‹ Prequel: A Ballad For Beulah
Status: Completed
The Ballad of Michael & Beulah
Goodbye
Where you are seems to be
As far as an eternity
Outstretched arms, open hearts
And if it never ends then when do we start?
I'll never leave you behind
Or treat you unkind
I know you understand
And with a tear in my eye
Give me the sweetest goodbye
That I ever did receive
- Maroon 5, 'Sweetest Goodbye'
* * *
A week following Mike and Beulah sharing the details of their short-lived affairs twenty-some years prior, the continually aging punk rocker was found mulling over some words he written in a notebook in his bedroom he shared with his wife.
Sitting on the mauve-colored wingback chair in the corner of the room, he sat hunched over as Beulah walked in from the bathroom, taking the 24 karat gold, Claddagh earrings out of her ears and setting them on top of her dresser as she made her way over to her side of the bed. Slipping her thin, white satin robe off and setting it on the back the chair Mike was sitting in, she peered over his shoulder and narrowed her eyes.
"What're you writing?"
Closing the notebook abruptly, Mike looked up at her and shrugged. "Nothing. And don't look over my shoulder. I hate that."
"Sorry," she apologized lightly. Then added with a smirk, "That didn't look like nothing."
"Well, it's nothing because it isn't finished."
"What will it be when it is finished?"
"It's a surprise."
Beulah rolled her eyes. "You're impossible." Moving back a few steps, she sank down onto her mattress and patted the comforter. "Come to bed, honey. It's getting late."
Mike glanced at the beside clock on her night table and frowned. "It's only ten."
"And we're only old now. We don't have the stamina to stay up until the wee hours of the morning anymore."
Mike scoffed with a smile. "Speak for yourself, you old coot."
Grabbing a fistful of a decorative pillow, Beulah threw it at her husband's head.
"Hey!" he exclaimed.
"Speak for myself, huh? If you're some agile man, how come I don't see any of it anymore?"
"I'm pacing myself for the right moment to surprise you with just how agile I can be still."
"More surprises. Wow. You're full of them lately, aren't ya?"
Mike nodded as he stood up; notebook closed firmly in his right hand. "I am...an enigma, my love." Leaning forward, he placed a kiss on the top of her head. Slowly he walked around the bed to his side where he opened the drawer to his night table and placed his notebook and pen inside. Kicking off his slippers, he pulled down the comforter and hopped into bed beside his wife who was doing the same.
Turning to lay on her side, despite her achy hips, Beulah reached out a hand to rest on Mike's chest and smiled ruefully. "Remember when we were able to have sex on the kitchen table without pulling something or on the floor without having to worry about how we were gonna get back up afterward?"
Mike laughed out loud and nodded. "Oh, yes. I can't ever forget those times."
"When was the last time we even had sex, Mike? It feels like a decade ago."
"It mighta been just that long." Turning to his right to look at her, the 77-year-old Mike Dirnt looked upon his bewildered wife. "Maybe we should do something about it?"
Her ears instantly perked up as the corners of her mouth twitched with a smile. "You got your pills in that night table, I hope. I don't feel like waiting an hour for your rocket to liftoff, if you know what I mean."
Mike nodded his head as he slipped out of bed and withdrew the bottle of little blue pills from his night table and disappeared momentarily to get a glass of water from the bathroom. When he reappeared a few moments later, he could tell that his wife of 43 years was wearing nothing but her birthday suit under the comforter from the sight of her bare shoulders peeking out.
"You little minx, you," he teased as he slipped out of his pajama bottoms without losing his footing and slipping a disk. Once he was void of all articles of clothing, he slid back into bed with a huff. "I think you're right about us being old."
Beulah giggled. "Told you so."
Grinning as seductively as he could muster, Mike rolled over on top of his wife and gave a shrug. "Well, here goes nothing..."
