The days passed and Michael Abateo felt the futility of each day without Maria slipping through his fingers. He had learned to hide his feelings from those around him. It wasn’t much progress but he told himself at least he wasn’t burdening his family and friends. On the surface, he functioned as everyone else. Only he knew of the nightly despair when he lay in bed staring at his ceiling feeling like life was a game he really no longer had the stomach for. Because of the long endless nights, he’d taken to having a long afternoon nap. His neighbour JT teased him over this habit. Michael had found after months of not sleeping he had begun to dread nightfall but perversely the afternoon nap called out to his soul.
He did not want to wake up from his nap and when people phoned him during this precious period he resented it deeply. His doctor had offered him sleeping tablets but Michael had bad memories of his mother using such tablets. He felt it had given her a good night’s sleep at the expense of mental clarity. She would mix up people’s names, forget what had happened, lose her handbag and even her way home. It might not have been linked to his mother’s lifetime habit of two paracodol Tablets every night but Michael had been flabbergasted to discover how many of his own contemporaries were also heavily medicated.
His collapse after his wife’s death had triggered a painful honesty from both friends and neighbours. And he reckoned most people created a façade to hide the pains they endure. This veneer of normality was sustained at all costs. Michael had begun to think of it as a shell. Most people were like snails with a hard exterior shell and a soft centre. Grief had somehow turned Michael into an exposed slug with no shell of protection at all. Everyone noticed his vulnerable state. Suddenly, others opened up to him about their own depression, the Valium, their sleeping tablets, their unfaithful spouses, chronic illnesses and the people who had stolen their inheritance. This last point about wills and inheritance had been so toxic in nature Michael had even found himself watchful of his own children for a while. Then he realised that in their case he had to control them vigilantly to ensure he paid his own bills because they were both so anxious to support him financially. An independent person all his life he was not about to except handouts from his own children! Another side of him, however, was so relieved that they seem completely devoid of any desire of property or belongings. There seemed to be an epidemic of materialism and he was delighted to discover his son and daughter both seemed immune. Of course, his wife had probably ingrained that habit in them. They often joked that she could give away her own coat in a storm. She was generous by nature and always thinking of others, visiting hospital patients, picking up groceries for elderly neighbours. The children soaked up her kindliness as their birthright and Michael loved to see how clearly, they reflected her habits even today.
He and his wife had repeatedly disagreed on only one thing during their long marriage and that was politics. They both supported opposing parties and would have long intricate debates were each would try to convince the other of the truth of their side. Neither would give up. Michael sometimes felt that these intense discussions with his wife helped to improve his arguments when sitting chatting in the café with his friends. Having been exposed to her arguments and points he was ready and armed to counter similar arguments from others. Although they disagreed on politics they had enjoyed the many heated discussions. Michael was proud that she had a good brain and could make rational pertinent points in a debate. He needed to keep himself on his toes to even meet her halfway. But since she had gone he had no stomach for politics of any sort. In fact, his son and daughter had been arguing about some political happenings at his table on a Sunday when Michael had silently lowered his forehead to the table and wept. Michael felt his tears were a slug trail he left in his wake over which he had no control. They had been devastated by his sudden grief and he could not explain, for the life of him, why all things political suddenly made him want to weep as if his heart was broken.
There were other changes he’d noticed. Fiestas to him had become noisy firework events that left streets full of tiny pieces of paper impossible to clean away. Since he had been cleaning the house in Valetta he hated the endless slips of paper which blew behind gates, got into drains and even under doors. The endless fireworks, which in his youth had excited him, now caused sudden chest pains that he struggled to hide from his family. Their unexpected bangs made Michael put his hand over his chest to still his fluttering, panicked heart.
His father had been a hunter but now Michael could not understand those who blasted the birds from the sky. He did not share their enthusiasm for killing or their love of guns. His father had come through World War II and had seen what guns could do. He had often taken Michael to the military graves above Pembroke and read out the names and ages of those youngsters who had paid with their lives. Once he’d found the name Archer, 24 years old on a grave and it mentioned that he was an only child. His father had pointed out that instead of that family having their only son marry and have family and then grandchildren all those dreams and hopes had died with Archer’s death. “Can you imagine? He’d asked Michael, “Can you feel the loss, the pain? “A whole family line ended here in this grave!” “That’s all that’s left.” His father’s voice had filled with emotion at all those lost lives stolen by a war. Only now, a grandfather himself did Michael understand some of his father’s emotions. Before they left the graves, his father would always bow his head in respect in silence making Michael do the same. Guns were not just for hunting, his father had said, they also took human lives. His father had lectured frequently him on how to clean the barrels of guns, put on the safety catch and on the savageness of war. The birds his father shot were always eaten and never wasted. It used to be Michael’s job to clean the birds and he had complained long and hard that was too much work for too little meat. His father didn’t like people keeping birds in cages either. He told Michael that humans couldn’t fly so they imprisoned those who could out of sheer jealousy.
