The Death, Life and Suicide of Tommy Crouch by Tarek Donohue - 1. The Story

The old lecture hall filled slowly with the curious. Some knew the book, or had seen interviews on T.V.; some just liked to get out of an evening, so here they were. Catch-as-catch-can.

On the platform before them were a single floor lamp and chair. To the right of the chair was a small table. It was octagonal in shape, and held a book and a glass of amber liquid.

The last of the stragglers came in and settled in the worn seats.

Onto the stage strode a rather round, scholarly-looking man in a tweed jacket. “Good evening and thank you for coming to Chesterton University’s Meet the Author Evening.” The MC bowed as deeply as his belly would allow. “Tonight, we have the author of the new best-seller, The Death, Life and Suicide of Tommy Crouch, Tarek Donohue. Let’s welcome him.”

As he walked out to the polite applause, Tarek was aware of the eyes on him. Being fairly sure his black hair was in place and with his goatee freshly trimmed, he smiled at the mid-sized audience. He shook hands with the MC, and gave a little wave to the waiting public. He felt nervous, never having done anything like this before.

Rather than sitting, he remained on his feet. He wore a wireless mic.

“Where to start, eh?” He took a small sip from the glass.

“The beginning is usually good,” a voice from the audience responded.

Grinning, the writer agreed. “When I was twenty-seven, I met Tommy Crouch.”

 

_____

                                                     

I’d gone to the park that day wanting to sketch the fountain. It was old and ornate. Good practice for me to get the perspective, and the light and shadow. I was halfway through when he sat near me.

He was a sweet-looking boy with a soft voice. “Can I look?”

I smiled at him and handed over my sketch pad. He was quiet for several minutes as he examined what I’d wrought.

“So … um … what do you think?”

“It’s very good.” He seemed uncomfortable talking.

“Thanks.” I put the sketch pad on my thighs. “I’m Tarek.”

His gray eyes regarded me. “Tommy.”

Tommy was slim, maybe skinny. I could cut myself on his elbows, I think. There was a food truck not far from the fountain. “Listen, I’m gonna grab a bite over there. Let me get you something.”

Again, he gazed at me, he licked his lips, but shook his head no. He got to his feet. “Got somewhere to be. Bye, Tarek.”

I called after him, but he didn’t turn back.

Every Sunday for a month I returned to the park, but he never showed. I gave up after that, assuming our encounter had meant nothing to him.

One weekend in early December, I went downtown to do some Christmas shopping. That year, I think the only one, I had decided to be proactive. It was cold and snowing, and the homeless sat together on the grates, keeping warm. It was sad to see, but I knew giving them money wasn’t the way. I decided then to double my charitable contributions that year.

As I walked, I noticed one particular waif. He sat with a cup and a sign: Please give. That was all it said. As I closed the gap between us I could tell this was not a child. He was very thin, the face gaunt and haunted. I stopped with a dollar coin in my hand. I dropped it into the cup. I couldn’t look away.

“Tommy?”

Glassy eyes looked up at me. “Hey, for ten I’ll blow you. I’m good.”

“I’ve no doubt.” I knelt beside him. “Don’t you have a place to go?”

People walked around us as I waited for a reply.

“I know you.”

“Yes, I’m Tarek. We met in the park.”

“The picture.” Tommy began to cough, deep from inside. The cough was productive; he spat into the snow beside him. “Sorry.”

“Yes, the picture, that’s it. You’re ill. Look, please come with me. I have lots of room. Stay until you’re well.”

“Stay? With you?” He stared, his dark eyes taking on a manic glint, and then shook his head. “You just want my stuff.”

“I don’t. I have my own stuff, Tommy. Please come with me.”

“Truth? You don’t want it?”

I spoke softly to him, my heart full of pity for this boy-man. “No, I really don’t. It’s yours. I have plenty of my own stuff. Please come home with me. You can have a warm bath; a soft bed all to yourself.”

As I uttered these words, I wondered what I was thinking. I didn’t know this person, yet … something compelled me.