* * *
The morning after, Beulah woke up to the sound of rain pelting the windowpanes as she opened her eyes to the dreary day. Letting a yawn escape her lips, she looked up at the ceiling and momentarily became confused as to why she was on the right side of the bed and not the left. A simple turn of her head to see Mike lying beside her with his eyes closed brought back the memory of the night before and also brought a smile to her face.
Reaching an arm out, Beulah bit her bottom lip and placed a hand on the side of Mike's face that was peppered with slight stubble.
"Michael," she murmured in a singsongy voice. "Rise and shine, my love," she added with another smile.
Sitting up slightly, she watched his face and frowned when he didn't stir. Licking her lips, chapped from sleep, Beulah placed a hand on his shoulder and gave him a nudge.
"Want some pancakes this morning?" she asked.
Still nothing.
Rolling her eyes, she leaned down to kiss his cheek and that's when her heart skipped a beat.
"Mike, you're cold," she stated blankly.
Trying to rationalize his situation, she blamed his body temperature on the dampness from the rain outside and his unstirring body on being a heavy sleeper.
"Mike," she pestered, shaking him slightly and trying to remain calm, but starting to fail miserably at it. "C'mon, honey. Just wake up."
Again, nothing.
"No," was all she uttered next as a wave of panic washed over her like a tsunami. "Mike, no."
As her chin began to quiver and tears welled in her slowly saddening eyes, Beulah fought back the sob that was beckoning as she tried horribly to ignore what her heart knew to be true.
"Please, Mike...please, no." Then she added, "You can't leave me behind...you can't leave me."
Gently collapsing down upon his chest, she finally let out a hearty sob and clung tightly to him as the tears started to flow like the rain falling outside the bedroom windows.
"No..." she cried like a child being ripped from the arms of their beloved parent. "Not yet. Don't take my Michael yet. Please give us some more time together," Beulah pleaded to God or any other higher deity listening to her.
Her whole body shuddered and she wasn't exactly sure how much time had passed as she simply stayed laying like that until she heard her cell phone ringing on her night table. But she ignored it. No call was important to her anymore.
Nothing was important to her anymore.
"I didn't say goodbye," she said over and over, and kept muttering off and on until she semi-heard her bedroom door open some time later.
"Mom?"
Beulah didn't respond to the voice, even when it became urgent and worried.
"Mom, what happened? I've been calling for an hour and you always answer your cell---oh, God..." trailed the male voice which was starting to fill Beulah's senses. "Dad? Oh, God...Dad..."
Her blue eyes flitted upward briefly to see her 43-year-old son Vegas standing in the doorway.
"Is he---?" he began to ask to obvious.
Beulah just blinked. "I didn't get to say goodbye."
* * *
Four days later was the funeral for Michael Ryan Pritchard as he was laid to rest at Oakland's Mountainview Cemetery, not far from where his best friends were also sleeping eternally; the three finally together again.
His tombstone, which was rather large, despite his desires to be cremated when he was a younger man, read:
Michael Pritchard
May 4, 1972 - October 19, 2049
Beloved Father And Husband
"It's no use analyzing your life the whole time.
Those analyses won't help you when you're dead."
- Mike Dirnt, Green Day
The entire funeral service was a solemn affair. Even the reception later at Beulah and Mike's home was solemn. No one seemed to be laughing or smiling -- remembering the good times -- because one look at Beulah's withdrawn expression broke their hearts further.
Her children and grandchildren did what they could to get a shadow of a smile out of her but it was to no avail. And when she excused herself, no one questioned it.
However, she wasn't left alone either.
After about an hour of her being AWOL, it was an 80-year-old Adrienne Armstrong who made the trek upstairs to join the younger woman, which was an odd way to describe Beulah, considering both women were now senior citizens.
Beulah was sitting on Mike's side of the bed in her bedroom, facing the windows and the betraying sunlight seeping in, with his notebook laid open on her lap.
Adrienne walked over to the newly widowed Beulah and sat down beside her.
