.
"I..." Clyde mumbled, "I don't remember dying."
"Of course you don't." For a moment it seemed the figure was facing the other way, but Clyde found it continually difficult to tell. "Do you ever remember falling asleep? When you are dying your body's systems are failing, your mind going with it. How is anyone expected to stay aware when the shock and horror of it all is approaching so firmly nothing can convince it to slow its course, to give you a second chance, to leave you alone for just a few more minutes of peace with your family, your thoughts, your decisions?"
"Decisions?"
"Yes." The figure stepped forward and crouched next to Clyde. It made his skin crawl, but he couldn't back away. He hardly had the strength to move. Kneeling there, he almost felt it was not him supporting himself. It seemed he couldn't lie down if he wanted to.
"Look Clyde. You've lived a wonderful life. You worked hard, loved your family... You deserve a great reward. Something I expect you will be given liberally in your next home."
"Then why would I want to go back?"
"To do it again. Do it differently. Once you move on, you won't get a second chance. A chance to do it all wrong. A chance to experience everything you lived a lifetime denying."
It all seemed like a terrible idea — or that it should be, logically. But Clyde couldn't ignore the draw of it. He couldn't deny the small flame that flickered at the possibility.
"Are you the devil?" He asked after a moment.
"Lucifer?" The figure replied. "He wouldn't even know my name."
"Well, it seems like a terrible idea. Why live a lifetime of doing what's right just to go back and screw it all up. I'll go ahead and move on," Clyde told him.
The figure stood.
"But that is the beauty of it." The figure was smiling. Clyde knew it though he couldn't see any outward indication. It was in his voice. "There is no consequence. This second chance is free of charge. You will be able to do whatever you want. You will be judged according to how you lived your life up to this moment."
"Anything?" Clyde asked. "Good or Bad?"
"Is there such a thing?" The question hung in the white space between them, burning into Clyde's thoughts like a cold fire. He considered it, thought about all the suppressed desires, the opportunities he had ignored. He had pushed them to the back of his mind so that it became nothing more than a low hum, a song that he ignored until he almost couldn't hear it anymore. But now he could hear it. And he was being offered the opportunity to listen to the music as loud and as often as he wanted. Without consequence. Without remorse?
"And what about God?"
"What are God and the Devil except two opponents on different sides of a political battle? Make a choice Clyde. Think of it this way, God is a conservative and the Devil, liberal."
Clyde had always been a democrat.
"No consequences?"
"You are already judged."
"Send me back," he said. And this time, Clyde couldn't deny the smile the crept across his lips. There was something exciting happening. He felt like a kid stealing a piece of candy.
"You have two years," The figure paused. "See you soon."
Clyde didn't know what he was looking at. It was all there so suddenly, as if he had blinked during a scene change in a movie. On the counter in front of him lay a large turkey in a glass dish. It was half scavenged and the juice pooled around its base. Bits of meat floated in the broth. An electric carving knife vibrated in his hand while laughter filled the next room.
The place was instantly familiar. He knew when he stood though he never recalled having any particularly fond memories of this specific night. Thanksgiving, a little more than two years earlier. Shelly's parents had come to visit. He clicked the switch on the knife to off and it shook to a soft rumble before falling still in his hand.
He breathed in a few warm breaths, smelling the spices in the air and the sweet aroma of the baked turkey. A part of him, a large part, wanted to ask how this was possible. But the rest of him knew would not get an answer. And, as he considered, he realized he didn't care — not enough.
A clicking sound interrupted the porcelain silence of the kitchen. He looked to the floor where a small frail and shaking chihuahua stared up at him with eyes that would look more at home on a bug than on what someone might consider a household pet. The exchange only lasted a moment before the small creature yelped at Clyde. The sound reminded him of a chew toy he might offer to a bigger dog, and he chuckled at the thought before shoving the animal away with his foot. It slid ungracefully across the tiles before coming to a stop.
The rat-pup returned, undeterred, and this time Clyde prepared himself, pulling his foot back just a little further than before. He wasn't going to hurt it but at least he might be able to scare it.
Once the dog came close enough he kicked. He got it in the side, lifting it off the floor like nothing more than a soccer ball. As the dog rose it thrashed in the air, bared its fangs and bit hard, its teeth digging deep into the hem of Clyde's pants before catching the skin. He felt a tear on his ankle and shouted as the dog landed and flipped onto its back before hitting the wall, releasing a yelp of its own.
"Clyde!" Shelly said. He closed his eyes slowly. No consequences, huh? He knew he was in trouble. He thought back to that child stealing his first candy only to be caught by his mother. "What happened?" She asked, but her expression told him she knew exactly what happened and was only waiting to see if he'd tell the truth. He pointed at the dog with the carving knife.