He gazed up into my eyes, the mania gone now, replaced with exhaustion and relief. “Bath?”

“Yes, a bath. A long one, if you want.”

Tears came now, and I wanted to look away. I wanted to not see the hurt in this boy’s eyes. Then I dragged an old tissue from my pocket and wiped my own when he asked me, “Food?”

 

_____

 

Several months went by and Tommy was much better. Still too thin but he ate quite well. He’d taken up writing, something he said he’d always enjoyed. He wrote mostly poetry. He cooked, cleaned, and shopped for us, as I supported him.

One Saturday morning we sat having pancakes together. I’d suggested taking a walk in the spring weather to see the cherry blossoms in High Park.

“I’d like that, Tarek, but there’s something I’d like to do first.”

I chewed the fresh pancakes topped with his homemade blueberry syrup. “What’s that?”

“I’d like you to take me to bed.”

I coughed and looked at him. His deep gray eyes were serious. “Tommy, I didn’t … you don’t have to do ….”

“I know. I love you, Tarek. You love me too. I just want you to touch me.”

I reached for his hand. I stared at it, and then met his unflinching eyes. I released his hand and used my napkin before leaning over to kiss him softly. Then I stood and we went to my bedroom hand-in-hand. I kissed him in the doorway to be sure. He closed the door behind us.

 

Our lovemaking was sweet and slow. He clung to me, whispering, “Tarek, Tarek, Tarek” over and over again.

Later he lay in my arms and I knew he was crying, so I asked him why.

“Because I died today here in your arms and was reborn.” He smiled at me, his eyes happier than I’d ever seen them. “Today my life started.”

 

Life began for us both that day. We became partners in all things. I sketched and painted; he wrote.

I held my first exhibition. For many reasons it should not have been as successful as it was. My work sold. Demand for more was high, and so I painted and drew.

We moved into a little house outside of the city. It was our English cottage, overgrown with ivy and climbing roses, and it was the stuff of paintings and poems. Both of us used it often as inspiration.

If Tommy was jealous of my success, he never said, he never let on. His poetry was beautiful, but being a poet is hard.

People fear it, not understanding it is food for the soul. Poetry is the fine wine of words and it should be laboured over and savoured. Tommy, however, didn’t believe it should be so serious or Shakespearian all of the time. Often though he had a little something to say, even when he was enjoying himself. Like this piece he wrote for our garden:

 

snapdragons nip and tiger lilies growl

while roses grow thorns to protect

poppies blow and bow in the languor

invited by the torridness of summer

 

insects float by or buzz with determination

in our garden overgrown with neglect

but Mother does not want or need

the scratching of human ingenuity

 

When he finally decided to put together a collection of his works, he asked me if I would do some illustrations for it. Of course, I agreed. That little book is his only published work, beyond what I have included in my book.

 

_____

 

The MC stood and applauded, causing the audience to join in. “Lovely, thank you. Let’s just take a short break. There is tea and coffee available in the vestibule. Mr. Donohue will be out there, with copies of his book and Tommy’s also. Both are on sale.”

Tarek removed the mic and set it down on the table before heading to his table of books.

He settled in the chair and smiled at a couple who picked up Tommy’s collection of poems. He opened a bottle of cold water and sipped.

The woman turned the pages. “This is a wonderful little book.” She smiled. “I’m enjoying your talk, Mr. Donohue; you and Tommy seemed so happy.”

“We were, very much so. I miss him every day.”

“I’m sorry … I didn’t mean ….”

He raised his hands, palms forward. “No, no please. Tommy has been gone for two years. These little talks … I decided to do them in his memory. He loved people. He always said he’d love to give little talks to small groups of like-minded people. That’s why I’m doing this series.”

“I’d love to buy this. Would you sign it?”

Tarek picked up his pen and signed after learning the woman’s name was Maria. “Thank you. I hope it brings some joy.”

“It will. Do you think you’ll put together another collection of his poetry?”

Tarek nodded. “I’ve been working on one. People do seem to be drawn to his work.”

Maria handed over the payment. “I love the pen and ink sketches in here.”