"What's that?" Adrienne inquired; gesturing to the notebook.
"Mike's notebook."
"What's written on that page, there?"
Beulah looked down at Mike's handwriting and blinked. "Lyrics."
"To what?"
"A ballad."
"How do you know it's a ballad?"
"It says, 'The Ballad Of Michael And Beulah' at the top."
Adrienne smiled ruefully. "He wrote a song for you two?"
"Was writing. He never finished it." Beulah looked at Adrienne and with tears in her eyes, added, "He said it was gonna be a surprise."
Biting her lip, Adrienne leaned into Beulah and wrapped an arm around her, just letting her know she was there.
"I can't grasp that he's not here anymore. I'm waiting for him to walk in the room and say it was all a joke," Beulah admitted.
"I've been waiting for Billie to do the same thing for nearly twenty years."
Slowly, both women began to turn into each other and embrace; sharing the grief of their recent and not so recent losses.
* * *
I remember grandpa Mike's funeral. I was nine then. I remember seeing the sad faces and grandma Beulah hiding in her room. I visited her up there for a while, just hugging her, but my mom shooed me out to be alone with her.
I don't know what they talked about or if they even talked at all, but I can still feel the sadness that was hanging over everyone.
And, the more I look into the lives of my maternal grandparents, the more I realize just how unhappy Grandma had been once Grandpa died.
She was pretending all those years afterward for her friends and family.
Pretending to have accepted her husband being gone as she smiled and laughed with us all. And all the while, all she wished for was death's knock on her door.
So, here I am.
River Wright.
The youngest grandchild of both Green Day's Mike Dirnt and Tre Cool, and beloved granddaughter of Beulah Pritchard; wife of Mike.
I'm twenty-two years old and upon my grandmother Beulah's death one week ago today, I am now the sole owner of this home I have called my own for the last four years, as according to grandma's last will and testament.
The same house grandma and grandpa called their own and raised their children in.
It's 2062. More than seventy years since my grandparents' story began. And now, I think I'll start my own story...
THE END!
As far as an eternity
Outstretched arms, open hearts
And if it never ends then when do we start?
I'll never leave you behind
Or treat you unkind
I know you understand
And with a tear in my eye
Give me the sweetest goodbye
That I ever did receive
- Maroon 5, 'Sweetest Goodbye'
* * *
A week following Mike and Beulah sharing the details of their short-lived affairs twenty-some years prior, the continually aging punk rocker was found mulling over some words he written in a notebook in his bedroom he shared with his wife.
Sitting on the mauve-colored wingback chair in the corner of the room, he sat hunched over as Beulah walked in from the bathroom, taking the 24 karat gold, Claddagh earrings out of her ears and setting them on top of her dresser as she made her way over to her side of the bed. Slipping her thin, white satin robe off and setting it on the back the chair Mike was sitting in, she peered over his shoulder and narrowed her eyes.
"What're you writing?"
Closing the notebook abruptly, Mike looked up at her and shrugged. "Nothing. And don't look over my shoulder. I hate that."
"Sorry," she apologized lightly. Then added with a smirk, "That didn't look like nothing."
"Well, it's nothing because it isn't finished."
"What will it be when it is finished?"
"It's a surprise."
Beulah rolled her eyes. "You're impossible." Moving back a few steps, she sank down onto her mattress and patted the comforter. "Come to bed, honey. It's getting late."
Mike glanced at the beside clock on her night table and frowned. "It's only ten."
"And we're only old now. We don't have the stamina to stay up until the wee hours of the morning anymore."
Mike scoffed with a smile. "Speak for yourself, you old coot."
Grabbing a fistful of a decorative pillow, Beulah threw it at her husband's head.
"Hey!" he exclaimed.
"Speak for myself, huh? If you're some agile man, how come I don't see any of it anymore?"
"I'm pacing myself for the right moment to surprise you with just how agile I can be still."