Michael liked to go to the hardware shop. The proprietor Joe was a sharp-tongued character who showed Michael absolutely no sympathy. For some strange reason, it made Michael feel more normal. Joe’s attitude was if you have a pipe to cut, join or seal etc he'd sell you something but if you want to chat, get sympathy or gossip you were “In the wrong shop!” This phrase was frequently shouted at customers. The entrance to the shop was a tiny corridor almost blocked by ladders, fans, ropes and gadgets. There was usually a queue because although Joe had no people skills he was an excellent handyman and could usually fix anything. That morning Joe had waited in line mop bucket in hand. When his turn came Joe had put a bucket on the counter and said,
"There’s a hole in my bucket!”
Joe scratched the back of his head and examined the bucket, and pointed out,
“You’re not lucky with buckets, are you? The last one you brought in, the wheels broke off, didn’t they?
Michael nodded and explained,
“I don’t know why they keep buying me these fancy new buckets with wheels or holes for my mop. What happened to just plain old normal mop buckets?
Joe groaned,
“I remember you kept complaining the last time that the wheelie mop bucket kept tipping over. Now you’re missing the lid that should cover this hole here at the bottom.”
He looked at Michael and accused him,
“It would’ve been in the box it came in. You probably threw it away by accident, didn’t you?”
Michael admitted, “I might have, by accident”.
Joe examined the bucket and then took a swig of a small bottle of orange soda on his counter. Michael asked,
“Do you have a stopper, cork or something that would fit the hole?”
Joe snorted angrily,
“No!”
And then he carefully screwed the lid of his orange bottle over the hole. It was a tight fit but it snuggly covered the tiny exit. One more twist and the job was done.
Joe, held out the mop bucket to Michael and said,
“Go and sin no more!”
Michael asked tentatively,
“How much do I owe you?”
Joe, glared into Michael’s eyes and said,
“200 euros! It is a unique custom-made fixture, the only one in the shop”. Then to Michael’s surprise Joe had started singing that old rhythm,
“There’s a hole in my bucket dear Lisa, dear Lisa”.
Michael stood unsure and Joe shouted,
“Go on, I’ve better things to do than waste time on you and your buckets. I won’t charge you a cent if you get out now!”
Michael left and the man’s annoying brusque temperament perversely felt like a breath of fresh air.
Michael used buses now. He’d found his coordination had begun to fail when driving. It was hard to let the car go but harder still to be driving long past the point of safety. When he looked at his grandchildren and their young friends he knew he'd made the right decision. They were far too precious to risk on roads with him behind the wheel. Buses were his main means of transport and he liked the company and the noise. People always gave him a seat for which he was deeply grateful. Being old has some advantages! He needed a seat because of the jerky driving of bus drivers as they raced, swerved and stood on brakes unexpectedly. He had been on one journey where the tourists were packed in like sardines and someone was obviously leaning on a buzzer (the stop button) by accident. But, the bus driver, Hugh was sure someone was deliberately “fucking with me” as he put it. He shouted abuse over his shoulder at the busload of puzzled and surprised tourists. He cursed the rest of the way to San Gwan in Maltese and Michael sighed because he understood him all too well. The bus driver’s father was a regular at Michael’s café in the village. The old father had told Michael in private about his grandson’s drug addiction and the heartache it had brought everyone especially Hugh. Michael knew that the driver’s anger was not really directed at tourists but at those who made money out of his son’s addiction. The boy regularly stole from family members had drifted into petty theft and then drug dealing. This had resulted in him being in and out of prison or rehab. Others had urged Hugh to cut off his son and free himself of the constant heartache and expense. But as Hugh had told a relative, “I feel my son is in a deep dark well and there is only a long thin thread from him to me. Everyone is urging me to cut this last link but I cling to this thread. I cannot get him out of this hellhole but I will hold onto this thread of love. ”
As Michael exited the bus he told Hugh to give his greetings to his father and smiled at him. Instantly Hugh’s scowl had lifted and he smiled back at Michael recognizing him. He told Michael,
“Call and see us, will you? The house is too quiet these days!”
“I will,” said Michael, “and tell Evelien she is still the most beautiful girl in the south of the island!”
Hugh laughed and queried,
“Not the most beautiful in Malta?”
“No”, Michael responded with a chuckle, “that would be my Maria.”
It felt good to say his wife’s name again with laughter and pride.
Hugh nodded and agreed,
“Inside and out Michael, she was beautiful!”
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Michael walked out the door and waved over his shoulder at Hugh. He would remember this moment it felt like the first genuine feeling of happiness he had felt since losing Maria.
The two links below give older stories about Michael Abateo