“Thank you. He asked for them. He said he didn’t want illustrations in colour, he wanted you to fill in your own.”

Maria smiled. “I like that. Thanks again for this.”

Tarek nodded and continued his sales, until the end of the intermission.

Returning to the hall, Tarek mounted the few steps with trepidation building in his heart. He put the mic back on and turned to face the audience. “Thank you for your generosity. Just so you’re aware, the money raised from this tour and sales goes to Tommy’s Fund, the charity in his name. That’s one hundred percent of it. Thank you.”

An audience member called out. “What’s the charity do?”

“Oh, thank you for asking. It’s to help people who have no access to therapy to get some. Tommy suffered from depression and lived on the street for some years.”

The MC climbed onto the stage. “Thank you, folks. Let’s let Mr. Donohue continue his talk; I believe there will be a question period following for anyone who is interested.”

Tarek smiled at the announcer, who bowed slightly and walked away. Turning to his audience Tarek said, “Now, where was I? Oh, yes ….”

 

_____

 

We were happy. Tommy’s book sold fairly well and so did my paintings. I was preparing for a show in a mid-sized gallery uptown. I’d asked Tommy to write a few poems I could frame and put with some of the paintings.

These morphed in to the Poems and Paintings series of works. They are my favourites, as they were a joint project of ours.

The gallery was unsure of these, and insisted we display them in a small corner. We did. People discovered them anyway. They sold, and copies of them still do.

Creating them was a happy time for us both.

A couple of years passed quietly with both of us working. Tommy grew tired of being home and took a part time job as a waiter in a nearby Italian Bistro. He enjoyed it, as he’d always been fond of people. He also said that poets cannot cut themselves off from the real world, as they needed it to help them create.

I didn’t mind him working there as it made him happy.

It was during this time I noticed changes in him. He snapped at me more often, which had been rare. One day I spoke to him about it.

“So, I’m just supposed to keep quiet, am I? Ignore your shit, swallow it down like I always have.”

That surprised me. “Always have? Tommy … what are you saying?”

I gazed at him then. His beautiful eyes were dark with anger, and his face twisted as he glared at me. I wanted to take a step away. Tommy grasped the back of the kitchen chair so tightly his knuckles were white. He looked as if he’d snap it in two.

Rather than infuriate him further, I said, “Let’s talk when you’re calmer. I do not want to yell and scream.”

At that point I walked toward the dining room. A cup shattered on the wall next to me; I did not stop.

 

So many poems are written about love
Why?
Because we don’t understand
To love you must have faith
For it is not a tangible thing
We only know that it feels good
Love is a drug that comes with no price
Is that right though?
Cuz when it ends it sure ain’t free

 

Later he came into the studio.

“Tarek.” He slid to his knees in front of me, his lovely eyes wet with tears. “I’m sorry. Please, Tarek … I’m so sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking. Please, please forgive me.”

By this time he was sobbing so hard I could no longer understand his words. I reached for him, my heart aching. “Shhh, Tommy. Come here.” I drew the quaking mass into my arms, and held him there until he finally stopped crying.

“I’m sorry.”

I forgave him, kissing him gently. We ended up in bed and made love for hours.

These rages became a regular thing, to the point I finally said he needed to get help. I said I’d go with him to the doctor, for counselling, for whatever it took.

“You think I’m crazy?”

“No, Tommy. I think maybe you just need a bit of help.” I reached out to take his hand, but he snatched it away. I sighed. “We all do sometimes.”

“You want me out? Just say so, Tarek. I’ll go if that’s what makes you happy. I’m sure there’s another sad case you have waiting in the wings. I’m sure you fuck him regularly.”

References to my infidelity were becoming a thing. There was no one else, and I didn’t understand then what this jealousy meant. I didn’t understand it was his fear talking.

“You are not a sad case. You never were, and like I’ve said a thousand times, there is no one else. I just want you to be healthy and happy.”

“So you can fuck me.”

I was not a man of prayer, but I prayed then for strength and patience. “I’m sorry you think that’s what I do—what we do. I love you and I just want to help you.”