"More surprises. Wow. You're full of them lately, aren't ya?"
Mike nodded as he stood up; notebook closed firmly in his right hand. "I am...an enigma, my love." Leaning forward, he placed a kiss on the top of her head. Slowly he walked around the bed to his side where he opened the drawer to his night table and placed his notebook and pen inside. Kicking off his slippers, he pulled down the comforter and hopped into bed beside his wife who was doing the same.
Turning to lay on her side, despite her achy hips, Beulah reached out a hand to rest on Mike's chest and smiled ruefully. "Remember when we were able to have sex on the kitchen table without pulling something or on the floor without having to worry about how we were gonna get back up afterward?"
Mike laughed out loud and nodded. "Oh, yes. I can't ever forget those times."
"When was the last time we even had sex, Mike? It feels like a decade ago."
"It mighta been just that long." Turning to his right to look at her, the 77-year-old Mike Dirnt looked upon his bewildered wife. "Maybe we should do something about it?"
Her ears instantly perked up as the corners of her mouth twitched with a smile. "You got your pills in that night table, I hope. I don't feel like waiting an hour for your rocket to liftoff, if you know what I mean."
Mike nodded his head as he slipped out of bed and withdrew the bottle of little blue pills from his night table and disappeared momentarily to get a glass of water from the bathroom. When he reappeared a few moments later, he could tell that his wife of 43 years was wearing nothing but her birthday suit under the comforter from the sight of her bare shoulders peeking out.
"You little minx, you," he teased as he slipped out of his pajama bottoms without losing his footing and slipping a disk. Once he was void of all articles of clothing, he slid back into bed with a huff. "I think you're right about us being old."
Beulah giggled. "Told you so."
Grinning as seductively as he could muster, Mike rolled over on top of his wife and gave a shrug. "Well, here goes nothing..."
* * *
The morning after, Beulah woke up to the sound of rain pelting the windowpanes as she opened her eyes to the dreary day. Letting a yawn escape her lips, she looked up at the ceiling and momentarily became confused as to why she was on the right side of the bed and not the left. A simple turn of her head to see Mike lying beside her with his eyes closed brought back the memory of the night before and also brought a smile to her face.
Reaching an arm out, Beulah bit her bottom lip and placed a hand on the side of Mike's face that was peppered with slight stubble.
"Michael," she murmured in a singsongy voice. "Rise and shine, my love," she added with another smile.
Sitting up slightly, she watched his face and frowned when he didn't stir. Licking her lips, chapped from sleep, Beulah placed a hand on his shoulder and gave him a nudge.
"Want some pancakes this morning?" she asked.
Still nothing.
Rolling her eyes, she leaned down to kiss his cheek and that's when her heart skipped a beat.
"Mike, you're cold," she stated blankly.
Trying to rationalize his situation, she blamed his body temperature on the dampness from the rain outside and his unstirring body on being a heavy sleeper.
"Mike," she pestered, shaking him slightly and trying to remain calm, but starting to fail miserably at it. "C'mon, honey. Just wake up."
Again, nothing.
"No," was all she uttered next as a wave of panic washed over her like a tsunami. "Mike, no."
As her chin began to quiver and tears welled in her slowly saddening eyes, Beulah fought back the sob that was beckoning as she tried horribly to ignore what her heart knew to be true.
"Please, Mike...please, no." Then she added, "You can't leave me behind...you can't leave me."
Gently collapsing down upon his chest, she finally let out a hearty sob and clung tightly to him as the tears started to flow like the rain falling outside the bedroom windows.
"No..." she cried like a child being ripped from the arms of their beloved parent. "Not yet. Don't take my Michael yet. Please give us some more time together," Beulah pleaded to God or any other higher deity listening to her.
Her whole body shuddered and she wasn't exactly sure how much time had passed as she simply stayed laying like that until she heard her cell phone ringing on her night table. But she ignored it. No call was important to her anymore.