"That thing is dangerous and shouldn't be here with kids running around," He said. He could feel a small trickle of blood running down his ankle and soaking into his sock.
"He just wants a treat," she responded, standing and scooping up the dog under one arm. "Your standing over an entire turkey, he's bound to give you a little extra attention. Besides, if you hurt my mother's dog she will kill you — and I'd have to help her."
"Oh," Clyde responded, turning back to the turkey and flipping the carving knife on again. Its buzz hummed softly in the air. "I was under the impression you were married to me and not your mother." He dug the knife into another piece of soft tissue, watching Shelly as she put the dog down, pulled a spoon out of the drawer, and walked to the open pantry. She removed a small jar of peanut butter, unscrewed the lid, and scooped a generous serving and put it to the dog's mouth. It licked it a few times before taking hold of the spoon and scampering a few feet away.
Clyde felt sick and reminded himself to find that spoon and throw it away. Dogs should not be treated as humans. Not when their best return on investment is crap on the rug and blood in your socks. Clyde shifted and felt the warm wet sock move against his skin. It was starting to stick.
Shelly gave him a pointed look before heading back to the dining room where the rest of the family was sharing stories and exchanging polite jokes. Her family, mostly. Clyde remembered that was why he had spent most of his time in the kitchen this year.
"Just don't kick Mer," She said just before disappearing through the doorway.
"What a stupid name," Clyde whispered to himself. He lied to himself about not wanting to hurt the dog. What he really wanted to do rang in the song at the back of his mind.
The flicking sound of the rodent's small tongue was quiet, but Clyde could still hear it over the electric carving knife. He tried to ignore it, but he knew he couldn't. Oddly, he didn't remember being this angry last time. Or had he just forgotten? Either way, he felt more like boring the carving knife into his own head before the turkey.
He looked up and saw the jar of peanut butter. Its lid hadn't been twisted completely closed.
Then again, why did it have to be me? He thought.
Clyde walked to the jar, pulled off the cap, and looked in at the smooth surface marred by the mark of a single spoon. He glanced down at the dog, still licking desperately at the silverware and making it scrape against the floor's tiling with every taste. Most of the peanut butter was already gone anyway.
"No consequences, right?" Clyde said to Mer. The dog didn't even look up.
It didn't take long. Clyde sat comfortably at the end of the dining table, a glass of champagne in one hand and the arm of his chair gripped in the other. He looked at the smiling faces around him and realized he really didn't like them. He smiled back anyway. They couldn't tell the difference.
A loud pop shot through the house, like a pellet gun firing. Everyone fell silent.
"What was that?" Aunt Sam said, "did something break?"
A few guests began searching for the source of the noise but the majority stayed in their seats, waiting. One cracked a joke about Uncle Ted opening another bottle of champagne.
They found Mer faster than Clyde thought they would, but he didn't mind. Eric, his cousin, walked back into the room with a limp chihuahua held carefully in his arms. Black char covered his limp tongue and part of the muzzle. A gasp escaped Carla, Shelly's Mom, as she struggled to get up from her seat. The tears were already starting to fall from her cataract clouded eyes.
Clyde shook his head. She didn't even know if the dog was dead. She looked stupid crying over the rat. Besides, Mer looked better this way. More peaceful — quiet. He liked quiet.
"What happened?" Carla shrieked, taking Mer into her arms and holding him tightly to her chest. Tears sprinkled the dog's frail body.
"He was lying next to an outlet," Eric said carefully, putting his arm around the woman's shoulder in a pointless attempt to comfort her. She was worse than her Dog. Clyde wondered how much she liked peanut butter.
"I think he may have licked it."
Carla sobbed again and buried her face in the Chihuahua's hair. It didn't move, not even a flinch.
Clyde shrugged, taking another sip of his champagne. Guess it was dead after all.
"Why would he do that?" This time, it was Shelly's voice breaking through her mother's wailing and the growing hum of comforting words from the other guests. Eric hesitated, seemingly unsure whether he should say anything. He did.
"There was a small amount of what looked like peanut butter on it."
Shelly gasped, clapping her hand to her mouth and turning to look at Clyde.
He didn't look back. His champagne was so good and she was interrupting the experience. He could still feel the crusty part on his sock where his blood had dried. Ignoring Shelly wouldn't work for long. He knew that. Still, he didn't want to ruin the moment. So he looked ahead, right at the dead dog in his mother-in-law's frail arms, and continued to enjoy his drink.
No consequences, he toasted silently to himself. He finished the glass.