He spat at me then. Not just words, but physically spat at me in the face. I knew at that moment, I could no longer reach the man I loved.

 

I went on my own to a doctor and described Tommy’s life and his current behaviour.

“Mr. Donohue, he needs medical help. We can only offer help to him if he is here with us.”

I knew that, of course. I returned home and tried for a month to get Tommy to agree. I begged, pleaded, even cried. He ignored me, his paranoia growing stronger.

 

One day I came back from seeing my agent and I shouted hello. When there was no answer, I went looking for him. I found Tommy. He was sitting on the floor in the kitchen, in the middle of a puddle of what looked like red paint. Only it was not paint.

He grinned at me and held up his dripping wrists.

I telephoned for help. It came in the form of paramedics and police. I knew they had the power to put Tommy where he’d receive help.

He was gone for a month. I wasn’t allowed to visit for a couple of weeks. When I did go, Tommy was himself. He was calm and quiet; he let me hug him.

“I love you, Tommy. I miss you so much.”

The smile was gentle, but there was something in his eyes, like he was hiding something. “I love you too, baby.” The words he said were right, but something was missing.

 

_____

 

The author sat for a minute. He wiped tears from his eyes with the handkerchief he’d pulled from his left breast pocket. Tarek looked out at the audience, and took a sip from his glass of iced tea.

“Sorry.”

The audience was quiet but for a few sniffles and the shuffling of discomfort.

After tucking away the handkerchief, Tarek drew in a deep breath.

“Then Tommy came home.”

 

_____

 

After a small tour of the garden when we arrived at home, I settled him on our sofa while I made tea. I’d baked some ginger cookies, knowing he enjoyed them.

I placed our large tray onto the coffee table and served the tea. He smiled at me, took a cookie and nibbled on it.

“These are very nice, Tarek.”

“I’m glad you like them. Have another one.” I’d have been happy if he ate the whole plateful. He’d lost weight while he’d been away in hospital.

“It’s nice to be home.”

I turned to look at him. Those gray eyes met mine. “I hope it is, Tommy. I love you. There has never been anyone but you in my heart or mind, not since we met.”

He nodded, his eyes dropping down. He sighed. “I know. I’m sorry for saying those awful things, Tarek.”

“Tommy ….”

A little smile played around his mouth. “You’re a good man. A good partner. I’m doing better. I have my medicine. Things will be all right.”

He sipped his drink and put the mug down beside the unfinished cookie. Then he slid into my arms.

I held him as he cried and clung to me.

 

For Tarek:

You saved me and gave me life

Resurrected this broken man

I love you for all you’ve given

And the life that you’ve chosen to share

 

It took a week or so for him to come around, but then he seemed to be happy at home. He took over the small desk in my studio and wrote there as I worked. I was content having him close to me.

On the surface, life was good. But in my heart, tendrils of doubt started to develop. Tommy was normal, yet he seemed a little bit out of step with the rest of the world. I ignored it, not wanting to see or believe that anything was wrong.

His poetry had become dark; it was filled with questions and pain.

 

Strung out, strung up, just string me along
Ain’t it just the same old song
I’m just an outcast, don’t never belong
Strung out, strung up, string me along

Life ain’t worth even a dollar
Friends are, until they ain’t
Trusting is just a fool’s silly game
Living don’t bring nothin’ but pain

So walk the walk while you look for the door
Behind it you’ll find the reaper only
Ain’t the time to fuss and fight
Just hold out your wrist he’ll do you right

Some of us are a step out of time
Clockwork boys their knees a-knocking
This world isn’t the place for us
Only good to keep the van a-rocking

Strung out, strung up string me along
I’m goddam tired of this same old song
Nothing can ever make me belong
So an eternity of sleep, is for what I long

 

He said he was just working through some things in his head. I was eager to be ignorant; content to be blind when he told me he was doing okay.

Tommy started moping around. He spent hours staring out the window, or at the television. When we talked he’d tell me his theories about life, about how he didn’t feel he should be in this time. He said he was a misfit and that I’d be better off without him.