Nothing was important to her anymore.
"I didn't say goodbye," she said over and over, and kept muttering off and on until she semi-heard her bedroom door open some time later.
"Mom?"
Beulah didn't respond to the voice, even when it became urgent and worried.
"Mom, what happened? I've been calling for an hour and you always answer your cell---oh, God..." trailed the male voice which was starting to fill Beulah's senses. "Dad? Oh, God...Dad..."
Her blue eyes flitted upward briefly to see her 43-year-old son Vegas standing in the doorway.
"Is he---?" he began to ask to obvious.
Beulah just blinked. "I didn't get to say goodbye."
* * *
Four days later was the funeral for Michael Ryan Pritchard as he was laid to rest at Oakland's Mountainview Cemetery, not far from where his best friends were also sleeping eternally; the three finally together again.
His tombstone, which was rather large, despite his desires to be cremated when he was a younger man, read:
Michael Pritchard
May 4, 1972 - October 19, 2049
Beloved Father And Husband
"It's no use analyzing your life the whole time.
Those analyses won't help you when you're dead."
- Mike Dirnt, Green Day
The entire funeral service was a solemn affair. Even the reception later at Beulah and Mike's home was solemn. No one seemed to be laughing or smiling -- remembering the good times -- because one look at Beulah's withdrawn expression broke their hearts further.
Her children and grandchildren did what they could to get a shadow of a smile out of her but it was to no avail. And when she excused herself, no one questioned it.
However, she wasn't left alone either.
After about an hour of her being AWOL, it was an 80-year-old Adrienne Armstrong who made the trek upstairs to join the younger woman, which was an odd way to describe Beulah, considering both women were now senior citizens.
Beulah was sitting on Mike's side of the bed in her bedroom, facing the windows and the betraying sunlight seeping in, with his notebook laid open on her lap.
Adrienne walked over to the newly widowed Beulah and sat down beside her.
"What's that?" Adrienne inquired; gesturing to the notebook.
"Mike's notebook."
"What's written on that page, there?"
Beulah looked down at Mike's handwriting and blinked. "Lyrics."
"To what?"
"A ballad."
"How do you know it's a ballad?"
"It says, 'The Ballad Of Michael And Beulah' at the top."
Adrienne smiled ruefully. "He wrote a song for you two?"
"Was writing. He never finished it." Beulah looked at Adrienne and with tears in her eyes, added, "He said it was gonna be a surprise."
Biting her lip, Adrienne leaned into Beulah and wrapped an arm around her, just letting her know she was there.
"I can't grasp that he's not here anymore. I'm waiting for him to walk in the room and say it was all a joke," Beulah admitted.
"I've been waiting for Billie to do the same thing for nearly twenty years."
Slowly, both women began to turn into each other and embrace; sharing the grief of their recent and not so recent losses.
* * *
I remember grandpa Mike's funeral. I was nine then. I remember seeing the sad faces and grandma Beulah hiding in her room. I visited her up there for a while, just hugging her, but my mom shooed me out to be alone with her.
I don't know what they talked about or if they even talked at all, but I can still feel the sadness that was hanging over everyone.
And, the more I look into the lives of my maternal grandparents, the more I realize just how unhappy Grandma had been once Grandpa died.
She was pretending all those years afterward for her friends and family.
Pretending to have accepted her husband being gone as she smiled and laughed with us all. And all the while, all she wished for was death's knock on her door.
So, here I am.
River Wright.
The youngest grandchild of both Green Day's Mike Dirnt and Tre Cool, and beloved granddaughter of Beulah Pritchard; wife of Mike.
I'm twenty-two years old and upon my grandmother Beulah's death one week ago today, I am now the sole owner of this home I have called my own for the last four years, as according to grandma's last will and testament.
The same house grandma and grandpa called their own and raised their children in.
It's 2062. More than seventy years since my grandparents' story began. And now, I think I'll start my own story...
THE END!