“I’m no good for you, Tarek.” Tommy was pacing. He reminded me of a lion in a too-small cage. “You shouldn’t have called 911; you should have just let me die.”

He’d been in this state for days. I knew he’d not been taking his meds—well not properly—and he was sliding away from me again.

“I’m no good. I am a talentless sloth.” He walked back and forth across the living room. “Useless as clay.”

“Stop,” I said. He didn’t hear, his own thoughts overwhelming what happened around him.

He ranted on and on until I stood and bellowed at him. “Stop!”

His eyes were wide as he turned to look at me. With his head cocked to one side he reached up to wipe away my tears. Then he reached for me and held me close. “I’m sorry, Tarek.”

 

The next few weeks he took his medicine, life was quieter, and Tommy seemed happy. He was eating and writing again.

The garden was dying off as the seasons changed from summer to autumn.

 

Rose petals replaced with fattened rosy hips
trees slow their sap and leaves brighten in the sun
life ends now in our garden, to lie fallow
to gather strength and energy, it waits for the spring

So too do I wait
but I know not for what, where or when
no matter how fallow I lie
life within me seems to wither

 

We made love one night, and afterwards Tommy lay in my arms.

“Tarek … I am sorry. I love you.” He turned to gaze into my eyes. “I love you but I can’t do this anymore.”

My heart fell through my body. I could only whisper, “What do you mean?”

“I’ve stayed for you, because we love each other … but … but now you need to let me go.”

I wanted to scream at him, grab him and throw him against the wall. I was angry! Angry he couldn’t just live his fucking life, like I could mine. What the hell is wrong with you, I wanted to yell at him.

I didn’t … couldn’t. I spent several minutes just breathing. Then I looked at him, I mean really looked. And then I think for the first time I really saw him as he was.

Tommy, a beautiful yet broken clockwork man. I saw the scars on his soul, the pain there; it glowed and hovered around him. I could see the truth then, and I knew he was right. All the years we’d been together, he’d suffered them for me; because he loved me.

“I’m sorry, Tarek, but I need to just stop. Please … please try and understand.”

I was crying freely now, my heart broken, but the truth lay before me and I couldn’t deny it any longer. I told him I did understand. We cried and held each other.

I wondered how he’d do it, ending it. I didn’t ask. He never said. After this, life went on again but he was subdued, like his light was slowly fading. And I waited.

Several weeks later I returned from the market. The first snow had fallen and it lay prettily on the ground, as first snows are wont. I went inside and put the groceries away and then went in search of him.

Tommy lay on our bed, and he turned to me saying nothing but, “I waited.”

I fought my tears and nodded. I sat next to him and kissed him softly.

He picked up a prepared syringe, and looked from it to me. “I’ll do it, just don’t you touch this, Tarek. I’ll pull it out and leave it next to me, but don’t you touch it.”

Nodding, I agreed.

“Stay with me? Talk to me while I go?”

I couldn’t stop my tears, but I nodded.

He smiled once more, and slid the needle into his arm as I talked. He dropped the empty syringe next to him.

“I love you, Tommy. I love you baby. I hope the next world is better for you ….”

And I watched the light of him fade, hoping my words made it easier to pass on. I kissed his hands, and he squeezed one last time.

I wept while he died.

I could not move. I looked at him. He looked so peaceful now, more than he had in life.

 

_____

 

The audience wiped their eyes and blew their noses, as did the author. Tarek had been sitting and he reached for the glass. He sipped.

“Most of you know what happened next. I was questioned and finally released.” Tarek looked at the audience. “I loved Tommy Crouch with every bone in my body. I wish … I wish every single day that he was still with me. I suppose in some way he is.”

The MC stood, but Tarek said, “No. No, I’m not taking questions. Tommy died because this wasn’t the right time for him or the right place. And I’m not saying anything more, because I loved him and maybe this wasn’t his time, but I have to believe that I was the right man.”

He removed the microphone and raised his hand. “Thank you, and goodnight.”